Authors: Ralph Reed
Jay Noble used a wooden spoon to shovel shellfish and pasta onto his plate from a large bowl at the center of the table. His hosts brought him to La Terraza, a trendy restaurant around the corner from the Piazza Navona. The restaurant pulsated with energy, waiters carrying tables over their heads and setting them down to accommodate new arrivals, wine stewards floating in and out brandishing expensive bottles of wine, and loud, animated conversation filling the courtyard. Handsome couples, walking arm in arm, arrived in a steady flow. Jay's party had already downed plates of caprese, bruschetta, and calamari. Now they were on the main course, a steaming confection of linguine, crawfish, prawns, and eel. The ever-present maître d', who impressed Jay as having the managerial acumen of a CEO and the charisma of a pop idol, kept a close watch on their table. Even halfway around the world, Jay was a VIP.
“So tell me the truth,” Jay asked his hosts. “Do you guys eat like this every day?”
“In Italy,” one of them explained, “food is not just for nutrition. It is . . . how you say?” He drew his fingers together as though holding a pinch of salt. “The essence of life.”
“That's food?” Jay replied with a smirk. “I thought that was sex.”
Jay's hosts exploded with laughter. “That, too!” one of them exclaimed.
“So where does politics fit in?” asked Jay, taking another bite from a prawn lathered in sauce. “In Italy is it primarily a sport or deadly serious?”
“We've had forty-two governments since World War II,” one of his hosts said, swirling red wine in the bottom of his glass. “We burn through prime ministers like the French do their mistresses.” More laughter. “So I would say politics is a sport.”
“We're getting ready to win big,” Jay said, “and when we do, we will build the most durable governing coalition of your lifetimes. A center-right coalition with a third or more of the seats in the House of Deputies from Brodi's party will be unshakable. The left-wing parties will be irrelevant.” He paused. “We did it in the U.S. We can do it here.” They all nodded. Jay knew what they were thinking:
are we paying this guy enough?
Jay's BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced down to see the number of Marvin Myers, the media Big Foot who wrote the leading syndicated column in America, carried in four hundred newspapers, and also hosted a ratings-grabbing Sunday show. Jay was a key source for Myers. He held up his index finger and excused himself from the table.
“Jay,” came Myers's smooth drawl. Jay was surprised how clear the connection was. “What's the White House thinking on the Peter Corbin Franklin situation?”
Jay walked to the front of the restaurant, where a large refrigerator displayed fresh seafood, salmon, shellfish, eel, and trout. The smell of dead fish filled his nostrils. “Marvin, I'm sorry, but I'm out of the country. What's up with Franklin?”
“He had a stroke,” said Myers, surprised that Jay was out of the loop. “He's in intensive care at GWU hospital. From what I hear, it's bad, as in he's not likely to go home.”
Jay almost dropped his phone. “I can't believe it.”
“The hospital issued a statement saying he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage,” Myers reported. “They claim his condition is not life-threatening. That doesn't really add up.”
“No, it doesn't. He was in bad shape
before
this happened.”
“A clerk for another justice told me Franklin's in a coma and is brain dead. If that's true, it's going to require some kind of resolution, isn't it?”
Jay suddenly felt nauseous from the overpowering smell of dead fish. Myers was on the case and was about to write one of his agenda-setting pieces that would have all of Washington talking. Jay stalled him. “Let me see what I can find out.”
“I'd be eternally grateful.” Myers reloaded. “If Franklin isn't coming back, Long will have an appointment. I'm trying to get a feel for who might be on the short list.”
“You might check in with someone at DOJ,” suggested Jay. “Do you have good sources over there?” He wanted to pacify Myers without being the source on something as sensitive as Long's short list for the Supreme Court. That was a little too hot to handle.
“Jay, I have sources
everywhere
,” Myers said with characteristic aplomb. “Don't be disappointed, but you're hardly the only person I'm talking to.”
“How well I know that,” Jay said, laughing. As he talked, a tall Italian woman with dark skin and a mane of black hair breezed by, towering in six-inch heels. She wore a black ribbed turtleneck sweater, a snug-fitting black leather jacket, and designer jeans into which it appeared she had been poured. As she passed, Jay noticed a tattoo just above the shoe line on the top of her foot. He was liking Rome more with each passing day; it was a little like LA, only with history and culture.
“Where are you?” Myers asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“I can't say,” Jay said. “I'm working on a campaign outside the country.”
“Really?” said Myers. “I'd like to write something on it.”
“Not yet, Marvin. Give me some time to get my feet on the ground. I'll help you on the Franklin story, but I need you to sit on this one for a while.”
“Alright, but pay attention to Franklin. This one could get sticky.”
Jay hung up, disturbed by Myers' call. His head was swimming. If Franklin died, Sal Stanley, still bitter from losing the election and pining for revenge, would do everything he could to kill Long's Supreme Court nominee in the Senate. The scary thing was the White House wasn't ready; it was all happening too fast.
Jay returned to the table and poured another glass of red wine, which he suddenly needed to deaden the shock of Myers's news. His eyes followed the black-haired beauty as she sat down at a table with a grey-haired man old enough to be her father, wearing a striped shirt unbuttoned to his navel, with gold chains hanging from his neck. Jay just shook his head: wasn't this the way it always was?
THE PRESIDENT LEANED BACK in an easy chair in the solarium, unwinding on the second floor of the White House, his feet up on the table. He was deep in conversation with Gerald Jimmerson, the Republican Speaker of the House. Jimmerson, a small, intense bantam rooster of a man, led the fight against Long when the election was thrown into the House of Representatives. When members of his own party bolted to Long, Jimmerson suffered an embarrassing defeat from which he was only now recovering.
The two men needed each other. Jimmerson needed Long's supporters to join forces with the Republican Party or at least view it favorably. Long needed Jimmerson to pass his domestic agenda so he invited Jimmerson over to talk shop. He was love-bombing him.
“Gerry, I want to put the campaign behind us,” Long said. “You did what you had to do. I respect that. I don't hold it against you.”
“Well, that's certainly comforting to know,” Jimmerson said with a grin. “Because if you did, we'd have a hard time working together.”
Long flashed a relaxed smile. “You went after me pretty hard.”
“I supported the nominee of my party. I felt obligated. “
“I didn't feel obligated to support my party's nominee,” Long chuckled.
“And I don't think poor Sal has gotten over it yet.” He leaned on the arm of his chair, almost touching the president. “But one thing you'll learn about me soon enough, Mr. President. I'm a bottom-line kind of guy. If I'm against you, I'll tell you to your face. I won't say one thing to you here and then go back to the Capitol and stab you in the back.”
“I appreciate that.” He patted Jimmerson on the arm. “You and I can do business together.”
“After eight years of a Republican administration that was devoid of ideas and politically all thumbs, I'm glad to have a president who listens.” He paused. “But I have to be up front with you. I won't be for your health-care plan. In fact, I'm going to fight you tooth and nail.”
“Why? There's no net increase in federal expenditures under my plan,” Long protested. “All I do is shift money from Medicaid and Medicare to cover the uninsured.”
“Mr. President, it's government-run health care. Your plan has employer mandates, which is a hidden tax on small business,” Jimmerson said. His face broke into a crooked grin. “I'm going to have to nail you on this one.”
Jimmerson's face turned serious. “What's your thinking on the Franklin seat on the Supreme Court? What are you going to do, or do you know yet?”
Long held his cards close. “Not really. I don't think he's likely to return to the Court. But until he either comes back or resigns or passes away, all we can do is sit here and wait.”
“I'm not particularly in a waiting mood,” Jimmerson shot back.
“Meaning?”
“We can impeach him.”
Long was shocked. “You're going to impeach a guy who is comatose? Come on!”
“I don't see why not,” Jimmerson said, his gaze steady. “If Franklin doesn't recover, you have a coequal branch of government rendered inoperative. The Judiciary Committee can move an impeachment resolution based on his inability to carry out the duties of his office. It's a simple majority vote on the floor and I've got the votes.” He read Long's surprised expression. “If the man can't function, he's got to go. Simple as that.”
Long's face went white. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Why make your guys walk the plank? The Democrats in the Senate will never vote to remove him.”
“Maybe they do, maybe they don't,” Jimmerson volleyed back. “Either way, I win. If Stanley and Penneymounter keep a vegetable on the Court, they look like fools.” He crossed his legs and opened his hands wide. “How can you defend that?”
“I hear you. But impeachment . . .” Long's voice trailed off. “That's risky. Just ask the Republicans who impeached Clinton. That didn't turn out so well.”
“This isn't Clinton dropping his trousers with an intern. It's Woodrow Wilson,” Jimmerson said. “Franklin is paralyzing an institution of government because he's unable to function. “ His eyes bore into Long. “The question is: can I get your support?”
Long threw up his hands as if trying to calm a bucking horse. “Gerry, I can't go there. I'd burn so many bridges in the Senate I will never be able to get a nominee confirmed.” He crossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap, assuming a thoughtful pose. “But if I can't help you, I'll try not to hurt you.”
Jimmerson nodded slowly. “I appreciate that,” he replied. “But once the shooting starts, no one is going to be able to remain neutral. And that includes you.”
Long was stunned by the audacity of Jimmerson's plan. He was beginning to think the man was unhinged. First vowing to block health-care reform and now this? He realized Franklin's status would not be his alone to resolve. Republicans in the House, led by Jimmerson doing his usual Braveheart routine, were plotting to impeach an eighty-eight-year old stroke victim. If Jimmerson went through with his threat, it would start a constitutional showdown.
THE HEAD NEUROSURGEON AT George Washington University entered the family waiting room down the hall from the ICU and closed the door. He turned to face the three children of Peter Corbin Franklin and their spouses. His black eyes were hooded, his facial expression solemn, his hands stuck in the pockets of his white coat.
“As I told Peter Jr., on the phone yesterday, your father suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage,” said the surgeon. “The bleeding caused swelling of the brain, compressing both cerebella. The damage is extensive. We controlled the swelling with medication and a stent at the base of the brain, which drains fluid from the brain. So far it's working. But if the brain continues to swell, it will press down on the stem, affecting motor functions like breathing and circulation.”
Franklin's daughter Janet's eyes filled with tears. “So he can breathe and his heart is beating, but beyond that he's not there.”
“He has no cognitive brain function. It is highly unlikely he will regain consciousness. But we want to make him as comfortable as possible and hope for the best.”
“What are our options, doctor?” asked Peter Jr.
“You can wait for an infection to take him or his heart to stop. That could take days, months, or years. Or you can choose to remove his feeding tube.”
“Thank you. Can you give us some time alone?” asked Peter Jr.
“Of course.” The surgeon turned and exited the waiting room. The children sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the blow.
“Dad's gone. His body is still here, but he's not,” said Janet.
“He wouldn't want to go on like this,” said her husband.
Peter Jr. rose from his chair and leaned against the wall. “You didn't know my father very well if you think that,” he said. “Dad loathed Bob Long and Andy Stanton and everything they stand for. Believe me, if he had to stay alive on a respirator, he'd do it to keep Long from replacing him.”
“This isn't about the Supreme Court. It's about our father,” said Terry, the youngest of the three children.
“The heck it isn't! This is all about the Court,” fired back Peter Jr. “Dad loved this country, and he stood for a set of principles. He wouldn't want to quit, not with Long appointing his successor.”
Silence hung in the air. “You're right. Until Dad goes on his own, we have to honor him by hanging on as long as we can,” said Janet.
Peter Jr. glanced at Terry. He silently nodded.
“Ending Dad's suffering is the easy way out,” said Peter Jr. “But it's not how Dad lived his life, and it's not how he would want to die. You know Dad. He's going to go out swinging.” They all smiled knowingly. “Hell will freeze over before I stand idly by and let Bob Long nominate his replacement.”