The Confirmation (11 page)

AT 7:45 A.M., THE president's legal team gathered in the Roosevelt Room, across the hall from the Oval Office. The agenda: review the top candidates for the Supreme Court, narrow the list to those the president would interview, and discuss strategy for confirmation. No one knew if Franklin would live or die, but it was important to be ready. Everyone was a little jumpy.

The door opened and the president walked in. He sat down as a steward brought him a cup of coffee in a china cup bearing the presidential seal. He was all business.

Long asked Keith Golden to begin.

“Mr. President, we've presented you with memoranda on eleven top candidates,” Golden began. “Some of them have been on lists in previous administrations so they're known quantities. Anyone on an appellate court—there are four in this group—has already been confirmed. They've been to the dance.”

Battaglia noticed the president had not opened the briefing book containing the memos. It gave all the appearance of a backhanded slap at Golden.

“It's not the dance. It's more like triple-A ball,” Battaglia corrected. “A Supreme Court confirmation is a different ball game. Just because someone had a smooth confirmation to a circuit court does not guarantee them one for the Supreme Court.”

“Agreed,” said Golden curtly. “But they've cleared an FBI background check and have been vetted.”

“Okay,” said Long. “Give me the best and brightest.”

“Robert Hillman on the DC Circuit is first-rate,” Golden said. “He graduated first in his class at Yale Law, clerked for Scalia, and served as solicitor general. He's the gold standard.”

Long nodded.

“Hillman is Bork redux,” Battaglia objected. “It'll be a holy war. The Democrats hate his guts. He'll be a very tough sell.”

“Anyone who is a strict constructionist will engender fierce opposition,” fired back Golden, clearly irritated with Battaglia's second-guessing. “I served on the Judiciary Committee. I know Penneymounter. He's running for president, and he'll never support your nominee.”

“I don't care about Penneymounter,” said Long. “But we have to pick off some red-state Democrats to win.” He took another swig of coffee, his eyes leveled at Golden. “Keep going.”

“Marco Diaz, also on the DC Circuit, is solid,” Golden continued. “University of Chicago law, assistant attorney general, former district court judge. Great narrative. His father came to the U.S. from Mexico and turned a used car lot into the largest Hispanic auto dealership in North America. Diaz turned down offers from blue-chip law firms to return to the barrio.”

“Upside: solid guy, good record, Hispanic,” interjected Battaglia. “Downside: he's only been on the DC Circuit a short time.”

Long let out a long whistle. “He sounds great. Who else?”

“We have four women on the short list. The two strongest candidates are former Congresswoman Susan Cunningham, who currently sits on the Florida Supreme Court, and Yolanda Majette, African-American chief justice of the California Supreme Court.”

“I know Yolanda. She's impressive,” Long replied. “Can she handle the scrutiny of a Supreme Court confirmation?”

“She's tough,” offered Battaglia. “Penneymounter will have a hard time attacking her.”

“Alright, let's take a vote,” Long said. “Who's your top choice?” Everyone appeared stunned that Long was putting them on the spot. “Let's go around the table.”

“Bob Hillman,” said Golden. “He's the best. It's not even close.”

Art Morris, assistant attorney general in charge of the Office of Legal Counsel had said nothing during the meeting. He kept his head down, taking notes. “Mr. President, you won't find a more brilliant nominee with a better judicial temperament than Judge Hillman.”

“Phil?”

“Majette or Diaz, in that order,” said Battaglia. “I don't think we can ignore the fact that there is only one African-American and two women on the Court right now. There is currently no Hispanic. If you get a vacancy, it's an opportunity to capture the country's imagination.”

Long nodded. “You guys meet with the top candidates very informally. This won't rise to a presidential decision unless and until there is a vacancy.” He took a final swig of coffee. “Focus on anything personal that could be a problem. I'd prefer not to have any surprises.”

“We'll do a full GI track exam on all of them,” assured Golden.

When the meeting broke up, Battaglia approached the president. “Can I see you for a moment?” he said in a half whisper. The president put his arm around him and walked him across the hall to the Oval, leaving Golden and his aides behind. He closed the door.

“I spoke to the chief justice,” said Battaglia.

“What did he say?”

“He told me Franklin's chances of recovery are zero. He's being kept alive on a feeding tube. According to the chief, the family is in denial, and they won't pull the plug because they don't want you to appoint his successor.”

“Unbelievable,” said Long. “He could live for years.”

“The chief says he strongly opposes Congress's removing Franklin,” said Battaglia. “He views it as a separation of powers issue. But for the same reason he does not want to take Jimmerson on publicly.”

“That's great,” said Long. “We've got a split court, a comatose justice, a renegade Speaker of the House, and the chief justice has a fit of integrity. I wish he would go public and oppose impeachment. We need someone to stop this.”

“Instead we're going to be subjected to the Gerry Jimmerson show, with Andy Stanton leading his army on the Capitol, followed by a show trial in the Senate,” Battaglia muttered.

Long rolled his eyes. “I tried to charm Jimmerson, but he's a maniac.” He sighed. “He thinks if he impeaches Franklin the conservatives will turn out and vote Republican next year. I told him I couldn't back him but I'd stay out of it, which I viewed as doing him a favor, but he wasn't really pacified.”

“He's willing to tear the country apart for his own partisan gain,” said Battaglia, his tone of voice disgusted. “It's pathetic.”

“Oh, well, thanks for the update. Keep me posted.”

Battaglia turned to go. He hoped the shot at Stanton had worked. In his mind ideologues like Golden and Stanton were parasites trying to hijack the administration. Battaglia went along with using the wing nuts to get elected, but he had no intention of letting them run the government. This was a battle for the soul of Long's presidency, and Battaglia had no intention of giving up without a fight.

EIGHT

The Lincoln Town Car carrying Andy Stanton and Ross Lombardy pulled slowly through the iron gate at the entrance to the White House complex and inched up the driveway to a reserved parking spot next to the West Wing. Andy sat in the back, bouncing his knees like a little boy, rubbing his hands together, giving rapid-fire instructions to the driver. Nervous energy flowed from every pore of his body. And why not? He was about to meet with the president of the United States—who he had helped to elect—and give him his recommendations for appointment to the Supreme Court. Andy had built up a lot of political chits with Bob Long, and he was now calling them in.

Andy, accompanied by Ross and a security guard, walked through the narrow doorway leading to the West Wing lobby and approached the guard at the security desk, announcing his arrival. Ross took a seat on the couch below the oversized clock in the lobby, which seemed designed to advertise the exaggerated importance of time and space in this hallowed real estate. Andy, unable to suppress his excitement, remained standing, admiring the full-length portrait of George Washington. Truman Greenglass, national security advisor, came down the hall from the Oval Office and greeted Stanton with courteous but restrained professionalism.

David Thomas, White House political director, came out of the Roosevelt Room, apparently leaving a staff meeting. His earnest posture, schoolboy baby face, and flame-thrower intensity radiated energy. “Dr. Stanton, how are you?” he asked solicitously, pretending to be surprised to see him. In fact, the entire building was on full alert. Even the cooks in the White House mess knew that Andy was in the building.

“I'm
wonderful
,” Andy fairly gushed. “How are you?”

“Oh, holding up, you know,” said Thomas with false humility. “I'm glad to see you here.” He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Not everybody is glad you're here. But I am.” He winked knowingly.

Andy forced a smile. Was it a veiled shot?

“So you're meeting with the president?”

“Yes!” Andy said a tad too enthusiastically. “Should be any minute now.”

“Great. Have a good meeting. Ross, why don't you come with me, and we'll catch up while Andy's in with the boss.” Thomas and Ross headed across the alleyway to his office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

“Dr. Stanton, the president will see you now.” Andy turned to see the president's assistant, a pretty, well-groomed woman in her fifties, smiling invitingly. She walked down the hall with him, exchanging small talk, and then opened the door. The president stood in front of a wing chair before the fireplace, which had a crackling fire. Charlie Hector stood in front of one of the couches to the side.

“Andy!” the president greeted him. “Come on in! You know Charlie.”

“Of course,” replied Andy. He greeted Hector, and the president waved to him to take the chair next to his. They engaged in some banter about the news of the day. Then Andy quickly got down to business. He was not a man to mince words.

“Mr. President, my listeners and viewers are very concerned about the appointment of justices to the Supreme Court.”

“I know,” Long replied. “It was one of the biggest applause lines I had on the stump.”

“Peter Corbin Franklin being in a coma has piqued a lot of interest in who you might nominate should there be a vacancy.” He paused. “We are praying for his health and well-being. But my nephew, who is on the staff of the teaching hospital at Johns Hopkins, tells me it is highly unusual for someone with his injury to live.”

The President stared back impassively.

“Mr. President, I believe you will get at least one and maybe two Supreme Court picks. The future of the country is at stake. Evangelicals voted for you in large numbers in no small part because of your conservative judicial philosophy.”

“Andy, let me stop you there,” said Long firmly, holding up the palms of his hand. He quickly took charge of the conversation, guiding it circuitously so that he was both responsive and opaque. “I've told Golden, Phil, and the folks in OPP that I don't want them to yield one inch on my pledge to appoint judges who share my philosophy and have impeccable credentials. It's going to be rough sledding with Penneymounter in charge of Judiciary. But I have told them not to change a single thing in selecting judges.” He had used the acronym for the Office of Presidential Personnel, which handled presidential appointments throughout the government.

Hector sat silently, taking notes.

“That is great—just great,” said Andy enthusiastically, his face beaming. “Your stand on judges was critical to your winning evangelical votes. I brought something for you that I hope will be helpful. The dean of my law school put together a dossier of leading candidates for judicial appointments,” Andy explained. “They're available for a full range of positions, from district court all the way to the Supreme Court.” He smiled proudly. “These folks are solid citizens with impeccable credentials.”

“Good for you,” replied Long as if he were praising a student who had completed his homework.

Andy extended the slim bound volume toward the president, offering it to him. Long physically recoiled, eyeing it as though it were a shrapnel grenade about to explode. Hector jumped forward, snatching it out of his hands.

“I'll pass this on to Phil Battaglia and his team,” said Hector curtly as he flipped through the pages, feigning interest.

“Anything else on the personnel front?” asked Long, quickly changing the subject. “I assume you were happy with our appointments at HHS.”

“Yes,” replied Andy. “There is one other thing that is important, not just to me, but to the entire faith community. That's the commissioner of the IRS.”

The president nodded.

Andy lowered his voice. “Within ten days after I let Petty have it in the last campaign, the IRS showed up at my doors and launched an audit of my ministry.”

The president chuckled and shook his head. “I'm sure that was purely a coincidence,” he said sarcastically.

“We think Bill Diamond was behind it,” Andy said, referring to the former vice presidential chief of staff and senior advisor to the president in the previous administration. “They wanted to punish me for not supporting the Republican ticket. And not just me. They parachuted IRS audit teams into every major conservative evangelical ministry in the country.”