Balance of Power

    Monday morning, the President began calling, or summoning senators for breakfast or lunch or cocktails in the residence or Oval Office.

    On the telephone with James Torchio, he promised a personal call to Torchio's principal fund-raiser. Over breakfast with Ben Jasper of Iowa, he politely inquired if the SSA could help the senator with flood relief, or whether that was something which might require a President. In the Oval Office, he more pointedly asked Jason Christy of Maryland—who badly wanted to succeed him when Kerry's term was over— whether he thought he could win their party's nomination over the opposition of the incumbent. All of this involved the usual trafficking in favors, a knowledge of each senator's motivations reinforced by their clear understanding of Kerry's; hence none of it surprised him. The exception was Hank Westerly of Nebraska.

    They sat in Kerry's private quarters in the White House, sipping Scotch from crystal glasses. Westerly seemed so tormented by his dilemma that Kerry felt something close to pity. "I often thought," he told his former peer, "that being a senator would be terrific if we never had to vote."

    But Westerly seemed beyond the salve of humor. He blinked at Kerry behind thick glasses, his genial midwestern face a portrait of uncharacteristic misery. "I'm afraid of these people," he blurted out.

    "The SSA?"

    "Yes." His tone became confessional. "I mean, physically."

    This was one fear for which Kerry was not prepared. Reading the President's face, Westerly seemed to wince, recoiling from this admission to a man who had not only lost his brother and the greater portion of Lara's family to guns, but had also been shot himself. Softly, Kerry answered, "Unlike the pro-life fanatics, the pro-gunners don't seem to shoot their adversaries. Although I suppose there's always a first time. But if my experience is any guide, it probably won't be you."

    The senator made no attempt to answer. With the same quiet, Kerry said, "I need your help, Hank."

    Sipping Scotch, Westerly pursed his lips, his wrinkled face a blueprint of unhappiness. "I'd like to, Mr. President. Believe me. But I just don't know that I can."

    Kerry felt all compunction vanish. "Then let's consider your life this side of heaven. If you want anything—a dam, a road, or that federal building with your name on it—I can make it happen, or not. If you want me to campaign for you, or just raise money, I will—or I won't.

    "I plan to be here for another seven years. That's a long time to spend in purgatory. Assuming, of course, that you make it to the end." The quiet of Kerry's voice held no hint of mercy. "Life is choices, Hank. You get to choose what scares you most."

* * *

    But the most unpleasant meeting in this sequence was made so by its absence of humanity.

    In Kerry's informed estimate, Jack Slezak of Michigan was crude and amoral, a politician whose sole interest was to amass power, and to eliminate all rivals by whatever means at hand. Kerry disliked him on instinct and on principle. As part of Slezak's complex calculus of survival, he had become an advocate of gun rights, judging that this could help him with a core of voters who usually voted Republican without offending his blue-collar base, many of whom owned guns. A similar calculus had led him to support Vice President Dick Mason over Kerry in the Michigan primary and, Kerry was certain, had inspired a scurrilous last-minute round of phone-banking—casting Kerry as irreligious and antiunion—which had contributed to his narrow defeat. Though it was early evening when Slezak came to the Oval Office, Kerry did not offer him a drink.

    "I need your vote against gun immunity," Kerry said. "Simple as that."

    Beneath Slezak's swept-back reddish hair, his shrewd green eyes peered back at Kerry from a broad Tartar face, all planes and angles, which, Kerry had always suspected, originated when Genghis Khan and his hordes had swept across some vulnerable part of Eastern Europe, pausing to rape the village females. "Not so simple," Slezak said without deference. "I'm up for reelection next year. What do I gain by crossing the SSA?"

    The answer, Kerry knew, was the President's help in raising campaign money from sources to whom Jack Slezak was anathema. But for Kerry the knowledge that this was what Slezak expected, despite his efforts to deny Kerry the office they now sat in, demanded a different response. "My forbearance," Kerry said. "You think I'm only concerned with the next election. In the last election, I lost your primary—thanks in large measure to you. Now you're facing a primary against Jeannie Griswold, and if you lose, you're gone for good. This election, it's pretty much up to me."

    Slezak's face took on an adamantine cast of someone who would not be moved. "Michigan's my state, not yours. I thought we settled that the last time."