"No help for that. What about Slezak and Coletti? Did the Silent Witness demonstration make any kind of impression?"
"Nope. To those two guys it was all sound and fury—signifying, as usual, nothing. Slezak and Coletti are both pro-choice; they figure they've already got all the women they're going to get. So their concerns are more local—and practical.
"Coletti's got Lexington right in his backyard. He's been hearing from employees who are scared about their jobs. And he's got all those insurance companies in Hartford who feel no love for guys like Lenihan . . ."
"And Slezak?"
"Is just a prick. Besides that, he figures he's got elbow room on the left, but that the SSA can help him on the right. It doesn't help you that a lot of blue-collar guys in Michigan own guns."
"Even though I threatened him with a primary fight?"
"I expect that worries him, Mr. President. But Michigan's a funny state. Even with you against him, he's got some careful calculations to make."
Depressingly, this matched Kerry's assessment. "What else is left to offer them?"
"Nothing. Except the chance not to piss you off."
"I'll remind them of that," the President answered.
* * *
Ten minutes later, the White House switchboard tracked down Vic Coletti.
The senior senator from Connecticut was at the bar of the Caucus Room, having drinks with his finance chairman and two well-heeled backers. Against the backdrop of talk and laughter, Coletti spoke softly into his cell phone.
"It's a tough vote, Mr. President, is all I can say at the moment." Briefly, Coletti paused. "On your gun bill, I'm with you. But this lawsuit thing? Frankly, what looks like a defendant to your sister-in-law is a major constituent to me. I hate to say so, but that's the truth of it."
"A 'major constituent,' " Kerry repeated with mild scorn. "I understand about the insurance companies. But how many of Lexington's employees voted for you in the first place?"
"Less than half," Coletti acknowledged promptly. "But they've got families—wives and kids and parents—a lot of whom vote, too." He lowered his voice still further. "In Connecticut, Lexington's not a villain— it's a home state employer. Maybe if there were bad stuff coming out of this lawsuit, like in the tobacco litigation, I'd have a public relations counterweight. But there's nothing."
Kerry considered his response. "There's something. And for Lexington, it's going from bad to worse. Keep the lawsuit alive, and it'll all come out at trial."
Coletti pondered this. "What if I vote against gun immunity," he asked, "and Fasano jams it through anyhow? Then the lawsuit's dead, and I've got no cover. And for what? By my calculation, unless Rollins and Slezak both vote with you, my vote doesn't matter."
It was a reminder, if Kerry needed one, of Vic Coletti's shrewdness. "Vic," he said quietly, "I mean to be here for the long haul. And over the long haul, you succeed or fail with me. I can accept a vote on tort reform. But if I lose a vote involving guns—after all of this—the balance of power will shift to Frank Fasano. If you're any part of that, I'll use whatever's left of my diminished power to ensure you pay for it."
In the silence, Kerry heard more laughter issuing from the bar. "I'll think on it," Coletti promised soberly. "Very hard."
* * *
The last manhunt conducted by the switchboard, for Senator Jack Slezak, ended at eleven p.m.
The senator was sleeping, Kerry was told, and could not be disturbed. Putting down the telephone, Kerry wondered what had made the senator from Michigan so arrogant—or so secure—that he refused to accept a call from a President who could ruin him.
* * *
Three thousand miles away, in Beverly Hills, the telephone rang in Robert Lenihan's den.
He was reviewing his calendar for the next three months, a tangle of conflicting demands which included a complex but potentially lucrative trial—perhaps deferred, much to the discontent of his partners, by the possible hearing in Mary Costello's lawsuit. Preoccupied, Lenihan hesitated before deciding to answer.
"Is this Bob Lenihan?" the deep voice inquired.
The question was asked with a tone of portent which, combined with the strange familiarity of the voice itself, made Lenihan instantly alert. "It is."
"This is Charles Dane."
Is this a joke? Lenihan almost asked. And then, reviewing the tone of voice and the logic of events, he was certain that it wasn't. "Are you calling to surrender?" Lenihan inquired. "Clients usually do that through their lawyers."
Dane's voice held no answering humor. "Our lawyers don't know I'm contacting you. Nor does anyone else. Unless it stays between us, this call goes no further."
Lenihan paused, parsing the permutations of such a request. "All right," he answered in a businesslike tone. "What's on your mind, Mr. Dane?"
"That you're going to lose."
More from a sense of challenge than conviction, Lenihan laughed. "Have you read Mike Reiner's deposition? I hear Fred Glass wasn't too great, either. I promise there's more to come."
"We know all about that," Dane said with cold assurance. "It doesn't matter. None of it does."
"And why is that?"
"Because the House just voted to bar your lawsuit. By this time next week, the Senate will have done the same."
"The Senate's still in play," Lenihan answered calmly. "Thanks to Leo Weller. And if the Senate passes the Civil Justice Reform Act with a gun immunity provision, the President will veto it before you can open the champagne."
"If he does," Dane answered in tones so somber that the word sepulchral popped into Lenihan's mind, "Kilcannon is finished. The least of which is that the Senate will override his vote."
Now Lenihan laughed aloud. "This conversation is happening in the Twilight Zone. No wonder you don't want me to repeat it."
Dane laughed as well, but softly. "I don't want you repeating it, because you don't know what it means. Or nearly enough about your President.
"You're an amateur, Robert. You think castrating Leo Weller is the ultimate in realpolitik. That's why you're going to lose."
Lenihan's amusement vanished: the thought that Dane was overdoing it was superseded by the disturbing realization that the man who had called him was a far different proposition than the indignant populist patriot who had spoken on the Mall. "And so you want me to be emotionally prepared? Nonsense. You're worried about this lawsuit, and you damned well should be."
"Worried? No. I'm allowing you to make a choice. One choice is to be the trial lawyer who not only had the Costello case snatched out from under him but, by bringing it, helped bring about the passage of the most comprehensive tort reform in our history. As matters stand, you teeter on self-parody. That would make you a buffoon."