Sarah's despair deepened. "A very limited one, Your Honor. But I'm asking the Court to reconsider its ruling. If Miss Costello is forced to appeal, that could build in months of delay . . ."
"Well that's your problem, isn't it? You decided to include the claims cited by Mr. Nolan—apparently for the purpose of casting a net broad enough to reel in the SSA." Bond seemed to catch himself, pausing to moderate his language. "That this case emanates from a tragedy no one doubts. Whether this suit is the proper remedy is an entirely separate question. But if it's meritorious—and I emphasize if—the nature of the forum should not matter."
The clever cynicism of this sentiment stymied Sarah. Bond was turning their tactic around on them: the judge understood full well that she and Lenihan had chosen state court for a reason, and had determined to frustrate them—precisely because, given Bond's own biases, the "nature of the forum" might indeed determine the outcome. "In any event," Bond concluded, "I'm denying your motion to remand to state court. Unless the Court of Appeals decides otherwise, this case stays with me."
Bond turned to Nolan and Fancher. "That being the case, I'm denying plaintiff's motion for a temporary restraining order. Plaintiff 's complaint raises issues too complex for such a peremptory remedy, and I find her claim of imminent harm insufficiently persuasive."
Sitting back, Bond looked from one side to the other. "I'm setting plaintiff's motion for a preliminary injunction down for hearing in ten days, and accelerating any motions to dismiss to be heard at the same time. In the meanwhile, plaintiff may conduct no discovery whatsoever. Until we determine what claims survive, if any, Miss Costello's lawyers should not consume defendants' time pursuing them.
"Is there anything else?"
"Yes, Your Honor." Abruptly, Lenihan had found his voice. "The new rules allow television in the courtroom. Because of the public interest in this matter, we ask that the hearing be televised . . ."
"Denied," Bond snapped. "Your wrongful death claims, if either survives, will be heard by a jury. Television can only taint the jury pool— which, in my estimation, has been tainted already by the true combatants in this case, both here and in Washington. This is a lawsuit, not politics by other means."
Nolan, Sarah realized, had not needed to say a word.
* * *
In the courthouse cafeteria, over coffee, Sarah murmured, "We're stuck."
"Stuck? We're fucked." Lenihan glowered at his coffee. "That reactionary sonofabitch will use your injunctive relief claim to screw up our discovery.
" 'Want this fast-tracked?' he'll say. 'I'll fast-track it up your ass.' It's a license for Nolan and Fancher to jerk us around—withholding evidence, forcing us to take depositions without documents. And that's only if Bond doesn't decide to throw us out of court ten days from now."
Glumly, Sarah nodded. "We've got no way to get rid of him. Bond's well aware that we can't appeal until after trial. Unless we file an extraordinary writ, or we ask him to certify it for appeal himself . . ."
"Forget it. Bond's prick enough to do that, then put the case on hold until the appeal is decided. Which would take months." Lenihan's voice became a monotone. "He knows damn well that Fasano's fast-tracked the Civil Justice Reform Act. And that Fasano's got a better chance of passing it if Bond keeps us under wraps."
This sounded right. Effectively, Gardner Bond had hijacked the case, correctly assuming that, in the need for haste brought on by Fasano's political maneuvers, there was nothing Sarah and Lenihan could do.
"Going forward," Sarah said at last, "we can only hope that Bond won't feel free to be as bad as he was today. A high-profile case can make or break a judge, and Mary Costello's sympathetic . . ."
"Not to him," Lenihan said with quiet fury. "If Bond wants the next Republican President to promote him, he has to tilt to the SSA. Without their support, he's over with."
"True," Sarah allowed. "But he has to screw us without looking like he's gone in the tank."
"Subtlety, Sarah, is not Bond's problem. He's as diabolical as Nolan." Lenihan seemed to brace himself. "I've dealt with fascists before. Like it or not, we've gotten a hearing in ten days' time, and this particular fascist is our judge. I just can't wait to see what he does next."
EIGHTEEN
Amidst the ornate trappings of the Old Senate Caucus Room, Lara Costello Kilcannon faced the Senate Commerce Committee.
Seated to her right was Mary Costello, looking overwhelmed and yet, Lara suspected, feeling resentful at her renewed dependence on her older sister. To her left sat Henry Serrano's widow, Felice. Behind them were Felice's son and daughters, the parents of Laura Blanchard, and Kara Johnson—the slight young woman who, by now, would have been the wife of David Walsh. The room was bright; angled toward them were the cameras which broadcast Lara's testimony on CNN, MSNBC and Fox. From a raised platform, seventeen senators peered down at them, aides hovering at their shoulders. As Chairman, Chad Palmer sat in the middle, with eight Republican senators to his right, eight Democrats to his left. Though she was tense, to Lara nothing was unfamiliar—not the hearings, any number of which she had covered for the New York Times; nor the necessity of speaking live and under pressure, a staple of her life in television news. The only new element was the outrage she felt.
For his part, Senator Palmer looked as though he wished to be elsewhere. He listened to her statement with grave courtesy, deferring to the senior Democrat, Frank Ayala of New Mexico. Senator Ayala's questions— pre-scripted with the White House—were designed to elicit sympathy without contention. Only when Senator Paul Harshman commenced asking questions did the atmosphere change.
Even now, Lara thought, it was difficult for Harshman to conceal how deeply he despised both Kilcannons. For the hard right wing, which Harshman embodied, they were a nontraditional marriage in a permissive society that had discarded the roles, and the rules, which had once made life in America so decent and predictable. After a perfunctory expression of sympathy, Harshman said, "As I recall, Mrs. Kilcannon, you're not a lawyer. So you're not claiming firsthand knowledge of the many excesses which the Civil Justice Reform Act seeks to correct."
Taking her time, Lara fixed Harshman's gaunt face and bald pate with a gaze as level as she forced her voice to be. "No, Senator. The 'excess' of which I have firsthand knowledge is this new language in the bill, which I understand you support, the effect of which is to destroy— retroactively—the right of those whose loved ones have been killed by guns to their day in court, a jury of their peers, and whatever protections state law now affords them . . ."
Harshman leaned forward. In a condescending tone, he interrupted, "As an attorney and a legislator, I cannot agree with your interpretation of this law . . ."
"Surely," Lara cut in, "you're not suggesting to Mrs. Serrano that your 'reform' doesn't eradicate her right to seek recovery from Lexington Arms. You're not saying that, are you, Senator Harshman? Unless you are, please let me finish . . ."