Protect and Defend (10 page)

The telephone rang.

“Ms. Dash,” the voice said. “This is Dr. Flom, from UCSF. Your phone message said it was urgent.”

“S
HE HAS A
daughter
?” Kerry repeated.

Ellen nodded. “Yes.”

By now, little in politics surprised him. But nothing made Kerry unhappier than to peer beneath the surface of someone’s life at the anomalies, sad or sordid, which shadowed them. Kerry was too aware of his own secrets not to fear the consequences of this one. Yet, like other personal experiences, this had elevated a bias to a principle: he could not accept that most private acts were so damning that they defined a lifetime. Looking around his study at the others—Ellen, Clayton, and Adam Shaw—he saw them, in their various ways, grappling with conflicted feelings.

“The daughter’s twenty-seven,” Ellen continued. “She believes she’s Caroline’s niece.”

“The one she defended for murder?”

“Yes.”

Clayton turned to her. “Then she perjured herself four years ago. By listing this woman as her ‘niece’ on the FBI form.”

“Which she is,” Ellen answered. “Caroline’s sister and her husband legally adopted her. Caroline also believes her father had a new birth certificate issued to show her older half sister, Elizabeth, as the biological mother. But whether he did or not, by law Caroline’s legal relationship with Brett Allen is that of aunt.”

Kerry shook his head in bemusement. “Remember that scene in
Chinatown
, Ellen? Where Faye Dunaway says the girl is her sister, then her daughter, and finally admits she’s
both? I suppose it’s a mercy this isn’t incest.” Pausing, he gazed absently around the antique-filled room, the light and shadow cast by lamps at night. “Who’s the father, by the way?”

“His name was David Stern. He died in a boating accident without knowing Caroline was pregnant. That left her on her own, at twenty-two.” Ellen glanced at Clayton. “Her sister and brother-in-law were unable to have children. Caroline thought an adoption was best for everyone. I find that hard to argue with.”

Clayton scowled. “Then why not tell the truth four years ago?”

“Because her daughter had been through a lot—more than enough, in Caroline’s mind. And she’d spent her life believing that the Allens were her biological parents.” To Kerry, Ellen added, “Caroline felt she could tell the literal truth and still protect an innocent young woman. And that it was what she
should
do.”

“Then why tell us now?”

“Because the stakes are so high. She knows that we’re giving serious consideration to making her the first woman Chief Justice in history. She’s worried for
us
if this comes out, as well as for the Allen family.” Pausing, Ellen looked at the others. “David Stern was a draft dodger. Caroline didn’t know that until shortly before he died—well after she’d fallen in love with him. Caroline’s father turned him in, and he drowned while trying to evade the FBI. Caroline feels all this might be embarrassing to us, and distressing to her daughter.”

“To say the least,” Clayton murmured.

Kerry kept looking at Ellen. “I’m glad I didn’t know her father,” he said softly. “All in all, I don’t think I’d have liked him.”

“I liked
her
,” Clayton acknowledged. “Partly because she
disliked
me—reasonably enough—and didn’t mind letting me know.

“She certainly has her pride, and if you don’t like her philosophy you could pass that off as arrogance. But she’s obviously gifted, has a real presence, and seems like a decent woman. I could see her making the right-wingers on Palmer’s committee look as petty and stupid as they are.

“But …
,” Clayton paused for emphasis, “… a lie is a lie,
at least in the context of a Supreme Court nominee. She was right to tell us, and we’d be crazy not to scratch her. I assume no one here says otherwise.”

Adam Shaw, Kerry noted, had said nothing. Now Ellen turned to him. “
Is
this a lie, Adam?”

Shaw placed a finger to his lips. “One person’s lie is another person’s act of conscience. But I’ve reviewed the forms she filled out, and it’s not perjury. As a matter of law Masters told the absolute, literal truth.”

Reflective, Kerry sat back to watch the meeting play out.

“That may satisfy us,” Clayton told him. “We believe compassion is a virtue. But Macdonald Gage is less forgiving.

“You know Gage better than any of us, Mr. President. Here’s what he’ll say: If she fudged the truth here, where else? What kind of example are we setting, making this woman the Chief Justice of our highest court, in a legal system founded on the absolute obligation to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?”

“She
told
the truth,” Ellen answered. “Does justice require she proceed to break her word, and ruin someone else’s life? Or does justice, in its wisdom, also honor ‘acts of conscience’? And, for that matter, do we?”

Clayton shook his head. “Gage would say
this
act of conscience served Masters’s own ambition. But another question is how people define morality. On most issues Mac Gage is as cynical as they come. But I think he honestly believes we went to hell sometime in the 1960s—”

“Yes,” Ellen interjected mordantly, “back when they started letting women have real jobs, black folks vote, and Catholics become President. All you need is to look around this room to see how
that
worked out.”

“The four of us are one thing, Ellen. Premarital sex with a draft dodger is something else. We’re the keeper of our nation’s morals, or supposed to be—that’s why the President has chaperons. ‘What about abstinence?’ Gage is going to say.”

“What about
adoption?
” Ellen shot back. “What Caroline Masters did is exactly what the pro-life people want—to choose adoption over abortion. And then to give her daughter, and her adoptive family, all the love and loyalty she could—at considerable sacrifice to herself, I would guess. That, to me, is a better definition of ‘morality.’”

Briskly, Ellen surveyed the room. “Would we all feel better if Caroline Masters were a forty-nine-year-old virgin? Is that what we expect—or even want—from a man? What the hell kind of qualification would
that
be when the President’s looking for a Chief Justice who’s also a human being?

“Long ago, Caroline Masters proved herself to be an admirable human being. She got pregnant, drew a compassionate lesson, and has lived it ever since—in her own life, and in speaking out for adoption. But Clayton says
that
disqualifies her—”

“What I said,” Clayton interrupted, “is that Mac Gage will say that—”

“Then fuck Mac Gage. Because I say it
qualifies
her.”

Clayton’s tone was even. “If we want a woman this badly, Ellen, there are a dozen capable appellate judges out there who don’t have this kind of baggage. A few days into his first administration, the President doesn’t need it.”

At this mention of Kerry, Ellen faced him, palms spread in entreaty. “This is supposed to be a new day, Mr. President. We campaigned on tolerance—on looking at each person as whole and, in politics, discussing public issues instead of personal failings.”

Clayton glanced at Kerry, then said to Ellen, “
We’ve
done that. But you know the environment we’re in—if something personal
can
come out, it likely will. This is exactly the kind of thing Macdonald Gage is looking for.

“Like it or not, politics
is
personal. Maybe the public doesn’t grasp legal niceties, but they sure as hell get personal lives—and sex. Gage won’t just try to take Masters down in the Senate. He’ll use her to tar the President.”

Ellen grimaced. “It’s not the President’s daughter,” she retorted. “I think voters are smart enough to know the difference, and fair enough to give us credit for decency and fairness. In fact, one of the President’s strengths is that they expect that from him.”

“Then let me ask you this, Ellen. Is Caroline Masters prepared to make this public? That way she, and we, at least get credit for candor.” Clayton’s tone became as dubious as his expression. “After that—maybe—we can spin a sympathetic story of a pregnant girl who opted for life, and proceeded to become a distinguished jurist and supportive aunt. But if it’s
Gage who breaks this, Masters is just a liar. However Adam defines ‘perjury.’”

Ellen frowned in thought. “I don’t know the answer to that. She’s sat on this for twenty-seven years, and there’s her daughter’s feelings to weigh.”

“Does she want to be Chief Justice?” Clayton snapped. “She was willing enough to be considered.”

“Oh, she wants it, Clayton. I’m just not sure at what price.”

Clayton folded his arms. “I don’t think she can name the price, even for herself. Let alone for us.”

At an impasse, the antagonists turned to Kerry. “Where is she now?” he asked Ellen.

“Still at the Hay-Adams, Mr. President. Until tomorrow morning.”

Kerry paused, torn between Clayton’s practicality and Ellen’s principle, more compelling on a personal level than she could ever know. When he made his decision, it was less by reason than instinct. “I’d like to meet her, if nothing else.”

Clayton stood, hands jammed in his pockets. “With respect, Mr. President, it’s a lousy way to satisfy your curiosity. She’s obviously a potential candidate for the Court. If you don’t pick her—as you shouldn’t—and your meeting gets out, it may look like you rejected her at the eleventh hour.

“That could embarrass her, and be bad for everyone. Because you could never explain your reasons without exposing her.”

“The press hangs out at the West Wing,” Kerry answered. “Bring her through the east visitors’ entrance in an hour, and then up here. No one will see her.”

“And if anyone does,” Clayton said acidly, “maybe they’ll think she’s only a girlfriend. At least we can hope.”

Kerry smiled faintly. “She told us the truth, at the risk of cutting her own throat. I’d like to give her at least this courtesy.”

Turning to Ellen and Adam Shaw, he said, “Thanks for your advice.” As was often the case, his dismissal did not include Clayton.

The two friends sat across from each other. For a long time, neither spoke.

“I understand what you were trying to do,” Kerry said. “I appreciate it.”

Uncomfortable, Clayton shifted in his chair. “I know how much you love Lara. Somehow you two have gotten by—so far. But if you open up the subject of sexual morality, even someone else’s, I worry that the press and the right-wing crazies will start looking at your relationship again. There are a thousand reasons, Kerry, that I don’t want that for you.”

For Kerry, the moment reflected their depth of friendship: that Clayton was the only person he had told about Lara; that, out of affection and respect, Kerry had relieved Clayton of the obligation to call him “Mr. President” in private; that, with equal affection, Clayton reserved this privilege for conversations which were personal; that nothing could be more personal than this.

“I know,” Kerry said at last. “But I can’t let myself become Mac Gage, treating Masters like Gage would treat me. Lara wouldn’t want that, either.”

Clayton considered him, and then, on the strength of their relationship, answered, “Do you want Lara to be a symbol of abortion on demand? There’s a difference between fear and prudence.”

Kerry looked away, then back at his friend. “Caroline Masters,” he said finally, “may be one of the few people in town tonight—with the exception of Chad Palmer—who’s actually bigger than her own ambitions. That merits my respect.”

Clayton met his gaze, and then, after a moment, shrugged. “I’ll tell the Service to clear her through.”

Kerry stood. “Do that, pal. Then go home, if you can. And please give Carlie my love.”

A
YOUNG AIDE
led Caroline Masters to the President’s study, closing the door behind her.

Kerry Kilcannon was slighter than she expected; his shirtsleeves were rolled up and tie loosened, like a young prosecutor at the end of a tiring day, and his body had a tensile leanness. But it was his eyes which struck her most: an unblinking blue-green, they conveyed the sense that he was absorbing far more than her words.

“Well,” he said without preface, “you’ve certainly made this process more interesting.”

Startled, Caroline managed to answer, “Not as interesting as it could have been, Mr. President.”

A slight change in his eyes suggested a smile. “For both of us. But what you said to Ellen couldn’t have been easy.”

With this man, Caroline sensed, nothing but the truth would do. “It was hard,” she acknowledged. “There were few days in the last four years when I didn’t imagine myself on the Court. But it’s not the kind of thing you go around admitting.”

“I know—when
my
fantasy got out, a fair number of people were horrified. But here I am.” He waved her to a couch. “Please, sit down.”

Caroline did that. As Kilcannon sat across from her she realized that, whether from sensitivity or instinct, his directness was helping her transcend the difficulty of the moment.

“Before you arrived,” Kilcannon said, “I was thinking about ambition—what it does, and what it costs. About all the men I’ve known, beginning with my brother, who’ve wanted to be where I am. Many of them needed it so desperately, and sacrificed so much of value—in themselves and in their lives—that, when they failed, there was no one left
inside. In the end, all that was ‘real’ about them was the president they imagined themselves becoming.” He tented his fingers, studying her. “But not you, Judge Masters. I’m wondering why.”

Again, Caroline was surprised. She sensed the introspection of a man compelled by circumstance to ponder his own life, and to train the same lens on others.

“It’s very simple,” she answered. “I love my daughter. Before that, I loved her father. Those two things drove the decisions I made—to have her, but never to tell her—until those decisions, too, became part of me.

“Forty-nine doesn’t feel very old. But it’s old enough to have reached a few conclusions about who I am, and what that has to mean.”