Authors: Ralph Reed
Mauro Fellisi came down the stairs of his house in a welcoming gait, speaking loudly to Guido in rapid-fire Italian. He wore blue jeans, scuffed work boots, a white T-shirt, and a blue flannel shirt over his bulky frame. His bulging belly and too-small head stood atop long, spindly legs. His skull was deeply tanned, his bald head fringed with white hair.
“Bonjourno!” he shouted before asking a question in an agitated manner.
Guido smiled. “He wants to know where we have been,” he said with a wink.
Guido introduced him as the famous political strategist for President Bob Long. Jay stood there in the 100-degree heat, grinning sheepishly. Mauro greeted him like a long-lost friend, shaking his hand firmly and kissing him on both cheeks. Mauro's farmer's tan and calloused hands betrayed a life spent working the Tuscan soil, his deep blue eyes and shy manner reflecting the genius of one of Italy's most famous vintners.
More rapid-fire Italian, followed by a wave to the main building of the small winery.
“We eat first!” Guido translated. “Then he will give you a tour of the winery.”
They walked into the basement of the home, which resembled a sunken warehouse, surrounded by gigantic oak barrels large enough to hold a small family, all filled with aging wine. A large table, covered with a checkerboard tablecloth, was spread with cheese, sausage, bread, and caprese. They each pulled up a chair. Jay noticed there was one empty seat.
“Gabriella!” called out Mauro.
Jay turned around to see a gorgeous woman in her early thirties gliding toward him wearing snug jeans and a ribbed, sleeveless T-shirt, black belt with an oversized silver buckle that pinched her slim waist, and black wedges. She seemed to move in slow motion. With her volleyball-player legs, long neck, high cheekbones, espresso eyes, Midlothian abdomen, and flowing brownish-blonde hair, she struck Jay as a flesh-and-blood pallet of Italian womanhood. The Tuscan sun had toasted her shoulders and arms to a deep brown. Small dots of sweat beaded on her nose and neck. Jay felt his legs go rubbery.
“You friend of Guido,” she said warmly in broken English. She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth that gleamed against her tan.
“Yes,” replied Jay.
“I am Gabriella,” she said. “Welcome.”
“Well of course you are,” he exclaimed. He motioned to the lunch awaiting them on the table. “Perfecto!” Gabriella laughed at his attempt at Italian. Jay extended his hand, and she shook it. Her skin felt soft in Jay's hand. Mauro and Guido grinned.
“Eat! Eat!” she ordered, and the men sat down. With the help of a middle-aged woman with a shock of dark hair and weathered skin, Gabriella brought the first course to the table, a heaping bowl of pasta.
“Who is the other woman?” asked Jay out of the corner of his mouth to Guido.
“Mauro's live-in girlfriend. She and her teen-age son live here with Mauro. His wife passed away about five years ago.”
“And Gabriella is his daughter?”
“Yes,” replied Guido. He read Jay's look. “
Very
single,” he chuckled beneath his breath.
Mauro made a big production of bringing out the first bottle of wine for lunch. He started with a 1999 Brunello, pouring it into a glass, swirling it in the bottom, breathing in the aroma, and then taking a sip, letting it run across his tongue as he tasted it. He nodded with approval, then began methodically to pour it into each glass around the table. He and Guido exchanged words that appeared to be related to the quality of the wine.
“This is the first of several bottles,” Guido warned. “So pace yourself.”
Jay swirled the wine himself and drank from his glass. The taste was smooth and musky, with a hint of oak. As Mauro rattled on, Guido translated, giving Jay a crash course on the art of growing the Montelchino grape. To qualify as a Brunello, Guido explained, the wine had to be made from only a select grape and age for five years. The acres that could grow the proper grape were limited, so by definition a good Brunello was limited in supply.
Jay was far more interested in Gabriella than the wine. She was achingly attractive, and he found himself smitten and distracted, unable to stay focused on the conversation. Her tom-boy personality only made her more compelling. As the daughter of one of the wealthiest land owners in Italy, she was well connectedânot just in Italy but in America. Jay soon learned that among those who regularly visited and were investors in the Fellissi winery were Rupert Murdoch and Warren Buffet. Gabriella had vacationed on Larry Ellison's yacht. She oversaw the business side of the winery.
“I've seen you on television before,” Gabriella said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
“Here in Italy?” asked Jay, surprised.
“No, in the States. I was there during the campaign.”
“I hope I didn't say anything stupid,” Jay said with a smile.
“Oh, no,” Gabriella replied. She flashed him a smile. “You're cuter in person.”
Jay felt a sudden rush of excitement. Was she flirting? “I'll take that as a compliment.”
“I'm cuter in person, too, don't you think?” asked Guido, happily joining the conversation.
Gabriella smiled and reached over to pat Guido on the cheek. “Yes, my darling, you are much cuter in person.”
“He doesn't look cute to me,” joked Jay. “He looks like a stray dog.”
“I'm not supposed to look cute to you,” fired back Guido. He laughed. “If I was, that would sure make headlines in the States, no?”
“How odd you should come here, of all places,” said Gabriella, her gaze fixed on Jay.
“I came halfway around the world. I thought it was to run a campaign. But I think it might have been to become friends with you and your father,” said Jay. He hoped the line wasn't too corny. Gabriella smiled, raising one eyebrow suggestively.
The wine flowed easily as Mauro's girlfriend brought the entrée of wild boar and fresh baked vegetables. Mauro complained that the first bottle had the taste of cork. No one else had noticed, but Mauro replaced it with a 2003 Brunello, which was fabulous. Later he switched to a 1995, and then finally to a 1999 Reserve, made from the finest grapes of the harvest, personally selected by Mauro. By now the entire party was having a good time, laughing too loud and too long at one another's jokes. Jay found himself laughing even harder when they said something funny in Italian, even though he didn't understand it.
“So what brings you to Italy?” asked Gabriella. “Running one country isn't enough for you?”
Jay burst out laughing. He leaned into her, putting his finger over his lips. “Don't tell anyone,” he said in a half whisper, giggling. “After this, it's on to Great Britain!”
“No, the food there is
terrible
,” she protested, her mouth forming a pout. “Do France next! I'll visit you in Paris. I'll show you the best restaurants and the finest wines.” She waved her hands in the air as she spoke. “I will help you take over Europe, one country at a time!”
Jay could hardly believe his ears. He began to feel warm and tingly all over. Was it the wine, or Gabriella? He suspected it was a bit of both.
“Gabriella does business all over Europe,” Guido said. “She is beautiful, of course.” Gabriella blushed. “But her beauty is deceiving. She is a very savvy businesswoman.”
“I have no doubt,” said Jay, taking another sip of wine. Gabriella smiled.
After lunch, topped off by grappa (a 100-proof port made from the fermented skins of grapes) and a cup of espresso, Mauro and Gabriella escorted Jay through the winery, showing him the oak casks, the vineyards, and the bottling operation. He slapped down a credit card and impulsively bought $5,000 worth of wine, letting Guido and Mauro choose the cases. By now he was flying high, intoxicated by Gabriella's presence and the Fellissi empire.
As they walked back to the car, their shoes crunching across the gravel, Guido asked, “Why don't you ship one of the cases of reserve to Jay in Rome? He's there for the month to work on the Brodi campaign.”
“Si, si!” said Mauro.
“Only if Gabriella personally delivers it,” said Jay with a sly smile.
“Sure,” Gabriella said. “But you have to share some with me.”
“Absolutely!” Jay exclaimed. “I have a suite at the Hassler. Come and visit.”
“Don't let her anywhere near Brodi!” joked Guido. He repeated the line to Mauro, who rolled his eyes and guffawed. Brodi was a notorious skirt chaser.
Gabriella gave Jay her card and scribbled her cell number on the front, saying something about having to be in Rome the next week. They all exchanged hugs and pecks on the cheek, and Jay, with two bottles of reserve for the road compliments of Mauro, climbed into the Fiat. As they pulled away and screamed down the road, Guido turned to him, wagging his finger.
“You are a bad boy!” he shouted gleefully, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “You were shamelessly chasing Gabriella!”
“Was it that obvious?” Jay asked. He furrowed his brow. “Oh, well,” he said.
CONGRESSMAN SAM MANION OF Iowa sat in a small anteroom filled with government-issue couches and chairs that resembled a no-money-down furniture showroom. Glasses on the end of his nose, dark circles enveloping his tired eyes, his thinning brown hair combed and sprayed without a strand out of place, he resembled a trial lawyer awaiting a jury verdict. He sat on the couch, legs crossed, telephone cradled against his shoulder as he scanned notes in his hand. A staff aide sat across from him, leaning on the edge of his seat, chewing on his fingernails.
“Mr. Speaker,” Manion said into the receiver. “I've got the votes. Wanted to let you know where we stood. Just waiting for the green light and we pull the trigger.”
“So were you able to pull over a Democrat?” asked Gerald Jimmerson in his silky Southern baritone.
“Not a one,” Manion replied with a chuckle. “Mr. Speaker, this is the most ideologically polarized committee in the House. I'm not gonna get a Democrat. Not now, not ever. I had to hold the hands of my squishy Republicans just to get a majority.”
Jimmerson laughed knowingly. “It would have been better if we could have gotten at least one D. I guess they're not going to carry our water on this one.”
“Nope,” agreed Manion. “They're in the bunker. It's going to be like the Clinton impeachment all over again. The Democrats are playing to their base, and we're giving our guys a backbone transplant so they'll do the right thing.”
Jimmerson sighed. “Well, if you've got the votes, I say we go.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Speaker.” Manion hung up the phone and looked directly into the eyes of his staff aide. “That guy has got the gonads of an elephant.”
“So he wants to jump without a single Democrat?”
Manion shot him the weary look of an abused understudy. “He'd run over his own mother if he had the votes to do it.” They both laughed.
There were two quick raps on the door. Another aide stuck his head through the door. “Mr. Chairman, we're ready.”
“Showtime!” said Manion. He walked out of the anteroom, crossed a narrow hallway, and walked through an open door into the cavernous hearing room of the House Judiciary Committee. It was in this very room in the Cannon House Office Building that the Judiciary Committee had passed articles of impeachment against Richard Nixon in 1974. It was the same room where House Republicans passed two articles impeaching Bill Clinton on a straight-party vote during the Monica Lewinsky scandal in 1998. As he stepped through the door and into the blaze of the television lights, Manion heard the rustle of the press corps, the explosion of still cameras, and murmurs from the assembled throng. Cable newscasts broke away from regular coverage to broadcast the proceedings live.
Manion sat down in his chair at the center of the dais and raised his gavel, ceremonially banging it with authority. “This meeting of the committee will please come to order,” he said firmly, his voice booming over the sound system. “I have a brief statement, and then I will ask the ranking member of the other party to make his statement. Each member of the committee will then have five minutes to make their own statement before we proceed to a final vote.” He paused and looked around the committee room, glancing down each end of the dais, then quickly snapped his head back to the papers he held in his hand.
“This committee has before it one article of impeachment of Supreme Court Justice Peter Corbin Franklin,” Manion began. “On January 22 of this year, Justice Franklin suffered a cerebral hemorrhage that left him in an irreversible comatose condition, incapacitating him and thereby rendering him unable to carry out his duties as a member of the highest court. Under Article Three, Section X, the House is empowered to impeach and the Senate to remove a judge so incapacitated.”
“Lies! Lies!” shouted a protestor from the back of the room. “Peter Corbin Franklin lives!” The wild-eyed, slightly disheveled woman wearing thick glasses had stripped off her overcoat to reveal a yellow shirt with the slogan “Stop the War against Women” emblazoned in black letters. Two muscled Capitol police hustled her toward the door. She began to kick and squirm as she shouted. “Stop the lies!”
Manion banged the gavel three times. “Spectators will refrain from outbursts or any other disruptive activity, or they will be removed.”
The protestor shouted still louder. The members of the committee watched with bemused expressions on their faces. The Capitol police dragged her from the room, her limp legs dragging behind.
“Few members of the Court have served with such honor and distinction. No one has ever brought more passion and intelligence to the cause of justice than Justice Franklin,” Manion continued. “But the fact is his medical condition is grave. I regret that none of his doctors chose to appear before this committee. But the expert testimony we heard from other witnesses made clear that the stroke he suffered was massive and incapacitating. None of us on either side of the aisle have asked for this sad duty. But it is a duty we cannot shirk, and we cannot deny. There are times in public life when we must choose between what is politically expedient and what is best for the country. This is one of those times. Therefore, I will reluctantly and sadly vote for the article of impeachment removing Justice Franklin.”