Protect and Defend (7 page)

Seeing Clayton’s look of bemusement, Kerry asked, “What is she, Ellen—the Manchurian candidate? I almost believe you about the drug use. For that matter, maybe she’s a vestal virgin. But how does a forty-nine-year-old woman have ‘no record’ on abortion? And what does that say about her?”

Stung, Ellen faced him. “She’s not a cipher, Mr. President. She’s progressive on the environment, affirmative action, labor issues, and First Amendment rights. But even where she was out of step with Bannon, the Supreme Court never reversed her. And she’s called for liberalizing adoption procedures to help minority children find homes. How can the Republicans complain about
that?
”

Kerry gazed at her, then at his desk, lit by a square of winter sunlight. “I want the best, Ellen. Not just the most confirmable.
Or even the most congenial to the people who put me here.

“Caroline Masters, if I chose her, could still be Chief when all of us are dead. And her impact on the lives of ordinary people would last far longer than that. I don’t want some bloodless technician, even if she turns out to be the darling of legal scholars across America. I want a terrific lawyer who also gives a damn about the world outside her courtroom.

“Maybe she’s both. But I need to know much more than what you’ve told me.”

“For example,” Clayton followed at once, “how do you know that she’s even pro-choice? The last thing we need
there
is a surprise.”

The Vice President folded her arms. “She’s pro-choice, Clayton. Trust me.”

“Did you ever ask her?”

“I don’t need to. She’s an independent woman, a Democrat, and a feminist. Nothing about her suggests that she’ll try to repeal
Roe v. Wade
, or start ordering women to have children they don’t want.”

Clayton gave her a pensive look. “Does
she
have children?”

“No. But neither does the President, I might point out.”

Kerry examined the square of sun again. Evenly, Clayton answered, “That doesn’t make it a plus, as the President would be the first to agree. What about marriages?”

“None.”

“Then how do you know she’s not a lesbian? Mac Gage and his friends have an unwholesome curiosity about things like that.”

Kerry looked up at Ellen. Tight-lipped, the Vice President answered, “She keeps her private life private. But I’ve known her for almost twenty years, since I was a San Francisco supervisor. There’s never been a whisper of anything like that.” Facing Kerry, she added, “Maybe she’s got no children of her own. But her position on adoption speaks to family values.”

Ellen was sounding defensive, Kerry knew. Perhaps Clayton and he had pressed her hard enough; she clearly believed in Caroline Masters, and wanted to put her imprint on a new administration. And it could not be easy to subordinate her views to a man who had been her younger colleague in the Senate, and whose election she had helped ensure.

“I’ll put Judge Masters in the mix,” he told her. “Please make sure the White House counsel’s office has everything you’ve got.”

While gracious, this was also a dismissal. Ellen hesitated, then stood. Clayton did not; Kerry watched Ellen register a reality of power—that Clayton Slade would always be the person left alone with Kerry Kilcannon, and no one else would know what passed between them unless Kerry or Clayton wished them to.

“Thank you, Mr. President,” she said, and left.

Clayton stood, arms folded. “You weren’t just humoring her.”

“No.”

Clayton glanced back at the door, to make sure that it was closed. “I don’t trust her judgment.”

Kerry raised his eyebrows. “If she had better ‘judgment,’ Clayton, she’d have supported Dick Mason for the nomination when he was thirty points up in the polls. Or maybe it’s just that we
both
have judgment that is better than you think.”

With a faint smile, Clayton considered his friend. “Sometimes.”

“So what is it you don’t like?”

“This woman’s life. You’re right about
that
part—it’s too sterile. I grant you it’s harder for a woman with a family to have gotten this far this young. But, whatever her reasons, she
is
single, and childless.”

“So am I.” Kerry’s voice was soft. “A liability, as you were kind enough to point out.”

Clayton met his gaze, unblinking—sustained, Kerry knew, by a friendship tested by time and circumstance. “So why compound it? The same folks who wonder if she’s gay will wonder if you’re fucking her.”

“Now
there’s
an option I hadn’t considered.” Propping his head in his palm, Kerry leaned against the armrest of his chair. “I got three hours sleep last night. So why don’t we cut to the merits.”

“She’s clearly qualified,” Clayton answered promptly. “Women’s groups like her—the defense in the Carelli case was self-defense against attempted rape, and Masters allowed it. And she could lead the Court away from the judicial graveyard where Bannon parked it.

“But that’s the long view. First we have to get her past Macdonald Gage, who’s looking for an opening, and maybe Palmer. It doesn’t matter how they voted before—the august duty of the Senate to approve your nominees is never more sacred than for a new Chief. Or more critical to the people who’ll help decide whether Gage or Palmer is their choice to run you out of here. That’s a lot riding on a woman you know almost nothing about.”

“Then find out about her. Soon.” Kerry stood. “I’d like to skip the usual vapid Kabuki theater, where we trot in all our interest groups to tell us who to pick, then leak a virtual rainbow coalition of prospective chiefs. We can just say
this
one’s the best, period. Whoever it is.”

“We’ll look naive. Like Jimmy Carter.”

“We’ll look principled. If people weren’t so sick of calculating pols, Dick Mason would be sitting here with his finger in the wind.” Smiling, Kerry added, “The more refined calculations appear not to be that at all. Besides, we’d take Mac Gage and his reactionary playmates completely by surprise. That
will
give them something to think about.”

Clayton considered Kerry across the desk.

No, he amended, Kerry was not naive. He was a rare combination of principle with an instinctive, but quite sophisticated, sense of how his principles played out in the world of politics. And a sometimes cold-eyed way of getting where he wanted to go.

“We’ll be all right,” Kerry said mildly. “Between the two of us, Clayton, we make at least one adequate human being. Maybe even a president.”

The comment was at once wry, affectionate, and, if Clayton needed it, a subtle reminder of who occupied this office. Smiling, he answered, “I’ll take this on myself, Mr. President.”

T
HE HEAD
of the firm’s pro bono committee gave Sarah a wide-eyed look which combined fascination, amusement, and incredulity.

“We’re talking angry clients,” Scott Votek said. “Pissed off parents. Picket lines full of Bible thumpers. Rotten publicity. Security problems. In a firm where too many partners still think that ‘dead white male’ means ‘role model.’”

Though disheartening, Votek’s list of consequences was not surprising, nor was his satiric tag line. Along with his bright shirts, wire-rim glasses, and ginger beard, Votek cultivated the image of an iconoclast, with a subversive devotion to liberal causes. In the culture of the firm, Sarah counted him a friend, professionally and personally; he was one of the few people to whom she had turned when, a few weeks before, she had broken off her engagement to her boyfriend of three years.

“Sarah,” he said flatly. “This case will eat you up.”

“What about Mary Ann Tierney?”

“Believe me, I
know
. The Protection of Life Act is bullshit: I’d love to see us take this on—
us
, of all firms.” Briefly, he smiled at the thought. “The old guys couldn’t show their faces at the Bohemian Club.”

“I can live with that, Scott.”

“Can you?” Votek exhaled, folding his hands in his lap. “Things are better now, I’ll admit, and a fair number of women are junior partners. But it’s their elders who can still make you their partner—or blackball you. All it takes is one.”

Sarah gazed at Votek’s Bokara rug. “Can they still do that?” she asked. “They have to get along with all the other
partners, the ones who help decide
their
candidates. In nuclear terms, it’s like ‘mutual assured destruction.’”

Votek shook his head. “Don’t overrate yourself. And I mean that in the kindest possible way. Even Caroline Masters—the only woman superstar we’ve ever had—didn’t find her life here easy.”

“She survived, didn’t she?”

“She came
in
as a partner, and a celebrity. No one was going to run her out. For her it was a way station—a couple of years with the Establishment, making contacts and rounding out her résumé. And about all she could take.” Jerking loose his tie, Votek warmed to his speech. “You’ve got some real advocates here—me included. But we can’t help it if certain other people don’t want you. Instead of saying you’re ‘too political,’ they’ll use code words. Like ‘judgment.’

“‘Abortion lawyers’ can take this case, they’ll say. It’s ‘bad judgment’ for
you
to want it, and ‘bad’ for the firm. And if somehow we do take it, and things go south …” Votek’s tone grew crisp. “The old guys won’t try to fire you— that’s way too blatant. They’ll reach an agreement over lunch in some all-male club: work your ass off for another three years, then pass you over for partner. Because you’ve got ‘bad judgment.’”

If Votek wanted to make her paranoid, he was succeeding— as a woman in a firm still run by men; an associate where partners met in private; a Jew whose parents harbored memories of exclusion. She could not know how matters were decided. “Scott,” she said at last, “I’m asking for your help. If you agree with me on the merits, maybe we can do this one together.”

Votek tented his fingers, appraising them in an attitude of prayer. “There are other considerations,” he answered. “I’ve always been open about the things we both want here. So you know that our chairman looks upon pro bono as an obligation, not a joy.

“We’ve been able to do good work because we’ve stayed below the radar screen—no public controversies, or massive commitments of free time.” Looking up, Votek leaned forward on his desk and gazed directly into Sarah’s eyes. “They don’t like what’s happening at the women’s clinic, and the
Christian Commitment keeps upping the ante. So far I’ve been able to protect us. But I can’t cover for you on this.”

Sarah made herself stare back. “‘Can’t,’ Scott? Or ‘won’t’?”

A first, faint flush appeared on Votek’s cheeks. Watching, Sarah felt comprehension dawn: much of what Scott said about Sarah applied to him. The indulgence of his partners offered him an enviable life: $600,000 a year; treks in Nepal; an ecologically designed vacation house near Tahoe; a collection of Haitian art and costly African masks; an avocation bringing lawsuits for the Sierra Club, protecting wetlands, and limiting ski resorts. And, in return, he personified for Kenyon & Walker its commitment to the public good. Concepts like “infanticide” threatened to upset the balance.

“Sarah,” he said firmly, “this one’s for the chairman. Assuming you care to go that far.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’d have to write a memo laying out the case law, the issues, the witnesses, this girl’s family background, and— most important—why
this
firm should take
this
case. I’d advise you to think very hard about
all
those things before you decide to turn it in. Or even spend the time.”

Sarah folded her arms. “There
isn’t
much time. ‘This girl’ gets more pregnant every day.”

Votek stood. “All the more reason, Sarah, to send her somewhere else. What’s good for you is also good for her.”

Sarah was staring out the window when her phone rang.

“Sarah? It’s me—Mary Ann. What did you decide?”

The rush of words sounded like banked anxiety. “Where are you calling from?” Sarah asked.

“A pay phone.”

Mary Ann’s voice sounded tight and small. Once more, Sarah was struck by the girl’s isolation, then by the fact that, she, too, had entered the surreptitious world of a teenager. “There’s a problem,” Sarah temporized. “I don’t have an answer yet.”

“When
will
you know …?”

She was at the end of her resources, Sarah guessed. Then another truth became brutally clear—there was no way Mary Ann Tierney had the time, freedom, or resilience to keep going by herself.

“Call me again tomorrow,” Sarah answered. Then, hearing herself, she added without thinking, “Please—don’t give up.”

“C
AROLINE
M
ASTERS
,” Kerry said. “What have we got?”

He sat in the Oval Office with Clayton Slade and Adam Shaw, Kerry’s White House Counsel. Lean, graying, and impeccably dressed, Adam epitomized the Washington lawyer with broad contacts in and out of government, and his sense of Caroline would carry weight.

“A lot,” Adam responded. “She’s among the judges the prior administration kept a rolling file on, in case there was an opening. And the materials from her confirmation for the Court of Appeals fill a drawer: tax returns, financial records, medical data, transcripts of testimony, letters of support.

“Last time out, she had strong endorsements from women, labor, environmental groups, minorities, the trial lawyers— the core of your support. There’s nothing in her decisions since to change that. And the opinions themselves are carefully crafted, beautifully written, and sound—progressive, but not radical.”

“What about Frederico Carreras,” Clayton interjected, “from the Second Circuit? We all know him—he’s Hispanic, a scholar, and a moderate Republican.” Facing Kerry, he added, “Masters is sounding like a classic liberal, and her personal life—or lack of it—will put Mac Gage on alert.

“There are two ways to get a justice through the Senate: fifty-one to forty-nine, or one hundred to zip. Why risk political capital on Masters when a Carreras breezes through?”