The Confirmation (47 page)

“What did she say when she stopped by?”

“She just wanted my support,” said Diaz. “I held her in my arms. She teared up a little bit. Then she left.”

“And then what happened?” asked Battaglia.

“She called me a couple of days later and said the test came back negative,” said Diaz. “We were both relieved, as you can imagine. I think we both knew when the pregnancy scare ended in a false alarm, we were probably done as a couple.”

“I know there's no way to know,” said Battaglia. “But did you ever suspect she was faking her pregnancy in order to manipulate you into marrying her?”

“No,” said Diaz. “I thought the stress of exams, the end of the semester, and our breakup might have just caused her to be late or miss her period.”

“Any chance she was pregnant and had an abortion without your knowledge?” asked Battaglia. The question struck like a fastball at the head.

“I don't know. If so, she didn't tell me.” He paused, glancing around the table. “I was so relieved when she said she wasn't pregnant, I didn't ask questions.”

“My point in asking the question is, she might have had an abortion,” said Battaglia. “That doesn't prove you were the father or approved of it, much less pressured her to do it.”

“I would never have done such a thing,” said Diaz.

The room fell silent. The lawyers seemed to have run out of questions. Diaz looked like he had just stepped out of the ring after twelve rounds in a heavyweight fight. Frida appeared pale and drawn. It had been a brutal but necessary cross-examination.

“Now what?” asked Frida.

“We wait,” said Morris. “The next move is Penneymounter's.”

The lawyers got up from the dining room table and headed for the front door. Before they left, they hugged Marco and Frida and urged them one more time to hang in there, offering words of encouragement, telling them the nightmare was almost over. But Marco could tell from the looks of the White House lawyers even they didn't believe it.

THIRTY-SIX

The G-5 carrying Ross Lombardy banked left as it made its final descent into Teeterboro airport, thirty minutes outside New York City. The sky was overcast, the Manhattan skyline shrouded in mist. The plane belonged to Internet magnate and equity-fund impresario Stephen Fox, who had moved the meeting from Bermuda to New York City at the last minute. As the wheels hit the runway, Ross felt a twinge of excitement. The truth? He longed to play with the big boys and run with the masters of the universe on Wall Street. As an evangelical whose nose had been pressed against the glass of elite culture his entire life, Ross dreamed of being ushered past the red velvet rope that had long been closed to his kind.

When the jet taxied to a stop, Ross ducked into a Town Car for the ride into the city. Always on the go, he whipped out his laptop and watched the latest pro-Diaz ad from the Faith and Family Federation, running in seven states targeting six centrist Democrats and one moderate Republican, at a cost of $625,000 per week. The media buy was both expensive and profitable. The Federation bombarded its three million supporters with daily e-mails asking for contributions, and the money was pouring in at a rate of $1 million a week.

When the Town Car pulled up in front of the Four Seasons, Ross walked to a house phone and dialed the operator. She rang Fox's suite. An aide answered. “Hello, Mr. Lombardy,” he said. “Mr. Fox is waiting. Come on up.”

Ross rode the elevator up to Fox's floor and knocked on the door. An assistant to Fox, a striking brunette wearing a black, silk, low-cut blouse and charcoal grey skirt opened the door, ushering him into a massive suite. Fresh fruit, cheese, and assorted soft drinks lay on the dining room table. Fox glided in from the adjoining bedroom, sans coat and tie, trailed by two other men, and extended an outstretched hand.

“Ross, thanks for coming. Pleasure to meet you,” said Fox smoothly, his voice low and inviting. “You had a good flight, I hope?”

“Very good,” said Ross.

“Sorry we couldn't meet in Bermuda,” said Fox apologetically. “Felicity and I would have loved to host you at our house, but business called.” He smiled. “Another time, I hope.”

Fox introduced Ross to his colleagues. One was the bright-eyed, thin vice president for global public affairs at Fox's private equity firm, the other a smarmy Republican lobbyist, wrapped in a pin-striped suit with a loud tie and a custom shirt with French cuffs and presidential cufflinks, who boasted a shallow and dated background in GOP circles. Ross knew them both. The GOP lobbyist was a right-wing Uncle Tom who had been recruited by Fox and paid an embarrassingly large monthly retainer to influence-peddle for his liberal paymaster in DC. Everyone grabbed a soft drink or coffee, ignoring the expensive spread of food, and sat down in the living room.

“Ross, you're a smart guy, and I know you're plugged into the Long administration,” said Fox, diving right into the business at hand. “I've got more lobbyists than Carter has liver pills”—he glanced at the GOP lobbyist—“and they tell me your views are highly regarded at the White House.”

Ross nodded and allowed himself a self-satisfying smile. It was good to know that his importance had filtered up to Silicon Valley and Manhattan boardrooms.

“You and I don't see eye to eye on everything politically,” Fox continued. “But I'm a businessman. I buy and sell companies and create value for my investors. That's what I'm about.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “If you ever want to come work for me, let me know.”

Everyone laughed, Ross a little more nervously than the others.

Fox stood up and paced the floor, walking over to the dining room table. “I don't share Long's politics, but that's neither here nor there,” said Fox, chopping the air a dismissive wave of his hand. “Five years ago I became the largest single investor in Wildfire.com, which is doing for the Internet what Bill Paley did for broadcast television and Ted Turner did for cable. That bet has paid off handsomely for me. Wildfire created the first workable online advertising model for the Internet.” His face lit up. “Wildfire makes Google look like the Model T Ford. With Google, money tipped the scales of their search engine. With Wildfire, you follow the eyeballs. So wherever someone goes—any search engine, Web site, or news site—Wildfire finds your customers, tracks them, and advertises your product on the pages they visit. They sell pages by individual impression, which was unheard of even a few years ago.”

“It's an amazing technology,” said Ross. “How much of Wildfire does your firm own?”

“Twenty-three percent,” said Fox. “The company is currently valued at $92 billion.”

Ross let out a whistle.

“Wildfire lost the antitrust suit at the district court level, then won its appeal to the DC Circuit. Diaz ruled in our favor. That decision has been appealed by the Department of Justice,” Fox said. He paused, picking up a single blueberry and popping it in his mouth, chewing. “All we want is a fair hearing. Diaz understands that the marketplace, not bureaucrats, should determine the future of the Internet. We want to see him confirmed, and I understand you're generating support for him.”

“Big time, Mr. Fox,” said Ross, brightening.

“Please, it's Stephen.” He pointed to the GOP lobbyist. “Except for Fred here. He has to call me sir.” Everyone laughed again.

Ross nodded. “We're sending out millions of e-mails a week, dropping hundreds of thousands of pieces of mail, organizing over 100,000 churches, and advertising on television and radio in seven states, including Pennsylvania and Ohio.”

“How much does all that cost?”

“It varies from week to week, but about $750,000 to one million a week. We estimate that when it is all said and done, we will spend $5 million to get Diaz confirmed.”

Fox looked impressed. “You're a pro,” he said. “You know how to get things done. I like that.” He paused. “I want to help you. Not Wildfire—I think that's too close for comfort—but I have some other entities that can support your efforts.”

“I don't think we should accept a contribution from Wildfire or its executives,” said Ross. “We don't need the headline, and neither do they.”

“A hundred percent,” agreed Fox. He pointed to his vice president. “My team can iron out all the details. We have a number of entities we can use.” He shook his head. “I own more companies than I can keep track of. We could give it to another group that we work with, and then let them give you a grant.” He glanced at the VP. “What's the name of that (c)(4) again?”

“Citizens for Technological Innovation.”

“Right,” said Stephen, snapping his fingers. “That's permissible, isn't it?”

“Yes, sir,” said the vice president. “The Federation will have to report the contribution to the IRS, but all they will show on their 990 is CTI. Perfectly legal.” He smiled.

“Good!” Fox smiled. He walked over to Ross, extending a hand generously. Ross pumped it enthusiastically.

“How 'bout I give you a million dollars?” asked Fox. “How does that grab you?”

Ross looked like he had just won the lottery. “Fine, sir,” he stammered. “That's . . . terrific!”

“That probably makes me the largest donor to your group, doesn't it?” asked Fox.

“Yes, sir, I believe it would.”

Fox burst out laughing. “Super!” he exclaimed, seeming to enjoy lavishing his largesse on the unsuspecting. “Go get 'em, champ.” He slapped Ross affectionately on his shoulder, then turned and disappeared into the bedroom.

Ross walked back to the elevator, head swimming. He had heard of people who played both sides, but Stephen Fox was in a class by himself. He wondered: was it too good to be true?

THE BLACK CADILLAC ESCALADE carrying Maria Solis and her entourage shot past the Mayflower Hotel on Connecticut Avenue, where an unruly mob of reporters and camera crews gathered. The scene was pandemonium. News vans and satellite trucks were parked three deep in front of the hotel's motor entrance.

“It's a total cluster!” shouted Christy Love from the backseat. “Find another way in,” she ordered the driver. “We can't walk Maria into an ambush.”

In the backseat Solis glanced out the dark-tinted window nervously. “How did they find out where I was staying?” she asked, her soft voice plaintive.

“Who knows?” replied Christy. “Probably the minority staff. They're total jerks.”

“Make a right on DeSalles Street,” Natalie Taylor said, leaning forward from the backseat and pointing to her left. “Try the service entrance.”

Christy called the head of security at the Mayflower on her cell phone and worked out a diversionary tactic: while the hotel security staff gathered in front of the building, pretending to prepare for their arrival, they would duck in a side entrance and take a service elevator. The driver steered down a narrow alleyway. Halfway down, they pulled up to an open door where a man in grey slacks and blue blazer holding a walkie-talkie waved at them.

“That's the entrance. Go! Go!” shouted the driver.

Natalie and Christy bolted from their seats, pulling Solis along with them. As they clambered up the stairs, they caught sight of two camera crews jogging down the alley.

“Block them!” yelled Christy.

The driver threw the Escalade in reverse and gunned the engine, careening backward down the alley, nearly running the cameramen over. They dove to the asphalt to avoid being struck, spewing profanity.

The security guard pushed them into the building and closed the door. They walked into an elevator, its door held open by a second guard. Climbing aboard, the group was silent except for the sound of their labored breathing. Solis looked like she had seen a ghost.

Christy turned to the security guard. “I want a hotel guard at the elevator to her floor 24/7 and a DC cop guarding her room. No one gets in except people on a list I give you. Everyone has to show a photo ID. Can you do that?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied crisply.

Once they were safely inside the suite, Maria went to a back bedroom to freshen up. The others gathered around the bar where they grabbed bottles of water and soft drinks.

Natalie walked over to Piper Duncan, Solis's Dallas attorney, who had first contacted Christy about her story. “Is she going to be okay?” she asked quietly. “She seems pretty rattled.”

“Wouldn't you?” asked Duncan. “She's been carrying this secret for twenty-five years, and now it's plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Forty-eight hours ago no one outside of Dallas knew who she was. She's overwhelmed.”

“Can she handle the pressure?” pressed Natalie. “We're out on a ledge here. If she's not going to be able to go through with it, we need to know now.”

“I don't think you're really in a position to question her commitment,” said Duncan. “
Someone
leaked her story. It wasn't me, and it wasn't her.” She glared accusingly.