The Confirmation (38 page)

“Article Two, Section Two, Clause Two of the Constitution explicitly stipulates that the appointment power of the president is
not
absolute. The president may nominate officers of the government, including justices of the Supreme Court, but they are confirmed with the ‘advice and consent' of the Senate,” Penneymounter began, his voice modulated and officious. His hair coiffed, his tie perfectly knotted, he was a study in control. “That means full consultation with the Senate, preferably in advance of the appointment, preferably on a bipartisan basis.”

Several senators drifted in and sat at their desks. No one wanted to miss the fireworks. Tom Reynolds sat in the front row, shoulders hunched, game face on, lips pressed together, looking like a one-man truth squad.

“Sadly, Mr. President, that is not what happened in the case of Marco Diaz. The president named Judge Diaz without any consultation with me as chairman of the Judiciary Committee,” said Penneymounter. “That is his prerogative. But had he done so, I could have educated him on the profound reservations I and other senators have about Judge Diaz's disturbing past statements and troubling decisions that might have caused him to reconsider this appointment of a judicial extremist to the nation's highest court.”

Ouch! Penneymounter was just getting warmed up. “I could have told the president that Mr. Diaz's disrespectful treatment of women who suffered sexual harassment and sought redress before him raised questions about his judicial temperament,” Penneymounter said, a scowl spreading across his face. “I could have shared the insights I gained as the ranking member of the Judiciary Committee when Mr. Diaz was confirmed for the DC Circuit Court of Appeals, when he was specifically asked about his investments and the potential for conflicts raised by those holdings. He promised at that time to take whatever steps were necessary to prevent such conflicts.” He paused, surveying the faces of his colleagues. “We now know, Mr. President, that those promises were broken. Judge Diaz's trust bought stock in a technology company even as he presided over a case that affected the value of that company.”

On the front row Tom Reynolds glared at Penneymounter, his eyes shooting darts. Only senatorial decorum (and C-SPAN's cameras) kept them from coming to blows.

“I do not take the confirmation of an individual to lifetime tenure on the highest court lightly,” Penneymounter said, his voice rising. “Serious questions have been raised about whether Judge Diaz violated judicial ethics in ruling on the Wildfire antitrust case. Given the circumstances, I have no choice but to delay the hearings for Judge Diaz until further notice. We must review his investments, the legal agreements governing his blind trust, and who made the decisions about his portfolio.”

Reporters bolted from the press gallery. They had their headline: “Penneymounter Calls for Indefinite Delay in Diaz Confirmation Hearing.”

A look of supreme self-satisfaction spread across Penneymounter's face. “Mr. President, let me be clear: I am not passing judgment on whether Judge Diaz should be confirmed to the Supreme Court.” It was a ruse, and everyone knew it. “I have a responsibility as chairman of the Judiciary Committee, and I intend to live up to it. Just because the president does not take the advice and consent clause of the Constitution seriously does not mean we do not.”

Penneymounter unclipped the microphone from his lapel, methodically gathered up his papers, and exited the Senate chamber, his body man in tow.

A senator walked over to Tom Reynolds and leaned over, his arm on Reynold's shoulder. “What a piece of work that was. If this were the nineteenth century, Diaz would challenge him to a duel,” he said.

“If this were the nineteenth century,” said Reynolds in a half whisper, his lips curling into a sardonic grin, “I would challenge him to a duel. And
I
wouldn't be trying to give him a flesh wound, either.”

THIRTY

Marine One fluttered down from the sky nose up, its wheels touching down on the South Lawn. A Marine guard rolled out a red carpet while another guard opened the door and stood at attention, snapping a salute. President Long emerged from the helicopter first, returning with his own brisk salute. Then, in the most anticipated moment, Claire Long stepped out into the afternoon sun.

All the cable networks interrupted regular programming to capture the riveting scene of the First Lady returning to the White House after six weeks at Hope Ranch, an alcohol and drug rehabilitation center in Phoenix. Hers had been the most public admission of chemical dependency by a First Lady since Betty Ford. Speculation about her condition roiled official Washington: how was she?

Bob and Claire walked hand in hand down the red carpet and across the lawn, their body language projecting the unrestrained, adolescent-like joy of a couple reunited, both smiling broadly. A rent-a-crowd of White House staff and the Longs' extended political family was conveniently arranged to cheer their arrival. The president stepped to a stake-out location not far from the entrance to the West Wing. Claire slid to his side, looking relaxed and comfortable in a St. John's navy blue pantsuit.

“Let me be the first of many to welcome Claire back to the White House,” said Long, one hand in his pocket, voice tinny from nerves. “And more importantly I want to welcome her back home. I love her, we've all missed her, and we're thrilled she's back.” He bobbed his head as if to say, “There, I got through it.”

Claire stepped to the microphone, remarkably poised and confident. She smiled easily, her arms at her side. She looked, well, different somehow. Thinner perhaps?

“First of all, it is really great to be home,” she said with a sigh mixed with joy and relief. “I'm honored you would all come out to welcome me back.” The press tittered at the sarcastic reference to the stakeout. “Seriously, my time at Hope Ranch has been such a blessing. You might be surprised to hear that, but it was. I learned so much about myself, about life, and about the most important things in life. I now understand that your faith, your family, and your friends are more valuable than any career achievement or any public victory or defeat and more important than whether others approve of you or not.” She stared past the press, seeming to speak over their heads directly to the American people. “Bob has been tremendously supportive, and for that I am very grateful.” Her eyes widened with emphasis. “I'm sure I'll be able to share more in the days ahead, but I want to thank the people of this great country for their thoughts, their notes of support, and their prayers. I received thousands of letters and cards, and I read them all. They meant so much to me. Thank you.”

Claire avoided the shouted questions from the press as the staff scurried to pull down the microphones. Bob put his arm around her waist, and they walked into the White House together.

As the door closed behind them, White House staffers streamed slowly back to their offices. A clutch of media Big Feet stood around on the lawn like pillars of salt, seemingly frozen in place by the evocative encounter. Dan Dorman sidled up next to the Associated Press reporter.

“This may be the first time in recorded history that a president has welcomed a story about his wife's stint in rehab,” said Dorman with dry wit.

“How's that?” asked AP.

“It's better than the story of his third choice for the Supreme Court going down in flames over an ethical lapse.”

“Boy, you've got that right,” agreed the AP. “Diaz is on life support. What do you think . . . does he make it?”

“I sure hope not,” said Dorman with a crooked grin. “I'm having too much fun.”

ANDY STANTON, HEADPHONES STRAPPED to his gigantic skull, 240-pound frame nestled in a large leather chair, glanced up at the clock. Two minutes to air. His beefy hands flipped rapidly through “the stack,” the news clips and backgrounders providing the raw material for his program. His leaned forward to the microphone of New Life Ministries, knowing that twenty million listeners hung on his every word, and popped a cough drop into his mouth to lozenge his golden vocal chords. In the semidarkness of the studio, he resembled a cross between Billy Graham, Sean Hannity, and Jabba the Hut. The phone in the studio jangled, breaking the silence. It was Ross Lombardy.

“Andy, I just got off the phone with Jay Noble,” Ross said, his voice lowered to a self-important hush. “The White House would love it if you could pop the
New York Times
for its anti-Catholic smear of Diaz.”

“Haven't you been listening, brother?” replied Andy. “I opened the show with it! In the next segment I'm reading Charles Krauthammer's column on how it reveals the secular elite's disdain for religion. It's brilliant!”

“That's . . . great,” stammered Ross. “Sorry I missed it. . . . I was in a meeting.”

“Always listen to the show, Ross,” said Andy. “Standard operating procedure.” Andy expected senior executives to have his program on in the background like Muzak, but he drove them so hard that most of them had to catch the podcast later in the evening. Not knowing what witty or incisive bit Andy had uncorked on radio or TV that day could get a senior vice president sent to the penalty box.

“What about booking the guy who's president of the Catholic Anti-Defamation League on the radio show?”

Andy turned the idea over in his mind. Then: “I've got a better idea. Have him blog about it on our Web site. Then I'll read it over the air and drive people to the site. I'll plug him and Faith and Family at the same time.”

“Now you're talking,” said Ross. “That'll get us fifty thousand hits on the Web site. Good thinking, Andy.”

“That's why I'm the boss. E-mail me that blog as soon as it's posted. Gotta go.” He abruptly hung up. A technician behind a glass wall held up five fingers and counted down silently, then pointed with his index finger. The red light in the studio lit up.

“Welcome back to the program, my friends,” Andy began in a conversational tone. “We've been talking about the vicious attack on Marco Diaz masquerading as a news story in today's
New York Times
.” He dropped his voice an octave. “Ladies and gentlemen, make no mistake, this is bigotry as detestable as that directed against John F. Kennedy when he ran for president in 1960. Remember the signs that used to hang outside homes that said, ‘Irish Need Not Apply'? Remember the signs in my native South that once warned, ‘Whites Only'?” He paused. “Well, the secular elite have hung a sign outside the Supreme Court building that reads: ‘No Roman Catholic or Evangelical Need Apply.'”

Andy spun in his chair, whipping his head back and forth. “Imagine that! There is now a ban on Catholics and Evangelicals to preside in a room that has the Ten Commandments carved in stone over the justices!” He let out a theatrical guffaw. “Marco Diaz may have graduated first in his class at Yale Law School. He may have served with distinction on the most important federal appellate court in the land. But he's disqualified because . . . he
might
actually believe the Bible is the Word of
Gaaaawd
!” Behind the Plexiglas, Andy's producer rocked back and forth in his chair like a little boy, grinning from ear to ear, lips and gums flapping, clapping his hands together in a silent pantomime.

THE WHITE HOUSE RELUCTANTLY negotiated a one-week delay in Diaz's confirmation hearing. The truth was the administration had little choice. Diaz's Wildfire holdings blindsided the vetting team at DOJ, which splattered more egg on Keith Golden's face, as if he needed any. With Diaz's nomination in a tailspin, Washington whispered that it was only a matter of time before Golden was forced out at Justice. What looked like a marriage made in heaven between Long and his AG was souring with striking rapidity. Once again the Long White House hunkered down beneath a hail of second-guessing by columnists, bloggers, and pundits who asked: “How could the people who ran such a brilliant campaign just last year be so stupid?”

Seven days was an eternity in politics, as Christy Love fully grasped. But the left could only gain the upper hand if more dirt surfaced. The day after the White House caved on the delay, Christy took a call from an old law school friend that fell like manna.

“Christy, I know someone who might be able to shed some light on the real Marco Diaz,” said the friend.

“I'm all ears,” she replied. “Talk to me.”

“Here's the story,” the friend began slowly. “I'm good friends with the vice president of the Dallas Bar Association. She went to Yale Law with Diaz. She knows a woman who dated him very seriously. They almost got engaged.”

“And?” asked Christy.

“According to her, Diaz got her pregnant and then paid for her abortion.”

Christy felt the blood rush to her head. Her heart rate quickened. She got up from behind her desk and closed the door to her office. “He knocked her up and then forced her to have an abortion! What a creep. Who is the woman?”