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Balance of Power

Lenihan grimaced. Pointedly, he answered, "Maybe somebody from Nolan's firm reviewed all of our discovery with Callister, and reassured themselves that he's a complete dry hole. Which bears on our next appointment, doesn't it?"

Both fell silent. Their next appointment was with Mary Costello, and it overshadowed the conundrum of George Callister. Once more, Sarah and Lenihan would be adversaries; today was the deadline for responding to Dane's offer.

* * *

They met in Sarah's office. Even by the standards of her prior behavior—quiet, confused, often overwhelmed—Mary Costello seemed unusually subdued. But then, Sarah supposed, not many women had been offered eight million dollars in exchange for their murdered relatives.

"This is it," Lenihan told her. "Not just the deadline, but defendants' moment of maximum uncertainty, and your moment of maximum leverage. The President's poised to veto the bill; Callister's set for deposition; the trial date's set in stone. That may be good for a couple of million more."

"If the President can hold his veto," Sarah retorted, "your leverage will mushroom exponentially. Lexington and the SSA do not

want a public trial, with our evidence trumpeted in the media, and neither does Fasano. Even if you decide to settle—and I hope you won't—don't do it now. Do it on the eve of trial."

Mary gazed at her so steadily that it seemed artificial, an effort of will. Sarah had a curious memory: that she herself had used this expression as a teenager, when she'd tried concealing something from her mother. To her dismay, Sarah wondered if Lenihan and Mary had reached some private understanding, and that this meeting was yet another charade that only Sarah could not comprehend.

"Mary," Lenihan countered with quiet insistence, "the leverage Sarah imagines will exist only if the President wins. If he loses, and he still may, this lawsuit ceases to exist. There'll be no money, no trial, no justice for your family . . ."

"Is a sealed settlement 'justice for her family'?" Sarah asked. "A secret payment in return for a dismissal, perhaps dooming the President's chances of sustaining a veto? Instead of trying to save lives, Mary would be helping the SSA to keep anyone else from suing the gun industry, ever. So why don't we call this what it is, Bob—blood money."

A flush crept across Lenihan's neck. "At least the SSA will have paid for what happened. They'll know it, and Mary will know it. There are a thousand ways to dedicate some of this money to the memory of Inez, Joan, and Marie, ways that would have touched them."

How many ways, Sarah wanted to ask, can you say 'venal'? She felt the clutch of her stomach, and then, glancing at Mary, decided that silence was more eloquent than speech.

Head lowered, Mary was rubbing her eyes. Even Lenihan knew enough to join Sarah in her quiet.

They both watched Mary for some moments. Then, squaring her shoulders, Mary looked up at Lenihan, her voice quiet but clear. "I just can't do it," she told him. "No matter what."

Sarah felt a brief spurt of elation. But there was no defiance in Mary's words, no hope of a public triumph. Only a curious resignation, a note of weary fatalism. Perhaps the torment of this decision had exhausted her but, if only for her own sake, Sarah selfishly wished for a greater show of spirit.

Lenihan saw this at once. "Exactly what are you saying, Mary?"

"That it's wrong to take money from these people." A hint of steel crept into Mary's voice. "Tell them that for me."

* * *

For the two days after Lenihan's call, Charles Dane worked the phones, pressuring Fasano, cajoling senators to switch their votes. The surface of Washington—including what Dane alone felt as an eerie silence from the White House—remained unchanged.

On the final day, Kerry Kilcannon appeared in the White House press room. "This morning," he began, "I have vetoed the Civil Justice Reform Act . . ."