"The people of Montana," Leo rejoined, "don't like gun-grabbers or plaintiffs' lawyers. Or East Coast liberals like your pal Kilcannon." With a disgusted wave of the hand toward the President's image, Weller left.
I will veto this bill, Kilcannon concluded. I cannot, in good conscience,
accept what is unconscionable. But the compromise I've offered you still stands. Just tell Senator Fasano to call me, day or night . . .
"Still with me?" Fasano asked Palmer in a muted, mocking tone. "Or should we call KFK together?"
Palmer shoved his hands in his pockets. "We're not whores like Leo," he answered. "We gave each other our word, and now we're both going to keep it."
* * *
Returning from his meeting with Cassie Rollins, Dane switched on CNN, intending to glance at it while returning his messages.
From Atlantic City, Kilcannon had traveled to his hometown of Newark—on the television, with the word "LIVE" emblazoned beneath their images, the President and First Lady were visiting an elementary school in Vailsburg, Kilcannon's old neighborhood. Beside them, looking discomfited, was Democratic Senator James Torchio of New Jersey, a swing vote on tort reform. As they sat in a circle with a mixture of black, white, and Hispanic schoolkids, a boy of roughly seven described the killing of his sister by a playmate with a loaded gun.
Finishing, the boy turned to Lara. Baldly, he said, They shot your sister, too. I saw it on TV—she was bloody and everything.
For an instant, the First Lady seemed stricken. The boy looked confused, as though wondering if he had said something wrong. Then Lara crossed the circle, taking him in her arms. Then you know how I feel, she told him gently. And I know how you feel.
Dane stabbed the remote button, and the screen went dark.
FOUR
Trying to suspend her disbelief, Sarah watched the President of the United States face John Nolan across a conference table in the Washington office of Nolan's firm.
Sitting beside the President was his personal lawyer, Professor Avram Gold of Harvard Law School. Sarah had known—because Lara Kilcannon had told her—that Kerry Kilcannon would not resist Nolan's demand for a deposition. To comply, Sarah had agreed, would provide a telling contrast with Lexington's resistance to producing George Callister. But Nolan's barely reined-in aggressiveness was palpable. From her tenure as Nolan's associate, she knew that he regarded Kilcannon with the bonedeep loathing—irrational to Sarah—that the Republican right reserved for this particular President. Drawn by this admixture of history and emotion, the other principal combatants surrounded the conference table: both Lenihan and Sarah; Harrison Fancher and his chief associate; the lead associate for Nolan. To commemorate the occasion, and to ensure that any flashes of Presidential temper or embarrassment were captured on film, Nolan had obtained an order from his fellow ideologue Gardner Bond that the proceedings be videotaped. From a corner, a cameraman aimed his lens directly at Kilcannon.
Briskly entering the room, the President had seemed a magnetic figure, regarding its occupants with an air of detachment which, Sarah sensed, concealed his distaste at being there and his antagonism toward those representing Lexington and the SSA. But, given his own stake in the proceeding, Sarah was certain the President was intimately familiar with the issues and thoroughly prepared for Nolan's attack. Meeting him, Sarah felt a current of energy and hyperalertness. He paused, looking directly into her eyes as though to convey a sense of complicity and warmth complemented by the lilting quiet of his voice. "I watched you in the Tierney case," he said with a smile. "If you weren't already taken, my friend Professor Gold would be holding your coat. As it is, I suppose I'll have to reserve you for impeachment."
The remark—with its wry acknowledgment of how hell-bent the right was to be rid of him—made Sarah's nervousness at meeting him dissipate. Then she felt a second, more embarrassing, reaction: that the always-present possibility of her attraction to a man had focused—for a brief, intense moment—on Kerry Kilcannon. Covering this thought with a smile of her own, she answered, "Thank you, Mr. President. If I have any pointers, I'll pass them on through your interim counsel."
But—at least in the initial stages—it was clear that Kerry Kilcannon needed no coaching. Ignoring the camera, he kept his responses calm and concise while Nolan led him into the legal and psychological minefield of the events leading to the murders.
"You were aware, were you not, that Joan Bowden was relying on you for advice on how to deal with her husband's abuse?"
Kilcannon nodded. "Acutely aware."
"And did you advise her to leave the marriage?"
"Yes."
Pausing, Nolan fixed the President with a contemplative gaze. "As a former domestic violence prosecutor, would you agree that the point at which a battered spouse breaks off her relationship marks the moment at which her life is in the greatest danger?"
Kilcannon changed expression, a slight narrowing of the eyes. "Not necessarily, Mr. Nolan. The point of greatest danger could be when the abuser beats her to death before she decides to leave."
The response made Nolan hesitate. "Nonetheless," he persisted, "you were aware from your own experience that batterers often react to a loss of control by escalating the violence from battery to murder."
" 'Often'? I don't know that I'd agree. But it can happen that way."
Nolan leaned slightly forward. "In fact, didn't your first domestic violence prosecution end in the murder of the victim by her estranged husband?"
Kilcannon folded his hands. "I believe that's a matter of public record."
"Did you happen to mention that to Joan?"
The President hesitated. Softly, he answered, "I don't believe I did."
"Because you were afraid she wouldn't leave?"
Betraying no anger or antagonism, the President seemed to consider this. "Her husband had been beating her for years, and it was affecting her six-year-old daughter. The night before she left, Bowden held a gun to her head and threatened to kill her. I didn't think she needed to be told she was at risk, either way. She was as in touch with that fact as she was with the gun at her temple. What Joan—and Marie—needed was to be free from Bowden before it was too late."
"But you knew from hard experience that, by leaving, she might enrage John Bowden enough to kill her."
"I considered that, yes."
"But you didn't see fit to warn her."
Next to Sarah, Lenihan whispered, "This is unbelievable."
"Try odious," she whispered back. She had never despised John Nolan more, both for the nature of his questions and the utter lack of deference with which he posed them.