Balance of Power

    "People forget, and memories fade. Three months from now, if CNN is still airing that tape of the murders, the two or three people watching will just be numb. Even now, most people instinctively know that suing Lexington isn't right—let alone suing the SSA. But the SSA will never forget a senator who opposed it." Fasano spread his hands in a gesture of entreaty. "I'm here to offer you a way out on this. On this issue, a Senate which is unpredictable is bound to be unpleasant."

    This was right, Hampton knew. Already there was a stirring within his caucus, an apprehensive restiveness among those who felt endangered; Vic Coletti, he feared, was the harbinger of things to come. With genuine curiosity, Hampton asked, "What 'way out' do you have in mind?"

    "For you to lie back," Fasano answered briskly. "On tort reform, your only means of raising the stakes on gun immunity—making life hard for both of us—is to offer an amendment stripping immunity out of the bill, and force senators to vote on that alone. But you'll never get enough votes to pass it, and any swing Democrat who votes with you may well go down in flames.

    "Tell Kilcannon that. Then let the entire Civil Justice Reform Act come up for a vote, and pass—which it will. If Kilcannon wants to veto it, he can. Then he can try to get the thirty-four votes necessary to uphold a veto, and you can decide whether to help him."

    "You've clearly thought this through," Hampton answered with a smile. "So doubtless you've considered that, with a mere forty-one votes, I can mount a filibuster and keep the entire bill from ever coming to a vote."

    "You could," Fasano retorted. "But you won't. Because you'll lose. Despite the no doubt considerable pressure from the lobby for the plaintiff's lawyers, not enough of your people will want to oppose the most sweeping reform of abusive lawsuits passed in a generation—even if it contains a gun immunity provision. And none of mine will. Including Cassie Rollins."

    "Which," Hampton replied, "is why you want me to help you send Kilcannon a tort reform bill with gun immunity still in it. You think you can hold your people, and peel off enough of mine to override the President's veto."

    Fasano gave an affirming nod. "Kilcannon loses, I win—and more of your vulnerable Democrats survive. Giving you a fighting chance to take my place if the Democrats pick up seats in the next election. But if you choose to go with Kilcannon—at least in my humble opinion—you've got no chance at all."

    Listening, Hampton better understood the skill and guile with which Fasano had taken the SSA's incendiary demands, cobbled together a tort reform coalition and, somehow, managed to co-opt Chad Palmer: his proposal encapsulated Hampton's worst fears and fondest hopes, and suggested a path which, in prudence, Hampton could not fault. Except that, in prudence, Hampton need not yet choose.

    "You've given me food for thought," he answered. "Now let me give you some. Because if I were you, and Kerry Kilcannon were coming after me, I'd be a whole lot more worried than you pretend to be." Pausing, Hampton adopted his most affable tone. "How vividly I remember the day when Mac Gage, your sainted predecessor, invited me to his office and urged me not to help the President confirm Caroline Masters. With great reluctance, I turned him down. The next thing I knew Masters was Chief Justice and Mac wasn't leader anymore. And here you are, giving me more good reasons not to help the President with this one.

    "Kilcannon looks at the same electoral map you do, and sees the same demographics. But he figures that you can't win—at least in the long run—by pandering to fundamentalists and gun nuts, any more than the Catholic Church could hold back Galileo." Hampton summoned an ironic smile. "The President may be grieving. But I also think he's sitting there in the White House, thinking, 'Please, Frank—please don't stop now.

    " 'Please stamp out my sister-in-law's right to sue.

    " 'Please spit on a six-year-old girl's grave.

    " 'Please set me up for the next slaughter on a playground, or in a classroom, or at a day-care center. Please, Frank, do whatever the SSA wants you to.' " Hampton's tone became crisp. "So ask yourself, Frank, which one of you is right.

    "But you have asked yourself, of course. And you're not sure at all. All you know for sure is that you're stuck with the SSA because they've got your party by the balls."

    Throughout this sardonic monologue, Hampton observed, Fasano listened with admirable calm and an expression of mild interest. Only a slight edge in his voice betrayed any tension. "Am I to take it, Chuck, that you're keeping your options open?"

    Hampton nodded. "For both our sakes," he answered. "There may come a time when you want me to get you out of this."

TWO

Three weeks later, Sarah Dash stood in a cavernous warehouse outside Hartford, Connecticut, watching a team of paralegals comb through reams of paper crammed inside rows of metal filing cabinets.