Balance of Power

    Kilcannon reached the rostrum, to be greeted by Speaker Thomas Jencks, a stocky, grey-haired Republican, and Vice President Ellen Penn. Silent, he handed each of them a copy of his message. For almost five minutes, the respectful applause continued unabated, with Kilcannon utterly still, eyes downcast in an attitude of deep reflection and humility. Only when, at last, the sound slowly receded did Thomas Jencks speak the ceremonial greeting.

    Members of Congress, I have the high honor and distinct privilege of presenting to you the President of the United States . . .

Those attending rose as one.

* * *

    From the rostrum, Kerry Kilcannon watched them, his chest tight with emotion. He recalled like yesterday the tumult as he accepted his party's nomination, the chill day of his inaugural address, but never a speech so fraught with moment. As the silence fell at last, he remembered Inez Costello, then Joan, and finally Marie, smiling with delight as he danced with her at the wedding. And then, stepping forward to the rostrum, he looked up at his wife.

* * *

    On television, Lara Kilcannon's lips moved, as though in a silent encouragement only he could hear.

    "They're certainly milking this one," Bill Campton said to Dane. And then Kilcannon began to speak.

    Thirteen years ago, the President said in quiet tones, my brother James Kilcannon died of a fatal gunshot wound. Thirteen days ago, three more members of our family were murdered with a gun . . .

Dane stared at the screen in wonder. "This is a mistake. He's making it all about them."

* * *

    The chamber was hushed, as though muted by an opening so personal in nature. Taut, Lara watched, holding her sister's hand and that of Louis Morgan, knowing that Kerry had written these words himself.

    "Because they were part of our family," he continued, "you know their names. As we have mourned, you have mourned with us. And no words of mine will ever match your grace and generosity . . ."

* * *

    Pausing, Kilcannon seemed to gaze straight into Dane's office, and then his voice grew stronger.

    But if this were solely a family tragedy, four senseless deaths separated by thirteen years, I would not have come here.

    I am here because in those thirteen years, almost four hundred thousand other Americans have died from gunfire. Now Kilcannon looked up at the gallery, speaking slowly and respectfully. When Lara's mother, niece and sister died, three more people died with them—Henry Serrano, a devoted husband and father of three; David Walsh, whose wedding would have taken place tomorrow; Laura Blanchard, one day from commencing her sophomore year at Stanford. And on that same day and hour, only a few short blocks from where we are gathered now, Mae Morgan was shot to death by her estranged husband.

    Their families are here with us tonight . . .

* * *

    As Kerry recited their names, each survivor stood to more applause— Felice Serrano and her children; David Walsh's young fiancée; Laura Blanchard's parents, and, beside Lara, Mae Morgan's fourteen-year-old son, Louis. "I'll do my best," Kerry had promised them before the speech, and so he would.

    "Mae Morgan," he went on, "died as eighty people die every day in this country—mourned by her family, invisible to the media, unknown to the rest of us." Pausing, Kerry's gaze swept the chamber. "Why is this? Because the carnage is so great that only the mass slaughter of schoolchildren, or the death of a public figure, ever gives us pause.

    "All of us know that every assassination of an American President was committed with a gun. All of us then living remember our ineradicable grief when John F. Kennedy was murdered. But all too few of us know that since that awful day more Americans have died from gunshot wounds than died in all the wars of the twentieth century, the bloodiest hundred years in world history . . ."

* * *

    Chuck Hampton could hear the passion in Kilcannon's voice, could feel the rapt attention of those who watched.