The Confirmation (32 page)

“It's not below my pay grade,” snapped Lisa. “Let me pop him.”

“What's our goal here?” fired back Jay. “It's to reaffirm the president's criteria for selecting a nominee.” His face lit up. “Hey, here's an idea! Point out that we responded similarly when Christy Love and Pro-Choice PAC came out against Majette.”

Long leaned back in his chair. “I like that.” He pointed to Lisa. “Work that in.”

“I like it because it makes the issue bigger than the religious right. If we pick a fight with Andy, it only elevates him,” said Jay.

“Alright,” said Long, calming down. He looked at Lisa. “Foul this one off. E-mail out a statement that says we appreciate the views of all citizens, including Andy, but my criteria in selecting a nominee is unchanged.”

“So I should leave out your earlier comment that Stanton is an egomaniacal, self-appointed mullah?” joked Lisa.

“That's our little secret,” said Long with a wink.

Jay and Lisa turned to leave. When they reached the door, Long called out, “By the way, Jay, welcome back.”

“Thank you, Mr. President. It's good to be back.”

“Don't lie to me,” said Long. “You probably wish you were still in Italy with the wine goddess. What was her name?”

Ouch! How did the president know about her?
Jay flushed with embarrassment. “Gabriella Fellissi,” he said.

“Gabriella Fellissi? You can't make this stuff up!” exclaimed the president. “Why would she want a nerd like you?” He let out a loud, playful laugh. He never tired of ribbing Jay.

Jay and Lisa walked out of the Oval and headed toward the West Wing lobby. He waited for her to say something, but she walked silently, her legal pad pressed against her chest like a flak jacket. Jay felt as though he were walking beside an ice sculpture.

“You don't agree with me, do you?” asked Jay.

“No,” replied Lisa, staring straight ahead. “Andy's a blowhard. Sooner or later we're going to have to take him down a notch. We should have done it when we had the chance over his inaugural prayer.”

“Maybe, but not now, not over the Court appointment,” Jay insisted. He suddenly brightened. “So, are you glad to have me back?”

Lisa stopped dead in her tracks, turning to him, their faces inches apart. Her cobalt blue eyes looked through him. “Not especially. You're a brilliant strategist. But you know what your problem is? You know it, and you don't wear it well.” Blue veins showed through the skin of her neck. “Sometimes being smart and having the best strategy isn't enough, Jay. Sometimes there's no substitute for maturity and treating others with respect. Your sophomoric political-hack schtick is tiresome. You walk all over people, showing no concern for their feelings. You're harsh and disrespectful, including to colleagues busting their tails.” She paused long enough to take a breath. “And one more thing: your adolescent amorous adventures are an embarrassment not only to you but to the president and this White House.”

Jay just stood there, stunned by her blast.

“Have a nice day.” Lisa marched off, leaving Jay standing in the middle of the hallway. Several people passed, gazing at the exchange's aftermath.

“Sure, I'd love to have lunch later this week!” Jay called out. “How about Thursday?”

TWENTY-FIVE

Everyone expected Long to move quickly, probably naming an appellate court judge who had already been confirmed by the Senate. That was why Marvin Myers was surprised when he received a phone call the Monday after Yolanda Majette's withdrawal. His source was a high-ranking deputy to Attorney General Golden, calling from a pay phone at a Metro station.

“Mr. Myers, you don't know me, but I work at the Justice Department. I have some information you might find very interesting.” He sounded jumpy.

“I'm listening,” said Myers.

“The president has offered the Supreme Court nomination to Mike Birch.”

Mike Birch!
Myers almost spit out his coffee. If true, it was a bold stroke, even for Long, for whom audacity had become a trademark. Governor Mike Birch of Florida was the former attorney general and a former prosecutor in Tampa. A moderate (conservatives denounced him as a RINO, or Republican in Name Only) who governed from the middle, he enjoyed a 68 percent job approval rating. Media savvy and attractive, with wavy silver hair and a long-distance runner's build, Birch was a likely GOP candidate for president. Myers' first thought: was Long channeling Eisenhower, who appointed then-California Governor Earl Warren to the Supreme Court, thereby eliminating a major rival?

Myers tried to keep his cool. “When?” he asked, almost panting. He could hear the sound of the Metro announcer in the background.

“Not sure of the exact time, but this morning,” replied the DOJ official.

“What did Birch's say?”

“He asked for twenty-four hours to think about it.”

Too soon for Myers's next column; he would have to break this story on his Web site and on TV. His mind raced.
What's the source's motive?
he wondered.
Is he trying to torpedo Birch or build momentum?

“It's an odd choice, isn't it? This is going beyond the short list, at least the ones I'm aware of,” said Myers, prying. Myers was a master at bonding with sources by talking shop and whispering gossipy asides.

“Long's freelancing. Birch hasn't even been vetted.”

“
What!?
Boy, Long is really pulling a rabbit out of the hat, isn't he?”

“I'm told he wants someone with life experience in the ‘real world,' whatever that means,” said the source, his voice dripping with disgust.

“And he removes a possible opponent in four years,” drawled Myers.

“Bingo.”

“This is good,” said Myers, dropping into his best sleuth baritone. “Any ideas on who else I should talk to?” He needed a second source.

“I don't know,” said the source in a halting, nervous voice. “It's a very tight hold.”

“What's Golden's take?”

“He's outside the circle of love at this point,” the source answered. “He shot his wad trying to block Majette. He's got no throw weight with Long anymore. A lot of people at DOJ are upset that Birch has not been vetted properly.”

Myers wrapped his mind around the leaker's motive. The bureaucracy had a way of biting back, he reflected. He thanked the source profusely and hung up. Telling his secretary to cancel his lunch with some muckety-muck lobbyist looking to plant a story for a client, he closed his office door and began to work the phones. In a city filled with Woodward and Bernstein wannabes, he was the last of the Big Feet, always chasing the Next Big Story, and this time he had a whopper.

MIKE BIRCH SAT IN the study of his sprawling Mediterranean home on the water in Tampa. He wore khakis and a golf shirt, sockless feet slipped into Gucci loafers, hair sculpted with gel to reveal his stark widow's peak, emerald eyes a study in concentration. A legal pad rested on his lap. He had written two columns of words beneath the headings, “pros” and “cons.”

No one was more surprised than Birch by Long's call. Neither he nor anyone in Washington figured him to be a factor in the Supreme Court sweepstakes. But like the selection of former Johnny Whitehead as vice president, Long relished surprises. He had already selected six Republicans to serve in his cabinet, including at Justice and Defense. Birch's elevation to the Supreme Court would be the ultimate gesture that Long would govern as a centrist.

Surprisingly Birch found himself intrigued. As he gazed out at the sun-speckled waves of the bay, deep in thought, he reflected that there was much to recommend returning to his roots in the law. When he raised objections on the phone call, Long had a quick answer for everything. Never been a judge before? Too many judges cloister themselves in their chambers and pursue the life of the mind, totally disconnected from the real world. Birch, Long implored, lived the law and saw its effects as prosecutor, state AG, and governor. A centrist who aroused the suspicions of the religious right? Good: it would help win confirmation in a Democratic-controlled Senate. Queasy about being the swing vote on
Roe
? Stop right there; there is no litmus test, period.

Birch glanced down at the legal pad. He was a methodical decision maker who approached his moves with a gimlet-eyed understanding of risk and reward. Under “pros,” he wrote “opportunity to serve,” “impact the country's direction,” “historic time,” “lifetime appointment,” “collegial working environment.” In the column headed “cons,” he wrote, “job of thought not action,” “controversial issues—abortion, marriage,” “confirmation battle,” and, most importantly, “presidential prospects end.”

Long pressed skillfully, dangling the possibility of later elevating him to chief justice, but Birch knew he could not count on that. He was a man of action, a problem solver who as governor took on the sugar lobby and opened up Florida's outer continental shelf to environmentally sensitive offshore oil drilling. The presidency beckoned: Long's election was a fluke. Why settle for the Supreme Court if the White House was within his grasp? If he was the Republican presidential nominee, Birch was a dead cinch to carry Florida, and without the Sunshine State, Long's reelection was impossible.

On the other hand, Birch thought, if he went against Long, the contest would probably go to the House again. A presidential campaign was a crapshoot, a free-for-all with back-room deals, backstabbing, and logrolling. Nor was the GOP presidential nomination a cinch. In fact, it was decidedly uphill unless he tacked to the right, something he was not sure he was willing to do. Birch gave himself no more than a 40 percent chance of winning.

He wanted to serve on the Supreme Court; he just wasn't sure he wanted to go through the confirmation process. Presidents tended to appoint either stealth nominees (Souter, Bryer, Meiers) or ideologues (Scalia, Thomas, Alito). Birch was neither. A cottage industry of extremist groups would go after him, ideological bottom-feeders lurking in the dark eddies of American politics. To run that gauntlet could be more brutal and dehumanizing than even running for office, as Yolanda Majette had found out the hard way. The atmosphere in DC had become too poisonous, too partisan for rational debate.

Birch walked to the window, staring silently at the water dancing in the sunlight. He was supposed to give the president an answer in eighteen hours, and he had no idea what he would do.

“MARVIN MYERS ON LINE one,” said Jay's assistant, sticking her head through the narrow doorway leading to his office.

Jay assumed Myers was calling to welcome him back and reconnect. He snapped on his headset. “Marvin!” he boomed. “So what am I today, source or target?”

“Always the former,” replied Marvin in a friendly purr. “I thought you said you would never take a government job. What was your line again? ‘The only thing I know how to run is my mouth'?”

Jay guffawed. “Great memory, Marvin,” he said. He pretended otherwise, but Jay loved working the press. To him it was the ultimate Washington game: using someone else and being used at the same time, “Bob Long has been a client for twenty years. More than that, he and Claire are dear friends . . .” His voice trailed off. “What can I say? He love bombed me.” The statement stressed both his loyalty and indispensability and was therefore entirely self-serving and always worked like a charm.

“Speaking of Claire, how is she?” asked Marvin, a hint of sadness in his voice.

“She's great,” said Jay. “Her focus is on getting well. The president talks to her every day. They've never been closer.” As always, Jay was disciplined and on-message. The tabloids were having a field day with Claire's visit to rehab, but the White House stuck to its script.

“Hey, I heard the strangest thing today,” said Myers, shifting topics. “If it hadn't come from a good source, I would have ignored it.”

“What's that?”

“I heard Long offered the Supreme Court nomination to Mike Birch of Florida.”

Jay nearly fell out of his chair. Myers was maddeningly thorough, with sources burrowed all over town. “Not to my knowledge,” he lied.

“Really?”

“No. I can't imagine Birch walking away from being governor, can you?” He was playacting, pulling out all the stops. He hoped it was believable.

“The president didn't talk to Birch this morning?” Myers pressed.

This source is going to die,
thought Jay. The information was too specific. “Marvin, I don't know. What I can tell you categorically, and this is on background so deep that I'm wearing scuba gear, is no one has been formally offered the seat.”

“Mmmmm,” said Myers, absorbing the information. “You didn't deny the president spoke to Birch.”

“I said I didn't know,” said Jay firmly, his anger growing. “Even if he did, I wouldn't tell you.” Jay paused. “Between us, Birch is a reach.”