Authors: Ralph Reed
The Democratic side of the aisle erupted in sarcastic guffaws. None of them believed that Jimmerson, the ultimate practitioner of slash-and-burn politics, regretted his vote to remove the most prominent liberal voice on the Supreme Court. Jimmerson ignored them, his head turned away, chin raised, black eyes unblinking.
“That's what leadership is about,” Jimmerson said, his voice booming, echoing off the walls and ceiling. He rose up on his toes and pointed to the four lawgivers whose statutes ringed the corners of the chamber. “Moses, Washington, Aristotle, and Jesus Christâthey are the models of justice upon which our nation was founded. They knew that respect for the rule of law is the foundation of civil order, and when it breaks down, chaos is inevitable.” He cast the impeachment of Franklin as a matter of patriotic duty. “If the highest Court in the land is paralyzed or hopelessly deadlocked, the rule of law will collapse.”
“The issue before us is not a single case, though the cases pending before the Supreme Court are among the most important in our lifetimes. The issue before us is not a single justice, though Peter Corbin Franklin is one of the most distinguished and accomplished jurists to ever sit on the Court.” Jimmerson paused, his voice falling to a whisper. “The issue before us, ladies and gentlemen of this House, is justice itself and the rule of law.” He pointed his finger for emphasis, jabbing the air. “No matter how much we may honor an individual justice, they like all of us, must yield to the demands of the law. I urge this House to do its duty.” He lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly emotional, though everyone knew it was an act. “Reluctantly, sadly, and with a heavy heartâbut do . . . its . . . duty. May God bless this House, and may God bless these United States of America.”
Republicans leapt to their feet. The Democrats sat impassively, their faces frozen, staring at Jimmerson with hatred. They despised everything that Jimmerson, in their eyes, symbolized: partisanship, cynicism, political calculation, the abuse of power. No matter. Jimmerson's whips had counted 230 solid votes to impeach Franklin, twelve more than they needed.
FRANK GROSS PARKED ON a side street near George Washington University hospital. He wanted no security cameras in the parking lot to record his coming or going. He glanced at his watch: it was 4:50 p.m., and the guard would be changing in ten minutes. Wearing green chinos, work shoes, and a denim oxford shirt, he looked like any visitor stopping by to see a family member. He walked into the hospital lobby and headed for the elevator, keeping his head down and his feet moving. Through decades of security work, he had learned to carry himself with the confidence of someone who belonged, above all, to move quickly and avoid eye contact.
Getting off the elevator on the fifth floor, he ducked into a restroom and closed the door to the far stall. He methodically removed his outer clothes and placed them in a plastic bag, stripping down to a green hospital orderly uniform that he wore underneath. He clipped on an employee identification card. He walked back to the elevators and, after looking in both directions, opened the door to a service area, dropping the plastic bag containing his street clothes down a garbage shaft.
Walking down the hallway, he felt his heart rate quicken. This was the moment of maximum danger. He could be seen, captured by video cameras, or stopped by security. But he knew the route well, and he knew the patterns of the DC police officer who guarded the hospital room of Peter Corbin Franklin. He knew when he came on duty, when he took his lunch break, and when he relieved himself or visited the vending machines in the break room.
It was 5:42 p.m. when the cop left his station. Gross moved quickly, stepping into a room and disconnecting the EKG from a patient, setting off an alarm at the nurse's station. As hospital personnel hustled to the patient's aid, Gross went down a side stairwell to the fourth floor. The lead nurse left her station to check on the patient. As she reconnected the EKG machine, Gross moved down the hall to another stairwell and walked back up to the fifth floor. Reaching the door, he opened it and looked both ways. All clear.
He stepped across the hall to Peter Corbin Franklin's room. It was dark and quiet, with a fluorescent light on over the bed. Franklin looked like a sack of bones underneath the sheets, and Gross guessed he now weighed no more 110 pounds. An intravenous drip emptied into a vein in his right arm. Gross moved quickly. He opened the valve of the drip, pulled a syringe out of his pocket, and pressed down the plunger, inserting a burst of air into the tube. Closing the valve, he put the syringe back in his pocket and exited the room.
As he headed back to the elevators, the DC cop passed him, carrying a Diet Coke in one hand and a package of mini doughnuts in the other. They briefly made eye contact. A wave of fear passed through Gross: had the cop made him? There was nothing left to do but keep moving. He took the stairs down to the first floor, passed through the lobby, and walked out the front door. Turning down the side street, he looked around to make sure no one else was watching him. He got into his car and pulled away. He dialed a number on his cell phone. “It's done.”
“Did anyone see you?”
“I don't think so,” Gross lied. “I passed a DC cop in the hall. That's it.”
“You're probably alright,” replied the person on the other end of the line. “But just to be safe, lay low.”
THE AIDE IN THE Speaker's office hung up the phone, her hand shaking as she scribbled a note on a piece of paper. She bolted from behind her desk, nearly tripping over a trash can, and stumbled down the hall to the Speaker's private office, her dress heels clicking on the white marble floor. Gerald Jimmerson was meeting with a group of utility executives.
The aide quietly opened the door and walked wordlessly to the Speaker. Jimmerson kept one eye on a television set in the corner tuned to C-Span and the vote proceeding on the House floor. She passed him the note. Jimmerson opened it and read its contents, his face going white. He immediately rose to his feet.
“Gentlemen, forgive me, but I'm needed on the floor,” he said with a start. He quickly pumped hands around the coffee table. “Please forgive me for having to duck out. I'll try to rejoin you, but you are in able hands.” He nodded to two aides and turned on his heel to go.
After the door closed behind him, one of the aides leaned over and picked up the note. It read: “AP News Alert: Peter Corbin Franklin Dies.”
ON THE HOUSE FLOOR, word of Franklin's death spread rapidly, sparking pandemonium. Panic-stricken Republicans scrambled to change their votes to “present”âthey didn't want to be seen as kicking a dead man. Democrats buzzed with energy, pointing accusing fingers as the Republicans' votes kept changing from green to amber on the display board. Whips for both sides darted in and out of the aisles.
Sam Manion stood in the midst of the chaos looking as if a grenade had just gone off in his foxhole. His colleagues came up to ask him what should be done. His face ashen, he mumbled that he didn't know.
An aide appeared at his side. “The Speaker would like to see you in the cloak room.”
Manion hurried off the floor and found Jimmerson standing in a circle of worried members of the GOP leadership. “Franklin has died,” said the Speaker. “He must have passed as we were giving our speeches.”
“Good God,” said Manion.
“How much time is left?” asked Jimmerson.
“Two minutes,” answered a staffer.
“Alright,” Jimmerson began, taking charge. “Can we stop the vote?”
“Stop the vote?” asked Manion, incredulous. “I don't think so.”
“We can do whatever we darn well please,” Jimmerson fired back. He tapped Manion on the chest. “When we get inside a minute, move to suspend the rules. After that motion passes, we'll pull the resolution from the floor.”
“But that takes a two-thirds vote,” Manion objected. “It'll never pass.”
“Just
do
it, Sam,” sputtered Jimmerson, highly agitated. Everyone filed through the door of the cloakroom and onto the floor.
When the Democrats caught sight of Jimmerson, they smelled blood. “Shame! Shame!” shouted several Democratic congressmen, pointing accusingly as they shouted.
“Mr. Speaker, I seek recognition for the purpose of a parliamentary inquiry,” said the ranking Democrat on the Judiciary Committee.
“The chair recognizes the gentleman from Michigan.”
“I note that the members on the other side of the aisle are changing their votes from yes to present and now to no,” he said with a smirk. “I wonder if given the fact that they have preoccupied the House with this charade and now have egg on their face, if they wouldn't feel more comfortable under the circumstances simply abstaining.”
Laughter rumbled up and down the Democratic side of the aisle. Republican members hurled insults and shouted catcalls at their tormentors. In the press gallery reporters sat on the edge of their seats, scribbling notes, their eyes on high beam, unable to believe what they were witnessing.
“The gentleman from Michigan's inquiry is not of a parliamentary nature,” the presiding officer said. He raised the gavel and banged it three times. “The House will come to order! Order in the House!”
The Democrats ignored him. “Shame! Shame!”
“Mr. Speaker, I move that the resolution before the House be placed on the table,” said Manion into a microphone on the floor.
“Cowards!” shouted the Democrats.
“The gentlemen from Virginia has moved that the resolution be tabled. All those inâ”
“Mr. Speaker, this motion is out of order!” screamed the Democratic floor manager.
“âfavor, signify by saying aye.”
“Aye!” shouted the Republicans.
“All those opposed, signify by saying nay.”
“Division of the House! Division of the House!” The Democrats demanded a roll call on the motion.
“The ayes have it. The resolution is put on the table.”
Boos filled the air as Democrats joyfully vented their outrage. By now they were performing for the cameras. Out in the hallway members from both sides held dueling news conferences beneath a blaze of television lights. Reporters flitted between them, dutifully recording the charges and insults that each side hurled at the other.
Gerald Jimmerson decided it was time to make his exit. He had nothing to gain from remaining in camera range. He ducked into the cloakroom. A harried press aide approached.
“Marvin Myers says he's writing his column, and Joe Penneymounter gave him a quote saying you are abusing your office to trampling on civil rights.” He paused, gulping. “He compared you to George Wallace.”
Several members stood around, transfixed. They seemed to flinch as Jimmerson stood there, a smoking volcano about to blow.
“He said
what
?!” Jimmerson shouted. His eyes darted around the room. “He compared me to
whom
?”
“George Wallace, sir.”
Jimmerson's face went beet red. The veins in his forehead began to protrude. “You tell Myers that I said that is the most despicable, dishonest, disingenuous smear I have heard in my political career. It is beneath contempt.” He turned on his heel and began to march away, then wheeled around and pointed at his press aide. “Tell him to quote me on that!”
IT WAS A LITTLE after 6:00 p.m. when G. G. Hoterman climbed on to the treadmill at the Washington Sports Club next to the Ritz Carlton downtown. It was all part of his losing battle with his weight, a battle he had been fighting for three decades, ever since the two-a-days of his college playing days gave way to the sedentary lifestyle of a Washington lobbyist.
Too many steaks, too little exercise,
thought G. G. He began moving his legs in a brisk walk, flipping the television built into the treadmill to MSNBC. But when he saw the News Alert logo at the bottom of the screen, he almost fell off the treadmill. “Justice Peter Corbin Franklin Dead” read the headline. The female anchor delivered the news in a grave tone of voice. “After suffering a stroke from which he never regained consciousness, leaving him in a coma for the past four and a half months, Peter Corbin Franklin died last night from heart failure,” she said. “One of the greatest progressive champions and among the most celebrated liberal icons in the modern history of the Supreme Court is gone. President Long will now make arguably the most important decision of his young presidency: whom to nominate to replace Franklin.”
Hoterman slowed down the treadmill and reached for his BlackBerry, dialing Christy Love's office number. She answered on the first ring.
“I assume you heard about Franklin,” said G. G., his breathing heavy.
“Yes,” answered Christy in a stricken voice. “We all knew this day was coming. But it still hits you like a ton of bricks.”
“Poor Franklin is spinning in his grave at the thought of Long picking his successor.”
“That may be why he hung on as long as he did.”
“What's the game plan?” asked G. G.
“I'm jumping on a strategy call in ten minutes,” said Christy. “Preliminarily, I expect Long will move quickly. He's had plenty of time to get ready.”
“I agree,” said G. G. “I think he'll wait until after Franklin's funeral, at least for appearances sake.”
“I'd say we have five to seven days tops,” said Christy. “And if he picks who we think he will, there'll be plenty to work with. We've got enough research to fill a small warehouse.”
“Who do you think it's going to be?”
“Majette or Diaz.”
G. G. dialed the treadmill down until it was barely moving. “The first African-American woman or the second Hispanic,” G. G. replied. “Brilliant.”
“Bingo,” said Christy. “Majette is from California so it's home cookin' for Long. The Diaz play is so cynical that it's obvious. It's a twofer: energize social conservatives and make a play for Latinos.”