The Confirmation (39 page)

“She's a partner at Lewis and Lapham in Dallas.”

“Is she willing to go public?” asked Christy, hyperventilating.

“Honestly, I don't know,” said the friend. “But if anyone can talk her into doing so, I know it's you.”

Christy wrote down the woman's phone number, her heart pounding. “I'll give her a call.” Then, after a pause: “Does anyone else know about this?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Good. Keep it between us.”

Christy hung up, her mind racing. She thought,
The Catholic altar boy paid his girlfriend to abort his child.
It was too good to be true. And that was precisely what worried Christy. This was not her first rodeo; she was the veteran of ten Supreme Court confirmations and over the years had grown skeptical of rumors that would allegedly sink a nominee. Most turned out to be phantasms. But what if this was real? If Diaz's old girlfriend was willing to talk and her story checked out, his nomination was dead.

G. G. HOTERMAN AND Deirdre Rahall walked across the tarmac of the Beef Island airport looking like they stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
. G. G. ambled along in the uniform of a Washington power player on holiday: white linen shirt, pressed khakis, Gucci loafers with no socks, blue blazer. Deirdre's outfit screamed wife number three: blonde hair whipping in the wind, Chanel sunglasses, diamonds sparkling from her neck and earlobes, and a white Chanel dress with a hemline well above the knee. The sun beat down on them, and the wind whipped their hair and clothes, and they still looked like a million bucks. As they rounded the corner, they caught sight of Stephen Fox waving on the dock, clad in cargo shorts and a Tommy Bahama shirt unbuttoned to mid-abdomen, revealing graying chest hair.

“Over here, mates!” he shouted. Stephen grabbed their overnight bags and loaded them into the dinghy. He held Deirdre's hand and helped her into the boat, showering her with effusive compliments for how nice she looked.

“Felicity's on board,” Stephen shouted as he guided the dingy to his yacht. “She's got some appetizers. You must be hungry. If you're not, act like you are.”

G. G. looked at Deirdre knowingly. Felicity was a born hostess.

As they pulled up to the yacht, Felicity, wearing a black bikini top and a denim mini skirt, leaned over the rail on the sundeck, her sun-streaked brown hair falling over her shoulders. “G. G. and Deirdre, darlings, you made it! Come up here!” she shouted. “We have food and drinks.”

They feasted like kings on salmon pate, stone crab, jumbo shrimp, lobster, and raw vegetables, washed down with a California chardonnay. Deirdre nibbled on a single crab leg and celery sticks. G. G. went back for seconds, then thirds.

“I think we should do all our planning meetings down here, Stephen,” G. G. said with a chuckle, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk.

“I'm all for that,” said Felicity, her legs splayed across Stephen's lap. “Sometimes I think we should sell our houses and live on the boat.”

“Hurricanes, dear,” said Stephen. “Besides, where would you shop?”

“Shopping is never a problem,” shot back Felicity. She glanced at Deirdre with motherly disapproval. “Eat something, dear.”

“No, I'm fine,” said Deirdre. “I'm not hungry.”

“Let's have a painkiller,” said Stephen with sudden inspiration. He turned to Orlando the houseman. “Four painkillers, Orlando.”

“What's a painkiller?” asked Deirdre.

“Rum, coconut juice, pineapple juice, orange juice,” said G. G. “But mostly rum.”

“You need to get into the mind-set of the BVI,” said Stephen suggestively.

“Don't worry, be happy?” asked Deirdre.

“That's Jamaica, honey,” corrected G. G.

Within minutes Orlando magically appeared with a silver tray of towering painkillers. The rum hit Deirdre's bloodstream like a long pull of moonshine. She laughed out loud at every joke, giggled at every sarcastic aside. After they polished off the painkillers, G. G. shifted to ice water. He needed to stay alert for the business he had to discuss with Stephen. The men drifted to the back deck, pulling up chairs as the crew readied for the evening sail. Felicity gave Deirdre a tour of the boat.

“Give me an update,” said Stephen, lighting a cigar. “Is Diaz going to make it?”

“It's a jump ball,” said G. G. with clinical detachment. “The blind trust is a serious problem. If he comes out of Judiciary, even with a one-vote margin, he'll be confirmed. If he loses in Judiciary, he's DOA. If it's a tie in Judiciary, all bets are off.”

“I've been turning over in my mind whether there's anything we can do.”

“Not much,” said G. G. “With the Wildfire stock story, we're in a delicate situation. I instructed our lobbyists to stand down. Right now we're in the mode of not saying or doing anything stupid.”

“That's a tall order,” joked Stephen.

“Tell me about it. But for now, the first rule is: do no harm.”

Stephen's face grew serious. “Are any more shoes going to drop?”

G. G. shrugged. “Who knows? Rumors are flying.”

“Like what?” asked Stephen.

G. G. leaned forward, dropping his voice. “The word is an old college girlfriend has some interesting stories to tell.” He leaned closer, until his face almost touched Stephen's. “Diaz was apparently into kinky stuff.”

“Really? I thought he was a Boy Scout.”

“Apparently not,” said G. G. “He beat her up, made her do things she didn't want to do, took her to nightclubs, and tried to get her to hit on other men.” Actually, he made it up. But he knew it would entertain Stephen endlessly.

Stephen's face fell. “That'll kill him!”

“If she talks. Christy Love knows all about her. So does the Judiciary Committee staff. But she's apparently reluctant to come forward and testify.”

“Can we hire her law firm?” asked Stephen. “Maybe that'll keep her quiet.”

G. G. shook his head. “It's past that point. If we try to hire them now, it's radioactive.” G. G. found it quixotic the way Stephen hired and fired lawyers and consultants, sometimes layering them like a cake, as if they were a panacea for whatever ailed Wildfire at that moment in time. It helped sink Majette, yet Stephen was still on a hiring binge.

“It's maddening,” said Stephen. “I've got twenty-two billion dollars riding on this antitrust case, and I'm sitting here in the BVI drinking umbrella drinks, watching from the cheap seats.” Suddenly he spun around and hurled his glass against the rail, shattering it. G. G. jumped. Orlando, who stood no more than ten feet away, never moved.

“Stephen, politics is like poker,” said G. G., trying to calm Stephen down. “Sometimes you're dealt a bad hand, and you just play it. Hopefully Diaz's girlfriend keeps her mouth shut.”

At that moment Felicity and Deirdre burst through the door to the yacht's back sundeck, looking relaxed and playful. Felicity spied the shards of glass on the deck. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a wifely, disapproving look.

“Did you throw a glass
again
?”

“Of course not, honey,” Stephen lied. “I dropped it.”

“He did,” lied G. G. “I was a witness.

“Whatever. Orlando, please get that up before someone cuts their foot on the glass.” Felicity clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone, time for afternoon naps.”

“But I'm not tired,” protested G. G. “We just got here.”

“Well, Stephen and I are taking a nap,” said Felicity, flashing a smile. “So everyone retire to their respective bedrooms. Read a book, or . . . whatever.”

“Oh, I see,” said G. G., chagrined at being slow on the uptake.

Stephen grinned at G. G. sheepishly, his eyes seeming to say,
Can you believe how lucky I am?
Felicity grabbed him by the arm and led him below deck.

CHRISTY LOVE AND NATALIE Taylor entered the bar off the lobby of The Mansion, the swanky hotel in the Turtle Creek section of Dallas. When they walked through the door, Christy saw three traveling businessmen knocking back drinks at the bar. Their leering eyes followed her and Natalie like barflies. In the back of the room, sitting at a table shrouded in semi-darknesss, were two women. One of them waved. Christy walked over and extended her hand.

“You must be Christy,” said one of the women. “I'm Piper Duncan.” Duncan was vice president of the Dallas bar and a prominent attorney. She had bleached hair, toasted skin, high cheekbones, and blue-shaded glasses that gave her an exotic look. A former member of the city council, she was a mover and shaker in the Democratic Party circles who ran a lucrative municipal bond practice. “Christy, meet my good friend, Maria Solis.”

Maria had a round face, cropped black hair, and large, searching brown eyes. She shook Christy's hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Good to meet you, Maria,” said Christy, smiling. “Please meet my associate, Natalie Taylor.” She paused as they shook hands. “Natalie is with the Senate Judiciary Committee.”

Solis visibly drew back. “I thought we were just talking confidentially,” she said. “No one told me the committee would be involved.”

“Natalie's my friend,” said Christy. “She's not going to do anything without your explicit permission. She's here simply to hear what you have to say. I trust her. So can you.”

Solis glanced at Duncan, whose eyes sought to reassure her. “They just want to hear your story,” said Duncan softly. “I made it clear you've made no decision about whether you want to submit anything to the committee.”

Solis seemed to calm down. She took another sip from her drink. Christy and Natalie waved over the waiter and ordered red wine.

“So Piper tells me you dated Marco at Yale,” said Christy, grabbing a handful of mixed nuts from a dish on the table.

“Yes,” said Solis haltingly. “We dated for about a year and a half. We were hot and heavy. He was my first real love. He was good-looking, smart, a big man on campus, going places.” She paused, frowning. “Marco was torn about his Mexican heritage. He felt guilty about getting into Yale and worried he might be seen as an affirmative-action baby. He worked so hard to prove them wrong. He wanted in the club. That's part of why he was conflicted about marrying a Latino.” She flashed a sardonic smile. “A lot of Latino men want to marry a gringo. They want to fit in. I think that doomed us.”

Christy nodded. “So what happened between you two?”

“Marco was ambitious.” She chuckled at the thought. “Everyone was . . . it was Yale Law, after all. But Marco stood out. He told me someday he would be attorney general, Supreme Court justice, or the first Hispanic president. But I wanted a normal life, whatever that is. We began to grow apart.” She paused, taking a sip of gin and tonic. “But our physical attraction remained very strong.” She smiled at the memory.

“So eventually you broke up,” said Christy.

“Yes,” said Solis. “He didn't want to, but my feeling was, if we were not going to get married, we should move on. I cared for him, but I knew I'd take a backseat to his legal career.” Her dark eyes fixed on Christy's. “He was also moving to the right. It was the Reagan era, and it moved him ahead in those circles. We disagreed about politics.” She looked down at the table. “Not long after we broke up, I missed my period.”

“What did you do?”

“I took a home pregnancy test, and it was positive. I walked around in a daze for an entire day. I couldn't believe it. Hoping it was some kind of mistake, I went to the health clinic at Yale and took another test. It came back positive.”

“Did you tell Marco?”

“I did,” said Solis. “He was the father. I was young, I was scared, and I was confused. I was applying for jobs at law firms. I didn't know what to do.”

“What did he say when you told him?” asked Christy.

Solis sighed. “At first he was speechless. Then he started pacing around the room, waving his arms, analyzing the situation. Typical male reaction to an inconvenient reality that hits him right between the eyes.”

“Was he angry?”

“Not at me. I wasn't trying to manipulate him because I had broken up with him. I wasn't trying to trick him. He knew that. But it was what it was.” She sighed. “It was a mess.”

“I've been there,” said Christy empathetically.

“I told him I might have the child and then put it up for adoption,” said Solis. “I was raised a very strict Catholic. My mother never missed Mass. It was hard for me to imagine doing anything else.”

“What did Marco say?”

“He told me he wanted me to have an abortion,” said Solis quietly. Silence hung over the table. “So that's what I did. I've lived with that for twenty-four years.” She began to tear up. “Don't get me wrong, I believe in a woman's right to choose. But I never really felt like I had a choice, not with him.”

“So he definitely knew you were pregnant,” said Christy. “No question about that.”

Solis nodded. Her eyes were watery.

Natalie, who had remained silent up to this point, jumped in. “Maria, I know how difficult this is, and we really appreciate your courage in telling us,” she said. “I'll respect whatever you decide to do. But it isn't right for the members of the Senate to vote on Marco's nomination without knowing this. She peered into Solis's eyes with a penetrating gaze. “If it would make you feel more comfortable, we can do it without anyone knowing who you are.”

Solis bristled. “I can't do that,” she said. “I don't want to be the next Anita Hill . . . making an anonymous charge and then getting outed. Even though I oppose what Marco stands for, there's a part of me that's rooting for him. I'm proud of him. Isn't that strange?”

“Not at all,” said Natalie. “It's natural. You loved him. But this isn't about your feelings. It's about the country.”