The Confirmation (59 page)

“Speaking of which, I feel like I just gave birth to a bowling ball,” said Long.

Everyone laughed. It was the first moment of genuine levity for Team Long in months. The White House had taken a beating over Iran's nuclear brinksmanship, a stagnant economy, the health care bill floundering on Capitol Hill—and, most recently, the flap over intervening in the Israeli election. It was a brutal few months.

For at least a day, everyone could savor a victory.

IN THE FRONT ROW, Stanley refused to look at Doerflinger as he plunged in the knife. His back to his colleague, his face pale and drawn, Stanley stared straight ahead. Doerflinger kept his head down, plowing ahead with remarks now plodding and uninspired.

“Mr. President, I do not think Judge Diaz—or any other Supreme Court nominee, for that matter—should be asked how he or she would rule on a given case,” he said, flipping a page in a three-ring binder. “I have my differences with Judge Diaz in the area of employment discrimination. However, Judge Diaz has made clear that as a district and appellate court judge he could not legislate his own views on the statute of limitations for filing discrimination claims. While I disagree, I believe he was honest with me and the Judiciary Committee.”

Tom Reynolds sat at his desk, his face like a headlight on high beam. Across the aisle, the Democrats were shell-shocked. To be betrayed by Rebecca Rhoades was one thing, but Doerflinger was one of the sharpest members of the Democratic caucus and a rising star. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

“I would be remiss if I failed to address the allegations against Judge Diaz by Maria Solis,” said Doerflinger, his voice falling to a dramatic cadence. “I learned of her allegations from the chairman of the Judiciary Committee, Senator Penneymounter. At no time did the chairman treat Ms. Solis's allegations, at least in my hearing, as anything other than information of a highly personal nature requiring an answer from Judge Diaz. Nor did I have the impression Ms. Solis's deposition was dispositive or her charges proven.” Several senators glanced down at the carpet. Solis's death hung over the chamber like a pall. “Due to Ms. Solis's untimely and tragic death, the issue is now moot. Differing and irreconcilable recollections by Ms. Solis and Judge Diaz will never be resolved in a way satisfactory to all. Judge Diaz should be granted the presumption of innocence in the absence of incontrovertible evidence to the contrary.”

“THE ISSUE IS MOOT?!” Christy Love shrieked as she tapped the hardwood floor with her Jimmy Choos. “That's the first attack ad in the primary we're going to give this pathetic, spineless excuse of a sell-out.”

“His party needed him to stand and fight and he caves,” muttered one of Christy's lobbyists. “He's finished.”

“Dick thinks this is a play for the Latino vote,” said Christy. “I'll show him. I'll hire a Latina organizer to pass out flyers in Spanish saying he voted for a judge who ruled in favor of discrimination against Hispanics. If we don't beat him in the primary, we'll run an independent expenditure against him in the general. We'll do to him what we did to Lieberman after Iraq.”

“He's toast,” agreed the lobbyist.

“The guy caved for Los Alamos and an F-22 squadron!” shouted Christy. “That's what kills him—he sold his vote. The last time the Senate confirmed a wing nut like this was Clarence Thomas. It led to the Year of the Woman and a backlash at the polls. History is going to repeat itself.”

“I hope you're right. And I hope Long goes down like Bush 41. Did you see where Noble sent an appeal to Long's e-mail list of twenty-one million supporters and activists and asked them to contribute to Doerflinger's campaign.”

“Long's next on my list,” replied Christy. “Trust me.”

“MR. CHAIRMAN, JUDGE DIAZ is the embodiment of the American dream,” Doerflinger continued on the Senate floor, reaching a crescendo. “As only the second Hispanic justice to sit on the Supreme Court, I believe he will bring a unique perspective based on his life experience. Judge Diaz has the character to be a very successful associate justice. I hope he will fulfill that promise. I will vote to confirm him.”

Doerflinger unclipped the microphone from his coat pocket and sat down. Tom Reynolds rose from his own chair and walked over to shake his hand. No one on the Democratic side of the aisle moved. Most looked stricken.

About twenty feet away, Senate majority whip Leo Wells leaned over to Penneymounter. “Hold your head high, Joe,” he said through a cupped hand. “You gave it your best shot. Don't let the SOBs get you down.” He patted him on the knee affectionately.

“Thanks,” replied Penneymounter. “Don't worry about me; I'll be fine. It's the country I'm worried about.”

ROSS WAS IN HIS car listening to the Senate debate on the radio when Doerflinger made his announcement. He pulled off the road and dialed Andy's office.

“Are you watching the Senate vote?” he asked excitedly when Andy came on the line.

“No. What's up?”

“Doerflinger just announced he's voting with us. That's fifty votes, and Whitehead breaks the tie. We won, Andy!”

“Brother, this is huge!” boomed Andy. He let out a relieved sigh. “Millions of people were praying. It's the only way Diaz could have survived such a vicious onslaught.”

“I agree,” said Ross. “I don't think I've seen people pray this hard since the Florida recount in 2000.”

“It took us a half century. We finally made it.”

“It's too good to be true,” said Ross. There was an incoming call beeping on his BlackBerry. He glanced down at the display. “Guess who's calling on the other line?”

“Who?”

“Stephen Fox.”

Andy laughed. “He may be the only guy in the country happier than us.”

“Big time,” said Ross. “But he's holding his breath just like we are on the California marriage case and the South Dakota abortion case. It's 50-50 Diaz recuses himself from the Wildfire case.”

“Not a chance,” said Andy confidently. “That would be admitting he did something wrong on the blind trust. He's not going to give in to his critics.”

“Who would've ever thought we'd be on the same side as Fox?”

“There's no chance that someone finds out about his contribution to the Federation, is there?”

“The check came from an account held by a law firm in LA, and the contribution was anonymous. Technically, I don't know who the donor is.”

“It's not on our tax return, is it?” asked Andy.

“It's reported to the IRS, but we don't have to disclose it publicly.”

“Good.”

Ross shifted topics. “I would imagine you'll get a call from the president. He owes us big time.”

“You said it, brother. Six million dollars worth of television and grass roots. It was well worth it. We now have a conservative majority on the Supreme Court. It's going to make a difference across the board: life, marriage, tort reform, religious liberty, you name it.”

Ross hung up, feeling a greater sense of satisfaction in his work than he had in years. The truth? Sometimes he wondered if he wasn't wasting his life away beating his brains out with a right-wing group while others made the big bucks or had more power. But not today—he and Andy were in the catbird seat. Still a thought nagged him. Had he compromised his beliefs by taking Fox's money? He thought not: if it was the devil's money, at least it went to support a good cause.

Then a thought hit him. He clicked the Web browser on his BlackBerry, pulling up a stock-tracking Web site and typed in the stock symbol for Wildfire. When it came up on the screen, his eyes widened. Wildfire's stock had already jumped 18 percent. Apparently the Street didn't think Diaz would sit out the antitrust case either.

TWO THOUSAND PEOPLE GATHERED on the South Lawn waiting for Long and the newest member of the U.S. Supreme Court. The chief justice had already sworn in Diaz in a private ceremony in the Oval Office the morning after the Senate confirmed him by a 51 to 50 vote, with Vice President Whitehead breaking the tie. The White House released a photograph of the chief swearing in Diaz, but Jay was insistent they stage a public investiture ceremony for supporters.

In the Oval, Long, Marco and Frida Diaz, the chief justice, and the Diaz children gathered for photos. Long playfully scratched the tops of the heads of the two Diaz boys as the official photographer clicked away. He gave them a tour of his desk, showing them how to crawl through the trapdoor in its front, to Frida's chagrin.

Jay and Phil Battaglia hung back, admiring the scene. Long was a natural in such settings. He wasn't just posing for the cameras; he really liked people.

The door opened and Claire walked in, looking effervescent in a peach-colored Dior dress with matching heels, her hair and makeup exquisitely (and one guessed professionally) done, peach lip gloss gleaming on her mouth, complementing her fair complexion. Her strawberry blonde hair, high cheekbones, and blue eyes gave her a striking, if aging, beauty.

“Claire!” exclaimed Long. “So glad you could join us.”

She rolled her eyes. “He's just teasing me for being late . . . again,” she said. She turned to Marco and Frida and walked across the room, giving them both hugs. “Congratulations to both of you, and thank you for your willingness to serve. We're so proud of you.”

“It is really we who should be thanking you,” said Frida.

“Are you sure about that?” asked Long, chuckling.

“Now that it's over, yes,” said Diaz.

“Had we known,” said Frida with a bob of her head, “we would have said no.”

“That's why we like to keep potential nominees in the dark,” joked Long.

“We're glad you said yes,” said Claire, placing a hand on Frida's shoulder. “Marco is going to do a terrific job. I hope you know how many people were praying for you.” Her eyes grew warm with emotion. “I prayed for you two every single day. Millions of others did, too.”

“We felt it,” said Marco. Frida nodded, speechless, her eyes watery.

The door to the colonnade opened. “Time to go, Mr. President,” said an aide.

Long opened his arms like a proud father and guided Marco and Frida out the door, their boys trailing like ducks waddling behind their mother. Claire and the chief justice fell in behind while Jay and Phil exited out a side door, not wanting to be within camera range of Diaz and Long when they reached the stage.

FOR DIAZ'S PUBLIC INVESTITURE, the White House staged a victory jig, inviting a euphoric crowd for what turned into a raucous celebration. It was homecoming for the vast right-wing conspiracy. Roman Catholic bishops, evangelical pastors, televangelists, conservative Hollywood types, Federalist Society lawyers, business lobbyists, and CEOs (Stephen Fox was conspicuous in his absence) shook hands, hugged and kissed, joked easily, signed autographs, and posed for photos. For them it was a dream a long time coming. For the press corps roasting on a riser, it was a freak show, the Tea Party crowd meets Barnum and Bailey.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States and the First Lady, accompanied by the chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, Justice Marco Diaz and Mrs. Diaz,” intoned an announcer. People scrambled to their chairs. Applause greeted Long and Diaz as they bounded onto the stage to the opening notes of “Hail to the Chief.”

Long went directly to the podium as Diaz stood to his right, staring down at a piece of masking tape on the stage with his name on it. A roar went up from the crowd. Diaz's eyes glistened. Frida beamed.

Long hung back, letting the crowd revel in the moment. Their cheers were a lusty rebuke of Sal Stanley, Joe Penneymounter, Christy Love, and that perennial conservative bogeyman, the mainstream media. Andy Stanton sat on the front row with Tom Reynolds and Ross Lombardy on either side. In the calculus of Washington, Andy was the man of the hour. Hated and vilified by many, adored by millions, he was the Rorschach test of American politics: some saw a snake-oil salesman while others saw a modern-day prophet. For Andy's part, he did not care what others thought of him.

The president leaned into the microphone as people took their seats. “We already did this in private, but we wanted to make sure it took,” he joked. (Loud laughter.) Long spoke extemporaneously, ignoring the prepared remarks on the podium.

“I really don't have much to add beyond what I have said many times before about this fine man. Judge”—he spun in Diaz's direction—“forgive me—Justice Marco Diaz . . .” The crowd applauded. Long cocked his head. “I kind of like the sound of that—Justice Diaz.” More laughter mixed with applause. “Marco Diaz is going to make an outstanding addition to the Supreme Court. He demonstrated throughout his confirmation process what those of us who know him well already knew: this is a man of rare character, intellect, integrity, and honor.” Long pointed at Marco. “We had a spirited debate. It was tough at times. But today we are all Americans. Wherever we might have been before, Marco Diaz is now justice for all of the American people, and we wish him God speed.” He bobbed his head in the direction of Diaz. “Now the chief justice will administer the oath to Justice Diaz for his formal investiture.”

The chief justice stood to the left of the podium while Diaz stood to the right, raising his right hand and placing his left hand on a Bible held by Frida, who stood between them.

“Please repeat after me,” began the chief justice. “I, Marco Diaz, do solemnly swear that I will administer justice without respect to persons, do equal right to the poor and the rich.”

Diaz repeated the line.

“And that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent upon me as associate justice of the Supreme Court under the Constitution and laws of the United States.”

Diaz repeated the line, then added, “so help me God.”