From that moment on, McCain had nothing more to do with Keating. And in the end the Senate Ethics Committee decided that McCain had done nothing seriously wrong. He was guilty only of ''poor judgment.'' But the Senate Ethics Committee had long before lost its moral authority, and with it, its power to absolve anyone. Before the dust settled, a poll in The Arizona Republic would show that nearly half of all Arizona residents thought he should resign immediately or at the end of his term. More importantly, the motives behind his behavior would always be questioned. For example, in late 1989 McCain called Senator David Boren, an early leader on finance reform, to say that he would like to help. His offer was accepted, but no one doubted why he had made it. ''McCain's only interest in a Boren bill,'' Boren's chief aide later wrote, ''was to further distance himself from the Keating bombshell.''

One of the traits McCain's staff finds most maddening in their boss is his tendency to recall for journalists only his most damning moments. Ask him about Vietnam and he'll tell you about the time he stole a washrag from the guy in the adjoining cell. Ask him about his first marriage and he'll leap right to his adultery. It was he who first mentioned Charles Keating to me. We were sitting together in the back seat of a car on the way to a fund-raiser for another candidate. McCain was flipping through an album of photographs taken during the Republican convention. The album was a Who's Who of Republican politics, and McCain seemed to be at the center of every picture. I made some comment about how much more valuable his time had become in just the few months since we had met in South Carolina. He fixed me with a stare. ''One thing I learned from the Keating affair,'' he said, ''was that this could all end tomorrow. Just like that.'' He snapped his fingers.

That is one kind of explanation of why he is so insistent on pressing his reform agenda: if he doesn't get it done now, he may never have another chance. But he quickly went on to saying something else, something demonstrating another motive. ''You know,'' he said, ''my honor and integrity were at stake in Vietnam when the Vietnamese offered me freedom. I was very tempted to take it. But when I didn't, it was over -- at least when the beatings stopped it was over. In the Keating scandal, my honor and integrity were at stake again: I was accused of betraying my oath of office. I've never been able to explain very clearly how I felt. How painful it was. And, by the way, I did wrong. I shouldn't have attended that meeting. But I don't think I'll ever be absolved. I'll always be known as one of the Keating Five.''

The Realist

We tend to assume that the trait that most clearly defines a politician is his party affiliation rather than, say, his temperament or life experience. But it is hard to imagine a man more different in this respect from John McCain than Mitch McConnell of Kentucky, his fellow Republican Senator. McConnell has sought and gained precisely those positions that give him the power to block McCain's reform agenda. As chairman of the Senate Ethics Committee, for instance, he successfully stymied the investigation of Bob Packwood. Twice he tried and failed to win the chairmanship of the National Republican Senatorial Committee, which controls the tens of millions of dollars the party spends on their own. Last year he finally won the post, which gives him control over the money his colleagues need for re-election. In a meeting with the Republican leadership earlier this year, called to discuss the McCain-Feingold bill, McConnell reportedly said, ''if we stop this thing, we can control the institution for the next 20 years.''

It's one thing for a Senator to work behind closed doors to preserve his job and perks even when there is an overwhelming public objection to his doing so. It's quite another for a Senator to summon the nerve to go to the Senate floor and defend the role of big money in politics. But that is what McConnell has done. One morning in March, McConnell staged what must rank among the more audacious and brave news conferences ever held. He gathered together representatives of a dozen special interest groups that had banded together to fight campaign finance reform: the National Rifle Association, the Christian Coalition, the National Association of Broadcasters, the National Association of Realtors, the American Civil Liberties Union. (The list is strikingly similar to the list of names John Glenn has submitted for subpoenas in the campaign finance probe soon to be conducted by the Government Affairs Committee.)

Perhaps 60 reporters found their seats as McConnell moved to a bank of microphones. There is something old-fashioned about his appearance. A high pink tints his soft fleshy cheeks and his lips are pursed in a way that suggests perpetual disapproval. Beside him was a placard bearing the words of the House minority leader, Richard Gephardt, and his disapproval's immediate source:

What we have is two important values in direct conflict: freedom of speech and our desire for healthy campaigns in a healthy democracy. You can't have both.

The text served as the keynote for McConnell's address, in which he came down firmly on the side of free speech. His approach was to steamroller his audience with his superior knowledge of the relevant Supreme Court decision, Buckley v. Valeo, in 1976. ''How many of you have actually read the Buckley case?'' he asked. Two hands rose -- not enough to stop him -- and before long McConnell was saying things like ''soft money is just a euphemism for free speech.'' At length, McConnell finished, and one by one the lobbyists took turns at the podium decrying this threat to their First Amendment rights. Thirty minutes later, they were through, and an uncomfortable hush descended upon the room. A single hand finally went up at the front of the room. Ed Chen of The Los Angeles Times had a question.