Reaching for the water pitcher, Glass reminded her of Reiner. After a leisurely swallow of water, he said, "I have no reason to believe that."
"Or disbelieve it. So let's turn to the broader problem of selfreported acts of self-defense." Briefly, Sarah checked her notes. "For example, are you aware of a 1994 Harvard survey concerning acts of selfdefense in a five-year period, where fifty of those responding reported thirty-five acts of self-defense, comprising seventy percent of the incidents reported?"
Carefully, Glass placed down the water. "No."
"Then I'd suggest you read it." Briefly Sarah paused. "What about the Washington Post survey of fifteen hundred Americans as to whether they'd seen an alien spacecraft in the preceding year."
Glass mustered a wan smile. "I don't follow aliens, Ms. Dash."
"You might find it interesting. Accordingly to the Post, one hundred fifty-one of these respondents reported having seen an alien spacecraft— an affirmative response of ten percent."
Nolan turned to his witness. "As I said," Glass responded in a stubborn tone, "I'm not aware of that."
"So you're also unaware that sixteen people of those responding— approximately one percent—reported actual contact with an alien."
"Yes. Again."
Sarah's mouth twisted slightly, a smile suppressed. "Isn't it possible that your one percent was the same as the Post's one percent, and that what you came up with is the incidence of defensive uses of a gun against alien invaders?"
"Enough," Nolan cut in bitingly. "If you have a serious question, ask it."
"Silly answers," Sarah retorted, "tend to provoke silly questions. As does fuzzy math." Turning to Glass, Sarah asked coldly, "Are you at least aware that the New England Journal of Medicine reported that for every gun in the home, it is three times more likely that a family member will be killed than if the gun weren't there?"
"No."
"Or that such families showed roughly five homicides of family members for every act of self-defense?"
"Enough, counsel," Nolan interrupted. "He said no. Move on."
Sarah sat back with a smile. "Actually, John, I'm almost through. I've just identified a Martian, and I'm dying to report him."
TWENTY-TWO
After dinner in the residence—pepperoni pizza, because they felt like it—Kerry rubbed Lara's shoulders as she described the funeral of a woman killed in Maryland by a random sniper, at which the family had implored her to speak. "I felt so ambivalent," Lara told Kerry. "I didn't know the victim, and by coming to her funeral I'd drawn a crowd of demonstrators. Demonstrators, Kerry, at a funeral.
"But there they were. So I felt I owed the husband whatever comfort I could give him. Like me, he'd had no time to say goodbye." Leaning back, she rested the crown of her head against Kerry's cheek. "And unlike me, he had no one to lean on."
"And the demonstrators?"
"Were the crazy ones." Kerry felt, rather than heard, her sigh of resignation. "I know they don't represent most people who own guns. But they reminded me of why this debate is so intractable—the complete absence of any empathy or imagination. In their minds, the widower and I should put aside what happened, and realize that guns are a sacred right and our families merely collateral damage—the price of America's Second Amendment freedoms.
"In its own way, it's almost as dissociated from humanity as what I saw in Kosovo. And when I think of John Bowden, it scares me just as much."
This was as much as she had said, Kerry realized, since their retreat to Martha's Vineyard. "It's good to talk," he told her. "We've spent so much time in motion, trying to make it all mean something. Especially you."
"Me?" Lara gave a quiet laugh. "It's been like 'don't look back, grief might be gaining on you.' Or fear."
"That something may happen to you?"
"Not really. About that, I worry much more for you."
Kerry did not tell her that at moments, as at the Lincoln Memorial the night before, he was struck by the fear of a sudden death—more piercing because of his love for her, for whom he feared much more. "These days," he told her, "I'm the safest man in America—Peter sees to that. So what is it you're afraid of?"
"Of failing. That we'll do everything we can, but that we'll fail in the end. That people will keep on dying for nothing, like the woman we buried today. And that all this will turn to ashes."
This, Kerry acknowledged, was his own deepest fear—to live with failure as he was already forced to live with guilt, for the rest of his life, for the deaths that Lara suffered from even more than he. He kissed her, and returned to the West Wing.
* * *
Looking up from his desk, Clayton was surprised to see the President.
"Go home," Kerry told him.
Clayton smiled. "Easy for you to say. You are home—I've got a couple of hours yet."
"Two too many. When was the last time you had a normal dinner with Carlie?"
Clayton laughed. "Four days ago. Who are you, Dr. Ruth? I thought you were King George."
"That was then. This is now." Kerry sat, looking like a man prepared to stay. "Between the residence and here, I had two minutes to reflect. I try to do that now and then."
"Bad for you, Mr. President. You should be beating up senators."
"Oh, I intend to. But it occurred to me to waste a little time with you beforehand." Kerry, his friend realized, looked unusually thoughtful and self-questioning—not for the man Clayton had known long ago, but for the harder man which circumstances, and ambition, had wrought from a lonely Irish boy, his family's less favored son. "Politicians," Kerry continued, "are users. Presidents are the worst. All that matters is our success, and what others do to ensure it. 'Friend' becomes an elastic term.
"That's fine. I accept that. But not for you and me." Kerry's tone was quiet. "Before I ever went into this business, you were my closest friend. As Chief of Staff, you've made me a better President." Briefly, Kerry smiled. "Give or take the occasional screwup. But as a friend, there's only one of you. Go home."
Touched, Clayton did that, his gift to Kerry Kilcannon as much as to his own wife.
* * *
"So," the President asked abruptly when Senator Hampton answered his phone. "Where are we on gun immunity?"
"Rollins, Coletti, Slezak," the Minority Leader answered crisply. "My count says we need all three."
"I've done all I can with Cassie—an appeal to conscience."
Briefly, Hampton laughed. "Desperate measures for desperate men. The SSA is doing more."