Protect and Defend (70 page)

“Chad,” Fasano said, “I count eight of us for voting Masters down: everyone but Kate—and you. Nine is all we need.”

Gage had orchestrated this neatly, Chad thought. “All
you
need to do,” Harshman told him, “is vote with us. For once.”

He was trapped. In his mildest voice, Chad answered, “What you’re suggesting, Paul, might have been possible four days ago. Until you decided to go after her—”

“The woman was arrogant,” Harshman interjected.

“And now she’s sympathetic. Far more than you, in candor. Or any of us white guys who all ganged up on her, and now propose to kill her off in our own version of a smoke-filled room.

“That,” Chad told the others, “would be a coup for Kerry Kilcannon. And it would harm the next Republican president—if we can ever elect another.

“But forget the women we’re offending, if you like, and remember Robert Bork. The liberals trashed him, totally unfairly—as a person and as a judge. They nearly brought down Clarence Thomas, based on allegations about private conduct no one could prove or disprove.

“After Bob Bork went down, he said to me, ‘They’ll never choose another judge who has opinions.’ How much farther do we want to go down
that
road? Especially when it hurts conservative judges at least as much as liberals.” Standing, Chad placed his hands on his hips. “It’s not good for the party, or the country, for Supreme Court nominations to continue as guerrilla warfare. If we want to vote down Masters, fine—let’s do that. But out in the open, on the Senate floor, with all one hundred of us voting. Not like
this
.”

Harshman stared at him with contempt. “Payback’s a bitch,” he said. “But if it’s all that bad, let’s spare our party colleagues a vote. Show some guts for a change.”

“I think they can step up to it,” Chad said evenly. “That’s what we’re elected for.” Once more, he faced the others. “I’m willing to take the lead. I’ll vote to send her to the floor with a negative recommendation.”

By prearrangement, Kate Jarman said promptly, “So will I.”

Glancing from Kate to Chad, Harshman’s eyes reflected his brief and bitter smile. “What about the eight of us?”

Chad sat again. “You don’t have the majority, Paul. There’d be the eight of you voting to kill her, then Kate and me, and then all eight Democrats—so Vic Coletti tells me—voting for a positive recommendation. I’d rather join them than reap the whirlwind.” Though his heart was not light, Chad smiled back at Harshman. “Viewed that way, I’m offering you a deal, and Gage a weapon. A ten-to-eight recommendation against.”

The characteristic flush appeared on Harshman’s forehead; some day, Chad thought, the man would have a stroke. Biting off his words, Harshman said, “Seems like we’re stuck.”

For a triumphant moment, Chad reflected, this gave him far less pleasure than apprehension. Somberly, he answered, “Seems like we all are.”

A
FEW HOURS
after the Judiciary Committee sent the nomination of Caroline Masters back to the full Senate, Clayton came to the Oval Office.

Kerry looked up from a summary of pending legislation. For the first time since their rupture, Clayton had the glint of amusement. “Gage just called,” he said.

“About Caroline?”

“Yes. He wants to see you.”

At once, Kerry understood his friend’s expression. He felt a fleeting sense of satisfaction; perhaps, as President, he was proving more formidable than Gage had expected. “We have his attention,” Kerry observed. “Now that he has to beat us on the floor.”

“What should I tell him?”

Kerry smiled. “That I’m a busy man—what with running the world, and battling the forces of reaction. But I can always make time for my old friend from the Senate.”

Ceremoniously, the two men shook hands. Then Kerry closed the door behind them and waved Gage to an overstuffed chair in front of the marble fireplace.

Kerry felt each taking the other’s measure. Less than four months ago, they had been colleagues, with Kerry, a youthful two-term senator, subject to the velvet tyranny with which Mac Gage ran the Senate. Then, in the wondrous quadrennial act of community, the vote of a free people, the voters had made Kerry Kilcannon the most powerful man on earth, the occupant of an office Macdonald Gage desperately wanted. And so, while Gage remained “Mac,” Kerry had gone from
the “little demagogue” behind his back and “Kerry” to his face, to “Mr. President.”

It threw Gage off, Kerry sensed—the Majority Leader disliked having to recalibrate their relationship so drastically, and beneath his smooth and faintly avuncular manner was a novel trace of uncertainty. The White House press were clustered outside, Kerry knew, speculating on what it meant that Macdonald Gage—as Kit Pace had promptly informed them—had asked to see the President.

“It’s been a while,” Kerry said pleasantly. “Since the inaugural, in fact.”

Gage nodded, conveying with his actor’s range of expressions both his pleasure in seeing Kerry, and the sadness of this particular memory. “Since Roger Bannon’s passing,” he said solemnly. “A lot has happened in these few weeks.”

Kerry saw no reason to replicate Gage’s mournful aura. Pleasantly, he said, “It surely has. Now and then I realize how long it’s been since I’ve last seen my old friends.”

This veiled jibe—a reference to Gage’s long-distance war against Caroline Masters, marked by their absence of contact—induced in Gage a shrewd, appraising look. “My fault, Mr. President, no doubt about it. I haven’t wanted to impose myself. But we’re overdue for a visit.”

“I certainly agree.”

At this comment, a shade more pointed in tone, Gage leaned forward, closing the space between Kerry and himself. It was an old Senate trick—Gage using his bulk to assert dominance—and it conveyed without words that they were engaged in a struggle for power. “Overdue,” Gage repeated. “And now we have a problem.”

Kerry smiled. “Which one?”

Gage’s eyes widened, conveying mock surprise. “Why Caroline Masters, Mr. President.” His voice was soft. “The Honorable Caroline Masters.”

“Well,” the President answered, “she’s certainly that.”

Over the smallest of smiles, Gage’s eyes were combative. “It depends on your point of view.” He paused, his tone becoming reflective, statesmanlike. “She’s turned into plutonium, Mr. President. We’re about to invest a lot of resources in a contentious battle over whether she should lead the Court. No matter how it turns out—and I’m confident I
know
how—it will leave a legacy of rancor which will taint everything else the Senate tries to do.” Gage leaned closer, looking into Kerry’s eyes; but for his new status, the President sensed, Gage would have put a hand on his shoulder. “And for what, Mr. President? For what?”

Kerry’s own gaze was unblinking. “For the nominee I think best.”

Gage frowned. “That’s fine, of course. That’s the privilege of your office. But there has to be a political point to it all, or it’s sort of like the war in Vietnam—a lot of carnage and bitterness, for nothing.”

Kerry had resolved not to be defensive, or to explain himself. “Not for ‘nothing,’” he answered. “For a principle.”

“What principle is that?” Gage’s voice was patient and sincere. “I have the sense, Mr. President, that you foresee some permanent residue of outrage should Caroline Masters meet an adverse fate. With your instinct for the public pulse, you
can’t just
be doing this based on the unlikely hope she’ll win. So I’d like to offer my perspective on reality.”

At this the President smiled. “Yes,” he said, “tell me about
your
reality.”

“All right,” Gage answered crisply. “In
my
reality, we’ve got one year and eight months until the next congressional election, and two years beyond that before we next elect a president. Americans are a blessed people, and among the things they’re blessed with is forgetfulness.

“That’s even more true of women than it is of us men—there’s a school shooting, and some pollster says how fervently the ‘soccer moms’ support new gun laws, but when it comes right down to it they don’t vote the issue. It’s much the same as abortion, though I doubt most women are nearly as pro-abortion as you liberals seem to think.” Abruptly, Gage’s tone became tough and practical. “But you know who
does
remember? Folks who are
angry
. Folks who believe that as a nation we’re headed in the wrong direction—whether it’s abortion, or taking their guns away, or this general degradation of our culture by music and films portraying violence, or everyone having sex with everyone else.”

For emphasis, Gage jabbed a finger at the space between them. “
Those
folks vote. I hear from them, by the thousands. They wouldn’t shake hands with Caroline Masters. They
don’t want to be in the same room with her. They’ll never forgive you if you try to push her down their throats. And they’ll never forgive
me
if I don’t try to lay you low.

“So, what do we have? A nominee who’s likely doomed, and who’ll be forgotten by most people come election time. Except by millions of angry citizens who’ll see you as the Antichrist. Literally.”

Kerry smiled without amusement. “A grim prognosis, Mac. And very complete. How do I spare myself?”

This small irony produced a sigh from Gage. “Let her withdraw,” he said solemnly, “as gracefully as you need her to. Then send us someone who’s a little bit more reasonable.

“I don’t mean someone I’d appoint—
you’re
the President. Just someone I could vote for without embarrassing myself, or the party, with the millions of folks who rely on us to maintain some sort of balance.

“
That’s
what’s gotten lost here—a spirit of cooperation. You called Palmer before you nominated Masters, but never said a word to me. The Senate could have used a little deference from the new president—
you
know how we are. And now you and I have to deal with the mess.” Gage’s voice was soft. “We’ll never agree on policy. But we can have a constructive relationship, getting things done where we can, and disagreeing without being disagreeable. All we need is to remove the sty of Caroline Masters from our collective eye.”

Kilcannon listened, still and watchful. Though Gage credited the President with lightning—occasionally lethal—flashes of political intuition, he still struck Gage as unseasoned, mercurial, too young for the office. It was like awakening from a coma to learn that Brad Pitt was President.

“I agree,” Kilcannon said reasonably. “I should have called about Judge Masters—before I nominated her, and several times in the last few weeks. So, Mac, mea culpa …”

Gage raised a hand, a gesture of self-deprecation. “Plenty of blame, as I say, to go around.”

“That’s very gracious of you. In that spirit, I should make amends by sharing
my
reality.” Kilcannon’s voice was mild. “Those angry people you mention will never vote for me. They hated my brother, and they hate me. In fact, a lot of
them hope some committed patriot will come along and blow
my
head off, too …”

“Not so,” Gage objected, startled less by Kilcannon’s feelings than his willingness to express them. “These are loyal Americans …”

“Who despise me, and everything they think I stand for.” Kilcannon’s tone remained cool. “I don’t worry about pissing them off. The angrier they are, the more useful they are to me. If you try to do their bidding, I’ll hang them around your neck like an anvil, until all those forgetful people you mention stop forgetting.

“Every kid who dies in a school shooting, you’ll hear from me. Sooner or later, you’ll conclude that being a wholly owned subsidiary of the NRA does not serve your best interests. And that
will
happen, believe me.”

Gage felt his face become a mask; surprised and angry, he forced himself not to interrupt.

“Let’s turn to Masters,” the President went on. “My reality is this: You’re wrong about the Tierney case. You’re hypocrites on adoption. You’ve tried to use her daughter against her
and
smear her as a lesbian. You’ve tried to vilify her as a person in every way you can. And, having done that, now you want me to make a deal with you.

“We’ll deal with each other, Mac. But first we have to define our relationship, and this is the time and place.” The President’s eyes turned cold. “For years in the Senate, I sat in the minority, watching you kill bill after bill—gun control, campaign finance reform, what have you. If you wonder why I wanted this job so badly, look in the mirror.

“You’ve tried to kill Masters in committee. Having failed, you want me to do it for you. But you’re going to have to take her down yourself.

“Before you try, listen well.” Now it was Kilcannon who leaned forward, though his tone, belying the intensity of his stare, was conversational. “What you’ve done to Caroline Masters is unacceptable to me. This is a woman who can better the lives of millions of Americans, long after we’re both dead. My job is to make her the next Chief Justice. And if I lose, to make you pay.”

Listening, Gage was appalled and, briefly, unnerved. Despite his long experience in judging men and motives, he
could not tell whether this was a highly convincing act, or whether the man in front of him had somehow escaped his comprehension. But he was certain of one thing: there was no hope of dissuading Kerry Kilcannon, and trying might embolden him still more.

“Mr. President,” he said simply, “this is a grave mistake.”

The President smiled. “Yes. But whose?”

“Well?” Clayton asked.

Though Kerry’s instinct to confide in his Chief of Staff was reinforced by the tension of the meeting, he hesitated to renew their intimacy. Finally, Kerry said, “He’s wondering if I’m crazy, and he’s not quite sure. Of course, neither am I.”

“What’s he going to do?”

Pondering the question, Kerry felt an odd jumble of emotions—fatalistic, determined, depressed, uncertain. “Anything he can to beat her. He’s gone too far to back off, and doesn’t believe he can. He’s too mortgaged to the Commitment and the others on the right.”

Clayton folded his arms. “I talked to Chuck Hampton—he gave us a list of Democratic undecideds, senators you need to call.”