The Confirmation (23 page)

The celebrants formed a receiving line that snaked through the East Room. Each guest shook the vice president's and the president's hands.

Ten minutes into the receiving line, Chris Calio, Republican congressman from New Jersey, approached Whitehead. “Did you hear Penneymounter's speech on the Senate floor today?” he asked, grimacing. “He's a
disgrace
!”

“No,” Whitehead replied, his face expressionless. “I try not to pay any attention to Joe.”

Long leaned over, joining in the fun. “Who did you say you were avoiding, Johnny?”

“Joe Penneymounter,” said Calio, relishing his face time. “He accused you of shredding the Constitution and said you had a canine obedience to Andy Stanton.”

Long put his arms around Whitehead and Calio, forming a huddle. “Penneymounter is an insufferable
blowhard
,” said Long, spitting the words through clenched teeth. “He calls me up and drones, blah, blah, blah.” His eyes widened. “He's TOTALLY IRRELEVANT.”

Standing in the back of the room, Lisa Robinson caught sight of an ABC News camera crew swinging its directional mike to the president. She knew Long's comments would be posted on abcnews.com within minutes. She bolted down the hall to warn Charlie Hector. As her stomach did flips, she wondered:
What are we going to do about this flap?

JAY STROLLED THROUGH THE long, frescoed and high-ceilinged lobby of the Chamber of Deputies building known as the transatlantico, or ocean liner, where members of parliament and influence peddlers gathered informally on couches and chairs between votes. His appearance caused heads to turn and conversations to fall to a muffled whisper. Jay's status as the imported political genius from America was legendary, his every move fueling gossip, most of it urban legend. At the bar Jay ordered his third shot of espresso and a pastry to jolt him out of his hangover and sleep-deprived exhaustion. His head spinning from the combined effects of the grappa and espresso that rolled around in his stomach like battery acid, he departed the lobby and climbed a flight of stairs to a conference room. Fashionably late, he pulled up a chair at the opposite end of the table from Lorenzo Brodi.

Fred Edgewater, who Jay had pulled into the campaign (for a cool quarter of a million euros, plus expenses), fired up his laptop and walked through a PowerPoint presentation. He reviewed the latest tracking numbers in a dull, flat monotone. Ice in his veins, showing no concern as he described Brodi's falling numbers, Fred delivered the shocking news: Brodi's twelve-point lead over the incumbent prime minister had evaporated. For Brodi and his political team, it was a punch in the solar plexus. They were tied, and Brodi's negatives had spiked six points from a barrage of negative ads. When Fred finished, Brodi sat stone-faced, lips pressed together, eyes smoldering with frustration.

“I thought you were two wizards who elected Long in America!” bellowed Brodi. “How did I drop twelve points in two weeks?!” He got up from the conference room table and paced back and forth before walking over to the breakfast spread and grabbing an apple impulsively, taking a large bite. He chewed it, the juice forming beads on his lower lip. “My message is not getting through.” He pointed at Jay accusingly. “You are not getting my message across to the people.”

“Perhaps our American strategist is too busy chasing Italian women,” said one of Brodi's advisors with a wry smile. He slid a copy of a Rome tabloid splashed with the photos of Jay and Gabriella leaving the club the night before across the table. Brodi glanced down at the front page, the veins in his temple protruding. Jay thought his head might explode.

“I thought that was my job,” he said sarcastically. Brodi was notorious for his not-so-secret romantic assignations, causing frequent heartburn for his political advisors, not to mention his wife. The wild parties at Brodi's Lake Como estate were notorious, and he sprinkled his coalition's electoral list with “Brodi's broads,” as the press called the models and busty game-show hosts who campaigned in short skirts and plunging blouses.

All heads turned to Jay. He had hoped the tabloids would sit on the photos of him and Gabriella for at least a day or two. Angry with himself and bored with Brodi's pity party, he leaned forward, rounding his shoulders as he prepared to deliver what he called his “candidate smack down” lecture.

“Let me tell you something, Mr. Mayor. Fred is neglecting corporate clients who are paying him millions of dollars to help you as a personal favor to me,” Jay fired back. “He called Long's precise margin of victory when every single published poll was wrong. So you better listen to him.” He leveled a steady gaze at Brodi. “You are a coronary patient flatlining on the operating table. Fred and I are trying to save you—” He spun in his chair and pointed at Fred. “And you're criticizing us because we're trying to turn around your candidacy?!”

An aide translated Jay's rant to Brodi, whose eyes widened. No one ever talked to Brodi like this. Jay was trying electroshock treatment.

“And let me tell you, Mr. Mayor, It's going to get worse before it gets better,” Jay said. He paused, allowing the dead air to hang and let the point sink into Brodi's thick skull. “Sir, you are going to lose this race unless we do something dramatic and do it right now.” He rose from his chair, steadying himself with a hand on the table. “Why? Because against my advice, you tried to protect your lead and run out the clock. Now we're in the fight of our lives. We are done trying to win pretty. You now have only two options: win ugly or lose.”

Everyone stared back at Jay as the translator rattled off Italian to Brodi and his aides. Finally Brodi raised his palms. “What do you recommend we do?”

“Take the bark off Flavia,” answered Jay, referring to Flavia Porro, the incumbent prime minister. Jay's eyes scanned the table as a few of Brodi's advisors recoiled at his gruesome imagery. “Porro's education minister ordered austerity cuts and furloughed teachers, eliminated teaching assistants, and closed schools,” Jay said. “Isn't the head of the teacher's union supporting us?”

“Yes,” said one of Brodi's aides. “He's endorsed the mayor.”

“I don't want his endorsement,” Jay answered, his tone dismissive, as if he were talking to a child. “I want
chaos
! I want teachers picketing, schools padlocked, parents protesting in front of shuttered classrooms, children wandering the street.” Jay's eyes were wild, his gestures animated, his voice raised to a shout. “I want television coverage of people standing outside empty classrooms shouting Porro's name like a curse word!”

Brodi turned to one of his aides. “Can that be arranged?” he asked.

“We'll have to give the teacher's union some love,” answered an aide.

“Porro was health minister in the previous government, right?” Jay asked. He was on a roll. “He privatized nursing homes. Those contractors, who are also his biggest contributors, are under investigation.” Heads nodded; the investigations had uncovered evidence that elderly patients were neglected and died, with one patient left sitting in a wheelchair with bedsores, languishing in his own feces for days. “Hang it around his neck like a burning tire. We need an ad with a memorable phrase, something that rhymes in Italian: Porro Hides, Seniors Die.”

“Porro fare uno scherzo, un quanti mororio,” said one of the Italian advisors.

“What does it mean?” asked Jay.

“Porro played a joke while seniors died,” said the translator. “It's a play on words. Like Nero fiddled while Rome burned.”

“It doesn't quite work,” replied Jay. “I need something punchy.” He pointed to the translator. “Come and help me with the Italian.” He turned to the media consultant, who he despised. “I want that ad up by tomorrow morning. Not by 10:00 a.m. or noon—by 7:00 a.m.” He glanced around the table. “Who's reaching out to the teacher's union guy?”

An aide to Brodi raised his hand. Jay nodded. “Tell him the classrooms will be reopened and the teachers rehired.”

“Where are we going to find the money to do that?” asked the aide.

“What do I care?!” Jay exploded. “Find the money or you'll lose the election.”

The meeting was over. Edgewater packed up his laptop as Jay walked over to Brodi. Leaning in, he whispered: “If you do exactly what I say, you'll win by three to five points. You can thank me later.”

“Si,” said Brodi. “Now I know how Long won. You are an evil genius.”

“No,” said Jay corrected him. “Long won because he was the better candidate. And that's why you're going to win.”

Jay headed for the door, the translator in tow, Edgewater galloping behind in rapid-step, Brodi's advisors chagrined and white-faced.

“That was a performance worthy of an Academy Award,” joked Edgewater. “You almost reduced the mayor to tears. I'd say it was above even your high standards.”

“Sometimes a candidate needs a wake-up call like a sledgehammer upside the head,” replied Jay with a smirk. “I don't think we'll be hearing any more whining from Brodi for a while.”

As they headed down the stairs to find a private office, Jay's BlackBerry vibrated. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked his e-mail. It was a
Wall Street Journal
news alert. The headline read: “Long Calls Chairman of Judiciary Committee ‘Irrelevant Blowhard.'”

“What!?” said Jay aloud. He stopped on the staircase and scrolled through the story. He could hardly believe his eyes. Allowing a boom mike to get so close to the body was a cardinal sin. While Jay was in Rome clubbing with Gabby and saving Brodi's campaign, the Long presidency was imploding.

SEVENTEEN

Claire sat out on the veranda of her cabana at Hope Ranch soaking in the sunset as dusk settled over the desert, bathing cacti and rock formations in a pinkish orange glow. She drank a cup of herbal tea and read one of the books that Dr. Kelly gave her. It was her homework. The phone in her room rang, and she walked back in and picked it up.

“Hi, honey. I just wanted to check in and see how you are doing,” came Bob's voice.

“I'm doing well,” said Claire with a relaxed sigh. “The therapy aside, it's been great to get away and think and relax. It's really beautiful here in the desert. I needed the time away.”

“I know you did,” said Bob empathetically. “We've both had a rough few years, I think you especially. Too much campaigning.”

“Yes,” said Claire.

“The demands of my political career required too much from both of us,” Bob continued. “And the children.” He paused. “Claire, I want to apologize for having the wrong priorities for so many years. I demanded that you and the kids take a backseat to my political ambition. I wasn't there for you, and you had to turn elsewhere for emotional comfort. I see that I bear a lot of the blame for what you have gone through, and I'm very sorry.”

“It means a lot to me that you would say that,” replied Claire, her eyes filled with tears. She was floored by Bob's admission. “I'm sorry, too. I think both of us needed to make changes. I'm really working to make the changes I need to make.”

“Me, too,” Bob said, his voice scratchy. “I miss you so much.”

“I miss you too,” said Claire. “But I hope you understand that I need to stay here for a while. I need time. I know it would be better for you if I came back now, with the media feeding frenzy, but I want to make sure that when I do come back, I'm the person I'm supposed to be.”

“I agree. Stay as long as you need. I don't want you to feel any pressure at all to come back until you're ready. I mean it.”

“Okay.”

There was silence on the phone line for ten seconds.

“I love you,” said Bob. Tears filled his eyes.

“I love you, too,” said Claire through sniffles. “We're going to get through this.”

“I know.”

“Is Consuella taking good care of you?” Claire asked, referring to the housekeeper in the living quarters.

Bob chuckled. “Like a mother hen. She lays out my clothes in the morning. I'm not sure she realizes I've been dressing myself for more than a half century.”

“She knows you need looking after,” said Claire. “Well, I have to go to dinner. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

Claire hung up the phone and stood in the middle of her room. She glanced outside through the window. There was only a faint line of red where the sun had been just a few minutes earlier. For some reason she could not explain, she felt like praying. She got down on the floor facedown, her head nestled in her hands.

“God, I've tried to run my life for too long, and all I've done is mess it up,” she prayed slowly, her voice halting, searching for the words. “I can't do it anymore. I'm tired. I can't believe I ended up here, but I did. Please help me. Help me.” She began to weep.

BERT STAMPONOVICH WAS A bulldog of a litigator and one of the leading election law and tax lawyers in the nation. His job was to keep Andy Stanton out of hot water with the IRS and the Federal Election Commission, as well as defend him against an endless string of lawsuits. An ideologue and political combatant, Stamponovich was chief counsel to Gerry Jimmerson as well as two dozen other Republicans in Congress, whom he billed over one million dollars a year. He was also general counsel of the American Justice Foundation, the right's answer to the ACLU. No boardroom lawyer, he argued three cases successfully before the Supreme Court, including the landmark decision that gutted McCain-Feingold restrictions on campaign issue ads by outside groups like the Faith and Family Federation.