Balance of Power

    Kerry felt shaken. There was no need to remind Chad of the immensity of his decision, or of how much more difficult it would make the President's task. Softly, he said, "You despise the SSA almost as much as I do. What in the world did Fasano offer you?"

    For an instant, Chad looked discomfited. Almost unique among politicians, in Kerry's mind, Palmer possessed a sense of shame which diminished his skill at functional insincerity. "I'm sorry this is personal to you," he said at length. "But, this time, I'm not carrying your water. Caroline Masters was enough."

    Though spoken quietly, the last phrase reminded Kerry that he would always be associated with the death of Chad's daughter and that Chad's bitterness, however well suppressed, would never entirely vanish. With equal quiet, Kerry answered, "Then I have a courtesy to ask. Not for me, but for Lara."

    Chad hesitated. "What might that be, Mr. President?"

    "You've scheduled hearings, including on this gun immunity clause. The witness list is up to you."

    Chad stared at him. "You want me to call Lara."

    "And Mary."

    A grim comprehension stole into Chad's eyes. Personally and politically, he could not ban a First Lady and her sister, the survivors of a nationally televised slaughter, from confronting him on every cable news network in America. Now Chad would pay a price, and so would Frank Fasano. "Please tell the First Lady," Chad said with formal courtesy, "that I welcome them both."

FOURTEEN

Two mornings later, Martin Bresler met with Bob Lenihan and Sarah Dash.

    To assure that no one saw them, Sarah rented a vacation home in Sea Ranch, a windswept compound along the rugged northern coast of Sonoma County, set amidst low vegetation and sheltering pines. The three sat drinking coffee on a wooden bench at the tip of a bluff overlooking the ocean, watching high waves slap against rocks and cliffs which turned blue water into a perpetual white spray. Seated between the lawyers, Bresler hunched in a defensive crouch.

    "No affidavit," he stated flatly. "Nothing in writing."

    He was a small man, with receding dark hair, liquid eyes and a mobile, expressive face. There was something diminished about him, Sarah thought, a natural volubility turned to suspicion. "We can't do that," Lenihan insisted. "What's to keep you from telling us any story you want, then walking away from it when crunch time comes?"

    Remaining hunched, Bresler did not look at anyone. "And if crunch time never comes? What if your case settles or gets thrown out? I don't want some document sitting around with my name on it . . ."

    "Are you that scared?" Sarah interjected.

    "Are you that naive?" Bresler snapped. "Once you hear my story, you'll understand. Right now, let me ask how you'd enjoy this scenario—I can't get hired in the gun industry; Republicans treat me like a pariah; and I'm scouring Washington for a lobbyist job when the last one blew up in my face.

    "I'm talking to you because it's the only way to avoid having to testify. But

if I'm forced to, I don't want to have signed an affidavit so that Lexington's lawyers can use it as a fucking blueprint to grill me with." Pausing, he sipped coffee, still gazing at the sparkling blue water beneath an electric blue sky. "So do you want my help? Or do you want a deposition from someone who's suffering an enormous memory lapse?"

    Sarah looked past him, at Lenihan. "Let's talk," she said.

* * *

    Sarah and Lenihan stood at the edge of the bluff, out of hearing distance from Bresler. A high wind whistled past their ears. "Fuck him," Lenihan said. "Stick the little pissant in steerage and fly him back to Washington where he belongs. If we want his testimony, we take his deposition."

    Sarah crossed her arms. "When the First Lady calls, she's calling for the President—as well as for herself and Mary, who's our client, after all. What do we lose by hearing this guy out?"

    "Hearing him," Lenihan answered, "is probably just a waste of time. But relying on what he tells us is criminal stupidity." He turned toward Martin Bresler with an air of disdain. "That's treachery in human form."

    Sarah shrugged. "He's also what we need."

* * *

    Placing his mug on the burl redwood coffee table, Bresler settled back on the couch. "It started," he told the lawyers, "with me thinking I could find a middle ground between Kilcannon and the SSA. It ended with me as political roadkill, the First Lady's family slaughtered, and Lexington staring down the barrel of a lawsuit."

    Still annoyed, Lenihan frowned at Bresler's portentousness. "We know how it ended," he said. "Just try your hardest to get us there. From the beginning."

* * *