Speechless, Sarah sat down. "Now let's discuss scheduling," the judge told her. "According to your complaint, defendants are perpetrating a continuing public nuisance which threatens every citizen of this state. If, indeed, this case is a matter of life and death, this Court feels compelled to expedite its resolution." Bond's voice became peremptory. "Therefore you will complete discovery—on both the injunctive relief to be decided by this Court, and the remaining claims to be decided by a jury—on the following timetable:
"Within seven days, the parties will serve all requests for documents.
"Within fourteen days from that, all documents will be produced.
"Within sixty days—not one day more—the parties will conclude all depositions . . ."
"Your Honor," Sarah objected, "for meaningful depositions we need defendants' documents. This schedule is a license for defendants to withhold them . . ."
"That," Bond snapped, "assumes bad faith. I don't. If there's a problem, you can file a motion with the Court."
Lenihan's face, Sarah saw, was stained with anger. "Even assuming good faith," she answered with precarious calm, "there will be many thousands of documents. An inspection by the Special Master will further limit our time to review any number of them. We can't take meaningful depositions on the schedule you've outlined, let alone prepare for trial . . ."
"You requested an injunction, Ms. Dash. I'm giving you the benefit of your request—accelerated discovery." Folding his arms, Bond leaned forward. "Not only will I rule on your proposed injuction within two weeks after discovery, I'll rule on defendants' summary judgment motions—if any. If plaintiff lacks sufficient facts to support her claims, there will be no trial.
"In short, the facts had better be there. Or this Court will not further waste judicial time and resources." Head snapping, Bond nodded to Nolan and Fancher and then, more curtly, to Lenihan and Sarah. "That's it. Tomorrow morning the Court will issue its written order."
"All rise," the courtroom clerk called out, and the hearing was over.
* * *
The elevator doors closed. As it glided downward to the main floor, Sarah and Lenihan were alone.
Stunned, she leaned against the metal wall. Lenihan stared at the floor. "Throwing us out," he said, "wasn't good enough for Bond. Dismissing the case might have looked arbitrary. He might even have been reversed. But this is truly elegant: he's burnished his credentials for promotion—Gardner Bond, a man so fair that he gave us the rope to hang ourselves. By fucking us with your goddammed public nuisance theory." His voice echoed in the stifling space. "Even you can see what's coming, Sarah. On this schedule, Nolan and Fancher will shaft us under the cover of a media blackout.
"We'll never be able to prove our case, in the press or in the courts. And then Bond will grant their motions for summary judgment. Assuming, of course, that Fasano hasn't rushed the Civil Justice Reform Act past Kilcannon."
Before Sarah could answer, the elevator shuddered to a stop.
A fresh herd of reporters awaited them. "Ms. Dash," a woman called out, "the Senate Commerce Committee has just voted out the Civil Justice Reform Act, and President Kilcannon has denounced its action as a 'speed record for injustice.' What is your reaction?"
"We'll complete discovery in sixty days," Sarah answered. "If the Congress tries to pass this law before the public sees our evidence, we're looking at a cover-up."
The contest of law and politics, Sarah knew, had begun.
PART FOUR
THE
BETRAYAL
MID-OCTOBER–EARLY NOVEMBER
ONE
As a courtesy, Frank Fasano, though Majority Leader, came to visit Chuck Hampton in the Minority Leader's office.
For a time, amidst the ornate trappings of Hampton's office suite, they chatted about personal things—Fasano's burgeoning family, Hampton's twenty-four-year-old daughter's first job as a reporter, the amusing vagaries of Fasano's adjustment to becoming leader and, as such, a manager of towering egos with conflicting ambitions. To Hampton, it was reminiscent of the more decorous and genteel time he knew only through Senate lore, when politics was more leisurely and less lethal, the veneer of professional respect a balm for partisan rancor. But no amount of civility could change what both men now would face. The murder of Lara Kilcannon's family, and the future of this President, would be resolved on the Senate floor. At length, Fasano said, "We have some business to do."
Though instantly on guard, Hampton smiled faintly. "Scheduling a vote on the President's gun bill?"
Fasano maintained a bland expression. "You'll have it, Chuck. Or, at least, a debate on various proposals. All in good time."
This somewhat delphic response, Hampton knew, conveyed three things: a threat to filibuster Kilcannon's bill; a reminder that Fasano controlled the schedule on which the bill would be considered; and the reality that, through artful stalling, the Judiciary Committee had not yet reported out any gun bill to the Senate, and might well gin up an alternative. "If you delay this," Hampton answered, "the President won't sit idly by. Nor will I."
Fasano studied him, as though to appraise the depth of his resolve. "Tort reform comes first," he answered bluntly. "You and I can get it done, or we can go to war."
" 'War'?" Hampton said dryly. "Over tort reform? This wouldn't be about the Costello lawsuit, would it?"
Fasano hesitated, and then discarded all pretense. "By suing the SSA, Mary Costello's lawyers have made things ten times worse—for both of us. If any vulnerable Democrat votes against our bill, Dane's going after him."
This time Hampton's smile was quizzical. "So what do you suggest?"
"That we both look after the Senate, and our own." Elbows resting on his knees, Fasano leaned forward with an air of candor. "Kilcannon likes wars, Chuck—it's in his nature. And, to be fair, what happened to his wife's family might cause a less combative man to go for broke. It may even be true that his appetite for combat helped him get elected. But it's also the reason your colleagues would never have made him leader . . ."
"And the reason," Hampton interposed, "despite my exquisitely calibrated judgment—which I'm sure you're about to compliment—that I may never become President. The President's genius wasn't made for the stately rhythms of this body—he lacked the patience for it. His gifts are Presidential."
"This President," Fasano said emphatically, "doesn't give a damn about your colleagues. If swing state Democrats support Kilcannon's gun bill, or oppose this gun immunity provision, the SSA will unload on them. And now the business community will, as well.