The Confirmation (48 page)

Solis walked into the living room area of the suite. Their conversation abruptly stopped.

“Maria, feel better now?” asked Christy affectionately.

“A little,” said Solis haltingly. “There were a hundred reporters out there. I hope it's not going to be like that tomorrow when I testify.”

“It won't be,” Natalie lied. “We'll take you in the back way. The Capitol is very secure.” In fact, it would be a complete circus.

“We should probably go ahead and call the committee lawyers and tell them to come on up to the suite,” suggested Christy. “That way we can get the deposition out of the way, and Maria can get some sleep.”

“Fine by me,” said Duncan. “Maria, you okay with that?” She glanced at Maria, who appeared to hesitate for a moment. She bit her lower lip, her eyes searching.

“Sure,” she said at last.

Christy reached over to the phone to dial the committee counsel. As he did, she wondered if Solis was really ready. Were they riding a three-legged horse?

PHIL BATTAGLIA AND JAY Noble stood outside the Oval Office, cooling their heels. The president was wrapping up a meeting with Truman Greenglass and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The shocking story of Rassem el Zafarshan hijacking a shipment of yellowcake from Iraq led every news broadcast, threatening to eclipse even the latest bizarre twist in the Diaz confirmation struggle off the front page. And why not? Zafarshan had already masterminded the assassination of a U.S. vice president, and now he had the raw material for a dirty bomb that could be exploded in a major American city.

The door opened and the Joint Chiefs chairman walked past them with a nod, his head down, face somber. Long hung back, talking in a low voice with Greenglass. When he caught sight of Jay and Phil, he waved them in. “Get in here guys,” he said wearily. “And you better have some good news.”

“Good is a relative term, Mr. President,” said Battaglia with morbid humor.

“So I'm finding,” said Long.

Jay noticed the strain on the president's face, the worry lines on his forehead like crevices in granite. He knew the meeting with Greenglass and the chiefs had been about Zafarshan and Iran. But as Long's political advisor, national security was not in his portfolio. As the pressures on Long increased, Jay sensed he was drifting away, consumed by Iran and foreign policy, growing more distant. Jay was helpless to stop it.

“Phil has an update on Diaz,” said Jay.

“Fire away,” said Long. He sat behind his desk, leaning back in the chair and slowly exhaling. Jay and Battaglia took the chairs on either side.

“We've debriefed Diaz,” reported Battaglia. “His story is straightforward. He says that Solis was late and feared she might be pregnant. She went to the campus clinic to take a pregnancy test. The test came back negative. End of story.”

“You believe him?” asked Long, his eyes boring into Battaglia.

“I do, Mr. President,” said Battaglia. “We've got good facts. Solis has no extant medical records in her possession from the time period in question. The FBI has interviewed all the doctors and nurses who worked at the clinic at the time who are still alive. They're coming up empty.”

“Sounds open and shut. Now what?” asked Long.

“She testifies tomorrow, Diaz rebuts her testimony. A day or two later, the committee votes.”

“Where do we stand?”

Jay let out a sigh. “We're still short by one vote, sir,” said Jay. “Reynolds has done his job. We've got all the R's, but we still don't have a Democrat.”

Long arched his eyebrows. “Should I work the phones?”

“Not yet,” answered Jay. “We want to get past Solis tomorrow. But we've got two lined up for meetings in the Oval. We need to give them the full treatment.”

“Penneymounter's playing hardball,” explained Battaglia. “He's twisting arms.”

“So is Stanley,” added Jay. “He's making it very tough on any Democrat who votes for Diaz. Everything's on the table: committee assignments, fund-raisers, earmarks, you name it.”

“I'm amazed they're falling in line with Stanley,” said Long, shaking his head in wonderment. “They're kicking thirty million Hispanics in the teeth. What gives?”

“Two things,” observed Jay dispassionately. “First, their liberal base won't stand for a pro-Diaz vote. Their assumption is this is the fifth vote to overturn
Roe v. Wade
.”

Long nodded. He got it.

“Second,” Jay continued, “Stanley's running for president again. If he stops Diaz, he's probably the Democratic front-runner, in spite of Dele-gate. But if he fails, he's done. The Diaz nomination is literally the first primary for the Democratic nomination.”

“Stanley's never gotten over the campaign. It consumes him.” He stared into the middle distance, his expression reflective. “What's the bottom line?”

“Unless something changes in the next forty-eight hours, Diaz will not be reported out of the committee favorably,” said Battaglia slowly.

Long nodded slowly, absorbing the blow. “And that'll be it, won't it?”

“Yes,” said Jay quietly. “We can force a floor vote, but we'll lose.”

Long rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “You were supposed to bring me good news,” he joked. They chuckled, rising to leave. As they walked to the door, Long stopped them. “Keep fighting,” he said with a determined look. He wagged his finger. “If they crucify the first Hispanic nominated to the court in decades, we'll carry the Latino vote by a landslide in four years. One way or the other, we're going to have the last laugh.”

They nodded and left. Walking back to their offices, Jay turned to Battaglia. “Assuming Diaz doesn't make it, what's the plan?” he asked, whispering under his breath.

“There isn't one,” Battaglia replied.

Jay gulped. They were staring into the abyss.

THIRTY-SEVEN

It was 11:30 p.m. when the den phone in the Diaz family home rang. Marco leapt for it, an instinct developed from having young children who went to bed early. He wondered who could be calling so late.

“Marco?” asked a familiar voice. Even after a quarter century, he recognized it instantly.

“Maria?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I sure wasn't expecting to hear from you of all people,” he said.

“I just wanted to call and tell you I'm sorry all this happened.” She paused. “I never meant to hurt you. I still don't.” Her speech was slightly slurred.

His initial reaction was to be careful—he might be being taped. The woman who was going to accuse him publicly in less than ten hours of forcing her to abort their child was expressing affection for him. In an odd way he understood. They once loved each other. On one level he believed her—the entire confirmation had spun out of control, and they were both trapped on the roller coaster.

“I . . . I don't know what to say,” said Diaz. “I never meant to hurt you either. I never wanted anything but the best for you, Maria. That's always been the case. I just wanted you to be happy, that's all.”

“I know,” she replied solemnly. There was a long silence. Then she spoke. “Marco, I aborted our baby. I did it. . . . I had an abortion. I never told you.”

Diaz was floored. “Why?”

“I wanted something else for myself,” said Maria. “I knew someday you'd be where you are right now. I knew that in the future you would either run for president or be nominated to the Supreme Court. I didn't want that. I made a different choice.”

Diaz's mind raced. Should he say something designed to protect himself in case he was being taped? Instead, he threw caution to the wind. “You made the choice, but someone else paid the price. And now you're trying to make me pay the price.”

“That's why I'm calling,” said Maria. “To tell you I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to know that before tomorrow.”

“I appreciate that,” said Marco. “I will pray for you tomorrow, Maria.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly. She hung up the phone.

Diaz put the receiver down. Had he said anything incriminating? He didn't think so. He hoped the conversation might cause Maria to pull her punch the next morning.

ROSS LOMBARDY WAS BACK in his Alpharetta, Georgia, office, inhaling his second black venti bold Starbucks of the morning, losing the battle to calm his jumpy nerves. He was mainlining so much caffeine his wild eyes reflected his internal turmoil. And for good reason. Maria Solis was scheduled to testify before the Senate Judiciary Committee in less than two hours. The Faith and Family Federation was now blanketing eleven states and national cable with pro-Diaz ads, and its phone banks buried Senate offices beneath thousands of calls a day. One could not turn on Fox News without seeing the triple-F ads, which were running every five minutes. In the midst of this full-court press, at 8:04 a.m., Ross's cell phone went off. On the line was Dick Land, dean of the law school at Trinity University and prominent evangelical legal eagle.

“Ross, I know you're up to your armpits in the Diaz nomination,” Land said, getting to the point straightaway. “Let me be brief. I have a friend who wants to help. Based on what he's told me, I think it might be the breakthrough we're looking for.”

“Really?” asked Ross excitedly. “Tell me more.”

“My friend, David Kenworthy, is a professor of law at Pepperdine,” said Land. “Before that, he was dean of the law school here at Trinity. We've been friends forever. I've known him for more than twenty years.”

“Yes?”

“David was at Yale with Solis and Diaz,” Land continued. “David dated her for a while after she and Diaz broke up. He caught her on the rebound. He says Maria was infatuated with Marco. She was still in love with him and wanted to get him back.”

“No kidding,” said Ross. “That certainly shows a motive.”

“No question. Now, this was in David's BC days,” said Land, using evangelical-speak for “before Christ,” meaning Kenworthy had not yet become a believer. “He was in a period of his life when he was enjoying wine, women, and song.”

“I get it.”

“Anyway, a couple of months after they started dating, Maria was late. She told David she might be pregnant, and if she was, he was the father. But she told David she was going to tell Marco he was the father just to get a rise out of him.”

Ross was thunderstruck. “Dick, that's damning,” he said. “She lied!”

“Kenworthy remembers it just like it was yesterday,” said Land. “After all, a guy doesn't forget when a girl tells him she might be pregnant. In the end it didn't matter. . . . She wasn't pregnant after all.”

“Will Kenworthy put this in an affidavit?” asked Ross. “If he does, he's stepping into the eye of a hurricane.”

“He understands,” said Land.

“Give me his number. I'll call him right now.”

Ross scribbled down the number and reached for the phone on his desk. He had to get Kenworthy in touch with Tom Reynolds's office and get him to prepare an affidavit within the hour. If he could pull it off, he might be able to blunt Solis's testimony.

THE BLACK LINCOLN NAVIGATOR carrying Marco and Frida Diaz turned left off Constitution Avenue and disappeared into the parking garage of the Hart Senate Office Building, rushing past television crews on the sidewalk. The lead SUV was trailed by a chaser car of Secret Service agents and a staff car carrying Deputy Attorney General Art Morris and other aides from the Department of Justice. Slowing to a stop, the cars pulled up to an underground elevator, disgorging their passengers in a blur.

A crowd of reporters ambushed Diaz as soon as he stepped off the elevator, walking briskly to Senator Tom Reynolds's office.

“Judge Diaz, did you father a love child with Maria Solis?” asked Roll Call.

Diaz, clutching Frida's hand and surrounded by a phalanx of Capitol police, kept his gaze straight ahead, ignoring the shouted question.

“Was it hypocritical to force Maria Solis into an abortion while opposing that right for other women?” shouted CNN.

The press scrum moved in step with Diaz, photographers running ahead to snap pictures. Arms and elbows flew. The Capitol police acted like cowcatchers, spreading the mob as Diaz and the entourage kept moving. The door to Reynolds's office opened and they disappeared.

“What a bunch of jackals,” muttered Morris.

“I've never seen such a feeding frenzy,” said Reynolds. He offered everyone coffee. Their nerves were on edge like a team huddled in a locker room before the Super Bowl. A clutch of pasty-faced Senate aides in nondescript suits stood around trying to look important, scrolling through their Blackberries, their postures hunched and mouths mum, eyewitnesses to history practicing their anonymity. Occasionally Reynolds's assistant would walk in and hand him a folded note. He would unfold it, read it, and nod.

Diaz's face was a mask of grim determination. “They've tried to take me down for months,” he said calmly. “But I'm not going down. Nothing they have tried has worked. So now they're going to try Maria.” He seemed almost energized by the intensity of the fight.