Slezak's face took on an adamantine cast of someone who would not be moved. "Michigan's my state, not yours. I thought we settled that the last time."
Kerry shook his head. "No," he answered. "All we settled the last time is that I want you gone. And if you screw me on this, some other folks are going to share my vision. One thing is sure—the response will be a lot more elegant, and far better deserved, than a round of sleazy phone-banking."
Slezak folded his arms. "Like what?"
"Any number of things. But I'll give you a clue to one—keep an eye on Leo Weller."
Slezak's eyes hardened. "Those asbestos ads."
Kerry smiled. "You've already heard. But, of course, you don't have asbestos mines in Michigan. So let me explain what this is about for you.
"A twelve-year-old boy in Detroit was shooting baskets on a playground when a teenage neighbor shot him in the spine. Now the boy's a quadriplegic for however long he lives.
"The shooter bought his gun from a dirty dealer who didn't bother with background checks, despite the fact that the guns he sold kept popping up in crimes. The dealer's chief supplier, a gun company in Southern California, kept shipping him guns even after they knew that. One of their guns left this boy paralyzed.
"His mother sued. This bill you're thinking about supporting would wipe out her lawsuit and immunize that same company and the crooked leader." Pausing, Kerry leaned forward. "Vote for it, Jack, and I'll make you a promise.
"Two weeks before your primary against Jeannie Griswold, the trial lawyers are going to put that boy and his mother all over the airwaves. I won't have a thing to do with it. But what I will do is raise millions of dollars for Jeannie, and then campaign against you wherever it hurts the most.
"You'll lose, and I'll get Jeannie Griswold in your place." Kerry's voice was cool, indifferent. "My only problem is that I don't much care what you decide."
THIRTEEN
Because of what she knew, the deposition of Dr. Larry Walters held a tension that Sarah alone could feel.
John Nolan sat across from her, set to cross-examine. But not until he finished would Sarah hand him a revised witness list which now included Norman Conn, and a notice of deposition for a federal prisoner named George Johnson. For the next several hours, Nolan would question her expert witness without knowing that his answers were the foundation for the lethal damage which—she fervently hoped—Conn and Johnson would visit on Nolan's defense.
As unaware of this as Nolan, Walters exuded a calm precision. His wire-rimmed glasses and careful speech suggested the academic he had become, a Ph.D. in criminology who published extensively on the phenomenon of gun violence in America. But in a past career he had been a firearms expert who had served as a senior administrator for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. This was enough to induce caution in John Nolan but not, to Sarah's satisfaction, the deep wariness he would feel had he known of her surprises. For the moment, knowing what Walters would say was more than enough to give her pleasure.
* * *
"The Lexington Patriot-2," Walters told Nolan, "is a weapon of war."
Combined with his tone, the simple statement caused Harrison Fancher to lean closer, Nolan to hunch in a defensive yet determined posture. "On what do you base that statement?"
Referring to the document before him, Walters marshalled his thoughts, presenting them without inflection or emotion. "Begin with how Lexington describes the P-2 in its manual. It describes a weapon with a 'militaristic combat sling' which facilitates 'spray firing.' It depicts the P-2 being used in 'hip-fire mode at shortest range.' It represents that its design facilitates 'rapid sustained fire impossible with most handguns' . . ."
"Why," Nolan interrupted, "might not a gun fancier enjoy the P-2 simply for its advanced design?"
Walters looked up from the manual with raised eyebrows. " 'Advanced design'? Its sights are crude, it weighs too much, and it's unwieldy to shoot. In short, this gun is not designed for any serious recreational purpose. Nor am I aware of any instance when the P-2 has been used for household self-defense. What it is good for—as this manual suggests—is shooting multiple human targets during rapid sustained fire." Pausing, Walters finished, " 'Advanced' is in the eye of the beholder. But as a matter of 'design,' Mr. Bowden applied the Patriot-2 to its only useful purpose."
"On what do you base that opinion?"
"Among other things, I reviewed the tape of the murders." Glancing toward a video screen at the head of the conference table, Walters said mildly, "Unless you'd prefer otherwise, I'm prepared to walk you through it."
With reluctance, Nolan's eyes followed Walters's to the screen. Picking up a remote control, Walters pressed a button.
On the screen, John Bowden knelt near a baggage carousel, facing his unwitting victims. He pulled the P-2 from the Lego box, slinging it over his shoulder, his eyes vacant.
As a bullet tore through Inez Costello's throat, Walters froze the picture.
"That's the First Lady's mother, of course. In terms of the gun's 'design,' a lucky shot. What follows, as you will see, hews more closely to the P-2's design function."
Once more, the picture came to life.
"No," Joan Bowden screamed.
As Sarah flinched, she heard five rapid percussive pops. Henry Serrano fell; then the young blonde student from Stanford, Laura Blanchard; then the second guard, David Walsh. Nolan's eyes became slits. "All five shots," Walters explained, "were meant for his wife. Instead, Bowden killed three strangers."
Frozen, the picture captured Mary Costello, scrambling on the carousel. "That," Walters continued, "was when he turned his attention to the plaintiff."
Mary Costello jerked into motion, crawling inside the mouth of the baggage tunnel as more bullets struck metal. Sarah's mouth felt dry. "Fifteen feet," Walters observed dispassionately. "Three shots. And still he couldn't hit her.
"And so he turned to his wife again."
Joan Bowden appeared, and then a bullet destroyed her lower face.
This time Walters's click of the remote made Sarah wince. "Note," he said, "the damage done by the Eagle's Claw. Note further that Bowden now has fired ten of them, and that the score stands at two intended victims, three random deaths, and five outright misses.
Sarah looked away. The film and Walters's eerie commentary had reduced the others to silence. "The next death," he opined, "is where the design of the gun, its forty-bullet magazine, and the design of the bullet itself meet in deadly confluence."
With a click of the remote, Marie Costello stared in horror at her mother's ruined face. Then she turned away, eyes shut, doll clutched to her chest.
"With a ten-bullet magazine," Walters observed, "this little girl lives."