Authors: Ralph Reed
After fielding tough questions from the audience and parrying with the business leaders, Long exited through a blue curtain. David Thomas slid up beside him, walking rapidly.
“Is this doing any good?” Long asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Thomas. “It'll dominate the local news. The Cleveland nets and Fox carried it live.” He used communication-shop shorthand for the network television affiliates.
“I don't know,” Long sighed. “It's hard to break through when the House is impeaching a comatose Supreme Court justice. What a sideshow that is.”
Long reached the limousine, where a line of greeters, local dignitaries and elected officials who had supported him or he was wooing, awaited. Long worked each one, hand on shoulders, eyes glued to each face, as the official photographer snapped away. Then he climbed into the back of the limo.
Long looked at Thomas's face. His expression was noticeably strained.
“What is it?” asked Long.
“Mr. President, Justice Franklin is dead,” said Thomas softly.
Long's face fell. He had expected the news for some time but the gravity of it still rattled. “Poor old guy,” he said. Then suddenly his face cracked into a grin, and he let out a low rat-tat-tat chuckle. “You've got to hand it to Franklin. He stabbed Jimmerson in the back as he walked through the pearly gates, didn't he?”
“That he did, sir,” said Thomas, enjoying the irony.
“Serves him right,” said Long, his face animated. “Impeachment was a boneheaded move from the get-go. I warned Gerry, but as usual he wouldn't listen.” He paused, looking out the window as the car emerged from the parking garage into the blazing sunlight. Protestors shook angry fists and waved wilted signs. One read: “LongCare = Socialism.”
Long shook his head in detached wonderment. “Socialism? What planet are these people from?” he muttered. “I cut taxes six times when I was governor of California. Does that sound like socialism to you, David?”
Thomas answered dutifully. “No, sir.”
Long picked up the phone from the console next to him, and a White House operator appeared on the line as if by magic. “Get me Phil Battaglia, please.” As he waited, the president cupped a hand over the receiver. “Do you realize that I can get someone anywhere in the world on the phone, anytime I want? Last week I got a letter from a woman in Alaska complaining about the Small Business Administration. I was on Air Force One, and I asked them to get her on the phone.” He snapped his finger. “They had her on the phone in less than a minute. All I knew was her name!” Long's face lit up. “Big coverage in the local papers: âPresident Calls Local Woman Who Wrote White House.'”
Battaglia came on the line. “Hello, Mr. President.”
“David just told me about Franklin. It's beyond bizarre,” said Long.
“Unbelievable,” said Phil. “It happened in the middle of the impeachment vote. The House is in chaos. Jimmerson has snapped.” He let out a guffaw. “You should see him! He looks like he's not taking his meds.”
“This helps us, don't you think?”
“I do,” replied Battaglia. “We've triangulated Jimmerson and the far right and Penneymounter and Stanley and the far left, who are demanding that you appoint a liberal. You're the only adult in the room. You look like a leader among Lilliputians.”
“Well, I hesitate even to say this, but the health-care bill probably won't make it out of the House,” said Long. “We need a victory. I was trashed for not taking sides on impeaching Franklin, but now we're above the fray.”
“Exactly, sir,” agreed Battaglia.
“I don't see any reason to wait any longer,” said Long. “My sense is that you and Golden have vetted candidates.”
“We're ready, sir.”
“Get me a memo tonight or tomorrow. If it's ready tonight, send it up to the residence.”
“Done.”
“Good,” said Long briskly. “Bring in the top candidates over the weekend. We'll do it in the living quarters. Make sure they are not seen by anyone.” Long leaned forward in his seat as he issued rapid-fire instructions. “And Phil?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No leaks. Loose lips sink ships.”
Long hung up the phone and turned to Thomas. “Strap on your helmet, pal. We're about to go twelve rounds with Sal Stanley and Joe Penneymounter wearing brass knuckles.”
Thomas's face twisted into a wicked grin. “I relish the prospect, sir.”
Long gazed out the window into the middle distance, deep in thought. A strange mixture of dread and anticipation filled him. If he selected a conservative, he was assured a Bork-like confirmation fight. But if he picked a moderate, the right would erupt in protest. No matter what he did, the White House was in for the fight of the decade. All they could do was climb into the bunker and ride out the artillery barrage.
IN A FORTUITOUS TWIST of timing, the White House chose the afternoon after Peter Corbin Franklin's death and the House's botched impeachment attempt to announce Claire had checked into rehab. Lisa Robinson argued they should release a statement. Hector blew his top, arguing it made the president look cold and distant at a time of familial upheaval. Hector lost. The White House released a brief statement at 3:22 p.m.: “Claire Long entered an inpatient facility for treatment for dependency on alcohol. Like millions of other families who have dealt with this issue, the Longs ask the media to respect their privacy and ask for the prayers of their friends and the American people. The president has never been prouder of Claire and hopes her courageous decision will encourage others to seek help.”
There was only one problem: the press was in full-blown revolt. They demanded Lisa appear before the cameras to comment on Franklin's death and Claire's status. The press shop decided to feed the beast before they were torn limb from limb.
At 4:08 p.m., Lisa walked into the briefing room, lips pressed into a thin line of lipstick, face etched with strain. “The president has sent a letter to the children of Peter Corbin Franklin expressing his deep condolences upon the death of their father. The letter reads in part, and I quote, âThe principles for which your father stood throughout his life will inspire future generations of Americans, and his example of being a voice for the voiceless will long endure. His service for the least among us will always be honored and will now be greatly missed by our nation.'” She paused, looking up from her notes. “I'll take your questions.”
The room exploded in raised hands and shouted questions.
“Lisa, why weren't we told the First Lady checked into a rehab facility until thirty minutes ago? What were you trying to hide from the American people?” asked Dan Dorman, chief attack dog of the
Washington Post
.
“The decision about when to inform the public was made out of an abundance of caution due to security concerns and to protect Mrs. Long's privacy.”
“How much of this is related to her performance at the women's business forum when she appeared to be under the influence of alcohol?” asked Politico. “Has Mrs. Long become a liability to her husband?”
“This was a personal decision. Politics played no role whatsoever.”
“Will you be announcing where Mrs. Long is receiving treatment?” asked the
Washington Times.
“One unconfirmed account reports that it is Hope Ranch in Phoenix.”
“That decision will be made by the Long family, but as of now . . .”
STANDING IN FRONT OF the television in the private anteroom just off the Oval Office, Long stood with his arms crossed, watching the news briefing. Charlie Hector stood silently at his side, his face a study in punch-drunk exhaustion, common among occupants of the West Wing.
“We can't let Lisa take these bullets,” Long said quietly. “This is my storm, not hers.”
“You mean you want to go to the briefing room . . . right now?” asked Hector.
“Yes,” Long said firmly. “This is my wife they're attacking. I have to defend her.”
“You're preaching to the choir, Mr. President,” Hector replied. “I told you my position before. But if you walk in there now, you're jumping into a shark tank. They smell blood.”
“I'll take my chances,” Long said. “Let's go.”
The door to the Oval Office flew open, and the president and Hector walked briskly down the hall and turned toward the elevator to ride down to the basement, drawing the surprised stares of passing staff as Secret Service agents scrambled to keep up.
THE PRESS WENT SLACK-JAWED when Long walked into the briefing room. At first Lisa did not notice him. Then, reading the faces of reporters, she became flustered, glancing at the president, unsure of what to do next. Bailing her out, Long approached the podium.
An aide affixed the presidential seal to the podium. Then, without a note or apparent mental calculation, Long spoke firmly into the microphone. “I have been in love with my wife Claire for thirty-two years. I love her, and she loves me. She is my best friend. In those three decades, through raising four children, and countless campaigns, I have never been more in love with her or been more proud of her than I am right now.” Everyone sat in respectful silence. The only sounds were
click-whir-click-whir
of still cameras and roller pens flying across steno pads. “The decision Claire has made was not easy. The price of admitting you have a problem can be high in our gotcha culture, especially for someone in the public eye. That is why I have so much respect for Claire. She has my full support, my prayers, and, most importantly, my unconditional love.” He paused, his eyes misting. “Our marriage has never been stronger. Claire will be a better person, and we will be a stronger couple because of her decision. I know the American people will support Claire, as they have in everything else we have dealt with as a family.”
Long leaned forward, inviting eyes and body language soliciting questions. It was Long's unique political skill: taking a liability and turning it into a positive.
“Mr. President, I know this is a difficult topic,” said NBC News. “But Scottie Morris, your media consultant, was arrested for cocaine possession during the presidential campaign, and you said at the time you were oblivious to the fact he had a drug problem.” Long stared back, keeping his composure. “Your wife has entered a rehabilitation center for alcoholism. I'm wondering if this hasn't forced you to consider whether you may have been so self-absorbed that you may not be aware of the personal struggles of those closest to you?”
Lisa stood ten feet away, arms across her chest, glaring at the NBC reporter. But Long shook it off. He seemed to understand that like a karate chop, the question could be turned back on the person who struck the blow.
“It's a fair question, and one that I have asked myself on more than one occasion in the last forty-eight hours,” replied Long, impressing the press corps with his capacity for introspection and self-awareness. “Look, alcoholism doesn't just claim one victim. There are many victims. Just as alcoholics can be in denial about their problem, so, too, can family members and loved ones. That may have been the case for me. Because I have always admired Claire's strength, I didn't want to admit that she should get help.” Long spoke in a strong voice, looking directly into the camera, ignoring the reporters. “The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. That's true not only for Claire but also for our family.” He shifted his weight, placing an elbow on the podium, suggesting an intimate aside. “One thing I can assure you, we are together on this as a family. We're going to confront it, beat it, and heal together.”
The press corps was thunderstruck. Long took a vicious shot and returned the volley with greater force.
“Mr. President, how much of this was precipitated by Mrs. Long's recent appearance before an audience of women business leaders at the White House, which was universally interpreted as a flop due to her apparently being inebriated?” asked Reuters.
Long seemed to stiffen a bit. “Claire and I discussed it. She was upset by some of what you all reported, which was very hurtful. But we both understand that the presidency is a fishbowl, and everything we say or do is fair game.” He widened his eyes for emphasis. “We get that. Let me say this: Claire is a fabulous First Lady. She has done her job with grace and dignity. Her decision was based solely on what was best for her health and recovery.”
“How long will Mrs. Long stay at the rehabilitation center?” asked AP.
“We don't know the answer to that at this point,” Long replied deliberately, punctuating the last three words with pauses: “at . . . this . . . point.”
“Weeks? Months?”
“Whatever she and her doctors agree on,” Long said with a shrug. He smiled, breaking the tension. “We want her back as soon as possible. But we want her to stay as long as she needs to for successful treatment. That's the most important thing.”
“Mr. President, on a different topic, Supreme Court Justice Peter Corbin Franklin has died, and you have expressed your condolences to his family,” said Fox News. “Can you give us a sense of how soon you will arrive at a replacement?”
“No, I can't,” Long fired back. “I spoke with Peter Jr., Justice Franklin's eldest son, today. I told him we were saddened to learn of his father's death and his family was in our thoughts and prayers. I think for now we should honor the memory and service of Justice Franklin. I will submit a nominee for the Supreme Court to the U.S. Senate after an appropriate period of deliberation and consultation.”
“Do you have a short list yet?”
“If I did, I wouldn't tell you,” said Long with a grin. The press corps chuckled.
“Mr. President, you refused to take a position either way on the impeachment of Justice Franklin as he lay comatose in a hospital,” said Reuters. “Do you regret remaining neutral given the circus that unfolded in the House of Representatives? Don't you bear some responsibility for the poisoned and partisan atmosphere?”