Protect and Defend (12 page)

This was what Sarah had feared. “In any event,” she observed, “Mary Ann didn’t mislead me about her medical problems.”

Flom shook his head. “No. If anything, I’d guess she underrates the problems of delivering this child. She’s been living in a pro-life world, cared for by a pro-life doctor.”

Sarah glanced at Jessica Blake. “She understands enough,” Blake observed. “She’s not the most mature fifteen-year-old I’ve ever met—she’s been carefully protected, and most of what she believes has been handed her by her parents.

“I think she was prepared to have a normal baby on autopilot, buoyed by religious doctrine and a substantial dose of fantasy about the child and its father. The sonogram was an antidote.”

“Can she make a rational decision?”

“Really, Sarah, the medical problems Mark outlined aren’t difficult to grasp. The harder part for her is to weigh that in the face of her upbringing and parental opposition.” Blake paused, speaking slowly. “That she marched through a picket line, and then came here, suggests she can.

“Her biggest problem isn’t deciding; it’s this law. Its hidden agenda is to force pregnant girls—who are likely to be
too frightened and ashamed to go to court—to have babies. For their sake, as well as her own, some girl has to take this on. The right one seems to have come to your doorstep.”

“Are you willing to say that in court?”

“Yes.”

Sarah turned to Flom. “Are you?”

“I am.”

“Are you also willing to join as co-plaintiff—have me file the suit on behalf of Mary Ann
and
the doctors subject to the Protection of Life Act?”

Flom nodded. “People need to understand what laws like this do to women and doctors. Right now, they don’t.”

Among the three of them, Sarah reflected, there was little doubt. She wished she were as certain in the presence of Mary Ann Tierney.

“You’ll be hearing from me,” she said, and left.

T
WENTY-FOUR HOURS
later, awaiting Senator Chad Palmer, Kerry Kilcannon reflected on the plan which was forming in his mind.

Like so many things, it came down to character—in this case, Kerry’s estimate of what motivated Chad Palmer. They had been friends ever since Kerry’s arrival in the Senate, drawn to each other by a shared sense of humor, a certain iconoclasm, and a preference for candor. In the battle to limit the impact of money in politics, Chad had allied himself with Kerry, winning the scarcely veiled enmity of Macdonald Gage and many in his own party. But, inevitably, Kerry and Chad were rivals: both believed in themselves, and their lives had led them to reach very different conclusions about what
the country needed. Not surprisingly, Kerry thought wryly, each man believed what the country needed most was a president like himself.

For several years now, many had predicted a Kilcannon–Palmer race—“the best of America,” a pundit had called it. Kerry himself had expected Chad to run the year before: that Chad had not done so made Kerry wonder if he understood his friend and rival as well as he needed to, at least for his plan to work.

Certainly, Chad had taken Kerry’s measure with the presidency in mind. Even Chad’s oft-quoted compliment—“Kerry is poetry, I’m prose“—suggested a comparison flattering to Palmer. The public Chad was a plainspoken man of straightforward views: pro-defense; pro-life; an enemy of the nanny-state, a friend to personal responsibility. It was this persona, Kerry suspected, which Chad believed might take him to the White House.

But the Chad Palmer whom Kerry perceived was far more complex. Beneath Palmer’s cheery admission that “I’m as big a media whore as anyone” lay a deeply serious man. Two years of imprisonment and forced introspection had made him someone who lived by his own standards: a sense of honor was imperative to Chad, and explained his dislike for Macdonald Gage far better than a conflict of ambition.

It was this which Kerry counted on. There was no point in trying to deceive Chad Palmer—Chad would understand what aspects of his character Kerry intended to exploit. But, were Kerry right, this might not matter.

Chad Palmer put down his wineglass.

“She wants to keep this
secret
?” he asked.

They sat in the President’s private dining room, replete from a flavorful entrée of Peking duck which, Chad had suggested, must have been the payoff for America’s nuclear secrets. “She doesn’t even know I’m still considering her,” Kerry answered. “But you and I know there are things in your committee files which never see the light of day. And shouldn’t.”

Chad gazed at the President in open surprise. “Not many.”

Kerry leaned forward. “Tell me this, Chad—do you seriously
think Caroline Masters’s past disqualifies her from becoming Chief Justice? Or that she was required to confess everything in order to become an appellate judge?”

You’re really thinking about this
, Chad said to himself. It was better to let the conversation play out, to see what Kerry wanted.

“Me, personally? No. Your judge behaved honorably— then, and now.” Chad smiled. “I’m pro-life, and I’m not in much position to frown on premarital sex. Thank God I was a little luckier in the area of birth control.”

Kerry did not return his smile. “Be that as it may, she’s superbly qualified. I’m sick of this ‘shoot to kill’ environment where both parties exhume someone’s tired sins to drive them from public life. I know you don’t like it, either.”

For a long while, Chad was silent. In the dim light, he contemplated their elegant surroundings—the oil paintings, crystal chandeliers, and, across the table, his friend, whose job he wished to take. A man who understood, quite well, the risks he wanted Chad to run, and perhaps hoped to prevail by daring Chad to be as brave—and unconventional— as he.

“Have you talked to Gage?” Chad inquired.

“Of course not. About
this
, I’ve got no intention of ever talking to Gage.”

“‘Of course not.’ Instead you want
me
to conspire to conceal a fact which my distinguished leader in the Senate would very much like to know—”

“Which makes it a conspiracy of decency,” Kerry interrupted.

“Which makes
you
Machiavelli,” Chad retorted. “By telling
me
, you immunize yourself against charges of covering up her past, while exposing me to risk within my party. What on earth, Mr. President, makes you think that I’d relish becoming your shit-shield?”

“Oh,” Kerry answered with a smile, “I’ll concede this plan has advantages for me. I hardly expected you to miss that—or the possible advantages to you.

“Why am I sitting here, Chad? Women. Even if this comes out, you and I will have risen above politics to give a qualified woman her due.”

Chad shot him a skeptical glance. “There are those who think I’ve risen above politics a little too often.”

Kerry tilted his head. “That’s because your instincts are better. How will Gage look trashing a gifted woman for preserving an unborn life? How will you look if you help him?”

Chad considered this. “Where
does
she stand on abortion, by the way?”

Kerry smiled again. “Do you think I’m dense enough to ask? And why would you want to make the nomination of the first woman Chief a fight about abortion?”

Chad sat back. “I wouldn’t, Mr. President. Gage might.”

“He can’t. Judge Masters has no record on abortion— none.”

“Then she’s a Trojan horse,” Chad rejoined. “Okay, you won the election. Within reason, I think you’re entitled to whoever you want. But you’ve got no intention of sending over a Chief Justice who sees abortion the way
our
side does.”

For a moment, Kerry toyed with his silver napkin ring. “Define ‘our side,’ Chad. Are you and Gage on the same side when it comes to money in politics?”

“Hardly.”

“Hardly. He lords it over the Senate while his old friend and former colleague Mace Taylor collects money from the gun lobby, the Christian Commitment, big tobacco, and all his other clients, then uses it on Gage’s behalf—and his own.

“Those two know the drill better than anyone: money buys influence—and laws. Gage lets Taylor write special-interest legislation for Gage to pass,
and
tell him which bills to block or kill. Taylor gets rich, Gage gets big donations from Taylor’s clients, and the country—and you—get screwed.” Kerry stared at him, though his voice was soft. “You want to run against me, Chad. But Mace Taylor and his friends don’t want you to, because they’ve already bought their candidate—Mac Gage. They’ll raise millions to defeat you, and the ads they’ll run won’t be pretty. So you’ll lose.”

“Maybe not …”

“You’ll lose,” Kerry repeated. “Which will be fine with me, pal. Gage would be much easier to beat.”

Palmer felt a surge of pride and defiance. “You’ve skipped
a step, Mr. President. The one where—with
your
support—I get our campaign reform bill through the Senate over Gage’s and Taylor’s dead bodies. Choking off their money machine.”

Kerry smiled. “
You’ve
skipped a step—where
my
new Chief Justice helps decide whether your bill is constitutional. And therefore whether you’ve got a prayer of taking my place.”

At this, Chad began to laugh. “She’s pro-reform, isn’t she.”

“I think so, yes. I expect she’s also a lot of other things that I like, and you don’t. But, as you concede, that’s my prerogative.” Kerry’s tone was cool and emphatic. “Mac Gage is corrupt. Not in the sense that he takes suitcases full of unmarked bills. He’s far worse: he’s selling the Senate to the highest bidder to perpetuate his own ambitions. And if that means we keep allowing children to be slaughtered with the automatic weapons his NRA friends love so much, that’s okay with him.

“I intend to cut off his cash flow and infuse a little integrity back in government, any way I can. After that, you and I can fight it out on principle.”

Thoughtful, Chad considered what Kerry was proposing and the man who was proposing it—a complex mix of toughness and idealism, passion and cool calculation. “I’m out front here,” Chad said at last. “If this nomination blows up, and I’m on the wrong side within the party, I lose more than you do.”

Kerry nodded. “I think that’s right. So let’s be clear about what I want.

“I don’t expect you to support her unless it’s a slam dunk. All I ask is that if your investigators dredge up Judge Masters’s personal life, you try to sit on it.”

Chad sipped his wine again. “That may not be so easy,” he admonished. “Not just because the FBI will be all over her, but because of Gage and Taylor.”

“Detectives,” Kerry answered.

“Uh-huh. Taylor’s more than an influence peddler, or even Gage’s leading supporter. He’s the fucking Prince of Darkness. Through his clients, he controls millions of dollars— enough to fund an army of investigators.” Chad paused for emphasis. “You know about those spies who followed Lara
around all during the general election, hoping to embarrass you. That was Taylor.”

This produced in Kerry the cold gaze, the softened voice, which Chad had learned to associate with anger. “Oh, I do know, Chad. I’m finding it hard to forget.”

“Don’t. Remember when Frank Keller resigned as Majority Leader, saying that he wanted more time with his family, and how lucky we were to have Mac Gage taking his place?”

“How could I not? Even by the standards of this town it was such patent bullshit I felt embarrassed for him.” Kerry gave him a small, curious smile. “So what did Taylor use on him?”

“Prostitutes, rumor had it. A couple of them under eighteen. And it was Taylor
and
Gage, I think.” Chad looked at him directly. “If we try to do this, Mr. President, Judge Masters’s life is in play. And maybe anyone who helps her.”

Kerry shrugged. “My life’s an open book, Chad. And yours?”

“Of course,” Chad answered calmly. “I’m a hero, after all.”

Kerry studied him. In the silence, Chad Palmer weighed the interplay between principle and ambition, his desire to do right against his fear of the dangers it posed. And, as always, his sense of who he must be—the most essential part of him.

“All right,” Chad said at last. “If you decide to send this lady over, I’ll try to look after her.”

T
WO NIGHTS
thereafter, in the chill of winter, Kerry Kilcannon and Lara Costello walked along the ellipse toward the Lincoln Memorial.

It was below freezing, and both wore heavy wool coats. The reflecting pool beside them was covered with ice; their breath misted the air; frost whitened the grass; leaves crackled beneath their feet. None of this mattered to Kerry— after a few short days as President, life in the White House seemed too cloistered. Even his whims were cumbersome: the only people he saw nearby were the shadowy forms of his protectors, a moving phalanx.

“They’ve given us new code names,” said Kerry, referring to the agents. “‘Thumper’ and ‘Bambi.’”

Lara grinned. “Which one of us is ‘Thumper’?”

“Whoever I decide.”

Taking his hand, Lara gave him a sideways look of amusement. “You really like being President, don’t you?”

“More than I thought,” Kerry acknowledged. “After all these years in the Senate, the endless talk, I’ve got my hands on the levers. It’s addictive.”

“And you don’t feel overwhelmed?”

“I don’t have time.” Kerry stopped to gaze at the Lincoln Memorial, bathed in light at the end of the ellipse. “Oh, sometimes at night I’ll think about all the decisions made in that house, from the Civil War to Hiroshima—lives lost, and history changed. I begin to wonder what decisions I’ll be called upon to make. You’re acutely aware that you’re only a tenant, and that some of the tenants before you were truly great men. And that politics now is uglier, the scrutiny worse.

“But ‘the awesome burden of the presidency’? Maybe I
feel that drifting off to sleep. But in the morning I can’t wait to go to work. So I’m obviously insane.”

This last was delivered with a smile which Lara, looking into his face, answered. “At least crazy enough for the job. ‘My fiancé, the megalomaniac.’”