Authors: Ralph Reed
Keith Golden dreaded making the call but felt he had no choice. After two meetings in the Oval with the president (who remained studiously opaque) and a flurry of calls with Hector and Battaglia, it was clear the Supreme Court pick was going sideways. Leaks out of the West Wing indicated Long (the scuttlebutt Battaglia was behind it) was leaning toward Yolanda Majette, Golden feared Long was about to commit political suicide and that he might be collateral damage. Nominating Majette would ruin Golden's street cred on the right.
The president came on the line. “How's my top cop?” he asked. “What's on your mind, General?”
As usual Long cut to the chase. Risking alienating the president, Golden dove in. “Mr. President, I know you're high on Yolanda Majette. She's an outstanding jurist. But I wanted to convey a few concerns.”
“Sure, Keith,” said Long, his voice suddenly drained of enthusiasm. “But if you're worried about the California marriage case, she's got an answer for that one.”
“I've got no issue with that,” answered Golden. “Andy Stanton's going to be bent out of shape, but her ruling was perfectly consistent with solid judicial temperament.”
“I agree,” said Long. “So then what's the problem?”
“As the first African-American woman on the court, she would be a historic pick, no question,” Golden said, pouring a little honey on the dirt sandwich. “I just don't want her to be your Sotomayor. Mr. President; she's not as well versed on constitutional doctrine.”
“Mmmm-mmmm,” said Long.
“She has no background on the federal courts,” Golden continued. “She was a state superior court judge, which is a political appointment, so her facility in constitutional law is limited. In a confirmation hearing she'll get asked really tough, probing questions.” He paused, weighing his words. “Sir, I recommend we give her an interim step by putting her on the Ninth Circuit. Let her season a bit, and then she'll be ready for the next vacancy.”
“What if I don't get another appointment?”
“There's no way to know, but I wouldn't let that drive your decision, Mr. President. You don't want to operate on an artificial deadline.”
“I don't disagree with that,” said Long, his tone noncommittal.
“Mr. President, if you try to make a quarter horse jump a six-foot fence, there's a danger it will break its leg,” said Golden. An experienced rider, Golden loved horses.
“You're right,” said Long. “But I'd rather have a mule that can plow a straight row than a show horse who looks good in the stable and can't run worth a lick. I think Majette is a quick study and can get up to speed quickly.”
“Frankly, I'm actually less concerned about her on the Court than I am about her ability to get through the confirmation process,” said Golden. “She's going to be pressed on her views on constitutional doctrine. It's not like cramming for a final exam in law school. Sir, my guys are concerned that she's not ready.”
“Well, I really appreciate the input, Keith,” said Long, his voice flat. “What I need to know is, can I count on you to be on the team?”
Golden was taken aback. On every question, it seemed, Long cared less about arriving at the right decision and more about who was on the team once the decision was made. “Mr. President, you'll have no stronger advocate. I'll make my best case on the inside, but once we walk out the door, no one will defend your nominee more forcefully than me.”
“Good,” said Long. “Let's talk more often.”
Golden hung up and gazed longingly at a photo of himself in a power clutch with Long in the Oval. The picture mocked him. Phil Battaglia's physical proximity and close relationship with Long had trumped Golden's title. Despite Long's promises to the contrary, Golden had been reduced to being a spectator as the future of the Supreme Court hung in the balance.
JAY SAT HUNCHED OVER a utility table, his unblinking eyes scanning a computer screen in the count room at the Brodi campaign's makeshift headquarters. He and the campaign high command gathered in a suite at the Hotel Nationale, just across the piazza from the Chamber of Deputies building, where Frank Sinatra once crooned at the bar and where members of parliament hung out and drank with reporters and lobbyists. As returns filtered in from across Italy, the result was no surprise to Jay: the race was too close to call.
Chewing on his fingernails and downing one cup of espresso after another, chased with an occasional Pellegrino and lime, Jay was wired from a combination of caffeine and stress-induced anxiety. The campaign had ended in a barrage of negative ads never seen in the modern political history of Italy. There were rumors of payoffs to trade union chiefs, and Jay knew some of them were true. Big Feet reporters from the States were following the election with a ferocious interest, praying Jay stumbled.
“Where are the remaining Rome wards!?” Jay asked of no one in particular.
One of Brodi's insufferably obsequious aides appeared at Jay's side, black hair slicked back, two days of beard growth flecking his face, shiny Italian suit cut trim. “Don't worry, Americano,” he said in a patronizing tone. “This is Italy. We are holding back our vote so Porro can't steal the north.” He smiled.
“So you're telling me that we're stealing it so he won't?” asked Jay, incredulous.
“Not stealing exactly,” replied the aide. “But we want to make Porro go first.”
Jay calmed down but only a little. His BlackBerry's inbox filled with e-mails from reporters in the U.S. looking for the inside scoop. He ignored them. Finally a little after 11:00 p.m., the totals from the all-critical Rome suburbs came in, and Brodi's narrow lead widened. Jay allowed himself a broad smile. With only urban precincts remaining to be counted, Brodi was all but assured the premiership. Someone opened a bottle of champagne and began to fill glasses.
“Who's going to call Brodi?” asked Jay.
“You should, Jay,” said the campaign manager. “Your ads did the trick.”
“Me? Absolutely not!” Jay objected. His relationship with Brodi had been a roller-coaster ride, alternately tempestuous and collaborative. He knew Brodi resented his dependence on Jay even as he admired his American
wunderkind
. Ignoring his protests, someone handed him a phone. The line was already ringing to the phone in Brodi's suite.
“Sir, you've going to make a great prime minister,” said Jay into the phone when Brodi answered. He smiled and gave a thumbs-up to the rest of the team. Everyone applauded. “No, sir, I see no reason to wait for Porro to concede. It's over.” He paused. “See you in ten minutes.” He hung up. “The mayor wants to go ahead and give his victory speech.”
They all stuffed into a small elevator and jumped into waiting taxis to head over to the victory celebration at the Exelsior Hotel. For Jay it was Groundhog Day: another brutal campaign, another bloodletting, another near-death experience dodged. Only now the highs were no longer so high. Still Brodi's victory showed that Jay still had his mojo. He was also 500,000 euros richer; his win bonus was payable within ten days. That brought his total to $2.8 million for eight weeks of workâassuming one could call his Italian adventure work.
They pulled up in front of the Excelsior and quickly encountered a mob that filled the street, crammed the lobby, and snaked out of the ballroom. Someone grabbed a policeman who acted like a cow-catcher, pushing bodies to the side. News photographers recognized Jay and began to snap photos. As they walked into the ballroom of the Excelsior, Brodi was already on stage, soaking up the wild adoration of the crowd. He clutched his wife's hand (she stood beside him despite rumors of infidelity and embarrassing revelations about the parties at his Lake Como villa), and together they celebrated vindication.
“Brodi! Brodi! Brodi!” the crowd chanted. Little Italian flags chopped the air.
As Jay arrived backstage, his BlackBerry vibrated in his pocket. Hiding behind the curtains, hand cupped over his other ear to block out the crowd noise, he took the call.
“Congratulations, my American top gun,” came Gabriella's husky voice.
“Thanks,” replied Jay, trying to block out the raucous celebration. “It was ugly, but a win is a win.”
“This calls for a proper celebration, no?”
“Sounds like a plan,” replied Jay. “Just tell me where and when.”
“W-e-l-l,” replied Gabriella, drawing out the word. “I fly to Paris tomorrow morning for an industry show. We're unveiling a new vintage. It's a big deal.” She paused for a beat. “Why don't you come? We can celebrate with a long weekend in grand Paree.”
Jay knew he should get back stateside and help out on health care and the Supreme Court pick. But when it came to Gabriella , Jay's judgment was nonexistent.
“I only have two questions,” replied Jay. “When do we leave, and what do I wear?”
“I'll pick you up in front of the Hassler at 10:00 a.m. Bring some casual clothes and a suit for dinner. I have a couple of official functions, but otherwise we're free to do whatever we want.”
“Whatever we want?” said Jay.
“You won't be disappointed,” said Gabri. “I know how to have a good time in Paris.”
“I'm beginning to think you know how to have a good time anywhere,” said Jay.
Gabriella let out a throaty laugh. “I don't have a lot of use for Brodi, but I'm happy for you. Congratulations, baby. See you tomorrow.”
Jay hung up and peeked back around the curtain to see Brodi gesticulating wildly, waving his arms, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Our guy may be a demagogue, he thought, but at least he's better than the other guy. Then it hit him: he had not even bothered to bring a nice suit to Italy. His closet at the Hassler was filled with a political consultant's uniform: khakis, jeans, and blazers. He wondered where he could find a new suit in Rome in the middle of the night.
THE PRESIDENT STRODE DOWN the colonnade leading from the Oval Office, shoulders thrown back and arms swinging at his side, a sprightly spring in his step, his Supreme Court nominee glued to his side. The press snapped to attention. Who was the person with him? Necks craned. The dark complexion and statuesque height gave it away. It was Yolanda Majette! To the surprise of virtually everyone, Bob Long had stared down the right-wing poo-bahs at the Faith and Family Federation and the Federalist Society and nominated a centrist from the Golden State in his own image. And the cherry on top was Majette would be the first African-American woman ever to sit on the Supreme Court. It was an electric moment.
Long and Majette walked down the steps leading to the Rose Garden, their earnest expressions telegraphing the gravity of the moment. Long stepped to the podium and half smiled; Majette stood behind him. Seeing her regal beauty and stately poise on stage after days of speculation and handicapping came as a bit of surprise. Her milk-chocolate skin, jet-black hair, high cheekbones, feline eyes, and athletic frame made her look like Noami Campbell crossed with Condoleezza Rice. No shrinking violet, she wore a fire-engine red Chanel dress with black trim, black buttons, a wide black belt that pinched her thin waist, and red pumps.
Long glanced down at the blue index cards bearing his remarks and then glanced up at the press, savoring the moment. He loved surprises. As when he selected Johnny Whitehead as his running mate, Majette was not only a complete surprise but a stroke of genius.
“No greater responsibility befalls a president than to nominate justices to the Supreme Court,” Long began. “It is the forum of last resort for those seeking to protect their rights under the Constitution. Throughout our history the Supreme Court has passed judgment on the most central and contentious issues facing the American people. This is a decision I made after seeking bipartisan input from a wide range of people.”
By protocol congressional leaders from both chambers sat on the front row. Chief among them, wearing strained poker faces leaking emotions ranging from begrudging admiration to abject hatred, were Salmon Stanley and Joe Penneymounter. The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, in particular, looked as if he had just been punched in the gut. He slumped down in his chair, legs crossed, hands clasped on his knees, looking pale and wan.
Long launched the opening salvo on what promised to be the vigorous marketing by the White House of Majette's compelling personal story. “I wanted someone with outstanding professional qualifications. But I also wanted someone with a heart who could bring wisdom and compassion to the court, as well as respect for the rule of law, and the intellect to translate the hopes and aspirations of average Americans for social justice into an enduring body of constitutional jurisprudence.” He flipped over a card, plowing through the talking points. “I found that person in Yolanda Majette. The daughter of a Methodist preacher who grew up in the shadow of segregation in George Wallace's Montgomery, Justice Majette knows the sting of discrimination, the humility of social ostracism, and the vital role of the judiciary in redressing injustice.” The whir and clicks of still cameras echoed across the lawn.
“Justice Majette has enjoyed a legal career of remarkable distinction. She graduated from Harvard Law School, where she was the first African-American woman elected to the law review, and served her country as an officer and judge advocate in the U.S. Army. She taught constitutional law at the University of California and was elected as a superior court judge.” Majette stood to the side, stoic and humble as Long recounted her many achievements. “Appointed to a vacancy on the California Supreme Court, she was elected in her own right with a margin of 68 percent of the vote.” Long raised his head, his face filled with mirth. “I never got that margin in four campaigns for statewide office.” (Laughter, scattered applause.) “On California's highest court she has been a model of fairness, judicial temperament, and achieving consensus. I am proud to nominate her to the U.S. Supreme Court and will transmit her name to the U.S. Senate for confirmation.”