Richard Patterson - Balance of Power

"The arrival of the Costello family," the anchorman said, "begins a unique chapter in American history—the marriage of a President, the son of Irish immigrants, to the daughter of a woman who came to the United States from Mexico . . ."

In an act of will, John Bowden forced himself to look up.

Their backs were to the camera: four women, a man, and a little girl, entering the portals of the White House. But no one needed to identify President Kerry Kilcannon, or the child who held his hand in one of hers, her doll clasped in the other.

Tears filled John Bowden's eyes; outrage filled his heart.

* * *

Though Lara considered it a failing, Kerry was indifferent to what he considered the frills of history—which First Lady had procured what portrait, which President had been given a French Empire clock. But for Lara's family he had read up on the evolution of the White House, committing discrete chunks to memory.

Among those were the histories of each upstairs bedroom in which the Costellos were staying. Entering the Queen's suite, he told Inez, "This is where Queen Elizabeth stayed, along with Queens Juliana and Wilhelmina of the Netherlands, Queen Frederika of Greece, a gaggle of princesses, and even Winston Churchill. But not at the same time."

Inez eyed the room with the mock-critical gaze of a woman concerned that it met her standards of domestic order, her gaze resting last on the canopied bed. Then she turned to Kerry, touching his arm. "It's wonderful, truly."

"I'm still getting used to it myself," Kerry answered with a smile, and led them to the Lincoln Bedroom—Inez, Joan and Marie, with Lara and Mary chatting behind. "This was actually Lincoln's office," he explained. "But after he was assassinated, it was felt no one should work here." Turning to Marie, he said, "A long time ago, in this country, white men were allowed to own blacks as slaves. This is where President Lincoln signed what they called the Emancipation Proclamation, making slavery against the law."

And it was in this room, Kerry thought, where history became palpable for him. But it was not easy to explain to a six-year-old girl the ineradicable stain which slavery had left on our nation, the ongoing legacy of which remained one of Kerry's deepest concerns. Scooping her up in one arm, Kerry walked over to an oil depicting a cluster of slaves, hiding in a cellar as they gazed at a watch by candlelight, waiting for the hour of emancipation to strike. "These were slaves," he told her, and pointed to the worn face of an old man. "This man has been waiting all his life to be free."

For a long time, Marie gazed at the painting, doll held tight to her. Perhaps, Kerry thought, this reflected less a conscious understanding of slavery than of the fear and hope she read in the faces, the sense of hiding in the darkness. It was that sense, Kerry suspected, which Marie could feel as intensely as Kerry had at her age, listening to the sounds of his father's anger, his mother's cries.

"Come on," he told her. "I've got another room to show you."

* * *

This solarium was light and sunny—there was a television, and Lara had stocked it with children's books and the same games Marie had at home. To Marie, her mother exclaimed, "Oh, sweetheart, this is really nice." More softly, she said to Lara, "Thank you."

Quiet, Lara touched Joan's arm.

Perhaps now, Kerry hoped, things would change between them. If so, that would be a wedding present to Lara beyond anything else she could receive. Together, the adults watched Marie place her doll at a small wooden table.

The telephone rang. Glancing at the caller ID number, Kerry saw that it was Clayton Slade.

"Yes?" he answered.

"I'm sorry to bother you," Clayton apologized. "But we've got a problem, with the S an Francisco Chronicle."

At once, Kerry felt hope turn to apprehension. "What?" he asked. "Did I lose the recount?"

"They're working on a story about Joan. And you."

SE VENTEEN

"Carole Tisone called me ," Marcia Harding told the President. "From the Chronicle . She knew all about the stay-away order; Bowden's threats to Joan; his visit to Marie; his conviction. Even that he's in a program for abusive men."

Sitting in his upstairs office, Kerry glanced at the others—Clayton, Kit Pace, and Lara—as Harding's voice resonated from the speakerphone. "How?" he asked.

"Not from me." Harding's voice was flat. "Maybe from court files, or the cops. Maybe someone in the PD's office told somebody else—the only thing that isn't run-of-the-mill domestic violence is that Joan is Lara Costello's sister. Now that she's left for your wedding, her life has become a 'human interest story' . . ."

"What's the public interest in humiliating Joan?"

"I asked much the same thing. She started with some pieties about domestic violence being 'our most closely guarded family secret,' and how Joan's case was like Nicole Simpson's—a wake-up call that exposes the issue." Harding paused, then added with palpable reluctance. "Then she asked about your call."

At the corner of his eye, Kerry saw Lara's look of alarm. "There were only three of us on that call," Kerry said tersely. "You, me, and Halloran."

"I can only speak for me, Mr. President. I didn't tell a soul—no one in the office, not even the police."

"What did you tell the reporter?"

"Only that it was an internal matter, and that I didn't feel free to comment. I've got a call in to Jack Halloran—I haven't been able to reach him. So I decided to warn you myself. Whatever happens, Mr. President, I clearly can't deny you called."

Across the room, Kerry watched a series of expressions register on Kit Pace's snub features—disquiet, concern, calculation. More evenly, Kerry inquired, "What did this reporter want to know?"

"What we'd talked about. How many times you'd called. What you wanted us to do. Whether Joan got special treatment." Now Harding sounded annoyed. "As to that, I said no. Which is true—the only thing I did any differently is to personally enter the stay-away order in the computer, as you asked, in case he tried to buy a gun. And that was only to ensure the system works the way it should."

Listening, Kerry felt a moment's sympathy for Harding: she had been helpful and professional, and yet might be tarnished by having talked to him at all. "I'm sorry," he said, "if I've created a problem for you."

"Oh, I'm fine with how we handled this—I just hope it helps her. And him." Her tone became more cautious. "The thing I worry about is Jack. If he told someone, and that someone told the Chronicle , he'll probably have to admit it's true. And then I'll have to talk about it."

Kerry glanced at Lara. She stared fixedly at the floor, as though watching her hopes for these few days—a warm visit with her family; a healing interlude with Joan—evaporate. "If you have to," Kerry answered, "you have to—every conversation, everything I said or asked. Pass that on to Jack, as well."

Harding was briefly silent. "Thank you, Mr. President. I will."

* * *

To Lara, Kerry said softly, "You were right. I should have hired a lawyer at the beginning, someone to be a go-between. Not been so intent on fixing things myself."

Watching, the others seemed embarrassed. "You were protecting her," Lara answered in an even tone. "You know what can go wrong."

"Yes," Kerry answered. "This. We'd better discuss how to handle it."

Briefly, Kit glanced at Lara. "We don't have many options," she told Kerry. "Halloran probably had a few too many, and couldn't resist telling a crony about the phone call from on high. We can't expect him to stonewall this, and it might only make things worse if he tried.

"You know the classic rule: get the story out your way, and get it over with. That's all the more true when you've got nothing to hide . . ."