The Confirmation (2 page)

“She's got the trifecta,” Jay agreed. “Body, brains, personality.” He let out a long sigh. “But there are plenty of other fish in the sea.”

Jay was relieved that no one knew the truth, which was that he asked Lisa to be his date and she had turned him down flat. She needed to do her job, she insisted, and that meant being taken seriously by the press corps. They would “remain friends,” she assured him. Pretending not to be crushed, Jay agreed. He had to admit she had solid instincts when it came to navigating negative press coverage. But a week later Jay read in the Style section of the
Washington Post
that Lisa was going with Senator Russell Evans of Tennessee, the fifty-four-year-old bachelor freshly divorced from the reigning queen of country music. Evans was one of the most notorious skirt-chasers on Capitol Hill, showing up at cocktail parties in DC with a different blonde on his arm every week. This was Lisa's idea of being taken seriously?

“So you're flying solo?” asked Thomas.

“No,” replied Jay. He leaned back in his chair, trying to play it cool. “I'm taking Satcha Sanchez.”

Thomas shot him a surprised look. “The Latina infobabe?”

“It's all part of my Hispanic outreach strategy,” said Jay. He let out a rapid-fire, evil laugh.

Thomas chuckled. “You're too much.” Jay waved for the check. As he signed the bill, he saw Thomas's eyes widen. “Well, what do you know . . . speak of the devil.”

Jay turned around to see Satcha's five-feet-six-inch frame gliding across the room, hips swaying hypnotically, her hourglass figure wrapped in a fire-engine red dress with a plunging neckline. Her red lips formed an alluring smile, and her black hair with light brown highlights teased into an on-air bouffant that bounced as she stepped in Christian Laboutin heels. She carried a full-length mink coat over her arm.

“Subtle she is not,” said Thomas under his breath.

The men rose from the table as Jay dipped his head in a gentlemanly bow. “You look
mahvelous
,” he said to Satcha.

“Thank you, sugar,” replied Satcha matter-of-factly. Her eyes sized up Jay's outfit. “Love the suit.
You are styling!
” A waiter appeared, pulling back Satcha's chair and holding her mink gingerly as though it were still alive. “Bottega loaned me the dress. If I decide to keep it, I can get it at a discount. But the mink is mine. Is it too much for television?”

“Absolutely not!” joked Jay. “It's positively understated.”

Satcha shot him a sideward glance of mock disapproval. Her drop-dead looks and come-hither TV persona, spiced with a dollop of Latin sensuality, formed her into a symbol of Hispanic power. The ubiquitous Satcha was the empress of the Latino vote, her visage staring down from billboards and out from magazine covers as she covered the campaign and moderated presidential debates for Univision. A Puerto Rican journalist of Cuban descent, she started out in San Antonio as a meteorologist, then moved on to the Weather Channel before hitting it big at Univision, garnering higher ratings than the major networks in New York, LA, Houston, Chicago, and Miami.
People
magazine named her one of the “50 Most Beautiful People.” With Satcha on his arm, Jay was guaranteed plenty of buzz, a play for Hispanic votes, and a measure of sweet revenge against Lisa.

“Are you coming to the ceremony?” asked Thomas.

“No, I have to work,” replied Satcha with a frown. “I'm anchoring the inaugural coverage, and I stay on the air to cover the parade.” She made a face. “I just don't know if I can make myself sound interested as I announce the marching band from Columbus, Ohio.”

“You want us to help you get some senators and congressmen to stop by the skybox so you can do some interviews?” asked Jay.

“That would be great!” Satcha's face lit up. “Get people close to Long. I don't want anyone who is boring. I'm looking only for important people.”

“You mean like me?” Jay asked, his face cracking into a smile.

“Not you, sweetie,” she volleyed. “Univision signed off on my going to the ball tonight, but if the suits think I'm getting too political, they will go nuts.”

“You mean you have to be careful about press coverage?” asked Thomas.

“They won't leave me alone,” Satcha sighed. “The only thing worse is no one talking about you, right?”

Jay waved over the waiter, who returned and slid the mink on Satcha. The power couple breezed from the lobby as the doormen held the door, the frigid January air blasting through the entrance. More heads turned and fingers pointed as they flew out of the hotel.

IN THE PRESIDENTIAL SUITE of the Willard Hotel, the Reverend Andrew H. Stanton held court in a living room the size of a basketball court, surrounded by the usual clutch of aides and hangers-on, gathered like a highly compensated peanut gallery on a large sofa and several wing chairs. Like any religious broadcaster worth his salt, Andy traveled with a posse the size of a hip-hop artist. Today it included three ministry vice presidents and their wives, several drivers, two security guards, Mrs. Stanton, Andy's four children and their spouses, and a press secretary. Also joining them was Ross Lombardy, Andy's political right hand. Everyone had VIP tickets to the inauguration and the balls, which Ross obtained by calling in every chit he had at the inaugural committee. Twenty-nine VIP tickets to the ceremony? No problem, Mr. Lombardy! After all, Stanton delivered an estimated thirty million evangelical votes to Long on election day. Ross also obtained parking passes, which was fortunate because the delegation required six SUVs just to drive the short distance to the Capitol.

“Can you believe they asked to see my prayer in
advance!?
” Andy fairly bellowed. “I'm not going to let some bureaucrat edit
my
prayer.”

“I believe it, sir,” replied Ross, whose day job was serving as executive director of the Faith and Family Federation. “They want to make sure it's politically correct.”

“Meaning
what
?” asked Andy, his face twisted with righteous indignation.

“Meaning no J-word,” said Ross. “God is good, God is great. But Jesus offends some people.” He shrugged with a political operative's nonchalance.

“Too bad,” shot back Andy, his blue eyes smoldering. “Jesus is my Lord and Savior. I'm not ashamed of the gospel.” He enunciated each syllable.

The vice presidents grunted their approval with an “Amen.”

“Can't you make it ecumenical?” asked Ross, pressing. “Why stir the pot?”

“You're the political guy; I'm the pastor. Leave the prayers to me.”

“Then there's the Muslim thing,” Ross coolly added. “We're in a global war on terror. Long's folks are spooked by anything that might be construed by the Arab street as relaunching the Crusades.” Other than Long's inaugural address, Andy's prayer would be one of the highlights of the ceremony, seen or heard by over a billion people. It could spark an international incident if Andy “went Moses,” as they liked to call it around New Life Ministries. Ross fielded several worried calls from the Long camp about Andy's prayer. He gave them all the same answer: no one would see or hear the prayer until Andy delivered it at the Capitol.

“Do you realize what today means?” asked one of Andy's obsequious aides. “You're the new Billy Graham.”

Andy frowned, dipping his chin and clasping his hands firmly behind his back. “There'll never be another Billy. Besides, I'm controversial, too political, don't ya know.”

“Billy prayed with presidents; Andy elects 'em,” corrected Ross with a wicked grin. He turned to Andy. “Andy, you're Billy, Richard Daley, and Samuel Gompers all rolled into one.”

Andy seemed momentarily taken aback by the comment. Then suddenly he broke into a little-boy grin and cackled with laughter, clapping his hands as he enjoyed the joke at his own expense. The posse, lined up on the couch like blow-up dolls, helmet hair frozen into place by too much hair spray, chuckled nervously. The comment struck close to home, but Andy's self-deprecating sense of humor gave everyone else permission to laugh.

The door swung open and a security guard stood at attention. “Reverend Stanton, time to go, sir.”

Andy, followed in single file by the posse, headed out of the suite to an elevator.

SENATE MAJORITY LEADER SALMON Stanley strode through the Capitol Rotunda on his way to the inauguration of his sworn enemy wearing the plastic face of a defeated candidate. His puffy, white countenance masked the trauma beneath: resentment at Long's successful betrayal of the Democratic party and his preternaturally charmed rise, anger at the investigation of his campaign by a Republican Justice Department, and bitterness at the vicious attacks on his candidacy from the media. Still, Stanley was determined to grit his teeth and get through the ordeal, if only to deny his enemies the joy of his absence. But that didn't make it any more pleasant. Even though he claimed to have a hide as thick as an elephant, Stanley's wound went deep.

“We'll get through it fine,” Stanley said in a hollow voice to his chief of staff, walking briskly beside him. “My father used to say, ‘Son, when you get knocked down, get up, dust yourself off, and keep putting one foot in front of the other.'”

“You're a far better man than the one taking the oath of office today,” the aide replied.

“Maybe,” Stanley said. “Sometimes you just have to put the country first. John Adams left town rather than attend Jefferson's inaugural. Not me. I'm going to be on that platform when he takes the oath.” He paused. “I'm not a quitter.”

“Absolutely not,” the aide agreed.

The rotunda was eerily silent save for the echo of their footsteps. A few stragglers passed awkwardly, averting their eyes. A security guard who normally waved at the majority leader simply looked away. Clearly, it was going to be a tough day.

“Will you go again in four years? I hope so.” The aide turned philosophical.

“I don't know,” said Stanley. “That's a long way off.” Stanley turned to the aide with a twinkle in his eye. “The first step in a comeback is survival. And I am a survivor.”

They walked down the stairs leading to the doorway to the west front of the Capitol. As he came down the stone passageway, the director of the ceremony greeted him and escorted him onto the sun-splashed stage where he was greeted by muffled applause from glove-handed admirers. He took his seat on the second row. It struck him that he would be sitting less than ten feet from Long when he ascended to the office they had both sought. He adjusted his scarf, checked the buttons on his overcoat, and braced himself against the cold.

TWO

At 11:30 a.m. the couples emerged from the White House and appeared on the North Portico, the mammoth and stately “front door” added in 1830 in keeping with the federal style of the time. They posed briefly for the cameras. The president then gingerly guided Claire Long to her car with an affectionate hand placed at the small of her back. The First Lady got in behind her. The president motioned for Long to get into the presidential limousine. He climbed in last. The secure package completed, surrounded by Secret Service agents on foot and surveyed by Navy Seal snipers perched on buildings above, the motorcade slowly inched down the driveway at a snail's pace.

For his part, Long was glad the show was finally on the road. The traditional preinaugural coffee in the Oval Office featured stilted chit-chat. The occasional pregnant pause spoke more than words, the chemistry between Long and the outgoing president awkward. And for good reason. After all, the president's handpicked successors were respectively dead and defeated. Vice President Harrison Flaherty was murdered by terrorists as he departed the Republican convention; his running mate, former Secretary of State David Petty, imploded in a sex scandal in the final days of the campaign. It was no exaggeration to observe that Long owed his election to an assassin's bullet and a rival's zipper.

As Long sat across from the president for the brief ride to the Capitol, it occurred to him that he was the last person on earth the president wanted taking his place—other than Salmon Stanley, whom they both despised. Long knew the president viewed him as the accidental president, a conniving opportunist who reached the White House by a maddening combination of cutthroat opportunism and dumb luck. He hoped their mutual hatred of Stanley would unite them in a partnership, if only based on shared disdain for their nemesis.

The president shifted to the edge of his seat, leaning forward from his torso. “Have you given any further thought to Iran?” he asked, the question landing like a howitzer.

I guess the small talk is over,
thought Long. The president's steely eyes bore into him. He felt the walls of the limo closing in on him.

“The sanctions package before the Security Council is a start,” Long answered haltingly. “If we could pass those, it could turn the screws. We can also interdict Iranian shipping.”