The Confirmation (8 page)

The car climbed up a steep hill and pulled up to the Hotel Hassler, at the top of the Spanish steps, which would be Jay's home away from home during the campaign. He walked to the front desk, flashed his passport, and attempted to give the clerk a credit card.

“All charges are taken care of, Mr. Noble,” the clerk said with a smile. He motioned over a bellman, who relieved Jay of his garment bag and accompanied him to the elevators. They rode to the top floor, where the bellman placed the electronic key in the latch and opened the door of his suite. Jay could hardly believe it. The apartment stretched across the entire front and side of the hotel. It included a spacious den with a wet bar, a large bedroom, a master bath with whirlpool, a study with a desk and book-lined shelves, and a wraparound balcony overlooking a garden terrace to the right and a breathtaking view of Rome in front. Jay walked out on the balcony and soaked in the view. A thought entered his mind:
good Italian wine, great food, gorgeous women, and politics. What more could an aging political hack ask for?

After a hot shower and a power nap, the car picked up Jay and whisked him to a restaurant on a narrow street near the House of Deputies building. An eager and solicitous aide escorted Jay to a private room in the back of the restaurant, opening the door to reveal Lorenzo Brodi sitting in the semidarkness at a table surrounded by a clutch of aides, his beefy hand rubbing a piece of bread in a small dish of olive oil and peppercorn. Brodi bolted from his chair and hurried across the floor, greeting Jay with a wide grin and a vigorous hand pump.

The first thing Jay noticed about Brodi was how white his teeth gleamed against his dark skin. Brodi was not a tall man, but he presented a commanding presence with a compact, muscular body and a deep tan that bespoke health, wealth, and power. With his jet-black hair combed behind his ears, shoulders back and chest jutted, he exuded the charisma of a movie star.

“Mr. Mayor, pleasure to meet you,” said Jay by way of greeting.

Brodi replied enthusiastically in rapid-fire Italian. An aide translated to English. “The mayor says, ‘So this is Bob Long's brain that I have been hearing so much about.'”

“Not the brains,” Jay corrected him. “The muscle.”

As the translator began to speak, Brodi waved him off. He raised his right arm and made a show of flexing his bicep, saying, “The muscle! Tough guy!” He pointed at his arm. They all laughed.

“That's right,” said Jay smoothly. “I take care of the president's friends as well as his enemies. And from now on I will do the same for you.” He knew that any prospective client or donor was a sucker for any line that celebrated his notorious killer instincts. Jay was used to being seen as the cleaner, cleaning up other people's messes and leaving no fingerprints.

Brodi rattled off a response, punctuating his speech with animated hand gestures. The aide translated for Jay. “The mayor says he has far more enemies than Long, and he wants you to take care of all of them.”

Jay stared back at Brodi as the smile had drained away from his face. “Tell the mayor I look forward to it,” he said.

IN A THREE-STORY PREWAR townhouse on C Street, two blocks from the Supreme Court building, the live-in nurse for Justice Peter Corbin Franklin prepared lunch. She ladled chicken noodle soup into a bowl. Using a knife, she methodically cut the bits of chicken and the noodles into smaller pieces because Franklin had difficulty chewing his food. A registered nurse who specialized in home care for geriatric patients, she had worked for Franklin since the death of his wife six years earlier. But the job was getting more difficult. As his health had deteriorated and his dementia advanced, Franklin had taken to occasionally showing up at work wearing a suit coat, dress shirt, and tie with pajama bottoms, face unshaven, visibly disoriented. One day he had gone to work and sat at his desk for half an hour, buzzing absent staff and growing increasingly agitated. He wandered the halls, angrily demanding to know where his staff was. A security guard had sheepishly explained to Franklin that it was Sunday and everyone had the day off. After that sad episode, Franklin's colleagues implored his nurse to move into his townhouse to keep a closer eye on her patient.

Lunch was a daily ritual with an unchanging menu. She stirred the soup with a spoon and placed two crackers (no salt) on top. Exactly two crackers—never more or less or she would hear about it. She placed a single scoop of chicken salad, the Justice's favorite from the corner deli, on the side. She walked down the hall toward Franklin's private, sun-lit study. He preferred to take his lunch there while he read the newspaper and listened to classical music. A folded copy of the
Washington Post
sat on the tray.

The instant she entered the room, she saw Franklin slumped across his desk, body motionless, one hand clutching reading glasses, the other hand reaching for his right temple. She dropped the tray, its contents shattering on the floor. She rushed to Franklin and quickly checked his vital signs. With her index finger at his neck, she felt a faint, irregular pulse. His breathing was labored. She quickly surmised that he had suffered a coronary episode of some kind, or perhaps a cranial thrombosis. She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the medical team at the Supreme Court.

“I need an ambulance for Justice Franklin stat,” she said hurriedly. “He is unconscious and in severe distress. Please hurry!” She glanced back at Franklin. Every minute was critical if they had any chance of saving his life.

PHIL BATTAGLIA AND CHARLIE Hector walked down the narrow hallway leading to the Oval Office. Battaglia, who had served as Long's counsel in the governor's office in California and during the presidential campaign, was only midway through his second day as White House counsel. He was still unpacking boxes. This was his first meeting with the president.

Checking through the peephole on the door to the Oval Office, Hector rapped on the door before entering. They walked in together, signaling that something important was happening. Long's eyes seemed to ask, “What's up?”

“Phil has some disturbing news,” Hector said.

“You've been on the job for one day and you already have disturbing news? What is it?” asked Long.

“Mr. President, Peter Corbin Franklin was found unconscious in his home about thirty minutes ago,” Battaglia reported. “He's been rushed to GWU hospital. He's in intensive care. There's no official word, but it looks bad.”

Long was thunderstruck. “Was it a stroke?”

“We don't know yet,” said Battaglia. “But given his age, that's not a bad guess.”

“He didn't look good at the inaugural,” said Long.

“No, sir, he did not,” Battaglia agreed. “He's really gone downhill since his wife died. He looked terrible. Just terrible.”

“Now what?”

“We wait,” said Hector. “Health bulletins are provided by individual justices, not the Supreme Court. It's basically up to Franklin's doctors and family to release information on his condition. Unless and until we receive word, we should not comment.”

“Even if he's incapacitated?” asked Long, pressing the point.

“Yes,” said Battaglia. “Frankly, Mr. President, his clerks have done the heavy lifting for years. They write his opinions. Unless he resigns or dies, there's no vacancy.”

“What if he's a vegetable?”

“Doesn't matter. Constitutionally speaking, it's a lifetime appointment,” Battaglia explained, his hands cutting through the air like a prosecutor making a point. “If the prognosis is that he can recover, they could hear cases with only eight justices present and hold any cases in abeyance decided by a tie vote. But if he's in a coma, I would think there will be a fair amount of pressure on his family to have him resign.”

“I think we stay as far away from this as possible,” Hector said.

Long stared back impassively. “What if he ends up like Ariel Sharon did? People who have had a stroke can live for years.”

Hector appeared visibly uncomfortable. “We cross that bridge when we come to it. For our sake, let's hope that doesn't happen.”

Long nodded, his mind racing. “What if he doesn't make it? Are we ready?” He leveled his gaze to Battaglia.

“I can't say definitively that we are, Mr. President,” said Battaglia. “People are still moving into offices. Golden's top deputies at Justice are not confirmed, and they can't legally do their jobs until they are. We're working on a preliminary list of judicial nominees, but it's not ready for you just yet.”

“Well, get it ready,” ordered Long. “Let's accelerate the process. Get on the phone with Golden and get things moving. Because if we have a vacancy, I want to move quickly. You know what LBJ said: if you send a bill up to the Hill and it just lays there, it stinks up the place. The same is true with a judicial nominee. Speed is essential.”

“Yes, sir,” said Battaglia. They turned to go. Battaglia spun on his heel as if he had forgotten something. “Any guidance for me on the list?”

“All other things being equal, I'd like a woman or a Hispanic.”

Battaglia nodded and turned to leave again.

“And Phil—”

“Yes, sir?”

“Get me a memo on what happens if a Justice is incapacitated,” Long said. “I'd like to know all my options.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if trying to avoid being overheard. “And Charlie, very delicately find out what you can about Franklin's medical condition. I don't want to be flying blind.”

Battaglia and Hector left, closing the door behind them. As they walked back to their offices, they uttered not a word; the only sound made was their shoes on the carpet. Battaglia had been struck by how anxious Long seemed to replace Franklin—maybe too anxious. If Long wanted to know his options if Franklin did not die, it could only mean one thing: he had not ruled out trying to force out the eighty-eight-year-old in the case of incapacitation. That meant impeachment. Battaglia shuddered at the thought. It would spark a firestorm on Capitol Hill.

IT WAS TWO O'CLOCK in the afternoon, and Andy Stanton was due in the radio studio in an hour. Ross Lombardy knew that he would be at home doing show prep. Ross was one of only a handful of people with his private number. Andy answered on the first ring.

“Andy, did you hear the news?”

“What?”

“Peter Corbin Franklin had a stroke.”

“Wow, this is big,” Andy said excitedly. “I
told
you there would be a Supreme Court vacancy, didn't I?”

“Not yet, Andy. Franklin's unconscious, but he's alive.”

“I don't see how he can live for long. Did you see him at the inaugural?”

“No, I didn't. But this is eerie, Andy. You called it!”

“The Lord called it. God told me before the election there would be a vacancy on the Supreme Court early in the next term,” Andy said. “I told Long. He didn't believe me.”

“I bet he believes it now.” Ross marveled at the way Andy said God had spoken to him as casually as if he had talked to the guy at the car wash.

“We need to handle this with caution,” Andy said, his voice grave. “Get out a statement that says we're praying for Franklin's recovery. I can hide behind that. We don't want to do anything that sounds political.”

“If you ask people to pray that Franklin recovers, your listeners will be angry at you,” Ross interjected. “If you ask people to pray that he's replaced, you'll spark a media firestorm while we're still in the middle of the flap over the inaugural prayer.”

“I'll be careful. I've done radio for a while, remember?” He paused. “So I guess I should check in with Golden?”

“No, absolutely not,” Ross said a little too sharply. “If you call the attorney general now, you can count on him being asked at some point if he ever spoke to you about a possible vacancy. There's only one good answer to that question: no.”

“Too late,” Andy replied. “I already talked to him about it at the inaugural.”

“Terrific,” groaned Ross. “What did you say?”

“I told him the Lord has spoken to me and showed me there would be a Supreme Court vacancy very soon. I told him he was a modern-day Esther. I said the future of the republic was in his hands and he better not blow it.”

Ross almost fell out of his chair. “What did he say?”

“He just stared at me.”

“I'll call Keith's chief of staff,” said Ross. “I'll tell him we will be passing on some names for consideration.” He paused, shifting gears. “By the way, how are you holding up under all the attacks about the inaugural prayer?”

“Holding up?” chuckled Andy in a low rumble. “Brother, I'm positively
blessed
. My TV show has the highest ratings in the history of the network. My ratings are up 25 percent!”

Ross laughed and hung up the phone. As he glanced out his window at the sprawling campus of New Life Ministries, row after row of Georgian brick buildings and hundreds of cars stretching across acres of parking lots, he marveled at Andy. Many people thought he was a right-wing crank, and more than a few considered him a nut. But in Ross's view he was neither. Andy simply operated on a different plane. He heard things that others did not hear, saw things others did not. He was an evangelical Rain Man. Of course, Andy was wrong as often as he was right. This was one time Ross hoped he really had heard from God.

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