The Confirmation (50 page)

“At the risk of stating the obvious,” said Penneymounter, beginning to panic, “if the police inquire about her state of mind, you and Christy need to make it clear there was no indication she wanted to harm herself.” He was horrified at the prospect of Solis's death being ruled a suicide. It would make him look bad.

“Already talked about it,” replied Natalie. “We're in agreement that she seemed to be fine.” She paused for a moment. “I'm shocked.”

“I'm just sick. I feel partially responsible. I knew I shouldn't have let Christy talk me into calling her as a witness.”

“Christy blew it,” said Natalie bitterly. “I know she's the one who leaked the story to Merryprankster. But she won't get blamed . . . we will.”

“Count on it. They'll twist the knife. We would, too, if the shoe were on the other foot.” He let out a sigh. “We have to let people know she's gone.”

“Piper asked us to wait until she notifies her next of kin.”

“Of course.”

“I'm going to stay here at the Mayflower. I'll keep you posted as I find out more,” said Natalie.

“On second thought,” said Penneymounter, “we should wait until the ambulance takes Maria to the hospital and let them announce her death. The more I think about it, I don't think we want to get anywhere nearer to this than we need to.”

“Agreed. Piper can call her family from the hospital.”

Penneymounter hung up the phone and glanced back down at Solis's deposition. The words moved on the page, fading in and out of focus. He had never wanted to call Solis in the first place. Now he had a dead body on his hands.

JAY NOBLE SAT IN his office, reading the affidavit of David Kenworthy. “In early December 1998, Maria Solis came to my apartment and told me she might be pregnant. She informed me that if so, she believed I was the father. I specifically asked whether there was any possibility she might have been with other men during the period she might have become pregnant. She said there was not. She said she previously dated Marco Diaz, but they had not had sexual intercourse in some time.”

Jay's eyes darted across the page, rereading the words. His leg bounced under his desk excitedly. Ross Lombardy had come through again.

His direct line on the phone on his credenza rang. No one had the number except the president. He reached to pick up the receiver. “Mr. President?”

“How's our man Diaz?”

“Doing well, sir,” answered Jay. He scrolled through his BlackBerry as he talked. “Reynolds says Maria Solis's allegations have him fired up with righteous indignation.”

“Good,” said Long. “We need to give Marco a line like Clarence Thomas had when he said his hearing was ‘a high-tech lynching for uppity blacks.'”

“Great idea.”

“What's the Hispanic equivalent of that line?” asked Long. “Can you huddle with the smart guys in the speech-writing department and come up with something?” The president loved testing Jay's famous brainpower.

Jay's wheels turned. “You could say drive-by shooting, but that has gang overtones. I'm fine with saying a high-tech crucifixion, given the way they've attacked his Catholicism.”

“Having a line like that is important,” said Long. “We need to call this what it is. We need to put the Senate on trial.”

There was a long pause. “Mr. President, I just got a news flash on my BlackBerry. If it's true, things just got a heck of a lot more interesting.”

“What is it?”

“It's a
Wall Street Journal
news alert,” Jay said, his voice shocked. “Let me read it to you. ‘MARIA SOLIS FOUND DEAD IN DC HOTEL.'”

“Good Lord.”

Jay continued reading. “‘Maria Solis, ex-girlfriend of Supreme Court nominee Marco Diaz who was to testify this morning that he once forced her to have an abortion, has been found dead in a Washington hotel room. Sources say she appears to have died from an overdose of prescription medication. No further details about her death are yet known.”

“So sad,” said Long. “God bless that poor woman.”

“We're piling up quite a body count,” said Jay. “What does Penneymounter do? Does he release Maria Solis's deposition to the public?”

“He'll look like a grave robber if he does,” said Long.

“Yeah, but on the other hand, if he doesn't use her deposition, the feminists will go bats. He's between a rock and a hard place.”

“Couldn't happen to a nicer guy,” said Long. “He's played this cheap and below the belt from the get-go. He's not an adult. He's not serious. Everything for him is ‘my way or the highway.' Look what he did to Yolanda Majette.”

“Outrageous,” agreed Jay. “I don't know who's more evil, him or Stanley.”

“Have Lisa work up a statement of condolence,” said Long. “Nothing political. Everyone knows who's responsible for this. I don't need to say it.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jay. He hung up the Bat Phone, as the staff called the red phone on his credenza. He bolted from his desk to find Lisa. They needed to put together a statement quickly and come up with a Latino version of the “high-tech lynching” line.

IN A HOLDING ROOM off the Senate Caucus Room, Senator Tom Reynolds, Diaz, and Art Morris waited for the hearing to begin. What was the delay? At that moment Reynolds's assistant walked in and handed him yet another note. He unfolded it and read it silently, his eyes widening, his jaw going slack.

“What is it?” asked Morris.

“Maria Solis is dead,” said Reynolds, still in shock.

Diaz slumped back against the couch. Morris sat wide-eyed, speechless.

Reynolds's assistant returned. She walked over to Reynolds and leaned over, whispering quietly in his ear. He jumped up from his chair and walked behind his desk. As he put his hand on the phone, he said, “It's Penneymounter.” He picked up the receiver. “Joe, Tom here. I just heard.” He paused, listening. “No, it's tragic, really tragic. I'm so sorry for her and her family. Let me know what I can do. Whatever you think is best.” A longer pause. “Sure, I'll be glad to do that. Let me know.” He hung up.

“What did he say?” asked Morris.

Reynolds walked back to his chair and sat down. “He said they're going to let the hospital make the official announcement of her death. Then he plans to make a brief statement for the cameras. He asked me to stand with him as a bipartisan gesture.”

“So that's it?” asked Diaz, his face twisted in anger. “They bring Maria into town to tell a pack of lies, force her into the national spotlight, she kills herself, and then it's over? I don't get to refute the charge that I forced her into having an abortion?”

“I don't know yet what will happen, Marco,” answered Reynolds sympathetically. “But Maria is dead. She obviously can't testify. An affidavit from an unimpeachable witness says Maria told him you were not the father. I think this is over and we won.”

“But I'll never be able to face my accuser,” said Diaz, his voice rising. “Even if I'm confirmed, this will hang over me like a cloud for the rest of my life. It will taint every ruling I make and every opinion I write, especially anything related to abortion. Tom, I can't go on the Court under those circumstances.” He looked away.

Reynolds looked stunned by the emotional ferocity of Diaz's statement. “Marco, you'll have plenty of opportunity to answer the charges. Once you're on the Court you can grant an interview to a reporter who will treat you fairly or write a book.”

“We can't back out now, Marco,” urged Morris. “We're on the five-yard line.”

“No, you're on the five-yard line,” said Marco, shaking his head. “I've lost my good name. My reputation is ruined. My name is worth more to me than a seat on the Supreme Court. I'm sorry, Art, but that's the way it is.”

“Marco, it's your life, and I wouldn't presume to tell you what to do,” Reynolds said quietly. “But I believe you're supposed to be on the Court. If you step aside now, they win in the worst possible way—with a lie. And a damnable lie at that.”

“They've already won, Tom,” he said. “Don't you see that? Maria's dead. My reputation will never recover. Nothing can restore my good name—not now, not ever.”

“Yes it will, Marco,” said Morris. “But only if you're confirmed to the Court and can show who you really are.” He walked over to Diaz and grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling his face close. “
That's
your revenge.”

“I'm not interested in revenge.” Diaz stood up and walked to the window, looking out over the Mall. “I probably should have told you guys this before, but Maria called me.”

“What? When?” said Morris.

“Last night. It was bizarre. She said she was sorry, that she never meant to hurt me. She basically apologized.” He turned around to face them. “She said she was pregnant with our child and that she had an abortion. She never told me. She probably knew I'd want to keep the baby. Can you believe it?”

“So she admitted you never forced her to have an abortion,” said Reynolds.

“Yes.”

“Well, she took that admission to her grave,” said Morris.

“I guess we'll never know if she would have told the truth when she testified, but I kind of got the feeling she would,” said Diaz. “I didn't want to tell anyone because frankly I didn't want to jinx it.”

Morris shook his head in disbelief. “She still loved you. All these years later.”

Diaz buttoned his coat and walked briskly to the door, placing his hand on the door knob, suddenly filled with energy. “Speaking of love, I need to be with Frida. You guys don't need me here anymore. Can someone take me to the hospital?”

“Of course,” said Morris. He opened the door, sticking his head out into the reception area where several FBI agents sat. “Can you guys please take Judge Diaz to the hospital so he can be with his wife? On the double?”

“Yes, sir,” one of them answered.

Diaz exited the room. Reynolds and Morris stood there, numbed by the news they had just absorbed.

“What do you think?” asked Reynolds. “Have we lost Marco?”

“I hope not,” said Morris. “It would be a big mistake to bow out now. As sad and unnecessary as it was, Solis's death gives us the momentum.”

“No question,” agreed Reynolds. “Everybody's got a limit of how much pain they can take. Solis obviously reached hers. Marco may have reached his.”

Morris shrugged. “Well, I should get back to the office. There isn't going to be a hearing today.” He shook Reynolds's hand firmly. “Thanks for all you've done, Tom.” He exited the same way as Diaz.

Reynolds shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't recall a day this crazy in his Senate career. He hoped Diaz would hang in there. If not, they'd be on their fourth nominee.

THIRTY-NINE

A black SUV with tinted windows pulled up to the emergency room entrance at the George Washington University Hospital, disgorging two dark-suited FBI agents wearing shades. One of the agents opened the rear door for Marco Diaz. A clutch of reporters on a deathwatch looked on, mouths agape. By a gruesome coincidence, the ambulance bearing the body of Maria Solis had arrived at the same entrance fifteen minutes earlier.

The FBI agents escorted Diaz into the emergency room waiting room and cleared a path in the crowded hallway, opening the door of a service elevator. “What floor?” one of them asked. Blank stares; no one knew.

An agent stuck his head out of the elevator and asked a nurse on which floor they could find the OB-GYN unit.

“Four.”

Diaz reached over and pressed the button, punching it repeatedly even after it lit and the doors began to close. He was anxious to get there and see his wife.
How was Frida doing?
he wondered.
Had she heard about Maria?

The service elevator stopped on the second floor to let off a janitor pushing a mop bucket. To Diaz's frustration, the janitor pressed the button to the third floor, then disembarked.

“I'm just glad we're not going to the eighth floor,” cracked Diaz. The FBI agents chuckled.

When they finally reached the fourth floor, the doors opened. Stepping out of the elevator, Diaz nearly bumped right into Father Frank Henkel, one of his closest priest friends in the nation's capital. Father Henkel stood by the nurse's station between the elevator and the nurse's station, wearing a gravely serious expression on his face.

“Father Frank, I'm so glad you're here,” said Diaz in an excited voice. “How's Frida?”

“She's doing fine. But before we go into her room, I need to tell you something,” said Henkel.

“Sure, what's up?”

“Frida's fine,” Henkel repeated. His eyes were dark with sadness. “Marco, she lost the baby.”

Marco let out a low, guttural yell. It was the scream of a tortured soul that echoed in the hallway, bouncing off the walls and the linoleum floor. Instinctively Father Henkel grabbed him and hustled him into an empty hospital room, where Marco's knees buckled, his body crumpling to the floor. “No! No! No!” he screamed, his body racked with sobs. He fell forward, his elbows on the floor, his face planted on the linoleum. “Oh, God! Dear God, no!”