The Confirmation (16 page)

“Alright,” Stephen said. “But no paid ads.”

“You have my word,” G. G. said smoothly. In reality he would use it for whatever he wanted.

Stephen started walking slowly back to the house. “Deirdre seems very nice,” he said, changing the subject.

“She is,” said G. G. His separation from Edwina was an awkward topic. He was not surprised that Fox had raised it first—he had not wanted proactively to mention the fact that his marriage was on the rocks. He had hoped to pretend that his relationship with Deirdre was purely professional. Clearly Stephen was not fooled.

“G. G., you've never told me how to live my life, and I've never told you how to live yours,” Stephen said quietly, his voice barely audible above the ocean breeze and the crash of the waves on the beach. “I'm the last person to judge anyone. Heck, I'm on my third marriage.”

G. G. shot him a knowing glance.

Stephen grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him close. “But if you can, try to make things work out with Edwina. I walked away from two marriages before I married Felicity.” His face glowed, the moon's rays illuminating his features. G. G. saw his face etched with emotion. “I love her, and we have a terrific marriage. But I'm telling you from firsthand experience, the grass is never greener on the other side. All the problems you're dealing with in your current marriage will follow you.”

“I hear you,” G. G. said noncommitally. “But I'm not sure I can. I don't think Edwina will take me back. And I love Deirdre.”

“I understand,” said Stephen. “It may well be that you can't reconcile with Edwina. But take it from me, if you marry Deirdre, she'll be your wife. You'll have all the issues with her, plus all the issues with children and your first family following you. And Deirdre will be just as crazy as Edwina.” He screwed up his face. “They're all crazy, don't you know that?”

G. G. laughed. “I'm afraid I do,” he said.

They walked up the beach, sand pushing between their toes, and rinsed their feet off at a shower station before reentering the house. G. G. was stunned by the emotional force of Stephen baring his soul. Fox had it all: gorgeous wife, homes on every continent, jets and yachts at his beck and call, and billions of dollars. But he was still haunted by his failure to build a lasting relationship with the wife of his youth. It frightened G. G., for he saw his own future in Stephen's pain.

“SENATOR!” SAID BOB LONG into the telephone with theatrical bravado. “I understand you wanted to talk about something.” He glanced across the desk at Charlie Hector, who had put the call on his schedule, and winked.

“Yes, Mr. President, I did,” said Joe Penneymounter, the edge in his voice evident. “I hope you'll forgive me for being direct, but I think it's only right that I tell you where I stand on the Peter Corbin Franklin situation.”

“Sure,” said Long. “I appreciate it. What's on your mind?”

“Well, a lot, actually. First, the House impeachment resolution is going nowhere in the Senate. I don't think there are forty-two votes. It's dead on arrival.”

“Mmmmmm,” Long replied.

“Second, I frankly view this whole thing as a dangerous infringement on the separation of powers,” Penneymounter continued, the words tumbling out on top of one another, his voice rising. “This is an attempt by the Congress to reconstitute the highest court in the land by legislative fiat. It's the worst case of court-packing since FDR in 1937. I feel like I'm living in a Third World country. This is America, not Venezuela, for crying out loud.”

“I hear you, Joe,” said Long sympathetically, trying to placate him. “I warned Jimmerson. When we met here at the White House for what was supposed to be an informal get-together, he gave me a heads-up about all this, and I told him there was no way on God's green earth that the Senate would act on an impeachment resolution.”

“Gerry could care less. He's
glad
it's going nowhere. He's
thrilled
that he can play to his religious right base and take no responsibility for the outcome.”

“Well, why don't you just say that?”

“I
am
saying that,” Penneymounter protested. “But it doesn't matter. Even though a resolution removing Franklin will stink up the Senate like a mackerel in the moonlight, we'll still have to hold hearings and a trial. It will chew up valuable time on the calendar. Your lower court nominees will languish.” He paused, clenching a verbal fist. “That's why I need you publicly to oppose the impeachment resolution, so it never gets out of the House.”

Long shot forward in his chair, giving Hector a surprised look. “I don't know if I want to jump into that briar patch, Joe. It could have the opposite of the desired effect.”

“Let me be a little clearer,” Penneymounter said, the edge in his voice growing sharper. “If you don't distance yourself from Franklin's removal, I'm not going to be able to spend my political capital on your judicial nominees. Our agreement to report any judicial nominee to the floor that has the support of me and the ranking member will be null and void.” He reloaded. “And even worse, I'll be forced by my own troops to oppose any Supreme Court nominee you might send up to replace Franklin.”

Long was stunned by Penneymounter's threat. The phone line was silent for a full six seconds. “I hear what you're saying about impeachment,” Long said at last, his voice betraying his anger. “But my nominees shouldn't be the innocent victims in a shooting war over Franklin's impeachment. That's just no way to run an airline, Joe. If you want to pay back Jimmerson, do it with some pet project he wants. And I don't see the point in rushing to judgment on a Supreme Court nominee that hasn't happened yet. There's no vacancy.”

“Mr. President, Jimmerson is about to impeach a man whose only crime was to suffer a stroke. You can't outsource this issue to Jimmerson and Andy Stanton. You're the president. We need you to lead.”

“I will, but I can't tell the House what to do any more than I can you,” said Long curtly.

“Well, that's your decision,” said Penneymounter. “But at some point you're going to have to come out of the Rose Garden and take a stand.”

It was a cheap shot, and Long bristled. “I'm going to lead,” he vowed. “But I'm not going to jump into the middle of a food fight. This is the kind of partisan politics the American people are sick and tired of in Washington.” He tapped the desk with his index finger for emphasis. “And if you make my judicial nominees pay a price, you're tangling with me. I'm not going to be able to take that lying down.” He bit off the syllables of each word.

“I know that. I don't want to do this at all, but
I will,
Mr. President, I will,” said Penneymounter, not giving an inch.

“Thanks for calling, Mr. Chairman,” said Long coldly. He slammed the receiver down with disgust and looked at Hector, eyes aflame. “That weasel threatened me.”

“What did he say?”

“He demanded that I come out against Franklin's removal or he would slow-walk my lower court nominees and oppose my Supreme Court nominee.”

“He's playing with fire,” said Hector. “He's totally out of control.”

“I agree,” said Long. “This is a declaration of war. I had a deal with the guy! His word is worthless.” His eyes bore into Hector. “I won't forget that.”

“I think he wants out of the deal and is using Franklin as a convenient excuse,” said Hector. “He's under major pressure from the far left. Franklin is a fig leaf.”

Long shook his head. He was learning the hard way that the old partisan habits in Washington died hard. Jimmerson was taking the Republicans in the House off a cliff, and Penneymounter and Sal Stanley were doing the same with Democrats in the Senate. Part of him wished Peter Corbin Franklin had never had a stroke in the first place, while another part of him wished he was already dead.

TWELVE

A crowd of two hundred people sat patiently in their chairs in the East Room, awaiting the arrival of the First Lady. It was her first solo public appearance since moving into the White House, and there was a great deal of buzz connected to the event. Fairly or unfairly, Claire Long had developed a reputation during the campaign as the Ice Lady: the fiery strawberry-blonde with a chip on her shoulder who hated her husband's enemies and liked more than the occasional glass of wine on the campaign plane. She had made no attempt to disguise her contempt for Sal Stanley, who stole the Democratic nomination from Long, and she had lashed out at more than a few reporters that she viewed as unfair in their coverage of her husband. Her coming-out party as First Lady was designed to soften her image.

The occasion was an event honoring women business leaders. Several female corporate CEOs sat on the front row in pastel power suits. The made-for-television sign on the podium read, “Women Growing Our Economy.” It was a safe debut for Claire, and the East Wing staff had made sure there was a full entourage of reporters, including
People
magazine and
Entertainment Tonight,
both of which had been offered print and broadcast interviews.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the First Lady, Claire Long,” intoned an announcer over the sound system. Fashionably late, Claire Long entered from the back of the East Room and walked up the center aisle to a standing ovation. She bounded up on stage exuding confidence, wearing a smart St. John green jacket and black skirt with black heels. But as she stood to the side listening to a glowing introduction by the former CEO of a technology firm, she seemed to wilt, and she appeared disoriented as she approached the podium.

“Thank you so much,” she said slowly, her face resembling a plastic mask, her hands gripping the podium as the dead air hung. Her speech was slightly slurred. The press corps knew instantly that something was awry. “But you shouldn't cheer me. Save your applause for my husband. He's the important one. I'm just a famous housekeeper.” Nervous titters from the audience. Claire patted her heart. “But you touched me . . . you really moved me.”

Cards on the podium contained Claire's speech, but she ignored them. Instead, she rambled, at times endearingly, but mostly incoherently. “Women are the backbone of our families, and yes, our businesses. If it weren't for women, our economy would grind to a halt. Come to think of it, the
world
would grind to a halt!” She let out a nervous too-loud laugh. “Bob is like most men. He doesn't like to admit it, but it's true, isn't it?” Scattered applause—they were trying to throw her a lifeline.

The speech had turned into a train wreck. “Most of you might not know it, but I have reviewed and edited every major speech Bob has given in his career,” Claire bragged. “Of course, he doesn't always listen.” Nervous titters. “And that's when he gets into trouble!”

Standing against the wall and watching all this was Lisa Robinson, who wanted to sink into the floor, her face frozen, arms crossed, clutching a legal pad so hard her knuckles turned white. She knew the entire press corps was watching her. Improvising, she called over the CEO who had introduced Claire. They huddled in a power clutch under the horrified gaze of members of the audience.

“Get her off the stage . . .
now
!” whispered Lisa out of the side of her mouth.

“How?” asked the CEO, clearly distraught.

“I don't
care
. Just get up there and
do
it.”

The CEO stepped gingerly on to the stage as if she were tiptoeing across a minefield, a nervous smile on her face. Claire either did not see her or ignored her.

“You know that old phrase, behind every successful man is a strong woman?” she asked, her face twisted in sarcasm. “The truth is
beside
every successful man is an equally successful and accomplished woman.” She wagged her finger. “And never let the men forget it.”

Lisa looked down at the floor. She could no longer make eye contact with the press. The CEO moved in closer to Claire, who finally noticed her.

“Is my time up already?” she asked to nervous laughter that mixed relief with tragicomedy. “But I haven't gotten to the part about how the majority of men die within eighteen months of their wives dying.” Audible gasps filled the air. “They can't even face life without us.” The CEO grabbed her by the arm and escorted her gently off the stage, walking her down the center aisle to relieved applause.

Lisa bolted for the door. She knew the video of Claire's meltdown in the East Room would be on the Internet within ten minutes. They needed to come up with an explanation—fast.

Dan Dorman of the
Washington Post
ambled over, bald pate gleaming under the TV lights, wearing a wicked grin. He physically blocked Lisa's exit. “Alright, no spin,” he said accusingly. “Is she drunk?”

“Dan, she's tired,” Lisa said, thinking on her feet.