The Confirmation (43 page)

The president's secretary hustled out of the office, closing the door behind her, her steps hurried and slightly stumbling.

Long looked down at the note: “Somali Pirates Hijack Ship Carrying Iraqi Yellowcake.” Long had been president for eight months now and was used to getting bad news. He was not easily rattled and his mind raced through the various scenarios, what he liked to call “thinking around the corner.” But this time none of the options were good.

TOM REYNOLDS'S CHIEF OF staff's BlackBerry vibrated repeatedly in his pocket. He was ignoring it. The senator was in a holding room just down the hall from Room 216 of the Hart Building, huddling alone with Marco and Frida Diaz.

Capitol Hill was under siege. The phones in every Senate office rang off the hook, with hundreds of calls and thousands of e-mails an hour landing from both sides in the confirmation struggle. The right-wing talk jocks, led by Andy Stanton, were in full froth, giving out the switchboard number and jamming phone lines to the point that normal work was impossible. The Post reported that 750,000 calls had hit the Capitol switchboard in the previous twenty-four hours. Protestors ringed the Capitol building, holding signs aloft and shouting slogans with bullhorns. Everyone was on edge.

A White House lobbyist walked over. “Jay Noble is trying to reach you,” he blurted.

“What about?” asked the chief of staff.

“Here he is,” answered the White House lobbyist, handing him his own BlackBerry.

“Jay, what's up?” asked the chief of staff. “The senator's about to walk into the hearing room with Judge Diaz.”

“I need to talk to Tom right away,” said Jay.

“Now?”

“Right now. It's urgent.”

The chief of staff knocked gently on the door to the holding room. He walked in to find Diaz and his wife seated at a table, holding hands anxiously. Reynolds stood to the side.

“Senator, it's Jay Noble.”

Reynolds nodded and took the BlackBerry in his hand. He stepped into the hallway to take the call, an aide by his side. “Hi, Jay,” he said.

“Tom, sorry to bother you right now, but we have a new development.”

Reynolds felt his heart skip a beat. “What is it?”

“The accountants found that Diaz's blind trust owned stock in an Internet holding company called THN, which stands for The Heat Network,” said Jay. “It's based in LA. It was a roll-up of Web sites. One of the sites was a site that promoted better sex for married couples. The problem is the site sold pornographic videos.”

“Okay,” said Reynolds slowly. “It sounds like a very small piece of a big Internet holding company.”

“That's right,” said Jay. “But the CEO of the company was indicted on pornography charges in Oklahoma twelve years ago.”

Reynolds shook his head. “Terrific.”

“Pro-Choice PAC is issuing a press release denouncing Diaz for making money off the degradation of women. They've got a list of videos the site sold. It's not pretty.”

“Alright,” said Reynolds calmly. He was beginning to get shell-shocked from all the incoming charges. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

“You need to tell Diaz.”

“Right now?” asked Reynolds.

“It will come up,” pressed Jay. “I don't want him to be blindsided.”

“Alright, I'll take care of it,” said Reynolds. He hung up and handed the BlackBerry back to his chief of staff, who handed it back to the lobbyist. Reynolds rolled his eyes and shot his chief of staff a knowing glance that said, “You can't make this stuff up.” He stepped back into the holding room.

“Who was that?” asked Diaz, a troubled look on his face.

“Jay Noble checking in to see how things were going,” Reynolds lied.

Diaz smiled. He turned to Frida. “That was nice of him. See, honey, the White House isn't wavering. They're behind me.” Frida, who looked slightly pale and as if she were carrying a basketball under her dress, allowed herself a relaxed smile.

Reynolds didn't have the heart to tell Diaz about the Internet holding company. He feared the news might send Diaz, already fragile after the FBI interview about Maria Solis, into a tailspin. That was the last thing they needed before Diaz stepped in front of the cameras and a national television audience estimated at fifty million people.

THIRTY-THREE

Mercifully the opening statements finally ended. Each senator on the committee burned up the maximum allowable time, droning on for a combined six hours and twenty-eight minutes of hot air, self-congratulation, and on-camera genuflection. Diaz's sons had long since been escorted from the hearing room, while the adults wore plastic masks of barely disguised boredom. At last, it was Diaz's turn.

“Judge Diaz, thank you for your patience. If you would now stand so I can put you under oath,” said Joe Penneymounter, as he rose to his feet, his facial expression grave. “Please raise your right hand.”

Diaz rose. Dozens of photographers clicked away. The “money shot” would appear on the front page of every newspaper in the country the next day. Diaz wore a determined look as the camera shutters clicked and whirred, the noise like a controlled explosion.

“Do you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give before the Committee on the Judiciary of this United States Senate will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

“I do,” replied Diaz.

“Very well, you may be seated,” said Penneymounter. “Judge, the floor is yours.”

As Diaz leaned forward to the microphone and prepared to speak, loud screams split the air. Three protestors in the back of the room unfurled a white sheet that one of them had hidden under her dress. It was spray-painted in black letters: “DIAZ HATES WOMEN.”

They rose in unison, clutching the sheet, eyes flashing with indignation. The leader, a middle-aged woman with a bony frame, an unkept tangle of graying hair, and a piercing voice, shrieked like a wounded animal. “Diaz is antiwomen! Diaz is antiwomen!”

“Order, order!” shouted Penneymounter, banging his gavel. “The committee will not tolerate any verbal outbursts of this kind.”

Three Capitol policemen hustled to the row where the women stood, grabbing the leader by the arm and pulling her forcefully.

“Defend Women, Defeat Diaz! Defend Women, Defeat Diaz!” they shouted.

Diaz refused to turn around to face his accusers. He remained stoic as the women were dragged from the room, arms and legs akimbo, still shouting as the doors closed behind them.

“I apologize for the interruption, Judge Diaz,” said Penneymounter. “Please proceed.”

“Mr. Chairman, Senator Reynolds, and other members of the committee,” said Diaz, shifting in his seat. “Let me first say it is a profound honor to be nominated to the Supreme Court of the United States. I thank President Long for the confidence he has placed in me.”

“My father came to this country a half century ago with only fifty cents to his name and possessing a desire to build a better life for himself and his future family. He married, had a family that included me and seven siblings, and built a successful automobile dealership business. I was the first member of my family ever to attend college.”

Diaz's father sat behind him, on the front row, along with Frida and other extended family members. It was a powerful moment.

“My point in relating this is not to celebrate my father's sacrifice and success, admirable though it is, but to underscore how much I owe this country,” Diaz continued. The emotion in his voice was palpable. The senators in Diaz's corner smiled, while the others met his words with poker faces. It was hard not to be moved by his story. “No one has benefited more from the opportunities that flow from America's constitutional system and its guarantee to liberty, justice, and equality for all than I have. It necessarily requires humility as I have served as an appellate judge and now aspire to the Supreme Court and makes me mindful of a burden to ensure that the same opportunity is afforded to others.”

Diaz held the room in the palm of his hand. Every eye was on him. No one moved.

“I pledge to represent no special or vested interest. I will be fair. I will approach each case with an open mind. I will seek to uphold the rule of law and the Constitution, mindful of the fact that within the rows of musty law books and court cases and written opinions are found the lives, the hopes, and the aspirations of a free people.”

Several of the senators leaned forward, sensing an oratorical high point.

“The law is the ultimate arbiter of justice. In our country it has been the final refuge of a diminutive, soft-spoken woman in Montgomery, Alabama, ordered to the back of the bus by a system of segregation that outlasted slavery by a century; the child forced to attend a substandard school that delivered a second-class education because of the color of his skin; the person accused of wrongdoing who has been denied due process and the right to review the evidence against him. When the legal system fails, America does not work. Therefore, if confirmed, I will seek to defend the Constitution so every American can be confident that all are equal before the law and no one is above it. Thank you very much.”

Joe Penneymounter did not look pleased. Diaz used his opening statement to make an argument in the form of biography. Everyone knew if the battle over Diaz turned on his humble origins and personal story, he would win. The hour was late. Penneymounter wisely decided to cut his losses.

“The Committee on the Judiciary stands in recess until tomorrow at 9:30 a.m.,” he said, banging his gavel. A crowd of supporters rushed to Diaz's side, slapping his back and pumping his hand. Frida pecked him on the cheek.

Diaz felt no sense of triumph. He knew the counterassault would begin the next morning.

Reynolds came down from the dais where the members of the committee sat, a broad smile on his face. He extended his hand in triumph. Diaz grasped it, and Reynolds pulled him in tight. “You hit it out of the park,” he whispered, leaning into Diaz's right ear.

“You really think so?”

“I
know
so,” replied Reynolds. He bobbed his head in the direction of Joe Penneymounter, who stood at the center of the dais, gathering up his notes, exchanging worried looks and whispered asides with a clutch of aides. They looked like they were hit by a truck. “Look at Joe. I've never seen him so flustered in my life.”

Art Morris came over to join in the fun. “You stripped Penneymounter to his skivvies,” he said, chuckling. “Score this one for the home team.”

Diaz allowed himself a nervous smile.

“What do you say?” asked Morris. “Anyone up for dinner?”

They formed a wedge of bodies in front of Marco and Frida and pressed slowly through a mob of reporters outside the entrance to the Caucus Room. The hallway was jammed, the surging crowd eerily illuminated by glaring television lights.

“Judge Diaz, how do you feel after today's hearing? Are you encouraged?” shouted
Roll Call
.

Diaz raised the corners of his mouth in a restrained smile, saying nothing.

“Please, everyone, make way for Judge Diaz!” yelled Morris.

At that moment Diaz heard a female voice through the pandemonium. “Judge Diaz?”

He turned and caught the eye of a troika of women who had been sitting quietly just behind his family throughout the day's proceedings. Their faces telegraphed a somber, determined empathy.

“Yes?” asked Diaz as a DOJ staffer pulled him by the coat, trying to yank him through the crowd. Frida held on tightly to one of his belt loops as the crowd jostled her.

“We've been praying for you and wanted to give you this,” one of the women said, handing him a folded piece of paper. She smiled. “Read it later.”

“I will, I will,” promised Diaz. They hustled him to the elevator.

CHRISTY LOVE SUCKED ANOTHER blue point oyster out of its shell and chased it with a shot of vodka. Tucked in a back booth at Oceanaire with Natalie Taylor and her communications director, she licked her wounds in one of DC's top power lunch locations. There was no denying the obvious: the day was an unqualified disaster.

“Why in the world did our guys have to drone on for hours like that, pontificating like a bunch of windbags?” asked Christy, spitting out the words. “The contrast between a bunch of pasty white guys staring down at a handsome Hispanic guy with two boys in Brooks Brothers suits and his pregnant wife over his left shoulder was devastating!”

“And don't forget the nuns,” said the communications aide.

“That was just over the top,” seethed Christy. “As if being against Diaz means you're anti-Catholic. What total baloney.” She sucked in another oyster. “But the White House is smart. What is the problem with our team?”

“They've all got senatoritis,” replied Natalie. “They're inveterate blowhards. They can't help themselves.”

“I talked to Dan Dorman,” said Christy's communications director, a thin, raven-haired woman with television-anchor looks and a sarcastic outlook on life in general. “The
Post
is playing it as a defeat for Penneymounter and us. He doesn't have the headline yet, but the lead is ‘Diaz deflects attacks, disarms critics.'”