The Confirmation (22 page)

“I don't believe this,” said Jay. “They haven't bothered me once.”

Gabriella shot him a look. “Darling, that's because you haven't been with me,” she said. “Welcome to my world.”

The Porsche flew down past the Spanish Steps and up the cobblestone road to the top of the hill, where a police car parked sideways and two wooden temporary roadblocks had been erected. A white-gloved policeman held up his hand as Gabriella slowed the car and rolled down her window. He waved them through, stopping the paparazzi and ordering them to leave the area. They spun around in their scooters and shot down the hill, looking for an alternate route. Gabriella pulled up to the Hassler and came to an abrupt stop. Jay could smell the burning oil from the revving engine, which purred as the car sat in neutral.

“Would you like to come upstairs for a drink?” asked Jay. It was the best line he could muster in his frazzled state.

“I'd love to,” said Gabriella, her eyes yearning. “But I really have to go.”

Jay was crestfallen. “Not even one little drink?”

“I can't.” She glanced back and looked out the rear windshield. “The paparazzi will camp out and shoot pictures as I go in and out, and they'll report what time I leave.”

“Okay, I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

Gabriella kissed him softly on the cheek. “It's taking all the willpower I have to let you go,” she said. “But I need to leave.”

Reluctantly Jay got out of the car. As he turned to leave, Gabriella rolled down the window on the passenger door. “Jay, I had a wonderful time.”

As Jay walked through the lobby, the concierge gave him a knowing glance. “Graci,” said Jay, referring to the roadblock.

“My pleasure, Mr. Noble. Have a good evening,” replied the concierge.

Jay stepped on the elevator and pressed the button to his floor. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly 5:00 a.m. He had a strategy meeting for the Brodi campaign in three hours. It was eight days before the election, his candidate was in a race too close to call, and he had spent the night clubbing with one of the most eligible bachelorettes in Italy. Jay shook his head, becoming angry at himself. He couldn't handle another failed romance. What was he thinking? He stumbled to the bedroom, kicked off his shoes, and fell face forward. He needed to get at least a couple of hours of sleep.

YOLANDA MAJETTE, CHIEF JUSTICE of the California Supreme Court, walked across the lawn of Oxford University, where she was enjoying a European vacation that masqueraded as a summer graduate seminar in legal theory. It was an unusually springlike day, the sun breaking through the clouds, the grass and trees lit up in bright shades of green. Glancing at her cell phone, she noticed she had a voice mail. Because the court was not in session, she rarely received phone calls, checking in with her office sporadically. To her surprise, the message was from Attorney General Keith Golden.

Though out of the country, Majette had learned of Peter Corbin Franklin's death. Her mind raced. Why else would the attorney general be calling? Her fingers shaking, heart rate quickening, she dialed the number. Golden's assistant put the call through to him.

“Madame Justice, how are you?” Golden asked brightly. “I hope I'm not reaching you at a bad time. Your office said you were overseas.”

“Yes, I am,” Majette answered. “I'm in England, teaching a seminar at Oxford.”

“Well, I certainly hate to interrupt what must be a wonderful respite from the daily grind of the court,” Golden said empathetically. “But I wonder if you could come to Washington.” He paused. “As soon as possible.”

Majette felt a burst of adrenalin. “I . . . I'm sure I can,” she heard herself say. Her mouth suddenly turned to cotton. “If you don't mind my asking, does this have anything to do with a court vacancy?”

“Keep this between us, but yes,” said Golden. “I'd like to meet with you to discuss it. The president would like to visit with you as well. Yolanda, we're interviewing potential candidates, and we're moving fairly fast.”

“Alright,” Majette replied, trying to stay calm. Her heart pounded through her chest. “I'll have to cancel my seminar for day after tomorrow.”

“I understand. Just don't tell anyone there why,” Golden cautioned. “Maybe you can arrange to come down with a bad cold.”

“I think I'm feeling a cold coming on even as we speak.”

“My staff will arrange the logistics. We'd like you to be on the first flight to Dulles or BWI. Don't fly into Reagan. There's too much of a chance you might be recognized.”

“I see.” Majette realized this was not a drill. She was under serious consideration.

“Other than your husband, tell no one about this. That includes parents, in-laws, children, former law partners, close friends. No one.”

“I understand.”

“See you tomorrow.” She heard a click as Golden hung up.

Majette placed her cell phone in her lap, stunned. She looked around at all the students and faculty as they hurried by to their next class, oblivious to the lightning bolt that just hit her. She was on the short list for appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court. Majette, whose father pastored an AME church and whose uncle was a prominent pastor in Jackson, Mississippi, had sensed from her childhood that someday God would call her to a high place. Was it coming true? She excitedly dialed her husband's cell phone number to tell him the news.

SENATOR JOE PENNEYMOUNTER BARRELED through the Senate Democratic cloakroom like a man on a mission. His face like a flint, his longish grey hair swept back behind his ears, his blue suit pinched at the waist, he walked in long, purposeful strides. Bodies parted like water before him. He walked to his desk on the Senate floor and clipped a microphone to his coat pocket.

“Mr. President, distinguished colleagues,” he began in a firm baritone. “With the death of Peter Corbin Franklin, our nation has lost one of the greatest champions of civil liberties to ever sit on the U.S. Supreme Court. It now falls to the Senate to decide his replacement. The framers of the Constitution never intended for the U.S. Senate to be a rubber-stamp of presidential prerogative. Advice and consent is a solemn duty, and it is one we all take seriously. The Senate is coequal in this responsibility with the president.”

Having fired his initial salvo asserting senatorial privilege, Penneymounter went for the jugular. “During his campaign Bob Long appeared before the religious right at Trinity University and pledged to appoint justices in the model of Alito, Roberts, Scalia, and Thomas. He vowed to nominate judges who would merely interpret laws as passed by legislators, not engage in what he called ‘judicial activism.'” Penneymounter assumed a professorial pose, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, his jowly face stretched into a fleshy scowl.

“These are code words, Mr. President!” he thundered. “Everyone knows what the president meant when he promised to nominate only judges guided by judicial restraint. These are code words for outlawing the right of women to reproductive choice, impinging upon the personal freedom for gays and lesbians, defending powerful corporate interests, and turning back the clock on two generations of civil rights for minorities.” His body coiled with energy as he raised his right arm high to punctuate the point. “With this vacancy on the Supreme Court, we could soon have a majority of justices hostile to a woman's right to choose. And make no mistake, Mr. President: more than
Roe v. Wade
hangs in the balance. Three generations of progress for civil rights are in danger.”

Desks began to fill with Democratic senators as word rifled through the Capitol that Penneymounter was unloading on Long. The press gallery also filled with reporters, their eyes dancing with glee, their fingers flying across the keyboards of their laptops. Spectators in the gallery could hardly believe their luck. Everyone knew if Penneymounter had the floor, fireworks would light up like the fourth of July.

“The question, Mr. President, is: which of his conflicting promises will President Long keep?” Penneymounter asked, leaning forward in a satirical bow, hands on hips. “Will it be his promise to Andy Stanton and the far right to pack the federal courts with clones of John Roberts and Sam Alito? Or will it be the oath he took to uphold and defend the Constitution of these United States?” He paused, turning a page slowly in his stack of papers. “I hope and pray President Long will honor the oath of his office. But I fear the worst. I worry that in almost canine obedience to the sectarian, fundamentalist faction of his third-party movement, he will shred the Constitution and its protection of reproductive freedom, the cherished right to privacy, and the sanctity of our homes and bedrooms.”

PHIL BATTAGLIA SAT IN his cramped West Wing office, glowering at the television set, his arms crossed over his chest. An aide rapped on the open door and stuck his head in. “It's Attorney General Golden.”

Battaglia picked up the receiver. “Are you watching Penneymounter?” he asked. “The guy is melting down before our very eyes.”

“He's channeling Howard Dean. The only thing missing is the scream.”

Battaglia chuckled. “He's trying to define the nominee before we have even selected them.”

“No question. Do you think it'll work?”

“It could,” Battaglia replied. “It worked with Bork. It almost worked with Thomas. It backfired during the Roberts confirmation.” He sighed. “I think it depends on the nominee. If there's no paper trail and no skeletons, I think we win.”

“I agree.”

“Speaking of which, did you reach Majette?”

“Yes,” said Golden. “She was at Oxford. She's flying in tomorrow. I'll meet with her, then she'll visit with the president first thing Saturday morning in the living quarters.”

“She's solid. The president knows her and likes her. I hope this doesn't leak.”

“She's under strict orders to tell no one beyond her husband,” said Golden.

“I'm just glad I don't have to decide,” said Battaglia. “We can't screw this up.”

“That's why he's the president and we're not.”

“This is really for all the marbles, isn't it?” asked Battaglia.

Golden paused, measuring his response. “Yes, it is.”

“Let's just make sure we don't blow it.”

“We won't, Phil. We won't.”

Battaglia hung up the phone. The Supreme Court nomination was like a gift coming so early in Long's young presidency. Win or lose, Battaglia thought, the outcome would likely define Long's tenure.

SIXTEEN

The staff wheeled a birthday cake the size of a Yugo into the East Room. Long stood before it beaming, crow's- feet crinkling, blue eyes twinkling with satisfaction, a rubbery smile stretched ear to ear. The official occasion was Vice President Johnny Whitehead's seventy-fifth birthday. Since Whitehead's age was the butt of jokes from late-night comics, the communications shop decided to hang a lantern on the problem and throw a big party. It was classic Long strategy: turn your weakness into a strength and your opponent's strength into a weakness. The room was filled to capacity with White House staffers, lobbyists, political grunts, major donors, and campaign volunteers. A bluegrass band from Whitehead's native Kentucky jammed on stage, a squat man dressed as Colonel Sanders in white suit and goatee roamed the floor, and a line of cloggers dressed in rustic mountain outfits performed. The press stood on a riser, their faces twisted with contempt.

The crowd whooped and hollered as the cloggers left the stage. Long walked to a small podium to loud applause. He stood before the towering cake bearing the vice presidential seal, painted in gleaming blue and white icing (the colors of Whitehead's beloved University of Kentucky) and topped with authentic Kentucky bluegrass, reveling in what Jefferson called the “splendid misery” of the presidency. Jaunty and confident, he placed one hand on the podium and put the other in his pocket, loose and at ease.

“I promised the vice president we wouldn't put candles on the cake for each year,” Long joked to warm laughter. “I didn't want him to strain his lungs by trying to blow them all out. So Johnny, you only have seven and a half candles—one for each decade!” More laughter. “Come on up here and say a few words, and I mean a very few words, so we can give these folks some birthday cake.”

Whitehead ambled to the podium wearing a crooked grin. He seemed not to mind being the sidekick to Long's comic routine. John Nance Garner famously called the vice presidency not worth a bucket of warm spit. Not for Johnny Whitehead. He was retired and forgotten when the phone rang and Long gave him a chance to get back in the game. For Johnny, being veep was like winning the lottery every single day.

“They say age is just a state of mind, and I know what they mean,” he began, smiling in anticipation. “After all, I'm only eleven years old in dog years.” (A roar of laughter.) “Take off some of those candles!” he joked. Long stood to his side, clapping and stage-laughing. Wheeling to face the cake, Whitehead blew as hard as he could, straining to reach the last candle, which continued to flicker against the force of his blast. Inhaling, he blew again, snuffing it out. The room erupted in applause.