No Safe Place (29 page)

Kerry glanced at the others. “Do you agree?”

They nodded, watching Kerry.

“What else?” Auletta said.

“Money. Will there be enough?”

Auletta nodded. “There’s your brother’s network, Kerry. I know where the organization is,
and
the money. In that way, Senator Kilcannon left you in good shape.”

Senator Kilcannon,
Kerry thought to himself. How long might it be, if ever, before these men thought of him as anything but Jamie’s surrogate. “I appreciate that,” he answered. “But if I do this, I’ll be running as me—whatever
that
turns out to be—not as some poor imitation of my brother. Everyone will know why you’ve come to me. Why make it worse?”

Auletta nodded his agreement. This was meaningless, Kerry knew; what they expected was a malleable amateur, appealing enough—with proper coaching—to win by running under his brother’s name.

“There’s one more thing,” Kerry said. “I’d expect to name
my own campaign manager. And I’d want it understood that everything, and everyone, goes through him.”

Auletta raised his eyebrows. “Do you have someone in mind?”

“Clayton Slade. We worked together in the prosecutor’s office.”

Watching Kerry, Auletta idly touched his nimbus of gray-black hair. In a dubious tone, he said, “I don’t know him. Has he ever run anything?”

“No. But he’s a very quick study. All he’ll need is help from you.”

Auletta gave him a long look of appraisal.
Take your time,
Kerry thought.
We both know who asked me here, and that I can walk away.

“All right,” Auletta said at length. “We can put some good people around him. But you need to decide, Kerry—soon.”

“By tomorrow.” Kerry looked around him, speaking to the group. “One question, just for my own curiosity. The two senators pretty much control who the President appoints for U.S. attorney, right? Including in the district covering Newark.”

Not even a senator,
Kerry could see Auletta thinking,
and you’re already dispensing patronage.
“You’d have a lot of influence,” Auletta replied. “Assuming that a Democrat’s in the White House.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kerry said.

They shook hands all around. It was only after the others left that Liam asked, “You’re going after Vincent Flavio, aren’t you? Your U.S. attorney would indict him.”

Kerry gave his godfather the smallest smile. “You forgot Nunzio,” he answered.

It was not easy.

“A Senate seat is not a bequest,” the
Newark Star-Ledger
editorialized, “however tragic the loss.” Its political columnist was more direct: “The Democratic Party has determined to replace a potential President with an Irish machine politician whose name, curiously enough, also happens to be Kilcannon.”

Kerry and Clayton worked hard to overcome this. But Kerry’s inexperience showed—there were issues he did not yet grasp, constituencies he did not understand—and Ralph Shue
hammered relentlessly on Kerry’s lack of qualifications, his own years of experience. Frustrated, Kerry burst out at a rally, “Where did Mr. Shue learn to roll over and do tricks whenever the gun lobby whistles? Or drool like Pavlov’s dog when polluters ring the dinner bell? It must be all that
experience
…”

Almost instantly, Kerry regretted this; to his list of adjectives for Kerry, Shue now added “intemperate” and “immature.” For some voters, followers of Jamie, nothing Kerry could do or say was excessive; for others—and much of the press—Kerry seemed too volatile. When Auletta suggested that Kerry contact John Musso and his aunt, hoping for a TV ad to soften his image, Kerry refused. For several weeks thereafter, hamstrung by caution, he suffered Shue’s attacks, delivered from the lofty vantage point of the man’s knowledge and years of service.

The climax occurred at their last debate. Now leading by a point, Shue, emboldened, decided to attack with new force—Kerry would either lose his temper, as before, or suffer the attacks in silence. Finally, Shue turned to Kerry and said, “If your name was Kerry Francis, sir, your candidacy would be a joke.”

For a moment Kerry was silent, gazing into Shue’s square, smug face. “If my name were Kerry Francis,” he answered softly, “my brother would still be alive.”

Shue blinked. With an otherworldly detachment, Kerry realized that the last man he had seen this wounded was his own father, on the night when Kerry had beaten him. Only Clayton, perhaps, would understand how much the answer cost Kerry himself.

At thirty, the same age as his brother, Kerry narrowly won
election to the United States Senate.

Telling Kerry about Lara—the counselor’s notes, Cutler’s question, her lie in return—Clayton watched his friend closely.

Kerry’s stillness was so complete that he seemed not to breathe. His thoughts could have been anything—a terrible regret; the fear of discovery; the potential destruction of his hopes for the presidency—except for the look in his eyes. So that it did not surprise Clayton that Kerry’s first words were “How is she?”

They sat across from each other in Kerry’s suite. It was a little past six; Kerry had just come from the gym, and his hair was mussed, his forehead damp. Surrounding them was the hush of a giant hotel in the moments before the clatter of room service carts began, the muffled sounds of doors opening and closing. They had led this life for so long, uprooted from home yet surrounded by people, that Clayton sometimes forgot the utter solitude at its core.

“Devastated,” he answered simply. “Because of then, and because of now. Though she’s trying not to show that.”

Kerry seemed to wince. His pain for Lara was so naked that Clayton looked away.

“She didn’t lie just for you, Kerry. She did what was best for both of you.”

Kerry folded his hands. “That’s what she thought two years ago. Does she still think it was, I wonder?”

Clayton was silent. “Whatever else,” he said at last, “you could never have become President. She left you free to choose. Just like now.” He paused again, then added quietly, “She doesn’t want to see you. For your sake as much as hers.”

This time, it was Kerry who looked away.

For a moment, Clayton let him be. They sat together in silence.

“So,” Clayton said at last, “there’s only one decision left for you to make.”

Kerry did not answer. The only sign that he had heard was the gaze he directed at Clayton, level but impenetrable.

“Newsworld,”
Clayton continued, “will try to break this before Tuesday. That means Cutler’s coming to you next. Kit can try to buy you a little time. But it won’t be long until you’re face-to-face with Cutler, and have to make a choice.”

“
Have
to?” Kerry stood, suddenly angry. “What happened between Lara and me has nothing to do with whether I’m fit to be President. Answering validates his right to ask.”

To Clayton, the response revealed how shaken Kerry was: unlike many politicians who, faced with trouble, create their own reality, Kerry had always been willing to acknowledge whatever difficulties he faced. “A ‘nondenial denial’?” Clayton asked. “Everyone knows that means ‘I did it.’ That won’t stop
Newsworld
from trying to get your cell phone records, questioning your neighbors, finding any maître d’who ever saw you two together. What are you going to say when Cutler asks why you called her at three in the morning, or left her apartment at six—‘None of your business’?” Clayton stood to face him. “There’ll be enough to make you look bad. Without a flat denial, he prints it all.”

Kerry folded his arms. “So I let Nate Cutler make a liar out of me.”

“Or lose the primary.”

Once more, Kerry was still. Only his questioning look betrayed surprise.

“Lose,” Clayton told him, “and the story goes away. But if you win the nomination and
then
the story comes out, you’ll be the ruined candidate who dragged his party to disaster.” Clayton’s voice softened. “Forty-two years old, Kerry, and a ghost. How many more regrets do you want to live with?”

Kerry stared at him. After a time, he asked, “Just how do we ensure I lose, when we’re not even sure how I can win?”

“I pull the TV ads we committed to, explaining we need the money for between now and the convention. Without more airtime, Frank Wells and Jack Sleeper think Mason wins. I
agree.”

Clayton gave a first bleak smile. “They’ve got their reputations to protect. Once I cancel the ads, they leak it to the press, and I become the idiot who cost you the nomination. Next time you’ll know to hire someone better.”

Kerry tilted his head, studying him. Clayton could feel his friend thinking of what this would cost Clayton himself: two years of his life; his own pride in reputation; his hopes to be attorney general. For his own sake, Clayton realized, he wanted Kerry to lie. “You’re young,” he finished. “You’ve made a great run, when almost nobody gave you a chance. In four years, or eight years, you could run again. If you want that.”

“And if I lie?”

“No guarantees. But
Newsworld
still has standards: does it print the story when all it has is innuendo? At least you can hope this gets pushed down a level, to papers that don’t count as much. Maybe even the tabloids, so we can call it sleaze.”

“Even though it’s true.”

“Give them the ‘truth,’ Kerry, and Lara loses her reputation, and her career. So do you.” Clayton’s voice became slow and emphatic. “If you don’t want to lie, lose the primary. But first ask yourself this: are you willing to sacrifice everything you’ve campaigned for, let down everyone who’s worked for you, so that whoever is trying to destroy you—Dick Mason or some Republican—can be President? Then ask yourself which sin you want to live with.”

Kerry walked to the window, opening the drapes. A sun-streaked smog sat over Los Angeles; to Clayton, the office towers surrounding their hotel, random in their shapes and colors, looked like the careless work of a willful child. Kerry’s tone was bitter. “I can’t be with her, but I can ruin her. All because I think I’d be a better President than Dick Mason.” He shook his head, and his voice became softer, a mixture of irony and sadness. “What would my brother have done, do you suppose?”

Twelve years ago today, Clayton reflected, James Kilcannon had been murdered. He waited a moment longer. “In five minutes, Kerry, I’m meeting with Kit, Nat, and Frank. What should I tell them?”

Kerry did not turn. “Tell them to stall,” he said at last.

At six o’clock, Sean Burke stood in front of the glass door beneath the “Kilcannon for President” sign.

The dawn was sunny; the clouds that had covered San Francisco were gone. At Sean’s back was the hum of urban traffic running normally, the squeal of brakes, the arrhythmic snarl of motors. After a moment, Rick Ginsberg, the volunteer coordinator, appeared like a specter through the glass. Then Sean opened the door and stepped inside.

Though his eyes were bruised with sleeplessness, Rick managed a smile. “Thanks for showing up early, John.”

Rick’s quiet words echoed; with few others there, the cavernous showroom had a shadowy hush, even more churchlike than before.

“Come on back,” Rick said. “I’ve got the morning
Times
and the
Chronicle
spread out on the table.”

Sean followed him. Their footsteps echoed from the Spanish tiles to the ceiling, fifty feet above. Over his shoulder, Rick asked, “Did you see Kerry’s speech last night? When he was talking to the demonstrators?”

Even Kerry Kilcannon’s name, Sean found, made him edgy. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I saw it.”

“I hope they understand—Kerry’s pro-choice; he’s just got his own feelings.” Rick’s voice was doubtful. “With this creep who murdered those people in Boston, you wonder who’s listening. Mason’s sure using that every way he can.”

Sean felt his skin crawl. How much longer would it be, he wondered, until they traced him to San Francisco, put photos of the “creep” on television for fools like Rick to see. And still he had no weapon.

The coordinator stopped by a Formica-top table covered with newspapers next to two pairs of scissors. “Start with the
Chronicle
,” Rick told him. “We clip out anything about the campaign, or issues, and fax it all to state headquarters in L.A.”

Sean placed his hands on the table, leaning forward as he scanned the papers. On the front page of the second section, he saw the headline “Kilcannon to Tour Bay Area Tomorrow.”

Sean stared at the words. “After I’m done,” he mumbled, “I may have to go out for a while. Maybe an hour.”

Mechanically, Sean picked up the scissors.

“Jesus,” Nat Schlesinger murmured.

It was seven o’clock. Clayton sat in his hotel suite with Nat, Kit Pace, Frank Wells, and two pots of coffee; Nat’s voice was the first sound since Clayton had finished speaking. Now Clayton watched them sort out the pieces: the counselor’s memo; Nate Cutler’s visit to Lara Costello; Lara’s denial. The gloom was palpable.

It was Frank Wells who spoke next. “Well,” he said, “this takes care of the gay rumors, doesn’t it?”

No one smiled. Kit’s round face looked puffy, as if she had been aroused from sleep; Clayton watched her struggle to jump-start her thoughts. Carefully, she asked Clayton, “If Nate goes to him, what will Kerry say?”

Kit, Clayton knew, would not ask if the story was true. Nor would the others; like criminal defense lawyers, they did not wish to know and would never talk of this to Kerry. That was Clayton’s job.

“Right now,” Clayton said, “he doesn’t see why he should answer at all.”

Kit’s coffee cup froze halfway to her mouth. As she stared at Clayton over the rim, he saw her recover. “That won’t fly,” she said bluntly. “How you deal with a scandal can make it better or worse. One way or another, Kerry has to respond.” She sipped her coffee, then added more quietly, “Deciding things has never been his problem.”

Clayton felt the others watching. Each, he was confident, assumed that Clayton knew the truth, and was waiting for cues. “He’s had less than an hour to live with this,” Clayton answered.