The Confirmation (40 page)

“I know,” said Maria. “But I don't want to hurt Marco. And I'm not the black widow.”

“I don't want to speak for Maria,” said Duncan firmly. “But I don't think it's a good idea for her to try to remain anonymous. If she's going to tell her story to the Judiciary Committee, she has to do it for attribution.”

“We're kidding ourselves if we think I won't be drug through the mud,” said Maria. “Look at Monica Lewinsky. She was eviscerated, and Bill Clinton got a $10 million book deal. Clarence Thomas was confirmed. The men who take advantage of women always survive while the woman gets smeared. That's still the nature of our society.”

Natalie reached across the table and placed her hand on Maria's. Their eyes locked. “Maria, this is different.” She glanced at Christy. “Christy and I are as close to Penneymounter as any two people on earth. We will go to the wall for you. If the Senate votes to confirm Diaz, it's a miscarriage of justice . . . even more than what happened to you twenty-four years ago.”

Solis remained silent for a full ten seconds. “I'll think about it.”

Natalie and Christy pulled business cards from their purses and handed them to both Solis and Duncan. They paid the bill with a credit card and rose to excuse themselves. Duncan walked them to the door, leaving Maria at the table alone.

“Don't put Maria in the crosshairs without her permission,” said Duncan in a whisper. “It's her life, not ours.”

“We won't,” said Christy. “She's our sister. Don't worry.”

They went back to Christy's room and sat out on the large balcony overlooking the pool. Grey twilight faded to darkness as Christy pulled a bottle of Cabernet out of the minibar. For a few minutes they drank in eerie silence, absorbing the full weight of Solis's extraordinary tale. They held in their hands the key to defeating Diaz, . . . but they did not know if they'd be able to use it.

“Do you believe her?” asked Christy at last.

“Yes,” replied Natalie. “I
want
to believe her.”

“So do I.”

“What could be her motive for lying?”

“Maybe he broke up with her. Maybe she wanted to be Mrs. Marco Diaz, but she didn't get to be because he dumped her. Maybe she's looking at Frida and grinding her molars every day, wanting to get even.”

“That's a possibility,” said Natalie. “Something real went on between them. She loved him once. I'm sure of that much.”

Christy took a long sip of red wine and swallowed. “One thing's certain: if we can persuade her to come forward, her story better be true.”

“That's what the FBI is for,” said Natalie. “They'll interview her, and they'll interview anyone she has ever shared this with over the years . . . close friends, family members, maybe a marriage counselor.”

Christy walked to the rail and leaned over, staring into the twilight. Then she turned back to face Natalie. “If she doesn't come forward, it may leak. Have you thought about that?”

Natalie raised her eyebrows. “I can't believe we're the only two people other than Maria and Piper who know about this. There have to be others. There are a lot of reporters who would die to get their hands on this story, starting with Marvin Myers.” she said. “I just hope it doesn't come to that.”

“If the Wildfire stock and blind trust issue don't sink him first,” said Christy. “We may not have any other choice.”

THE CONFERENCE ROOM ON the third floor of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building was turned into a war room, strewn with cans of Diet Coke, paper cups, rotting fruit and wilting sandwiches, whiteboards filled with illegible scribbles, and whirring laptops. Sitting around the table was the high command of the judicial confirmation team at the White House: Jay Noble, Lisa Sullivan, David Thomas, and the researchers Jay called “propeller heads.”

“Okay, what's the next hit piece from the
Times
?” asked Jay.

“They've got a panel of public accountants who say the mistakes Diaz made in managing his blind trust were highly irregular,” said an aide. “They accuse the trustees of lying.”

Jay glanced at Lisa. Her eyes were glazed, her face pale, her skin sallow. The stress of her job was taking a heavy toll. “What's our response?”

“We've got our own team of outside accountants who have reviewed all the stock transactions within Diaz's blind trust,” reported Lisa, flipping her black hair behind her ears with her long fingers. “They're issuing a report concluding that Diaz dotted all the i's and crossed all the t's when he established the trust. One of the accountants signing the report is the former chairman of Price Waterhouse.”

“I know him. Great guy,” said Jay.

“We also did a contribution history on the
Times
' accountants,” Lisa added. “And guess what? Three of them wrote checks to Democratic candidates. Two of them gave to Stanley; one of them maxed.”

A wicked grin crossed Jay's face. “
Liberal
accountants?!” he shouted in mock outrage. “Isn't that an oxymoron?”

“We also have fourteen retired federal judges who have signed a letter to Penneymounter saying that Diaz should not be punished for what the trustees did,” said David Thomas.

“That works,” said Jay. “What's our push back on Diaz's receiving written notices of all the stock trades?”

“He says he didn't open them,” replied Lisa. Jay raised his eyebrows and dropped his chin, projecting skepticism.

“Wildfire was less than 5 percent of the trust's assets,” said Thomas. “There's no way he'd risk his career over that. Besides, who doesn't have Wildfire stock? It's one of the most commonly held stocks in the country.”

“Does Penneymounter own any Wildfire stock?” asked Jay.

“We're trying to find out,” said one of the opposition researchers.

“Get the goods. He's chairman of Judiciary,” said Jay. “He has jurisdiction over the antitrust division of DOJ. It would be a conflict.” He leaned forward in his chair, jabbing the air with his finger, punctuating his words. “If not Wildfire, something that's a conflict . . . maybe stock in one of the Wall Street firms. Keep digging until we find something.”

The researcher nodded, scribbling notes on a legal pad.

Jay got up from his chair and signaled Lisa to join him. When they left the room, he whispered, “Come here, I want you to meet the latest member of the team.”

They walked across the hall, and Jay opened a large door with no name plate. To Lisa's astonishment, there at a plain wooden desk pecking away feverishly at a computer, was Taylor Sullivan, the famed opposition research guru and political hit man who had worked for the Republican National Committee in the previous election. His bald head glistened beneath the fluorescent lights, the worry lines on his forehead prominent, black eyes gazing out beneath bushy eyebrows. Clad in blue jeans and a button-down denim Oxford shirt, with his shaved head, beard stubble, and pumped biceps, he looked strangely like a prison inmate on furlough.

“Lisa, meet Taylor Sullivan,” said Jay grandiloquently. “He's going to help us get Diaz confirmed.”

Lisa gamely disguised her shock. Sullivan was a feared, even notorious Republican operative known for black bag jobs, nasty leaks to favored reporters, and backstabbing. Rumor had it that Sullivan was behind the most vicious attacks on Long during the campaign.

“Well, this certainly gives new meaning to the phrase, ‘politics makes strange bedfellows,'” said Lisa, shaking his beefy hand warily.

“Glad to be here, ma'am,” said Taylor. “Hope we can let bygones be bygones.”

“Taylor's going to be in charge of rapid response,” said Jay. “And keeping Penneymounter back on his heels.”

“Sounds good,” said Lisa, still shell-shocked.

“You're gonna need me,” said Sullivan with characteristic brio. “Check this out.” He handed Lisa a copy of a press release from the Pro-Choice PAC announcing the hiring of Nicole Dearborn, late of the Long for President campaign, to head its communications strategy.

Lisa read the release, shaking her head in disbelief. “This chick is shameless,” she said. “She's cross-dressed more times than a transvestite.”

Jay winced. “Christy Love's trying to play mind games,” he said, shrugging. “It's pathetic.”

“Here's our first salvo at Penneymounter,” said Sullivan, handing Jay a document.

Jay stared at it. It was an article about a speech Penneymounter delivered three years earlier to a Chamber of Commerce in Minnesota in which he offhandedly referred to immigrants as “wetbacks” and said “You can't get your lawn mowed or your house painted anymore without speaking Spanish.” Sullivan highlighted the offending passage.

“He's an anti-Hispanic bigot,” said Sullivan.

“This is delicious,” said Jay, smiling. “Let's see him defend this to La Raza.”

“It's a twofer,” replied Sullivan. “Diaz's confirmation hearings are the opening salvo of his presidential campaign. It helps confirm Diaz and hurts Penneymounter among the Latinos.”

“No question,” agreed Jay. “Penneymounter's a bad guy. If we face him in four years, I want him walking with a limp.”

“I already got the ‘wetback' story to Merryprankster,” said Sullivan. “It's up on the home page.” He spun around the monitor so Lisa and Jay could see the headline: “Penneymounter's Anti-Hispanic Slur!” “This will be the buzz on every talk radio show in the country tomorrow during morning drive.”

“Well done,” said Jay effusively. “This may even cancel out the blind trust story.”

Lisa, her arms crossed over her chest, gave Sullivan a departing once-over. “Taylor, just don't do anything stupid. I don't mind the tough guy act, or even your insistence on wearing jeans around the White House. But this is important to the president. Don't screw it up.”

“Don't worry,” said Sullivan, unfazed by Lisa's cutting remark. He leaned back in the chair and placing his hands behind his head to reveal pools of perspiration at his armpits. “Things will happen mysteriously. Discretion is my modus operandi.”

Jay turned to leave, with Lisa trailing a step behind. They left the room and began walking down the hallway back to the West Wing. Neither said anything for about ten paces.

“I can't
believe
you hired him,” Lisa finally said, spitting out the words.

“We're at war. We need killers. Sullivan's the best in the business. Frankly, we're lucky to have him.”

“It's not the way we operate,” said Lisa. “And it's not how we won.”

Jay felt his stomach flipping and not just because Diaz's problems were mounting by the day. The prospect of dealing with Nicole, including the tabloid coverage of their former romance, was an embarrassing and needless distraction. Like a ghost from the past, she continued to haunt him.

THIRTY-ONE

The head of White House public liaison, who reported to Jay Noble, led the delegation into the Roosevelt Room, where paper nameplates before each chair marked assigned seats, subtle reminders of the pecking order. Andy Stanton sat to the immediate right of the president; Jerry Patterson, pastor of Sonshine Church in Orlando and president of the Southern Baptist Convention, to his left. In front of the center chair, in simple handwriting, the nameplate read simply: “The President.”

It was the biggest gathering of religious broadcasters, evangelists, and preachers since Long's inaugural. Everyone wore tight smiles and spoke in hushed tones. The purpose of the meeting was simple: the Diaz nomination was in triage, and the White House needed the black regiments that elected Long to ride in like the cavalry and save the day.

Andy sat down at his assigned seat and leaned over to chat with Patterson. “This meeting certainly is a sign that they're starting to get it around here,” he said, cupping his hand over his mouth.

“When you're drowning, you don't care who throws you a lifeline,” said Patterson, acid dripping from his voice, letting out a low belly laugh.

At that moment the door flew open, and Bob Long appeared at the threshold. Everyone bolted up from their seats. Long went around the table, shaking each hand and gazing into each face, his countenance filled with intensity. He was focused like a laser beam.

Long patted Andy on the back and squeezed his shoulder as he took his seat, shooting him a wink. Warm fuzzies passed up and down Andy's spine.

“Thank you all for coming,” said Long earnestly. “I know you're all busy men with major ministries and important work to do, so please know my decisions to ask you to fly into Washington today was not made lightly.” Heads nodded appreciatively as they reveled in presidential flattery. “We are in a battle over the Supreme Court vacancy, and the other side is going after Judge Diaz. I'm not at all surprised, given the stakes.” His eyes scanned each face, measuring his words. “You are absolutely critical to this process. I need you. Judge Diaz needs you. The country needs you.” Warm grunts greeted Long's suck-up. “Now, as you know, because we worked with your legal teams at the time, I laid out clear and unambiguous standards for the nomination of judges during the campaign.” He paused, reloading. “They must be eminently qualified, possess character and integrity, and share my judicial philosophy. Judge Diaz is such a nominee.”