* * *
At home, Frank Fasano watched the last few minutes, telephone propped to his ear. "Guerrilla theater," Dane was saying. "Most people will see this stunt for what it is—a President and his thugs, bullying Americans who believe in the Second Amendment for cheap political gain."
But the SSA president sounded unsettled. On CNN, Kilcannon departed through the rows of weaponry, Lara's cardboard face still visible beneath his arm. Fasano had the sense of a conflict slipping out of control.
"What most people will remember," he answered, "is a man standing up for his wife and her murdered family. What's the antidote to that?"
Dane was silent. "Trust me," he answered with a renewed calm that Fasano found unnerving. "There is one."
* * *
In the limousine, Kerry gazed out the window. Softly, he said, "He could have been the seller."
The ATF would question him, of course. But Kerry might never know.
"You did enough," Kit answered. "At least for one day."
EIGHT
For Frank Fasano, the first harbinger of change was Senator Betsy Shapiro.
A somewhat imperious moderate Democrat from California, Betsy had been caught between her advocacy of gun control and her ties to the high-tech overlords of Silicon Valley, an important base of financial support, for whom tort reform was fundamental protection from shareholder suits. Fasano had expected her to split the difference by supporting both Kilcannon's gun bill and Fasano's tort reform measure. But the film clip of Kilcannon confronting the seller dominated the morning news in a seemingly endless loop. When Fasano looked up from the color photo of Kilcannon at the gun show on the front page of the New York Times, the clip had been succeeded by a live interview with Senator Shapiro.
As usual, Betsy looked buttoned-down, her dark brown coif as disciplined and controlled as she was. In good conscience, she was saying, I have to question whether giving legal immunity to the Eagle's Claw bullet can really be called "reform."
Across from him at the breakfast table, a weary Bernadette held Frank Junior, his small head with its sparse black hair resting at her breast. "I'm not sure what I think about the politics," she told her husband. "Or the law. But that target of the Kilcannons was disgusting."
That, Fasano thought, captured neatly what Betsy Shapiro was reacting to; with a stroke of intuition, Kilcannon had reduced gun immunity from the abstract to the personal. "Anyone who makes or sells that kind of stuff is crazy," he agreed. "But that's got nothing to do with tort reform." Excusing himself, he went to his den and called Lance Jarrett.
It was only six o'clock in California, but—as Fasano had known he would be—the president of the world's largest chipmaker was up and running. "Is this about Betsy?" Jarrett asked gruffly.
"Yup. She seems to have forgotten you."
"Betsy Shapiro hates guns," Jarrett said. "So do a lot of Californians. All your pro-gun, pro-life crap doesn't sell too well out here."
Fasano laughed softly. "As opposed to all your pro-business,
anti-tree-hugger stuff? We appreciate your financial support, Lance. But if we want to control Congress, we need to turn out votes in states you fly over on the way to St. Moritz—like Kansas or Maine or Arkansas— where pro-gun and conservative Christian voters make a difference. As for California, you've tried to play it safe by backing Democrats like Betsy. It's time to see if your strategy pays off."
"In other words," Jarrett rejoined, "you want me to lean on our senior senator."
"You're one of her leading fund-raisers. She might appreciate knowing how you feel, and hearing from your mutual friends in the Valley."
Jarrett was quiet. "Kilcannon really hurt you," he said at length. "Maybe you can't get past it."
Fasano felt his jaw tighten. "You'd better hope you're wrong. Unless you're willing to take that feeble compromise Kilcannon was hawking to the Chamber of Commerce."
"Of course not," Jarrett answered scornfully. "I just don't understand why your bill turned into the Gun Protection Act."
"Because that's the price," Fasano snapped. "I don't tell you how to make chips, so don't tell me how to get you protected from specious lawsuits for the rest of recorded history. All I need is for you to help me realize your dream. As for Betsy, your dream should be her dream—the high-tech community is too important to ignore. Your fellow CEOs, venture capitalists, and investment bankers should be calling her day and night."
For a few seconds, Fasano waited for a reaction. "All right." For a man accustomed to command, Jarrett's tone became unusually respectful. "I'll get to work this morning."
* * *
That afternoon, with great reluctance, Fasano left Bernadette and the baby to meet with his Majority Whip, Dave Ruckles.
They counted votes over soft drinks in Fasano's office. "What's the damage?" Fasano asked.
Lean and alert, Ruckles was the perfect operative: a fierce conservative, an indefatigable fund-raiser, a gimlet-eyed counter of votes—and, in Fasano's estimate, neither bright nor supple enough to displace Fasano himself. But he also knew that, in Ruckles's mind, this was a not-toodistant dream, and one which Fasano hoped Ruckles would think was best served by helping the Majority Leader replace a President they both disliked. "I don't know yet," Ruckles admitted. "I think what Kilcannon's done on tort reform is keep the critical votes in play—some of our people, and swing Democrats like Shapiro, Torchio, Coletti and Slezak."
"It's a problem in two parts," Fasano reminded him. "We want to pass tort reform with the sixty-seven votes we'll need to overrule Kilcannon's veto, and this gun immunity provision's got us stuck around sixty. But first we have to keep Hampton from getting the fifty-one votes he needs to pass an amendment stripping gun immunity out of the final bill."
Ruckles squinted at his Diet Coke. "Right now that's too close to call—a few votes one way or the other."
Fasano agreed. With a sigh of resignation, he said, "Let's start from the beginning—who's still in play; who needs campaign money; who wants a new committee assignment; who's vulnerable to the SSA; or anyone we can get to."
Ruckles considered him. "That's all well and good, Frank. But you have to make this vote a test of your leadership. If our people know that crossing you is a personal affront, it'll be hard for them to say no. They have to succeed in this place, and that pretty much depends on you.
"What Kilcannon's depending on is emotion. But we've both heard our colleagues give speeches which would bring tears to your eyes and didn't change a vote. Survival cuts deeper than sympathy."
Fasano smiled at this, though perhaps for different reasons than Ruckles imagined. To make this vote a test of leadership would raise the stakes immensely. Losing it might leave Fasano more vulnerable to a challenge from Ruckles. Winning would strengthen Fasano among the party's most fervent financial and ideological backers, strengthen his claim to the Presidency, and clear a path for Ruckles in a congenially bloodless way. As to that, their interests were the same.