The Confirmation (17 page)

“She sounded tipsy.” He glared over his glasses at Lisa with a look that seemed to say:
If you lie to me, I'll make you pay.

“I
said
she's tired, Dan. Now please get out of the way. I have a meeting.” Dorman reluctantly stepped aside and Lisa blew by him. She hoped there was a way to contain the carnage, but she knew the video of Claire would lead all the cable shows and light up YouTube. Lisa had to alert the president and Charlie Hector right away. The White House was about to go into damage-control mode.

AT A BACK TABLE in the dining room of the Willard Hotel, three blocks from the White House, four people huddled at a power breakfast. Stephen Fox cut into eggs Benedict while he plotted his next move in the Justice Department's antitrust case against Wildfire.com. Joining him were G. G. Hoterman; antitrust litigator Amy Thornton from the white-shoe law firm Powell, Murphy, and Weiss; and Frank Gross, head of corporate security for Wildfire.com.

“Peter Corbin Franklin's been in a coma for ten weeks,” said Fox wearily. His long, gun-metal gray hair, penetrating blue eyes, and perma-tan gave him the appearance of an older male model. “He could live for years. The vacancy is hanging over this case like a guillotine. The question is: when does the blade drop?”

It was a startling analogy when referring to the comatose Supreme Court justice. Thornton visibly winced as she took a sip of coffee. Gross showed no emotion, his poker face expressionless.

“I always say that we solve our client's problems—just not too quickly,” joked G. G., his blue Hermes tie and matching suspenders highlighting his blue pin-striped suit. “But this is getting ridiculous. We could be left dangling for a year or two.” He turned to Amy. “Amy, is there any way we ask the Supremes to kick this back to the appellate court and have the case reheard en banc?”

“We could, but that motion will never be granted,” said Amy as she daintily spooned oatmeal with blueberries. With dark brown hair, doeish brown eyes, porcelain skin, and a petite figure (her brown Dior ensemble was a size two), Amy's China-doll visage masked the killer instincts of a seasoned litigator. She was one of the most skilled lawyers in the country, taking five cases all the way to the Supreme Court and winning them all. She had never lost a case.

“Why not?” asked Fox. “This case has the entire technology sector in limbo.”

“Because the Supreme Court wants it,” answered Amy matter-of-factly. “They never ruled on Microsoft or Google. Google dodged a lawsuit by making concessions to the FTC when it acquired Doubleclick. Microsoft settled its browser war case with DOJ. So this case is the biggest antitrust case dispute since the breakup of AT&T to go to the highest court.”

“Any chance they'll hear it with only eight justices?” asked Fox.

“Possible but unlikely,” said Amy. “We're not forcing the issue because we're not sure we have the votes. We're far better off waiting for Franklin's replacement.”

Stephen frowned. “The analysts are pounding our stock. The one thing Wall Street hates is uncertainty.”

“We should try to settle,” offered G. G. “After all, Golden is the new sheriff in town, and he's a pro-business Republican. He doesn't want bureaucrats deciding what advertisements Wildfire runs on the Internet.”

“I agree, and we're trying. The problem is, I'm viewed by the Long crowd as having been in the tank with Sal Stanley,” said Fox. “I don't know if Bob Long's Justice Department wants me to make a boatload more money so I can give it to guys like you trying to defeat them, G. G.”

“Anything is doable in this town,” said G. G. “Let's hire Fred Edgewater, Long's pollster, to do a research project on Internet advertising and privacy issues. Have Fred give a briefing to the White House technology advisor. Then we do a high-level bank shot from the West Wing to Justice, saying, ‘The president would like this case to go quietly into the night.'”

“Will Fred do it?” asked Fox.

“I think so. Assuming the price is right.”

“How much?”

“I'd guess 250.” Everyone knew he meant a quarter of a million dollars.

Fox nodded, nonplussed. It was pocket change, given Wildfire's valuation.

“We should hire someone close to Golden,” suggested Amy. “Work it from the DOJ side. I know some people we could bring aboard.”

“Just keep G. G. out of camera range,” said Stephen, chuckling.

G. G. smiled. “Long hates me. But Penneymounter and I have been friends for twenty years. I helped Joe on his first Senate campaign. Two years ago, at his request, I went to Stanley and lobbied him to name the only person senior to Joe on the committee as the new chairman of Rules. Joe owes me big time. And he's interested in this issue.”

Amy raised her eyebrows. “Penneymounter might be with us? That would be big.”

“G. G.'s portfolio is black ops,” said Fox, his voice lowered to a rumbling baritone. “I don't know how he gets things done, and I don't want to know.”

“Things just magically happen,” said G. G., waving his fingers in the air like a magician making an imaginary dove fly out of a handkerchief. “They appear out of thin air. No faxes, no e-mails. No paper trail.”

Frank Gross had remained silent up until now. A former FBI agent with twenty years in corporate security, Gross had the clean-cut intensity of a Marine, the bulk of a longshoreman, and the discretion of an assassin. His black hair combed perfectly, he seemed to be the only man on the planet who still used Brylcream.

“G. G. and Amy, I'm going to send one of our technicians to your offices later in the week to install encryption software for your e-mail,” Gross said. “From now on we think it is advisable that all e-mail sent between Wildfire employees and you two needs to be encrypted.”

“But my communications are privileged,” said Amy, her voice betraying concern.

Gross's gaze cut right through her. “If anything goes wrong, we simply can't count on your firm not waiving that privilege. Our competitors don't like the idea of our winning this antitrust case. They will stop at nothing. So we can't take any chances.”

Amy nodded. They rose from the table and walked out of the restaurant, strolling through the lobby and making small talk. Gross excused himself, heading to the elevator. Once outside, Amy peeled off, hailing a taxi.

G. G. glanced up Pennsylvania Avenue and saw the Capitol dome glowing under the morning sunrise. It was a cool, brisk morning, and the crisp air invigorated him. “Not that I really care, Stephen, but why are we encrypting our e-mail?” he asked Fox.

“Get in,” said Fox, pointing to his Town Car.

G. G. waved to his driver to follow Fox's car, and he slid into the backseat next to Fox. Stephen reached over and pressed a button on the console, raising the dark glass partition between them and the driver.

“Frank is extremely capable . . . and discreet,” Fox said quietly, his tone grave. “He's a professional. He's going to be overseeing some aspects of our operations, and we don't want them compromised in any way.”

“What kind of operations?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Just be careful, Stephen,” warned G. G. “We can probably still settle with DOJ. I don't want us to do something stupid.”

“We're not going to do anything stupid,” Fox replied. “You do what you do. Frank will do what he does.”

“That guy gives me the creeps.”

“Guys like Frank are cut from a different cloth.” Fox turned in his seat to face G. G. “Don't worry. Pretty soon Peter Corbin Franklin will be gone. Long will appoint a new justice, and we will get our day in court.”

The car pulled up in front of the large building off Seventeenth Street where Hoterman and Schiff had its offices. Fox's driver jumped out and walked around the front of the car, opening the door for G. G. He stepped out and stood on the curb, watching Fox's car drive off.

JEFF LINKS, BOB LONG'S pastor, was on a golf course in Laguna Niguel when his cell phone buzzed, and the White House operator announced that the president was on the line. He broke away from his foursome and walked alone up the fairway.

“Jeff, it's Bob Long,” came the voice on the line.

“Bob, it's great to hear your voice,” said Jeff.

“Jeff, I need your help on something.” Long wasted no time getting to the point.

“Absolutely. Just say the word.”

“Well,” Long began slowly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “I'm usually the one helping others and not making a call like this asking for help myself. But Claire has been drinking too much. I'm not saying she's an alcoholic, but she has not been able to work this out on her own. Maybe I've just been too busy to confront her. Maybe I just didn't want to create a major conflict. But she had a couple of drinks before a speech she gave today and it was obvious. It's leading all the newscasts.”

“How is she?” asked Links.

“She's embarrassed and distraught, as you can imagine,” Long replied. “I've only talked to her briefly. She's blaming herself and taking it hard. But when I asked her if she thought she had an alcohol problem and needed help, she said no.”

“That's not unusual,” said Links.

“Jeff, the upshot is, if she doesn't get help, there could be more episodes like this. I think we need to do something,” Long said. “Claire respects you. She'll listen to you. Can you come out here and talk to her?”

“Of course,” said Links. “I'll be on the next airplane.”

“Should I tell Claire that you're coming?” asked Long.

“Yes, but only to talk to her. Don't let her think that this is a full-blown intervention. That might put her on the defensive. We have to get her help and soon.”

“I agree 100 percent,” said Long. “I'm really worried about her.” Long's voice caught, and his eyes filled with tears. He could hardly believe that he was conspiring with his minister to get his wife emergency medical help.

“Bob, I've dealt with these kinds of situations many times,” said Links. “I know a place that can do a world of good for Claire. It's an inpatient clinic that treats this problem from a Christian perspective.”

“I trust your judgment, Jeff. I need help, and I didn't know who else to turn to.”

“I'll help you, Bob. Believe me, I'm glad you're doing this. It takes a lot of courage to do what you're doing,” said Links. “I'll be there no later than tomorrow.”

“God bless you, Jeff,” said Long. “Thank you so much for your help.”

Long hung up the phone. He knew Claire was going to be livid when she found out that he had been plotting with Jeff behind her back. But she had left him no choice. Her alcohol problem was no longer just threatening their marriage and her health; it was threatening his presidency.

THIRTEEN

The House of Representatives chamber crackled with tension. Not a single seat was empty. Staff lined the walls, spectators swelled the galleries, and a long line of those waiting to get in snaked through the Capitol and out into the parking lot. Just five months after the House had elected Bob Long as president by a single vote, the wounds from that ugly battle still raw, its members prepared to vote on the impeachment of a Supreme Court justice for the first time since 1805.

Sam Manion, chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, wrapped up his speech. His message was joyless and pedantic, a thoroughly boring recitation of the Constitution, the separation of powers, and the founders' conception of impeachment. Everyone heard; no one listened. They had already decided how they would vote, and the rest was noise.

“The Chair recognizes the gentleman from North Carolina!”

Gerry Jimmerson strode to the podium in a confident gait. There had been some discussion within the GOP leadership as to the advisability of the Speaker addressing the chamber at all, but his forward-leaning posture indicated it would have taken a pack of wild horses to keep him out of the well. To say that Jimmerson was a lightning rod was being charitable. He was the chief bogeyman of the left, vilified by the liberal commentator and blamed by the Democrats for railroading the resolution to the floor. But Jimmerson was not easily intimidated. Indeed, he seemed to revel in their hatred.

“Fellow members of the House,” Jimmerson began, his voice strong and resonant. “I come before you today not as a North Carolinian, not as a Republican, not as a Southerner, not as a conservative. I come before you as an American.” Members were taken aback. Jimmerson, whose encyclopedic knowledge of American history was legendary, had invoked Daniel Webster's peroration from his famous speech that led to the Compromise of 1850. Jimmerson paused, letting the drama build, surveying the anticipatory expressions on the faces of his GOP colleagues and drinking in the disdain of the Democrats, who watched him through narrowed eyes.

“No matter which way each of us votes today on the question before us, no one is happy about casting this vote,” he continued. “Least of all me.”