The Confirmation (28 page)

The maître d' escorted them to a corner table. After ordering another glass of champagne (Jay's fourth, and the night was still young), the head waiter did a table visit and made a big production of greeting Gabriella, kissing her on each cheek. They chatted amiably in French as Jay smiled, understanding not a word. As the head waiter handed them menus, Gabriella held up the palms of her hands.

“Reme, we don't want to see a menu tonight,” she said. “Tell the chef to fix us a tasting menu. Surprise us.”

Reme smiled. “Certainement, mademoiselle et monsieur.” He bowed and left the table.

Within minutes another waiter brought them a large glass filled with lobster bisque topped with a scoop of caviar. The first course: pumpkin soup served slightly above room temperature. Just as Jay spooned a bite of the soup, the roof of the restaurant began to open. Stars twinkled against the dark canopy of sky, green ivy hanging from the edges, a cool summer breeze rushing in through the opening.

“I've never seen a restaurant where the roof opened,” said Jay.

“That's because you've never been to Laserre, dahling.”

“What else are you going to show me that I've never seen before?” asked Jay.

Gabriella said nothing in reply, giggling as she licked the spoon of the last drop of beluga caviar.

TWENTY-ONE

Phil Battaglia sat in his office on a Saturday morning hunched over his computer, burning through his e-mail. The White House was in the bunker: the wing nuts were in full-blown revolt over Majette. Battaglia was a one-man PR shop, love-bombing the Federalist society types, assuring them he had known Yolanda Majette twenty years and knew her to be a woman of faith, integrity, and judicial restraint. There was only one problem: Battaglia had no credibility with the right. In fact, they blamed him for Majette being chosen in the first place.

His deputy stuck his head in the door. “Marvin Myers is on the phone.”

Battaglia raised his eyebrows. Marvin was a size fourteen Big Foot. If he wandered into the Majette story, it could be bad. He picked up the receiver.

“Good morning, counselor,” said Marvin, his voice syrupy, his manner disarmingly ingratiating. “I wanted to ask the one person who would know: will Majette make it?”

“Yes,” said Battaglia. “We've seen no slippage at all in her support in the Senate.” It was a lie, but Battaglia told it convincingly. “Penneymounter will put up a faux fight for the media and his base, but he'll let her go because he's worried about who's next. And he should be.” He paused. “The president is totally committed to Judge Majette's confirmation.”

“You say Penneymounter should be worried,” said Marvin, sniffing around like a blood hound on the scent. “So you're telling me the other names on the short list were more conservative than Majette?”

Battaglia realized he tipped his hand. He had to avoid being fingered as the source for this nugget. He could see the headline now: “White House Counsel Warns More Conservative Nominee Likely if Majette Is Rejected.”

“Marvin, I didn't say
that
,” Battaglia said, backpedaling. “The president laid out a clear standard for his judicial nominees during the campaign, and he's not going to deviate from that standard, come what may.”

“Methinks thou doth protest too much,” Myers chuckled, toying with his prey. He paused. “If Charles Majette lobbied for Wildfire, that would be a problem, wouldn't it?”

“Off the record, that depends,” Battaglia replied guardedly. The White House was still trying to reconstruct her husband's billing records; the firm was not being entirely cooperative for fear of leaks. “To my knowledge, he did not. Others did work for Wildfire, not on the antitrust case, by the way, but on other matters. Charles never did.”

“What if I told you internal records show otherwise?”

Battaglia felt a sudden palpitation in his chest. “I'd have to know more.”

“I've got the evidence in my hands. Frankly, it's pretty damning.”

“I'd be careful, Marvin. Billing records are funny things. Remember Hillary Clinton during the Whitewater scandal? I'm not saying Charles Majette's firm padded their hours, but it's been known to happen. In the absence of work product, you've got nothing.”

“I didn't say the proof came from the law firm,” fired back Myers, holding all the cards. “Obviously I don't have a response from Majette or her husband yet, which is why I'm calling you. But assuming the evidence is solid and with the Wildfire case pending before the Supreme Court, it would be a serious issue, wouldn't it?”

“Let's dispense with the twenty-one questions, Marvin,” said Battaglia, growing visibly impatient. “What have you got?”

“Read my column tomorrow.”

Battaglia's throat constricted, his pulse quickened, and the blood rushed to his head, an involuntary physiological reaction to danger. “Marvin, we've gone over it with a fine-tooth comb. Be careful. Someone at Wildfire may not want Majette ruling on the antitrust case. I wouldn't put it past someone to pass off fake documents as real.”

“I think you better watch
your
step,” said Myers, puffing up like a poison toad. “Charles Majette's story does not square with my information.”

“Alright. Get me what you've got, and I'll look into it.”

“I can't do that.”

Battaglia nearly blew a fuse. “You're going to write a story about alleged internal documents smearing Charles Majette and not let me see them so I can react?”

“My source gave me the documents on the condition that I not release them.”

“That ought to tell you something, Marvin. For all I know, they're forged.”

Myers ignored the comment. “Are you going to give me a comment or not?”

“No. You'll get a call from the press office,” said Battaglia. He had no desire whatsoever to be in the story. “Write whatever you want, but know this: hell will freeze over before she withdraws.”

“Can I quote you on that, maybe as a senior administration official?”

“No.” Battaglia hung up the phone. He looked at the wall. The photos of him with the president were moving, their outlines hazy. Myers did his homework, and if he claimed to have something this damaging, it was usually reliable. Battaglia hoped Yolanda could survive the blow. He had pushed hard for her. If she went down due to poor vetting, he would take a major hit. He buzzed his deputy.

“Get Majette on the phone. Now.”

IT WAS NEARLY 10:00 p.m. on Saturday night when Charles and Yolanda Majette walked into their hotel room after a quiet dinner on Maryland's Eastern Shore. They jumped in the car that morning and drove to get away from the media scrutiny, the clutch of reporters who maintained a vigil outside their DC hotel, and the unrelenting pressure. They hoped the time away would give them a respite from the madness.

Yolanda's cell phone rang. It was Phil Battaglia.

“Yolanda, I'm very sorry to bother you on a Saturday night, but we have a new development, and we need to fashion a response pretty quickly.”

Majette's knees buckled. She grabbed the nightstand by the bed to stabilize herself. “What is it?” she asked.

“Marvin Myers claims he has documents proving Charles did work for Wildfire,” said Battaglia. “We told him that was not the case. But we need Charles to search his memory and recheck his files to be sure.”

Yolanda turned to Charles, the look of shock on her face conveying more than any words could. “What now?” he asked.

She pulled the phone from her mouth. “Phil says Marvin Myers is writing a column claiming you did work for Wildfire.”

“That's absurd!” He grabbed the phone. “Phil, this is Charles. I never lobbied for Wildfire. I never made a single phone call or had a single meeting with a legislator or regulator.
Not one.
Myers is lying.”

“One of our sources at the firm says he heard it was consultation between you and another lobbyist in the firm that turned up in a billing record,” said Battaglia. “If that's true, someone in the firm is trying to drop a dime on you. Any idea who that could be?”

Charles sat down on the bed, his mind churning. “There was a woman paralegal who did some work with me. She hated Long because he flip-flopped on same sex marriage. She mentioned it more than once. But I can't believe she'd leak firm records to a reporter.”

“Believe it,” said Battaglia. “Trust me, when the stakes are this high, people will do anything. Including forging documents and violating attorney-client privilege.”

“She could have been doing research on Wildfire, then putting it on my work sheet.”

“We'll do some checking on our end. If you think of anything else, let me know ASAP. You can reach me through the White House switchboard.”

Charles handed the phone back to Yolanda. “Phil, what are we going to do?” she asked plaintively, her voice quavering with fear.

“Hang in there,” said Phil, trying to buck her up. “I know this is tough, but it's part of the confirmation process. There's a lot of fog, a lot of rumors. We'll see what Myers has when his column runs. I doubt it's a game changer.”

“Thanks, Phil,” said Yolanda. She sounded beaten down.

Battaglia hung up the phone. He wondered:
Was it really worth this for a seat on the Supreme Court?

G. G. HOTERMAN AND Deirdre were hiding out at Higher Ground, his weekend home in the Adirondacks, enjoying a brilliant summer morning. The June bugs were gone so he was taking a late breakfast on the deck overlooking the lake, its glassy surface reflecting the morning light. But as soon as he fired up his laptop and pulled up Marvin Myers's column in the
Washington Post
, his day was ruined. G. G. tore into a piece of French toast as his eyes scanned the copy, letting out an expletive. Myers never let an opportunity pass without taking a gratuitous shot at him. He picked up his cell phone and dialed Stephen Fox.

“Stephen, have you seen Marvin Myers's column?”

“Afraid so,” said Stephen, who paced the sundeck of his yacht in the British Virgin Islands. “Myers is a piece of human garbage. Can you believe he called my VP for communications at 5:30 p.m. for a comment? The piece was already written!”

“The guy's a slug,” said G. G. “Did you see where he fingered me as the guy who hired Majette's husband's firm? Pathetic.”

“What a joke!” shouted Stephen into the phone, working himself into a froth. “So what if you recommended state lobbying subcontractors. That was your job. Big deal!”

“It's standard operating procedure,” said G. G.

“It was brilliant to hire Majette's husband's firm, G. G. My only regret is that we've now lost a valuable relationship. They did terrific work, and now we have to cut them loose.”

“I just hope they don't find out we hired law firms with ties to judges everywhere,” said G. G. “California is just the tip of the iceberg.”

“Tell me about it. Eliot Spitzer, call your office,” said Stephen, referring to the former New York AG and governor who had been a constant thorn in the side of Wildfire. Fox hated Spitzer so much that he threw a party when he flamed out in a call girl scandal.

“I'm still stumped as to how Myers got his hands on the billing records.”

“We think it was probably a rogue employee in the accounting department.”

“What! You mean we fragged ourselves?” asked G. G., incredulous.

“It looks like it,” sighed Fox. “We have a lot of gay employees, as does every technology firm in Silicon Valley. We provide health-care benefits to their partners. They were livid about the way Majette ruled on the marriage amendment.”

“Sure, and who can blame them? But to leak proprietary information and put Wildfire in the crosshairs in order to sink Majette is beyond disloyal. It's a fireable offense.”

“It may well come to that, but we have to proceed with caution,” said Fox. “Given everything that is going on, if we fire a gay employee, there will be a rent-a-riot on the campus of Wildfire and all kinds of negative press.” Stephen shuddered at the prospect. He changed topics. “Do you think Majette will survive?”

“I don't know,” said G. G. “We need to see how senators react.” He stretched and yawned. “Ironically, it may be better now if she goes down. Because if Majette is confirmed, now that this is out there, she might have to recluse herself from the antitrust case.”

“Get our lobbyists on high alert. We need to be ready for whatever happens.”

“Already on it,” said G. G. “I have a conference call for my team in thirty minutes. We work 24-7, including holidays.”

“I knew it,” said Fox with a satisfied chuckle. “That's why I never complain when I get one of your absurdly high bills.”

As Hoterman hung up the phone, Deirdre walked out on the deck wrapped in a black silk kimono-like bathrobe with the hemline at mid-thigh, carrying a bowl of blueberries and skim milk with a mug of hot chamomile tea. She sat at the picnic table on the deck, folding one leg underneath. “Who was that?” she asked.