Balance of Power

    "We should not mince words. In the hands of a woman living alone, a semiautomatic handgun—and yes, an Eagle's Claw bullet—can deliver her from death or degradation. To paraphrase Senator Palmer, it is not the job of lawyers to calibrate her means of self-protection, approving only those guns, or those projectiles, least likely to ensure her safety."

    He had made a deal, Chad told himself. But it did not involve listening to this. As soon as he decently could, Paul Harshman's "friend and colleague" left the Senate chamber.

TWENTY-FIVE

Jet-lagged from taking the red-eye from San Francisco to New York, but even more tense than tired, Sarah watched Nolan interrogate Norman Conn.

    They were crammed in the small conference room of a two-person firm in Hartford, of which Conn's lawyer, Joseph Schwab, was the principal partner. Schwab was a large man, firm but gentle in manner, and his presence seemed to have a soothing effect on Conn. But this did not extend to Sarah. Schwab had deflected all of her inquiries, asserting that his client's only interest was the truth—which all the parties could hear at once. Sarah's version of the truth, though suggested by Conn's documents, was near-worthless without his help. And now the man would barely look at her.

    His own tension, though subdued, expressed itself in a certain twitchiness, a darting glance which probed his surroundings without coming to rest. For his part, Nolan seemed tentative, as though handling a bottle of nitroglycerin. His tone was quiet, his demeanor cautious, his questions phrased with care.

    "Prior to this morning," Nolan asked, "have you spoken with, or met with, any of the lawyers in this room?"

    Conn touched his temples, fingers grazing his thin red hair. "Both," he answered.

    Nolan looked puzzled. "Both?"

    A glint of malicious amusement passed through Conn's eyes. "Met with. And spoken with."

    Quickly, Nolan repressed his annoyance. "With whom?"

    "Sarah Dash."

    Though speaking her name, Conn refused to make eye contact. It was as though Sarah was not there.

    "And where did that meeting take place?"

    This induced the briefest of smiles. "A motel room."

    "For what purpose?"

    Conn glanced at Schwab. The lawyer inclined his forehead, as though granting permission to proceed. Reaching beneath his chair, Conn placed a battered leather briefcase on the table, and removed a two-inch stack of documents.

    "To give her these," he answered.

    Nolan eyed them grimly. "What are they?"

    "The documents Mike Reiner ordered me to destroy."

    His quiet words were poisoned by an undertone of resentment. Still gazing at the documents, Nolan considered his choices, weighing how best to proceed.

    "In your mind," he inquired at length, "what is their significance?"

    "That varies." The malicious smile returned. "The common denominator is that they implicate Mr. Reiner in misconduct."

    With mounting disquiet, Sarah realized how deeply Conn despised his superior—an emotion which, once established, would make him easier for Nolan to discredit. A slightly patronizing tone crept into Nolan's voice. "Then why don't we go through them, from first to last."

    For the next fifteen minutes, Nolan directed the court reporter to mark documents as exhibits. Sarah and Harry Fancher watched in silence, more tense for the suspension of the questioning. At last Nolan asked, "What is the significance of Conn Exhibit One?"

    In response, Conn spread a sheaf of documents in front of him, regarding them with the scholarly satisfaction of a paleontologist sorting prehistoric bones. "Exhibits One through Twenty-seven are trace requests received by Lexington Arms from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."

    "And what do they show?"

    "In each case, the ATF gave us the serial number of a Lexington P-2 used to commit a crime, and asked us to identify the distributor or dealer we shipped it to." Conn's smile contained a palpable spite. "These documents cover a six-month period. Taken together, they indicate that the P-2 was commonly used by criminals and that Lexington— at least Mike Reiner—knew it."

    "On what do you base that?"

    Conn's gaze flickered across each document. "After the First Lady's family was murdered, Mike asked me to destroy them."

    "Where were you," Nolan asked with quiet acidity, "during this supposed conversation?"

    "Mike's office."

    Nolan permitted himself a faint smile of disbelief. "Just the two of you?"

    "Yes."

"Did you consider yourself a confidant of Mr. Reiner?"

"No."

    The one-word answer, delivered in the flattest of tones, hinted at more. But Nolan—for strategic reasons, Sarah was certain—chose not to pursue it. "Do you have any explanation as to why Reiner chose to rely on you, rather than destroy these documents himself?"

    "Yes. He didn't know where to look. I did."

    To Sarah, the answer was mundane, and yet so unexpected, that it had the ring of truth. But Nolan raised his eyebrows. "While he was enlisting your assistance, did Mr. Reiner explain his motives?"