The Confirmation (33 page)

“Why?” asked Myers. “It's a two-fer, isn't it? You eliminate a formidable opponent and add gravitas to the Supreme Court.”

“It's fantasy football,” said Jay dismissively. “It's Bret Favre in a Vikings uniform.”

“It would be a heckuva pick, though, wouldn't it?” asked Myers.

“Almost as inspired as Johnny Whitehead for vice president,” Jay replied, laughing. He pushed hard for Whitehead, which allowed Long to pick up Kentucky and helped him carry West Virginia and southern Ohio.

“Keep me posted,” said Myers. “My source is good and your denial is nondenying.”

“It's a highly fluid process, Marvin. Lots of moving parts.” He hung up, picked up the receiver and immediately dialed Phil Battaglia.

“I just hung up with Marvin Myers,” reported Jay. “He knows all about Birch!”

“I know. He left me a message, which I have not returned.”

“Where is it coming from . . . DOJ?”

“I doubt it,” said Battaglia. “Birch is probably talking to his advisors. He's not going to resign as governor without talking to them. My guess is one of them is leaking.”

“We need Birch to say yes,” said Jay. “Otherwise, the president is left at the altar.”

“The president promised to consider him for chief justice if there's a vacancy,” replied Battaglia. “I don't know what else we can offer him.”

Jay hung up the phone. He longed for the campaign, when only a few key people knew what was really going on. Now there were thousands, inside and outside the White House, in the alphabet soup of the bureaucracy—DOJ, CIA, FBI, DOD. And they talked.

STEPHEN FOX LOGGED ON to the
New York Times
Web site from his Powerbook as he did every day after his morning swim. He sat in a deck chair on the teak sundeck of his $16 million, 140-foot yacht, aptly named
Felicity's Pleasure,
floating in the gentle waters of the British Virgin Islands. He could make out the hilly outline of Virgin Gorda in the near distance and Richard Branson's private island (yours for only $25,000 a day) just beyond it. His eyes scanned the front page. “Birch reportedly offered seat on Supreme Court,” read the headline, with its tantalizing subhead: “Long reaches for possible GOP presidential rival.”

Fox was stunned. His consultants (he had an army of them) never mentioned Birch.
Why am I paying these guys so much money to play golf and go to lunch?
Fox's mood darkened. He might as well have flushed the $10 million he spent that year in lobbying and legal fees down the toilet. Needing to vent, he impulsively picked up his iPhone and dialed the DC offices of Hoterman and Schiff. G. G. Hoterman answered in his distinct gravelly baritone.

“G. G., why didn't we see Birch coming?” barked Fox.

“If it's any consolation, Stephen, no one did,” said G. G., cocky as always. “This is like McCain picking Palin, or Long picking Whitehead. It's totally out of left field.”

The comment partially pacified Stephen. “But I thought we hired lobbyists close to Keith Golden, plus we had Edgewater. Do they keep their own team in the dark?”

“Everyone's in the dark,” said G.G. “Look, it was just as bad when he picked Majette, who was an affirmative action baby and ethically challenged lightweight. My sources tell me that DOJ is completely frozen out. Long has grabbed the joy stick and, he's flying the freaking airplane! No one knows what he's going to do.”

“A guy like that is dangerous,” said Fox.

“How do you think his wife ended up in rehab?” joked G. G.

“So are we covered with Birch?”

“As well as we could be,” reported Hoterman. “Wildfire gave $25 thousand to the Florida GOP during his reelection and $50k for his inaugural. We hired a couple of his consultants to do business development. The good news is as state AG, he didn't join the antitrust suit.”

“That's helpful,” said Fox. “Is there a law firm close to him?”

“Finding that out as we speak.”

“If there is, hire them.”

“I'm all over it.”

Fox hung up without so much as a good-bye. Orlando, his long-serving houseman, brought him an Arnold Palmer in a tall glass with a wedge of lemon and sprig of mint leaves floating on top. His eyes narrowed behind his silver Chrome Heart glasses. As the future of Wildfire hung in the balance, Bob Long was choosing a Supreme Court justice like he was firing a rifle at a shooting gallery. He shook his head in disgust.

Just then Felicity glided up the circular stairway wearing a fishnet bikini with a wraparound skirt, Chanel sunglasses and wedges. Her hair pulled up to the top of her head with a hair clasp revealed her long tanned neck, well-defined collar bone, and toned muscles.

“Hi, baby,” Fox greeted her, flashing his pearly whites.

Felicity walked around behind him and leaned forward, jutting out her rear and wrapping her arms around his neck, hands draping over his chest. She placed her chin on his shoulder and looked down at the Mac. She begun to massage his shoulders gently.

“Turn it off, Stephen,” she said. “You agreed no work on this trip, remember?”

“Can't help it, honey. Long offered Mike Birch the Supreme Court seat, and we're playing catch-up. All our expensive consultants got caught with their pants down.”

Felicity slid into the deck chair next to him and crossed her long legs, bouncing one of her wedge sandals on the end of her toe. “Let's sail over to Little Dix Bay for lunch.”

“Sure, babe, whatever you want.”

“Good answer,” said Felicity with a playful lilt. “I've trained you well.” She leaned over, placing a hand on his knee to balance herself, and kissed him multiple times, her lips brushing his lips, nose, chin, and cheeks. “I'll get you to turn that computer off yet,” she giggled.

TWENTY-SIX

It was 11:00 a.m. when Mike Birch walked to a podium covered with microphones at the sleek and modern Tampa Bay Convention Center, an antiseptic building with stark lines and mammoth windows offering spectacular views of the bay. The operatic drama surrounding Long's offer to Birch stretched to its third day, with the White House growing increasingly frustrated with Birch's Hamlet-like decision-making process.

The media had a field day. Marvin Myers kicked off the feeding frenzy with a column reporting that Long had practically begged Birch on bended knee to take the job. “Birch Ponders, Long Waits,” headlined
Politico
. “Will He . . . or Won't He?” screamed Merrypranskster.com beneath a photo of the relaxed, unruffled governor reading a newspaper poolside. “Birch's Choice: Supreme Court or the Presidency?” shouted the
New York Post
. No national politician had engaged in such riveting indecisiveness since Mario Cuomo flirted with running for president as a private jet waited on the tarmac to take him to New Hampshire.

Into this storm stepped Birch, tanned, silver maned, deep-set eyes fixed in a dispassionate stare, a stoic mask plastered on his face like heavy makeup. Cool and controlled, he spoke without a note. “First let me say I am deeply grateful to President Long for the offer to serve my country as an associate justice of the U.S. Supreme Court. It is a rare, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity I have seriously considered in recent days,” he began, emerald eyes steady, chin raised. Cameras flashed, capturing Birch against a cloudless blue sky. “I spoke with the president a few minutes ago and informed him I believe I can be more effective in advancing the issues I care deeply about as governor.” There were audible gasps from the throng, which filled the ballroom to near capacity. Having twisted the knife, Birch moved to soften the blow. “The president told me he appreciated my willingness to forego a tremendous personal opportunity in order to serve the larger good.”

His brief, no-frills statement finished, Birch agreed to take a few questions.

“Governor, could you walk us through the process by which you reached your decision? Was it the most difficult of your career?” asked the
St. Petersburg Times
, in full pander mode.

“Tough decision, no question,” said Birch, verbs apparently unnecessary in describing the state of his psyche. “In the end it boiled down to where I felt I could make the biggest difference. Serving on the Supreme Court would be a great honor. But I've learned a lot about the challenges facing America after serving as governor of the third largest state in the country. If I were a Supreme Court justice, I would be limited in my ability to speak out on the issues facing the country.”

The press smiled knowingly, scribbling furiously on steno pads. “Speak out” could only mean campaigning for the presidency. Birch seemed to be saying to Long,
sotto voce, I don't want to squander my talent on the Supreme Court. I want your job.

“Did President Long promise to elevate you to chief justice if that opportunity presented itself?” asked the Associated Press.

Birch scowled theatrically. “The only position the president offered was associate justice.” He paused. “Regardless, my answer would have been the same. My decision came down to where I thought I could be most effective.”

“Now that you've ruled out sitting on the Supreme Court, is there a possibility you will run for president in the next election?” asked the
Washington Post
.

“I thought that question might come up,” said Birch, barely repressing a smile. “It's way too early to think about that. Any considerations of seeking higher office played no role whatsoever in my decision.”

The press smiled again: he could lie with the best of them! As the news conference wound down, the chief political reporter for the
Tampa Tribune
turned to a colleague. “Book your flights to Iowa and New Hampshire,” he said in a half whisper.

BACK AT THE WHITE House, disappointed but grimly determined staffers in the Office of Presidential Personnel gathered around the television, doing a slow burn as they watched Birch kick their boss in the teeth. Their mood ranged from maudlin funk to gallows humor. There was no denying Long was publicly spurned by a leading candidate for the Supreme Court on the heels of his first nominee going down in flames. The chattering class handicapped the White House the way the ESPN anchors on “SportsCenter” analyzed a hapless football team. People were down and the White House plagued by second-guessing.

As Birch ended his news conference, Charlie Hector stuck his head in the door. “The president is on his way,” he announced.

Long came down the hall with a spring in the step of his polished wing tips, the jacket of his blue suit buttoned, looking jaunty. Hector and Jay Noble were glued to his side, moving stride for stride. The OPP staff spontaneously gathered around the president, giddy that he chose to grace their lowly cubbyholes with his presence.

“I know the past few days have been tough. First Yolanda Majette withdrew her nomination, a decision I regretted but respected. Now Governor Birch has decided he does not want to serve.” His forehead creased, his lips pressed into a thin line, he looked determined and upbeat. “It is a sad commentary on the judicial confirmation process that so many find it is not worth the trouble.” Murmurs of agreement. “Washington is a tough town, and when a new sheriff shows up, it has a way of fighting back. We always knew with a Democratic Senate and the Judiciary Committee divided, the confirmation of a new justice would be a challenge.” His eyes narrowed. “This is a test of what we're made of as a team.”

Several of the staffers nodded. Jay stood to the side, hanging on every word.

“I wanted you to hear it directly from the horse's mouth,” he said. “
I don't want you to change a single thing.
We have chosen outstanding people for the judiciary, every cabinet department and agency, throughout the government. You should be
proud
of the quality and caliber of our nominees.” He pulled his right hand out of his pocket and formed it into a karate chop, slicing the air. “I have clear criteria for those who serve in my administration and on the federal bench. Don't lower our standards one inch.” He threw back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and bounced on his toes. “If the Senate rejects them or filibusters or delays, so be it. But we are not going to lower our standards.” He turned to leave, then stopped. “Thanks for all you're doing for your country. Let's occupy this building for the short time we're here in a way that you'll be proud of the rest of your life.”

The staff applauded. “Thank you, Mr. President,” someone said. A few staff members teared up. Long shook a few hands and then turned on his heel, Jay and Hector in tow.

“I hope that helped,” said Long as they headed for the stairs leading to the first floor of the West Wing.

“Big shot in the arm, sir,” replied Hector. “They will be on cloud nine for a week.”

“Those people are working their tails off, and I want them to know that I for one appreciate it,” said Long. “We need to win the next one.” He shot Hector a worried look. “Three strikes and you're out, you know what I mean?”