Balance of Power

    "Not yet. But Lara's finally capitulated."

    "A wedding date?"

    Kerry grinned. "Yes. I guess she got tired of going home at midnight."

    "Congratulations, pal." With a smile of genuine pleasure, Clayton added, "God knows you two have earned it."

    "I thought so."

    "Have you picked a date yet?"

    "Labor Day, we think. Care to be Best Man?"

    At this, Clayton was quiet, clearly touched. "Will I have to buy a new tuxedo?"

    "Maybe blue jeans. We've decided to run away."

    Above the smile at one corner of his mouth, Clayton gave him a probing, bright-eyed look. "You're joking, of course."

    "Somewhat. But Lara would like a private wedding. Close friends and family, nothing like Charles and Diana."

    "But you told her you knew better, right?"

    Kerry smiled. "Do I?"

    "Of course you do," his friend expostulated. "You barely won a bitter election. You rammed through your nominee for Chief Justice, a single woman, by one vote after she became the poster girl for 'partialbirth' abortion. Now your approval rating is stuck at fifty-three percent." Clayton held up a hand, seeking time to finish. "I'm not arguing for a political rally. But this is huge—a once-in-a-lifetime, nonpartisan opportunity to ensure that millions love you who don't now. You've got no right to squander it."

    Now Kerry's smile was fractional. "Please mention that to my fiancée."

    "Lara knows. She didn't make a zillion dollars on television by not knowing." Clayton's tone was that of a man reciting the obvious. "She's got a mother, two sisters, and a niece who, from the pictures, are all adorable. That Mom's a working-class Hispanic makes them the American Dream."

    "To Lara, they're her family. And families, like the American Dream, can have their dark side."

    Clayton raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

    "The middle sister is also a battered wife. Last night, she called us."

    As Kerry summarized the call, Clayton settled back. His expression, though empathic, became guarded.

    "Get me the D.A.'s private number," Kerry finished. "As soon as I'm through meeting with the gun executives, I want him and his domestic violence person on the phone."

    Clayton considered this. "Watch your ethics," he admonished. "If this was a federal prosecutor instead of a local, you'd probably be breaking a law or two. Presidential fingers on the scale of justice."

    "These people don't work for me," Kerry rejoined. "I'm just going to walk them through this, make sure it all goes right."

    "Maybe so. But this isn't a random phone call from a casual friend. This is the President calling."

    "Which is why I won't have to call them twice." Kerry paused, voice level and determined. "This can't keep happening to her, Clayton. Not on my watch."

EIGHT

At ten o'clock, Jack Sanders, the President's Chief Domestic Policy Advisor, ushered Martin Bresler and five CEOs of gun companies into the Oval Office.

    Collectively, the seven were an ill-assorted group. Slender, scholarly and intense, Sanders was a generation younger than the rest, a political scientist from Princeton. Bresler—small, dark, loquacious, and frenetic— headed the Gun Sports Coalition, an industry group formed to soften the image of gun manufacturers and, Bresler hoped, steer a middle ground between two implacable enemies, Kerry Kilcannon and the SSA. The CEOs were the first subjects of this improbable experiment: middle-aged and white, burly except for one, they looked as uncomfortable to Kerry as suspects in a lineup. Though respectful, they were reticent; Kerry was quite certain that none had voted for him. As Kerry greeted them, only George Callister, the CEO of Lexington Arms, returned his handshake with an unflinching gaze which bespoke a quiet confidence.

    The White House photographer hurried in. Serially, each CEO posed with Kerry for the obligatory "grip and grin" shot; struck by the awkwardness of it all, Kerry idly wondered if any of these photographs would end up on a wall. Waving them to the u-shaped couch and wing chairs, Kerry amended his mental image of a lineup—they seemed more like prisoners on the wrong end of a firing squad.

    The absurdity of this made Kerry smile—when all else fails, he thought, make an offering to the god of laughter. "Believe me," he told them, "I know how tough it is to be seen with me. But don't worry— right after the ceremony we're putting all of you in the witness protection program."

    There was tentative laughter. Smiling, Bresler asked, "Are you telling our wives?"

    "We already have," Kerry rejoined. "They all wish you guys a lot of luck."

    The chuckles felt more genuine now. But even as George Callister joined in, Kerry felt Callister assessing him with genuine curiosity. With his grey crew cut, stocky build, broad face, and midwestern accent, Callister reminded Kerry of an engineer, the kind of man who worked with his head and hands. Instinctively Kerry felt that, among this group, Callister was important. Though careful to look from face to face, Kerry focused his attention on the CEO of Lexington.