The Confirmation (37 page)

Stanley frowned. Seething with frustration, he glared at Diaz, hardly disguising his contempt. Diaz thought he might lunge at him. Then, after a seemingly endless pause, he asked: “You would be the sixth Roman Catholic on the court. I assume you know that.”

Diaz bristled, drawing back. “I hadn't really thought about the Supreme Court in terms of the religious affiliation of its members, Senator,” he said, doing his best to control his anger.

“Six Roman Catholics, two Jews, and one Protestant—do you think that is representative of the country?” Stanley pressed.

“Senator, one could just as easily ask whether it's representative for the Court currently to have no Hispanic, even though the country is 15 percent Latino,” Diaz volleyed back. “And it would be just as wrong to confirm me because I am Hispanic as it would be to oppose me because I am Catholic.”

The tension in the room thickened. Stanley's chief of staff sat impassively, jotting an occasional note on a legal pad. Morris's face twitched with anger.

Stanley held up his palms, shaking his head back and forth. “I didn't suggest that I would vote for or against your confirmation based on your religion,” he said defensively. “Far from it. But I do believe it's healthy for institutions of government to reflect the full diversity of the country, and in terms of religion and gender, the Supreme Court does not. Wouldn't you agree?”

“Senator, I'm not sure I do,” said Diaz firmly.

There were no more fireworks after Diaz and Stanley crossed swords over the questions of abortion and his Catholicism. The rest of the meeting proceeded pro forma, with Stanley probing and Diaz bobbing and weaving. Afterwards, to avoid the media, Diaz and Morris slipped out a side door to a waiting elevator, escorted by two beefy Capitol policemen.

When the doors to the cramped elevator closed, Morris turned to Diaz. “I wish I'd had a tape recorder for that,” he said, the vena cava in his neck showing. “I can't believe he actually played the religion card. I don't know how you kept from slugging him.”

“I've dealt with it my whole life,” said Diaz calmly. “But who knew Sal Stanley was a bigot?”

TWENTY-NINE

Phil Battaglia took another swig of coffee, the hot blast of java burning his tongue as his eyes scanned the front page of the
New York Times
. It was 5:47 a.m., and he was being whisked to the White House in a government Town Car, his driver zipping through yellow lights flashing at barren intersections, amber reminders of his sleep-deprived, stress-filled existence. Battaglia shook his head in disgust. The Times was pulling out all the stops. “Diaz's Membership in Catholic Order Draws Fire,” read the headline.

The four-thousand-word hit piece read like an excerpt from
The Da Vinci Code,
mixing innuendo with vaguely sinister rumors of alleged anti-Semitism, graphic descriptions of the mortification of the flesh (celibate members wore metal rings around their thighs), and church rituals. The objective: make Opus Dei sound like a frightening cult. The reporter hunted down the priest who recruited Diaz into the group at Yale, ambushing him at an Opus Dei retreat center in Spain and asking him if he screened Diaz's reading materials at Yale, “dictated which classes he could take and condemned certain professors as anti-Christian” at the law school, and insisted on approving Diaz's selection of a wife. The priest denied the charges.

Just as he finished reading the jump page, Battaglia's cell phone rang. It was Keith Golden.

“Have you seen the story on Opus Dei in the
Times
?” he asked.

“Reading it as we speak. Par for the course.”

“They can't attack him for being Hispanic so they're going to attack him for being a devout Catholic,” said Golden with disgust.

“It reads like a Ku Klux Klan pamphlet,” agreed Battaglia. “This will backfire big time among the Reagan Democrats in the midwest.” His wheels turned. “I think we put some nuns behind Diaz when he testifies.”

“Great idea and make sure they wear their habits,” said Golden. He paused. “Quick question: do we have an accountant who can do some work on Diaz's blind trust?”

“I'm sure we do,” replied Battaglia. “Why?”

“I know you're sitting down. Diaz's blind trust owns $250,000 of Wildfire.com stock.”

Battaglia felt blood rush from his head to his abdomen, an involuntary reaction to stress, leaving him suddenly light-headed. “How did that happen?” he stammered. “He was ruling on the antitrust case, for crying out loud!”

“I guess that's why they call it a blind trust,” said Golden. “However it happened, it's going to be a flap. The Judiciary Committee staff has his financial records, and they're starting to leak. We're going to get a bad story, maybe as early as tomorrow.”

“Do you think this is serious enough to endanger his nomination?” asked Battaglia. The thought of yet another Supreme Court nominee imploding sent a chill down his spine.

“I hope not,” said Golden. “But we need a top-notch accountant so we know what we're dealing with. Right now we're flying blind.”

“I'll get back to you this morning.” Battaglia hung up the phone. As his car pulled through the iron gates to the West Wing parking lot, he dialed Jay Noble's cell phone. Jay was on his way to the office in his own car.

“I know you're not calling to wish me a good morning,” said Jay drily.

“Get your tail in here,” said Battaglia. “I just got a call from Keith Golden. Diaz's blind trust owns a quarter of a million in Wildfire stock.”

Jay let out an expletive.

“When it rains, it pours,” said Battaglia. “See you when you get in.”

The door to the Town Car swung open. Battaglia took pleasure in the fact that the Wildfire story would overwhelm the
Times
Opus Dei piece. Diaz's confirmation had become a fire-free zone, with shots fired from every angle.

MARCO DIAZ TOOK THE call in the kitchen. His wife Frida was busy getting their boys off to school. Their housekeeper was at the sink, doing the breakfast dishes. The sound of dishes rattling mixed with shouted voices, the typical confusion of a house filled with young children.

“Marco, we've got another story,” said Art Morris, Diaz's chief handler from the Justice Department. “I think it's manageable, but we want to get our ducks in a row.”

“What now? Did they run down the priest who took my confession in college?” asked Diaz bitterly. He was livid about the
Times
piece on Opus Dei.

“It's your blind trust,” replied Morris. “Apparently it holds Wildfire stock.”

“It's a blind trust, for heaven's sake!” Diaz exploded.

“No one's suggesting you did anything wrong, Marco,” said Morris. “But we need to talk to the trustees, and we're bringing an accountant in to go over everything with you.”

“This is going to delay the hearings, isn't it?” asked Diaz, exasperated.

“We don't know,” said Morris. “Penneymounter hopes so. But if we have a good answer, we may still be able to go day after tomorrow.”

Diaz fell silent. He had a bad feeling about the hearings, like he was walking into an ambush. “Art, I just don't know how much more of this I can take,” he said, his voice shaking. “It's like there's some evil force trying to destroy me.”

“Hang in there, Marco,” said Morris, trying to buck him up. “We're almost at the finish line. We just need to answer some questions about the trust. After that you'll do great at the hearings. Then we're on to the confirmation vote in the Senate, which looks very solid.”

“No,” replied Diaz, shaking his head, voice downcast. “Penneymounter will use this to delay the hearings, and they'll dig up more garbage. After the blind trust, it's going to be something else. It's never going to end until they kill me with death by a thousand cuts. I can feel it.”

“It's going to be
fine
,” insisted Morris. “No one here cares what the
New York Times
says. I'll bring the accountants by at noon. Can you assemble the statements from your trust account?”

“I think so,” said Diaz. He hung up. For Diaz it was just the latest blow in a hail of punches. Between murder boards, meetings with senators, and rereading every opinion he ever wrote, he was exhausted and depressed. It was not going to be fine, he thought, it was not going to be fine at all.

THE STORY APPEARED ON the
Washington Post
Web site at 3:12 p.m. under the byline of Dan Dorman, the most feared investigative journalist in DC. “Diaz's trust bought Wildfire stock shortly before ruling on antitrust case,” screamed the headline. It was an astonishing revelation. The trustees of Diaz's blind trust acquired ten thousand shares of Wildfire.com stock only twelve days before Diaz cast the deciding vote in the Internet giant's favor in what was the biggest anti-trust case since the breakup of AT&T.

Charlie Hector stared at a printout of Dorman's story in his spacious, airy office in the West Wing. Jay, Lisa, and Phil Battaglia sat on the couch looking shell-shocked.

Hector let out a heavy sigh. “This complicates things,” he said.

“Penneymounter's going to the floor in twenty minutes,” said Lisa. “He's calling for delaying the hearings.”

“Figures,” said Hector. “That's a Judiciary Committee matter. Beyond that we don't comment. Let Tom Reynolds respond.”

“What?! No comment?” Jay jumped up from the couch like a jack-in-the-box, waving his arms. “We have to push back hard. Diaz is the president's nominee. We need to defend him forcefully.”

Hector looked at the others impassively, his eyes soliciting opinions. He was a no-drama kind of guy.

“Diaz did nothing wrong,” said Battaglia. “He fully complied with the guidelines for federal judges governing investments in blind trusts. Lisa should say that in the briefing today and put an exclamation point on it.”

“I'm going to need the poop on the blind trust rules,” said Lisa.

“We'll get you some talking points,” said Battaglia. “But you can refer most of their questions on that to Justice.”

“We should also pop the
New York Times
for the Opus Dei piece,” said Jay. “Roll them together. This is a search-and-destroy mission against a man of faith. Shift the subject from blind trusts to anti-Catholicism.”

“Normally I don't agree with starting a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel,” Lisa replied. “But the
Times
story is outrageous.”

“I'll call Ross Lombardy. We need the Federation ginned up,” said Jay.

“You might want to recommend that Andy Stanton book that guy from the Catholic Anti-Defamation group,” said Lisa, her eyes lighting up. “He's a pit bull.”

“Andy doesn't do guests,” said Jay with a sardonic smile. “There's only one star and it's him.”

“And Fox News,” offered Lisa. “They'll love the anti-Catholic angle.”

“I like it,” said Hector, moving the meeting along. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” said Jay. “What about my campaign plan? I hate to say, ‘I told you so,' but we're now officially getting our heads handed to us. Pro-Choice PAC has ads up in twelve states and national cable. We've got a hatchet job running in the mainstream media every day. If we don't change the dynamic, Diaz is a dead man walking. We need to go to the mattresses . . . now.”

Hector frowned. Lisa and Battaglia were silent. Jay could tell they were torn. Was it the optics of running a campaign for a Supreme Court pick out of the White House, or was Hector worried Jay would get the credit if Diaz won confirmation?

“You win,” said Battaglia at last. “Let's do it.”

Jay smiled. “Music to my ears.”

“I only have one question,” said Hector. “If we green light this, do you have everything you need to win the nomination?”

“Absolutely,” said Jay without hesitation. “I'll bury Capitol Hill under an avalanche of e-mails and phone calls. They'll never know what hit them.”

“Then go,” said Hector.

Jay turned to Lisa, who sat next to him on the couch. “Lisa, I'd like your help on this. I'll coordinate the paid media and grass roots; you do earned media.”

“Sure, okay,” replied Lisa. The tension in the room was palpable. Everyone in the West Wing knew Jay and Lisa had flirted with romance, only to part in a messy breakup. But they had to get Diaz confirmed, and personal feelings had to be set aside.

The meeting broke up. Jay felt better. Hector finally dropped the leash, and he was free to do his job. Lisa would be his wingman. Who knew? Maybe he could rekindle the fire he once had with Lisa while he was busy trying to save Diaz's nomination.

SENATORS OF BOTH PARTIES parted like the Red Sea as Joe Penneymounter walked down the center aisle and took his place before his desk on the Senate floor, a desk once used by Daniel Webster. Looking for all the world like an actor in a Hollywood production standing on his tape mark, he clipped a lavalier microphone to his suit coat. In the press gallery, reporters scrambled to their seats and exchanged whispered asides. The word on the street was that Penneymounter was about to launch a bone-crushing attack on Diaz. Everyone braced for the fusillade.