Balance of Power

    This time, Roper cupped his palms; the frequent movements of his hands, Sarah realized, bespoke a passion repressed. "There are several correlations. Last year, handguns like the Lexington P-2 were used to murder slightly over twelve hundred women. Fifty-six percent of those women were killed by husbands, live-in partners, or current or exboyfriends. And, like Bowden, one-third of those who murdered killed themselves.

    "John Bowden was an adjudicated spousal abuser—that's a matter of public record. According to Ms. Costello's complaint, President Kilcannon asked the president of Lexington Arms, George Callister, to impose background checks at gun shows before its dealers could sell Lexington products. Callister declined. According to Ben Gehringer's deposition, Gehringer then sold the P-2 to John Bowden without a background check—Bowden having been drawn to the gun show by Lexington's ad." Roper's left hand clenched. "It's more than arguable that, without the ad, or with the background check, the seven people Bowden killed—including himself—might still be alive."

    Nolan mustered a look of skepticism. "Is that the entirety of your opinion?"

    "Not quite." Once more, Roper glanced at Harrison Fancher. "The SSA would have you believe that most homicides occur in the commission of a felony. Not true. Most homicides result from arguments between people who know each other, and the number of women shot to death by intimate partners is over four times greater than those killed by strangers." Pausing, Roper spoke more quietly. "As I said, that comes to over twelve hundred murdered women. Compared to twelve women who used guns to kill in self-defense.

    "That's one hundred murdered women for every act of self-defense. But enough of numbers, Mr. Nolan. These are people we're talking about. The sixteen-year-old Japanese exchange student killed while looking for a Halloween party because he rang the wrong doorbell. The fourteen-yearold who her father mistook for an intruder and who died saying 'I love you, Daddy.' The twenty-year-old mother who thought she heard gravel crunching in the driveway, pulled out a gun without a safety lock, and killed her eight-month-old by accident. The countless times when 'selfdefense' turns out to be what happens when you arm drunkenness and anger with a gun.

    "Triggers don't pull themselves, Mr. Nolan. But we're at far greater risk in the presence of a gun. That's why the most well armed country in the world is also the most deadly."

    Listening, Sarah could only hope that Senator Fasano failed, and that Mary Costello's day in court would come. Then she felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she saw her assistant hovering with a look which combined urgency with hesitance at interrupting.

    "Pardon us," she said to Nolan. Turning from his annoyed expression to Janet's worried one, she knew immediately what had happened.

    "It's the phone call you were waiting for," Janet whispered.

* * *

    Though they had not spoken since their meeting, Norman Conn blurted without preface, "I refused to meet with their lawyer—a man named Nolan."

    The reedy tautness in his voice confirmed Conn's stress. Sarah glanced at the closed door of her office. "Who asked you?"

    "Our general counsel. If I don't meet with them, they're going to depose me." His voice rose, quickening. "They say if I stole records or gave away corporate secrets, they can sue me and take the house I've had for twenty years."

    To Sarah, the telephone felt like a copper wire, a conductor of Conn's tension. "I left you a message," she said, "referring you to a lawyer in Hartford who specializes in protecting the rights of whistleblowers . . ."

    "I was going to see him." His voice broke. "Now I don't know."

    Sarah paused, suspended between pity and desperation. Bent on his own redemption, Conn had disdained to fear the loss of something as trivial as a job. But one could fear things as simple, and as profound, as the loss of the familiar. A house.

    "I'm sorry," she said quietly. "But if they notice your deposition, you'll be required to testify under oath."

    "What if you tell them I'm not going to be a witness?"

    At once, Sarah was reminded of Martin Bresler. "I could do that. But I won't." Her voice was softer yet. "I'm sorry, Mr. Conn. But I have a duty to my client. I suggest you ask the lawyer I mentioned about how to protect your rights. Because I'll use those documents you gave me to make sure that you don't lie."

    This was an empty threat, Sarah knew—a self-discredited witness was useless at trial. In Conn's silence, she wondered if he knew this.

    "I understand," he answered with a croak which, nonetheless, had a measure of dignity. The line went dead before Sarah could say more.

TWENTY-FOUR

Riven by doubts, Chad Palmer prepared to commence the debate on gun immunity.