Protect and Defend (66 page)

From the expressions of his colleagues, this observation sealed the result. Supporting a motion to recommit—even if not fatal to the nominee—was a vote to postpone the day of reckoning, the better to judge the volatile and swiftly changing public mood, while buttressing the reasons to oppose her. There would be time enough to face the ultimate test and—though the others did not yet know it—for Gage to force Chad Palmer’s hand.

“Let’s have a vote,” Paul Harshman called out.

“Why don’t we do that,” Gage said promptly. “What’s the sentiment for recommitment?”

As he paused, looking around the room, people began to raise their hands—a cluster at first, then others less decisive and more scattered—until, as Gage had hoped, all but four had joined in: Chad Palmer, Kate Jarman, and two others.

Palmer looked around him. With an air of resignation, he said, “That’s pretty clear, isn’t it. So when we vote to recommit tomorrow, we should make it unanimous. No divisions in the ranks.”

Satisfied, Gage surveyed the room. “Is that all right with everybody?” When no one spoke, he added, “We’re all set, then.”

With this, the meeting broke up. As the others left, Gage touched Palmer’s elbow, steering him aside.

“Artfully done,” Chad murmured.

“We need to talk,” Gage said bluntly.

They sat in Chad’s office. Coolly, Chad said, “We can shit-can the Gilbert and Sullivan now. You want me to kill her in committee, don’t you.”

Gage managed to cover his surprise: never, he admonished
himself, should Chad’s cavalier manner distract him from the man’s hard intelligence. “You owe me,” Gage answered. “You owe
us
.”

“Because I covered for this promiscuous judge?”

“Yes.” Gage’s tone was factual. “I made you chairman—I could have induced Joe Silva to stay, rather than head up Labor. And your very first move is to sell me out to Kilcannon.

“I can speculate on your reasons, Chad. But the party faithful don’t give a damn. Did you hear Rush Limbaugh this morning? He called you the Benedict Arnold of heroes.” Gage held up his thumb and forefinger, a millimeter apart. “On the national level, you’re
that
close to being through in our party. Unless you step up
now
, the people who make or break candidates will never forgive you.”

Across the desk, Palmer surveyed him with the dead calm that Gage found so frustrating. “That’s quite a penance, Mac. I’ve been a senator since the age of thirty-four. In all that time, I’ve never seen the Judiciary Committee block a Supreme Court nominee from coming to the Senate floor.

“I don’t know that it’s
ever
been done. A negative recommendation—sure. But just say to Masters,
‘Sorry, we’re not even sending you to the Senate’
? Unheard of.”

“Really. Then why did it trip off your tongue so quickly.”

Picking up a pen, Palmer idly played with it, still eyeing Gage. “I know you, Mac. I was watching you just now. You’re not sure you can win. And if you lose, the ‘party faithful’ will be saying
that you
don’t have whatever it takes. So what’s the magic bullet? To kill her without a vote.

“You don’t want your fingerprints on
that
one. Kilcannon will murder us with it—we’ll be the right-wing lackeys who thwarted democracy. But we’ve got a ten-to-eight majority on the committee. Unless Jesus appears to testify on her behalf, you figure Harshman and seven others will vote to kill her no matter what. That leaves Kate Jarman—and me.”

“That leaves you,” Gage said evenly. “Nine to nine would kill it.” Gage’s voice was quiet but firm. “It’s a chance for you to show leadership, and make amends. You’d have my full support.”

A brightness in Chad’s eyes bespoke a lingering amusement. Then it vanished: as Gage watched, he could see, almost
feel, the progress of Palmer’s thoughts. Chad did not want to do this, and disliked being pushed, but he was not immune to political reality. He had allied himself with Kilcannon—now he faced deep trouble in his own party, and knew it.

Palmer exhaled, too absorbed in his dilemma to conceal its weight. “I’ll ponder it,” he said. “But I can’t promise to kill her before we’ve even conducted hearings. I’ll have to see how she looks
then
.”

“See what?” Gage said with some impatience. “See if she starts looking like a lesbian again?”

At once, the resistance reappeared in Palmer’s eyes. “Frankly, Mac, I don’t give a damn if she’s a lesbian. Harsh-man has persuaded me that caring makes you stupid.”

Gage felt a flash of irritation, followed by a deeper, grimmer feeling. It was in his power to destroy this man, and only compassion and a certain caution had kept Gage from it. Soon compassion might be a luxury, and the power to prevent this might slip from Gage’s hands.

“We’re not friends, Chad.” Gage spoke quietly, each word deliberate. “We’ll never be. But I’m speaking for your own good.

“I came to you on this twice before, and came up empty. For my own sake as leader, I can’t accept that forever. Please understand that.”

Palmer scrutinized Gage with care. It was an acknowledgment that they had never spoken like this before and, perhaps, of something more—the fear Chad Palmer must feel, knowing the forces arrayed against Masters, for himself and his family.

“I understand,” Chad said.

W
HEN
C
AROLINE
M
ASTERS
returned to Washington, she was greeted by a press corps so aggressive and disorderly that it seemed to her she was in the eye of a mob. They called out questions about Brett as she moved through the airport, head high, saying nothing. At a newsstand, her face stared back at her from the covers of
Time, Newsweek, People
, and
U.S. News and World Report
, with captions such as “What Is Moral?” and “Fit to Be Chief?” The
Washington Post
, with encouragement from the White House, was running a series on adoption; on the
Tonight Show
, Jay Leno characterized the Judiciary Committee as “one woman, and seventeen guys who are grateful extramarital sex doesn’t make men pregnant.” And, to Caroline’s surprise, Lara Costello began appearing on selected talk shows, repeating the line of attack begun in the President’s speech.

Though the hearings were two days off, Caroline’s schedule was full. Spaced between preparation sessions were a White House reception with a plethora of celebrities, members of Congress, and prominent women from the worlds of politics, athletics, and a variety of charitable endeavors; a meeting with Senate Minority Leader Chuck Hampton and several female Democratic senators; a breakfast with a group of pro-choice Republican women who had broken with their party to support her; lunch with Lara Costello and other women from the media. The one woman who seemed to be missing—because Caroline refused to ask her—was Brett Allen.

But Caroline’s first meeting was the most symbolic: a stroll with President Kilcannon on the grounds of the White House, to be duly photographed by the White House press corps and
the hoard shoving lenses and Minicams through the bars of the iron fence. “So much of it is theater,” the President remarked as they walked. “Reagan wasn’t the only actor to be President, just the only one with screen credits.”

It was the first time she had seen him since the Tierney decision. Though his outward manner was unconcerned, there were bruises of sleeplessness beneath his eyes, and he already looked subtly older. Caroline trod carefully; though the late-March weather was mild, the grounds were wet. “I don’t mind costarring in a silent film,” she answered. “But taking a pratfall in high heels just won’t do. I’ve caused you enough trouble already.”

The President stopped, smiling a little. “I can’t say it’s been no trouble. But there’s a certain freedom in saying what you believe. And the opposition seems to find that worrisome.”

Caroline shook her head. “Still, I never imagined reading that the future of your administration rides on me. That feels much bigger than I am.”

The President shoved his hands in the pockets of his suit coat, his gaze serious and inquiring. “Bigger than what’s happened to you?”

Caroline looked down; since the revelation, Brett had been secluded, avoiding the media, politely refusing to see either Caroline or Betty until she came to terms with her own feelings. The freshest image Caroline had of her was a fuzzy picture from the cover of
US Magazine
showing Brett, captured by a telephoto lens, putting out the garbage at dawn. “Maybe to me,” Caroline said. “Not to her.”

The President was quiet. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “I wanted to protect you both.”

Caroline met his eyes; suddenly, he looked more troubled than she had expected. “Well,” she said, “I can’t say you didn’t warn me. It happened because I wanted the job.”

Kilcannon paused again, staring intently at the ground, as though considering whether to speak. Then he seemed to shrug. “We’d better keep walking,” he said, “or we’ll look like a couple in crisis. Besides, standing next to me in heels, you seem as tall as I am. Kit Pace is very sensitive to that.”

Smiling, Caroline began walking again, though with care. “Brett,” the President asked. “How is that now?”

“For me? Hard. I entertain these selfish fantasies …”
Abruptly, Caroline stopped herself. “As for her, I imagine a young woman going backward in time, reinterpreting the chapters of her life—how Betty spoke of me, or didn’t; my estrangement from her grandfather; crosscurrents where she imagined something was not quite right, but didn’t know what it was. Why the family albums contained no pictures of my mother—who,
US Magazine
was kind enough to reveal, looked so much like Brett that it’s haunted me for years.

“She’s a sensitive young woman, and, I think, a wise one.” Caroline glanced at the photographers ringing the White House grounds. “She’s leaning on her friends, I’d guess, trying to come to terms with this before she faces the rest of us, and all of
this
. Her life will never be the same, and I doubt she wants to start with a misstep.”

Walking beside her, the President simply nodded. Though she did not truly know him, and he had said relatively little, Caroline felt his empathy, the same surprising sense of comfort she had felt at their first meeting.

“I guess it’s pointless,” the President said at length, “for me to say how difficult these hearings could be.”

Though this seemed a change of subject, Caroline guessed that it was not. “I have an inkling, Mr. President. I noticed with regret, though not surprise, that Senator Palmer isn’t on my schedule.”

This seemed to make the President pensive. “Chad can’t see you,” he answered. “He’s in trouble in his party—your opponents see him as our co-conspirator. He’ll barely talk to
me
.”

The President’s regret sounded as personal as it did professional. “I keep wondering where it came from,” Caroline said. “The leak.”

The President shrugged again, squinting in the afternoon sun. “No point in wondering, Caroline. It’s done.”

After a time, Caroline nodded. “I suppose we took our chances, both of us. But Senator Palmer did, too, and I find myself feeling bad for him.”

“So do I,” Kilcannon said. “Believe me.”

Caroline looked across at him; for the first time, she wondered if the President knew—or guessed—more than he was saying. But she had to trust her sense of him; she did not believe that Kerry Kilcannon would betray a promise, to Palmer or to her.

“From what you say,” the President ventured, “I suppose Brett won’t be coming here.”

“I haven’t asked her, Mr. President. And I won’t—to expose her, or to use her, is more than I can stand.” Caroline paused, softening her tone. “Whatever else comes out of this, I want a relationship with her. I can’t start it with another act of selfishness.”

They stopped again, this time by the Rose Garden, while the President pretended for the cameras to point out some new plantings for the spring. “Perhaps she’ll come on her own,” he murmured.

Despite her firm intentions, Caroline felt a spasm of hope. With great resolve, she squelched it. “Then she will. But I truly hope she doesn’t.”

At this, the President smiled slightly. “Really?”

“Really.”

Kilcannon seemed to study her. “Suppose I ask her.”

Caroline stood straighter. “Don’t do that,” she said. “Please. It’s not what’s best for her.”

The President cocked his head. “But isn’t that the problem? Everyone decided what’s best for her, except her.”

Caroline looked at him evenly. “I don’t want to be difficult, Mr. President. But regarding Brett our interests aren’t the same.

“I have a daughter I love, and who I hope will grow to love me. You’re looking at your nominee for Chief Justice, about to face some very messy hearings, with your own prestige on the line. And you can’t help but imagine how much better it would be if Brett came out here, and told the Senate and the world how much she values the gift of life, and appreciates that I acted out of love.

“I hope she gets there. But she’ll have to come to that on her own. And if you call her, she’ll think it comes from me. Or that we’re both playing politics.”

Kilcannon studied the stalks of roses. “Perhaps not,” he answered. “Sometimes the political can serve the personal.” Facing her, Kilcannon still spoke softly. “That’s the wonder of being President, I find. Some may impugn my motives, but everyone takes my calls. And even, on occasion, listens.”

*  *  *

“Damn him,” Harshman said without preface.

Gage looked up from a series of tracking polls, a survey by the Republican National Committee showing sharply polarized opinion over the Masters nomination. “Damn who? Kilcannon? Or Palmer?”

“Martin Tierney. Saunders tells me he still won’t testify without a subpoena. The man says his family’s had enough.”

“Now?” Gage said with faint derision. “Isn’t it a little late for him to revirginify?”

Harshman sat. “Tierney never wanted the trial on television, so the Commitment had to go behind his back. Saunders says he’s always been difficult—he finds the good professor’s principles a little hard to parse. But whatever they are, they don’t include committing to a media blitz on Masters, or even testifying voluntarily. And goddamned Palmer won’t get on the phone.”