The Confirmation (44 page)

Christy rolled her eyes as she scanned the appetizer plate for any remaining oysters. There were none. “Someone's got to tell Joe to quit giving speeches and hit this guy.” Her eyes shot darts. “Hit him high and hard!”

“We told him,” said Natalie. “He knows what is at stake. Joe will rise to the occasion tomorrow.”

Christy shot her a skeptical look.

“We're leading with the right to privacy and
Roe
,” said the grimly determined committee aide, who sat next to Natalie and was halfway through his second glass of red wine. “We've got a memorandum he wrote when he worked in the Justice Department under Bush 43 where he argued for using a partial-birth abortion case to revisit
Roe
.”

“I want to see him talk his way out of that,” said the communications director.

“Senator, my father came to this country with fifty cents in his pocket and gave me a better life. I love this country,” said Christy, mocking Diaz. She shook her head. “What a load!”

“We concede that his personal story is compelling. We hit him on his
record
, his
rulings
, and his
rhetoric
. It's the three
Rs
,” said Natalie.

“I like it. That will work,” said the committee aide.

“It's not going to be enough,” said Christy cryptically.

“What do you mean?” asked Natalie.

“He'll foul those fast balls off like he's at batting practice,” said Christy. “Diaz is no idiot. He's read every single word of every memo, every opinion he ever wrote, every speech he ever gave. He's been through murder boards until he's been reduced to tears. He's ready. That much was clear today.”

“He's a very good witness,” agreed the committee aide.

“There's only one way to rattle him,” said Christy. “Maria Solis.”

A silence hung over the table. Natalie stared into her wine glass.

“Where are we on her?” asked the communications director.

Natalie let out a long sigh. “The FBI interviewed her,” she said quietly. “They don't have sufficient corroboration of her story. It's a mishmash of raw interviews.”

“What!?” asked Christy, her ire up. “Since when do we let a bunch of white guys at the FBI run a committee investigation? They tried to cover up for Clarence Thomas.”

“Joe says the FBI report is weak and she's a reluctant witness,” said Natalie.

“This is unilateral disarmament,” exclaimed Christy in disbelief. She leaned across the table, her face etched with anger, lowering her voice to a jagged-edged whisper. “The guy paid for his girlfriend's abortion. Not that I have a problem with that, by the way. But for him . . . he's a
total
hypocrite.”

Natalie shrugged. “Christy, you can't take somebody's raw FBI file and dump it into a Judiciary Committee report. There's no corroborating witness.”

Christy put down her vodka glass with a thud and bolted from her seat, nearly shoving her communications director to the floor.

“Where are you going?” asked Natalie.

“I'm calling Joe,” said Christy.

Their eyes followed her as she marched out of the restaurant, pulling her cell phone out of her blue Chanel purse. Some restaurant patrons recognized her and turned their heads. The maître d' nodded as she barreled through the lobby. Stepping out on the sidewalk on F Street, she dialed the number of Penneymounter's Watergate apartment. He answered on the second ring.

“Joe, Christy,” she said quickly. “What's this about not calling Maria Solis? We
agreed
that if I could get her to cooperate, you would call her. Please tell me you're not rolling over on this.” She turned away from a couple getting into a taxi, her hand on a jutting hip.

Penneymounter did not appreciate the invasion of his jurisdiction as committee chairman. “We've not made any final decision on that,” he said firmly. “But I'm warning you, Christy, she's a reluctant witness. My staff talked to her and it was like pulling teeth. There are serious problems with her story and with her.”

“If this is how you plan to run the hearings, Joe, we can wave the white flag right now,” fired back Christy. “I talked to Maria personally. She's telling the truth.”

“Maybe she is,” said Penneymounter. “But her lawyer says she'll only appear if subpoenaed. Those are bad optics. It makes it look like we're dumpster-diving instead of her coming forward voluntarily.”

“Fine. But if you don't call her, there's more than one way to skin that cat,” said Christy, seething. “What if someone leaks to the
Huffington Post
or
TMZ
that Diaz paid his girlfriend to abort his love child and you refused to call her? How do you think that will affect liberal support for you when you run for president?”

Penneymounter was taken aback. “Christy, I respect you as a leader of the pro-choice cause, but don't even think about taking me on. I was in this town before you got here, and I'll be here after you're gone. If you threaten me, you'll live to regret it.”

“If you don't call her, it's going to leak,” said Christy. “Every member of the Judiciary Committee has seen the FBI report. Every staffer knows about it. It's not a question of if it comes out, only when. Protect yourself, Joe. Call her as a witness.”

Silence hung on the phone for a minute. “Believe me, if I can, I will,” Penneymounter said at last. “But if I can't, I'm not going to try to jam her down the committee's throat. That will backfire. You do your job. Leave running the committee to me.”

“Alright,” said Christy softly, backpedaling. “It's just there's a lot on the line here, and we're not going to win if we don't pull our punches.”

“Don't you think I know? Message delivered. Good-night,” said Penneymounter abruptly, hanging up.

Christy walked back into the restaurant, ignoring the stares of the DC crowd who knew she was at the eye of the storm in the Diaz confirmation. Returning to the booth, she slid back into her seat.

Natalie stared at her as if to ask: “And?”

Christy raised her eyebrows and batted her eyelashes. “No comment,” she said mysteriously.

IN A PRIVATE ROOM at Old Ebbit Grille just around the corner from the White House, Marco Diaz cut into a ten-ounce portion of filet mignon. While the others (minus Frida) unwound with wine, Diaz drank iced tea and Pelligrino. . . . He wanted to stay mentally sharp. He pulled out his BlackBerry and scrolled through the congratulatory e-mails he was receiving after his opening statement. When he did, the note the woman handed him as he left the hearing room fell out of his pocket. He opened it.

“Cursed will be your going out and your coming in,” read the note, the letters written in block letters. “Cursed will be your rising in the morning and your going down at night. Cursed will be your body with fatigue, illness, and disease. Cursed and confused will be the thoughts of your mind and the words of your lips. Cursed will be your home, your family, and your children. Cursed is the fruit of your wife's womb. Your unborn child will never see life on this earth.”

Diaz stared at the note in shock. His mouth dropped open.

Morris saw the expression on Diaz's face. “What?” he asked.

Diaz passed him the note. “Some woman gave this to me as I left the hearing. I think she must be a witch or something.”

Morris read the note. He rolled his eyes. “What a whack job,” he said dismissively.

“Let me see it,” said Frida, reaching for the piece of paper.

“No,” said Marco.

“Honey, it's nothing,” said Frida. “She's a nut. Just let me read it.”

Morris glanced at Marco, who nodded reluctantly.

Frida read the note. Her face went white. She tore up the note and threw it at the base of the lamp in the middle of the table. “These people are sick,” she said. “Excuse me.” She got up hurriedly and left the table.

“I shouldn't have let her read it,” said Marco.

“It's nothing. I don't believe in witches. Do you, Marco?” asked Morris, his voice laced with skepticism.

“I believe in heaven and hell. I believe in the existence of God and the devil,” said Marco. “So, yes, I suppose on some level I believe there are witches. The efficacy of their curses is a different matter. Now, were these women really witches? I don't know.”

“Well, after today's testimony, I like our chances,” said Morris, smiling, trying to lighten the conversation. “They can bay at the moon all they want.”

Diaz glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the restrooms, his mind focused on Frida. He hoped that she—and their child—would be alright.

THIRTY-FOUR

“Ladies and gentlemen, join me in welcoming a man of courage, integrity, and character, the president of the United States, Robert W. Long,” bellowed Attorney General Keith Golden, almost shouting the words into the microphone. Long glided across the stage in the cavernous atrium of the Ronald Reagan Building, basking in the rousing welcome from hundreds of members of the Federalist Society. He pumped Golden's hand firmly and patted him on the back affectionately. Whistles and cheers could be heard over the applause.

Long's appearance was rich in symbolism. Introduced by Golden, hero of the Federalist Society, in a building named after Reagan, he stepped behind the bullet-proof podium with the presidential seal and smiled beneath the warm glow of the crowd's nearly worshipful reception. In the back of the room, a press contingent of camera operators and reporters hunched over laptops studied his appearance with professional detachment mixed with skepticism.

“Thank you for that generous introduction, General, and thank you all for having me,” said Long, warming up. “I was going to breakfast anyway, and I heard you had an opening for a speaker. (Appreciative laughter) Incidentally, Keith Golden is doing a superb job as attorney general, and he has been a fantastic addition to my administration.” (Loud applause) Everyone knew that Golden's stock had fallen; Long's public praise was an attempt to deny the obvious. “I'm here to talk with you about a timely and vital topic, namely the importance of the rule of law, the separation of powers, and the vision of our founders to have a judiciary that upholds the law rather than legislating from the bench.”

Behind the curtains Jay Noble observed Long's performance with gimlet eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. Jay had been unable to persuade the lawyers, he called them “pettifoggers losing as slowly as possible,” that Diaz should give some media interviews to answer critics. But Jay still controlled “the body”: where the president went, who he spoke to, and what he said. To that end the White House scheduled the speech to the Federalist Society at 8:30 a.m., one hour before Diaz appeared for his second day of hearings before the Senate Judiciary Committee. It was a howitzer fired across Joe Penneymounter's bow.

“When litigants believe a case is decided not by the application of the law passed by a state legislature or Congress but by the personal views of a judge, not only does the individual litigant suffer, but respect for the rule of law suffers,” Long asserted to loud applause. “It strikes at the heart of our common faith in democracy. This state of affairs is not a hypothetical matter. In a recent survey a majority of the American people said they believed judges were more likely to rule based on their own opinion than enforcing the law as written.” Long glanced away from the teleprompter, ad-libbing. “On the day I was inaugurated, I took an oath to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God. That included the separation of powers. Congress cannot undermine the independence of the judiciary by reducing a judge's compensation or punishing him or her for unpopular rulings. Nor are judges to supplant Congress by legislating from the bench. Judges are bound by an oath as sacred as the one taken by presidents, and it is long past time to restore respect for the law, the restraint of power, and humility in its exercise to the judiciary.” In the back of the room, reporters scribbled down the words, which appeared nowhere in the text. Long was on a roll.

“Judicial activism is what has transformed the confirmation process into the theater of the absurd. Why? Because senators assume they are confirming de facto legislators with lifetime tenure,” Long continued, his eyes intense and jaw firm. “Advice and consent has become search and destroy, with philosophical differences rendered disqualifying, and with no smear or character assassination out of bounds.” The crowd fell silent, hanging on every word. “I have nominated Marco Diaz, a fine man and an outstanding judge, to the Supreme Court of the United States. He has not been immune from these unsavory tactics. But the American people are tired of confirmation by kangaroo court in which honorable men and women must sacrifice their good name, their reputation, and their families in order to serve on the Supreme Court.” Long paused, gazing across the adoring sea of faces. “My friends, it is time to restore the judiciary to its proper place in our constitutional system of government. The Senate can begin by swiftly confirming Marco Diaz to the Supreme Court.” The crowd jumped to its feet as one, exploding in thunderous applause.