At once, it struck Sarah that Lara's query involved more than a desperate hope, and that her openness with Sarah involved far more than venting. Bluntly, Sarah said, "No matter how I feel, I can't release the files. Unless my law license goes, as well."
"I understand," Lara said simply.
This was offered with such promptness that Sarah wondered whether her answer had assumed more than the First Lady had asked. "George Callister's tomorrow," Sarah told her with resignation. "All I can do is put my blinders on, and cross-examine him like it matters. What happens in the Senate is out of my control."
ELE VEN
At nine o'clock the next morning, Sarah faced George Callister.
It was the last desultory moment before the deposition would commence. To one side of Callister was John Nolan and, separated by an empty chair, Harrison Fancher on behalf of the SSA. To Sarah's left, Robert Lenihan sipped water. Between the combatants was a silver carafe of coffee and Nolan's copy of the New York Times, displaying an article above the fold headed "Weller Expected to Switch on Tort Reform." The court reporter, young and strawberry blonde, hunched over her stenotype machine at the end of the table. Standing behind Sarah, a ponytailed technician in blue jeans and a T-shirt adjusted his video cam to focus on the witness.
Arranging her papers in front of her, Sarah surreptitiously studied the witness and his lawyer. With a casual air, Nolan chatted with Callister about the Super Bowl prospects of the New England Patriots, Callister's team of choice. As always, Nolan projected confidence, the entitlement of those accustomed to authority.
But Callister was different. For weeks, Sarah had imagined this elusive figure as a corporate version of Charles Dane, scornful of the process she was seeking to inflict on him. But the real man projected the practical aura of a midwesterner who would as happily tinker with an engine as populate a boardroom. He had a naturally gruff voice with the intonation of the Great Plains, a greying flattop to match, a nondescript blue suit, and freckled, thick-fingered hands which clasped the Styrofoam cup of coffee he brought in from the street. His grey eyes were level and his range of expressions did not lend themselves to social exaggeration. His responses to Nolan bespoke polite interest, his smile was measured, and he seemed to regard his lawyer with the detached but not unpleasant appraisal he had trained on Sarah at first meeting. He did not strike her as a man who was easily fooled, or rendered implausible in the eyes of a jury.
"Ready, gentlemen?" Sarah asked.
Callister glanced at his lawyer. "We are," Nolan answered, and the deposition began.
* * *
For the first ten minutes, Sarah established the preliminaries: that Callister was an engineer by training; that he had spent most of the adult portion of his fifty-six years in the American gun industry; that, less than a year ago, Lexington's British parent had hired him as CEO with a mandate to make the company both profitable and stable; that he had carefully reviewed the company's revenues and product line in order to chart his course. Then Sarah turned to the subject of the Lexington P-2.
"In your view," she asked, "what was the market for the P-2?"
"People who wanted firepower."
"Including criminals?"
Nolan placed a hand on Callister's sleeve. "Objection," he interjected. "Calls for speculation."
Sarah kept her eyes on the witness. "You may answer, Mr. Callister."
Callister smiled slightly. With the air of the good soldier, he responded, "You're asking me to speculate."
This would not be easy, Sarah thought—men of Callister's generation had not climbed the corporate ladder by disobeying orders, and this man knew very well the risks presented by this lawsuit. She settled in for hours of trench warfare.
"Are you aware," she said, "that tracing records compiled by the ATF indicate that—in the last two years—the P-2 has been used in more crimes than any other semiautomatic handgun?"
"I've seen those numbers," the witness answered calmly. "But you have to put them in perspective. Arguably, the P-2 outsells all of its competitors. If you sell more guns, more of them are likely to be misused."
Nolan, Sarah noticed, looked serene. Not only was Callister buttressing their defense, but he did so with a practical and nondefensive air which lent his answers credibility. "Did you," she continued, "also review Lexington's internal records of trace requests to assess the frequency of the P-2's use in crimes?"
"I did not."
"For what reason?"
Callister placed down his cup, contemplating his hands as he rubbed them together lightly. "Understand something, Ms. Dash. I've wanted to discontinue the P-2 almost since the moment I arrived. I didn't need to go rooting through our files."
Though direct and more than a little surprising, Callister's response, Sarah sensed, hinted at something unsaid. The answer—closely analyzed—was really no answer at all. Though her instincts were aroused, Sarah deferred until later the line of questioning this suggested. Instead, she asked, "Why did you want to stop making the P-2?"
"Two reasons." Callister's tone was impersonal but pointed. "It was drawing bad publicity, and attracting lawsuits like yours. Our industry's profit margins are too thin as it stands. The P-2 was becoming more of a problem than a solution to our problems."
There was nothing wrong with the gun, Sarah heard him saying—just with an ecology populated by gun controllers and trial lawyers. Little wonder that Nolan had chosen to produce him.
Sarah's coffee had become lukewarm. Nonetheless she sipped it, taking the moment to appraise the man in front of her while she searched for the question. Then she put down her mug, gazing at him closely.
"You just testified that you never examined trace requests received by Lexington regarding the use of the P-2 in crimes, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Did you ever attempt to do so?"
The ghost of a smile moved one corner of Callister's mouth, so quickly that Sarah wondered if she had imagined it. "Yes."
For the first time, Sarah felt her nerve ends stir. "And when was that?"
Any trace of humor vanished from Callister's face, and his level grey eyes turned cold. "After the First Lady's brother-in-law killed three members of her family and three other people who were in his way."
As Nolan watched the witness intently, Sarah asked, "Did you ask anyone to look for those records?"
"Mike Reiner."
"And what was the result?"
Folding his hands in front of him, Callister looked straight at Sarah. "Reiner told me that we had no policy about retaining trace requests."
"And therefore had none in your files?"
"That's what he reported."
"Did you believe him?"
Callister's eyes seemed chillier yet. "I believed that we had no policy. And that the records were gone."