The Confirmation (51 page)

Father Frank went down on one knee, whispering words of comfort. “God knows you're in pain, Marco. He understands. Let it out,” he said. Diaz's sobs melted into a quiet weeping. After a couple of minutes, he composed himself. Slowly he got to his feet, wiping the tears from his eyes with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He began to pull himself together.

“Frida needs your strength and support right now,” said Henkel. “This is going to be very difficult for her especially. It's common for the woman to blame herself at a time like this. You need to be prepared for that.”

“I know, I know,” said Marco. “How is she holding up emotionally?”

“As well as can be expected under the circumstances.” He paused, his eyes downcast. “Marco, she won't let the nurses take the baby.”

“Take me to her.”

Father Henkel led the way down the hall and slowly opened the door to Frida's room, stepping back. Marco stepped across the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the semidarkness. The room was eerily quiet. Frida was in the bed, sitting up, holding the baby in her arms, lovingly stroking the little head, which had a surprising patch of black hair, and gazing into the face. She seemed lost in her own world.

After a long silence, Frida finally spoke. “It's a girl,” she said softly, her voice barely audible. “I named her Anna.”

“It's a lovely name,” said Marco. They had wanted a girl for years, a daughter they could dote on and Frida could dress up. Now she was gone.

“She's beautiful, don't you think?”

“Yes, she is,” said Marco. He began to weep, standing alone in the middle of the room, feeling utterly helpless.

“Look at what they've done,” said Frida, her voice barely audible. “They killed my baby.”

“It's too much,” said Marco said, choking back the sobs. “Nothing is worth this . . . not even a seat on the Supreme Court.”

“No, it's not.”

“I'm calling Phil. I'm telling him I'm withdrawing.”

Frida looked up, her eyes ablaze. “I know how you feel, Marco. I have felt like quitting for most of the past two months. But not now, not after what they've done. We have to go on, if only for Anna's sake. I don't want her to have died in vain. I want her life to mean something.” She raised her chin, her ire up. “I want the whole world to see what they did.”

Marco was taken aback by Frida's desire to fight on. He was spent, his tank was empty, and he was an emotional and physical wreck. He didn't even care if he was confirmed anymore; he just wanted it to end. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” replied Frida without hesitation. “We can't let them win after what they've done to us. All of us, especially Anna.”

“Alright, if that's what you want to do,” he heard himself say. “Can I hold her?”

“Sure,” she said. “Be gentle.”

He took Anna, swaddled in a maternity blanket, and cradled her lifeless body in his arms. He walked over to sit in a chair. He was struck by her features: her bow mouth, pug nose, her mother's feline eyes. She was perfect. He began to cry again, the tears burning his skin as they streaked down his cheeks and fell on the cotton blanket. A resolute purpose, stoked by Frida's maternal wrath, boiled inside him. He dedicated his nomination, win or lose, to Anna.

JAY NOBLE HOVERED OUTSIDE Phil Battaglia's door, waiting for him to wrap up a phone call. From behind the door he could hear Phil's low, hushed voice. Then silence. The door opened, and Battaglia waved him in without a word. He made eye contact with Jay, his eyes pained.

“Frida had a miscarriage,” he said. “She lost the baby. I just told the president.”

“No!” he exclaimed. He looked up at the ceiling, his emotions welling up.

“It's bad, pal.”

“How's Marco?”

“Devastated. And yet when I talked to him, he was stoic. Numb might be a better word. My guess is the full impact won't hit him until it's all over.”

“Does he still want to quit?”

“Oddly enough, no,” said Phil. “Frida wants him to tough it out. He told me, ‘They took my daughter from me. I'm going to spend the next forty years on that court paying them back.'”

“Wow,” said Jay.

“They lost their baby, but I think they got some of their vinegar back.”

They sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the carnage. Two people were dead, one by suicide or accidental overdose, the other by homicide as far as Jay and Phil were concerned. The Diaz nomination appeared lost, then won, then withdrawn, and now back again, all in the space of a single day.

“Oh, one other thing,” said Battaglia. “You're not gonna believe this, but the preliminary autopsy finding by the DC coroner shows no cause of death for Maria Solis.”

“I've never heard of such a thing. Is that possible?”

“Apparently it is,” said Battaglia. “She was taking an antidepressant and diet pills. She drank a couple of glasses of wine. But they can't or won't say the combination stopped her heart. Maybe they're trying to protect her family.”

“This is going to start a cottage industry of conspiracy theorists,” observed Jay.

“Probably. It's sad. That witch at Pro-Choice PAC—what's her name—should have left her alone.”

“Christy Love. She would back over her own mother to stop Diaz from getting on the Court. And the media was complicit in her sucking Solis into the whole mess.” He shook his head. “What happens now?”

“Unclear,” replied Battaglia. “I assume this will delay the hearings for a few days, maybe a week.”

“Okay,” said Jay. “Just keep me posted.”

Jay, still in a daze, left Phil's office and headed down the hall toward the West Wing lobby and walked up the stairs to the second floor. Passing his assistant without a word, he closed the door to his office. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number.

“Taylor, Jay Noble. Listen, Frida Diaz just lost her baby.”

Sullivan let out an expletive. “I guess the attacks got to her. It makes me want to puke. The left has blood on their hands on this one.”

“Big time. I'm done pulling our punches. It's time we hit back. Where are you on that thing you've been working on?”

“Locked and loaded,” said Sullivan proudly.

“Good. Go ahead and get it in the water . . . carefully.”

“Now we're talking,” Sullivan replied excitedly.

“Be discreet,” Jay instructed.

“Don't worry. There's a lot of duct tape on the gun. There are no fingerprints.”

Jay hung up the phone. Part of him regretted giving the order. But the loss of the Diaz baby had pushed Jay over the line. It was time to win at all costs.

SAL STANLEY'S HAND GRIPPED the armrests of his chair, his legs crossed, his face stretched into a surgical mask of senatorial stoicism. The Democratic leadership spread out on two couches before the fireplace and several end chairs. The ticktock of the grandfather clock had the disquieting effect of increasing the tension in the room.

“Well, everyone, it appears Maria Solis died from a mixture of prescription drugs and alcohol,” said Stanley. “By all appearances it was accidental. Our thoughts and prayers go out to her family. It is difficult at a time like this to dwell on political implications, but I'm afraid we have no choice. Our main witness against Diaz has died. Pursuing the allegations she made will be problematic at best.” He turned to Penneymounter, who sat on one of the couches. “Do I fairly summarize our situation vis-à-vis the Diaz nomination?”

“I'm afraid so, Sal.”

“What's your assessment of where we stand on the committee?” asked Stanley, sliding to the bottom line.

“I don't sense much movement. We've got one undecided on our side, the rest committed to vote no on the nomination. We're thinking of footnoting Solis's deposition in the majority report and including it in the appendix. Beyond that we let it lie.”

“Anybody got a reaction to that?”

No one offered an opinion. Besides, anyone who questioned Penneymounter's leadership of the committee was liable to be decapitated.

“So the committee votes on the nomination . . . maybe day after tomorrow?”

Penneymounter frowned. “That was my original plan,” he said. “But my staff heard from someone at DOJ that Frida Diaz went into premature labor and had a miscarriage.”

Stanley sunk lower in his chair, his face going white. “You're kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“If that report turns out to be true, it's very bad.”

“Fox News and talk radio will blame us,” said Craig McGowan, chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee. The junior senator from New Jersey was Stanley's protégé and designated hitter (some said lackey) on all matters political.

“When will we know?” asked Stanley, growing visibly agitated.

“Soon,” said Penneymounter. “Should be any minute now.”

“Assuming the committee votes this week, how does it look?”

“I've got ten votes. The only wobbly on our side is Rebecca Rhoades. The Republicans have eight in favor and one undecided, but I think we should assume they'll vote for Diaz.”

“What's up with R-squared?” asked Stanley, using Rhoades's nickname. She was a centrist Democrat from Louisiana, ever mindful of the conservative sentiments of her Catholic and Cajun constituents.

“Who knows? She won't return my phone calls. She's up on the mountaintop, praying.” Penneymounter rolled his eyes.

“Whenever she prays about a vote, that usually means one of two things: she wants more money for New Orleans levees, or she wants more subsidies for sugar,” joked McGowan. Everyone chuckled appreciatively.

“There's a ‘dear colleague' calling for a filibuster of Diaz,” said Leo Wells, the Democratic whip. Wells was a true liberal who made no secret of his desire to replace Stanley as Majority Leader, a fact that caused no small amount of tension between the two. “If Rhoades announces she's voting for Diaz, I'm inclined to sign it.”

Penneymounter moved to the edge of the couch, leaning forward. “I saw that letter. It's way too soon to be discussing a filibuster. It plays right into the hands of the White House and scares the daylights out of the blue dogs.”

“No one in leadership should call for a filibuster,” said Stanley declaratively.

“Sal, with all due respect, if we get forty-one signatures, it gives us leverage,” said Wells insistently. “It doesn't mean we necessarily filibuster. But it allows us to operate from a position of strength. R-squared is less likely to vote for Diaz if she knows he's dead on the floor.”

“No, it does the opposite,” said Stanley, swatting aside Wells's self-serving suggestion like a fly. “Threatening to filibuster weakens our position because it's an admission we don't have the votes to stop him in committee. It lets R-squared off the hook.”

“I won't belabor the point,” said Wells, throwing in the towel. “But Diaz is the fifth vote to overturn
Roe
. Our base expects us to defeat him or die trying.”

“What do you think I've been doing?” fired back Penneymounter, his eyes narrowed. “I know Rebecca. She's prickly to a fault. If she thinks we've given up on her and are counting her as a yes vote, we'll lose her.” He shot Wells a withering look. “You keep doing MSNBC and leave counting the votes to me.”

It was a vicious shot at Wells, a notorious camera hog. Stanley jumped in to stop the fight. “Settle down, everybody. Here's the deal: Joe's going to make a final run at Becky. If we don't get her, we discuss the filibuster option at that time. Alright?”

No one said a word. No one had the stomach to argue the point any further.

Penneymounter's BlackBerry went off. He got up from the couch and walked across the room to the window facing the Mall to answer it, talking quietly. After about a minute he returned to the group, his face somber.

“That was Phil Battaglia,” he said. “He just confirmed what we heard: Frida Diaz had a miscarriage.” He paused. “I have to talk with Tom Reynolds, but this means the committee won't vote until next week.”

Everyone rose and began to file out. Penneymounter hung back, grabbing Stanley's arm in a power clutch, the two speaking in hushed voices. Whatever they were discussing, Penneymounter didn't want to share with the rest of the leadership.

FORTY

The sun hung high and hot as Marco and Frida Diaz and their friends and family gathered in a cemetery in Arlington to bury their daughter Anna. The air was thick. The memorial service, featuring a beautiful homily by Father Henkel, was held at St. Benedict's, their parish church in Alexandria. The graveside service, by contrast, was brief. People sought shelter from the blazing sun beneath a green funeral tent.

A woman sang “It is Well (with My Soul)” a cappella. Father Henkel said a prayer committing Anna's body to the earth and her soul to God. “Father, your Son instructed His disciples not to hinder the little children from coming to Him. We surrender our own desires for Anna's life and submit to Yours, allowing her to sit in the lap of Christ, surrounded by angelic majesties and by Your glory. Amen.”