Shining City

by Tom Rosenstiel

  Albin is renowned for delivering grand pronouncements self-mockingly, a habit that allows him to articulate the unlikely scope of his ambitions but always in half jest. Doubters will think he’s kidding. Believers will marvel at his cunning.

  “Today we are going to war-game the battle for the next Supreme Court justice. I want everything figured out by tomorrow so it’s ready for the Monday meeting.”

  The Monday meeting is a reference to Albin’s famed Monday breakfast gatherings, held in a room across the hall. Dozens of conservative movement groups meet each week to coordinate tactics and talking points. More than one hundred people show up, lawmakers, lobbyists, pressure groups, and citizen action groups like Albin’s. The meetings are another part of the Albin magic. If people imagine that the Liberal Establishment has ruled the country for seventy-five years—with the power elite all gathering at places like the Trilateral Commission to build a web of power—Albin has decided to counter that by creating a ruling conspiracy of his own, consciously and deliberately. Every Monday morning. And he has.

  A blond woman raises a hand.

  “Any intelligence, sir, from the Network?” she asks.

  “Not yet,” Albin answers.

  The Network refers to a mysterious group of “friends” Albin supposedly developed over the years, and, according to legend, in some cases even helped placed in key power centers around Washington—agencies, rival groups. It began, so the story goes, with Albin identifying the political orientation of all the civil service people in the White House and contacting them.

  Sometimes called “the Listeners” or “the Watchers,” they represent a secret network of spies that purportedly reports to Albin directly. No one even knows for sure if the Network is real. But Albin nurtures the idea with vague allusions to “our sources” in the “Code Blue Bulletins” he sends to other conservative groups when things are breaking.

  “So, how do we want to think about this nomination?” Albin asks.

  “We have flexibility, it seems to me,” answers Keith Flanders, Albin’s new head of research.

  “Our focus is on cutting taxes and limiting the size of the government. As you say, Josh, to make it so small we could flush it down the drain. Well, how do we advance that goal here? By predictably opposing whomever the president nominates? Or is it possible that we could gain more leverage by keeping an open mind on the nominee? If we approve the president’s pick, or at least remain silent, could we earn a credit from the White House that we can use later, on something closer to our core mission?”

  Albin regards Flanders a moment and then answers: “Right definition of focus, Keith, but wrong strategic analysis. But I’m glad it came up, for those of you who are new.”

  Sarcasm in his voice.

  “Breaking away from our colleagues on the right is rarely a useful option. It’s the nuclear option, and it has mostly negative consequences. The strength of the center-Right movement in America is its unity. Never make an ally into an enemy.”

  Albin sees leadership as a teaching role, and repeating aphorisms like this is one of his pedagogic tactics.

  “Remember, unity is a key competitive advantage we have over the weakened and dying vestiges of the Left,” Albin reminds them. “The leftist groups always fight among themselves because they are scrambling for federal money, and there is a limited amount to be had.”

  Albin pauses, waiting for nods of assent. Then he continues.

  “On the right, we are fighting for ideas, and they are something to be shared and spread. In our unity we gain allies, we gain strength, and we gain power for the next fight.”

  “But isn’t there a risk, then, that in practice this means we just go along?” Flanders presses. “Doesn’t that mean we end up opposing whomever the president nominates regardless of who they are?”

  “No,” Albin answers quickly. “It means this: Now that Hoffman is in the ground we can send a message to the president and the country that we expect the next justice joining the Court to reflect and represent the values of most Americans. So now, in today’s news cycle, our first tactic is to frame the debate and set the terms by which we want the president to play. That is leadership. Not followship.”

  Albin pauses for effect and asks, “And have we got that message ready, Sally?”

  Sally Holden is the communications director.

  “We’re working on talking points for your approval.”

  “Excellent. Can you have it on my desk by end of day? Basically an hour? What are the core values the next Court justice should represent that reflect the center of thought of the American people, the mainstream American values?”

  “You’ll have it,” Holden answers.

  “Here’s what I want to have happen. Once I’ve gone over this, I want to blast-email the talking points around as a courtesy to the members of the Monday Club by seven p.m. tonight, and I want to let them know that we invite any input they have and we will be emailing to the press at one p.m. tomorrow afternoon. That shares the talking points and gets buy-in and feedback from our allies. And if we have missed anything, it gives us three hours to fix it.”

  “And helps everyone else shape their message,” Holden says.

  “Exactly,” says Albin. “Unity. Any questions?”

  Silence.

  Al Thomas, deputy director of Citizens for Freedom, whispers something to Albin.

  “We have a new person starting today,” Thomas then says to the room. “I’d like to introduce everyone to Jeremy Stone. Welcome, Jeremy.”

  A chorus of welcomes are directed to a tall, blond-haired young man sitting against one wall.

  “Jeremy graduated from Dartmouth last year. He was in the Federalist Society. Worked on the Dartmouth Review. Comes very highly recommended.”

  “Very nice,” Albin says.

  “I’m excited to be here, sir,” the young man says.

  “Well, we make our interns really work,” Albin says. “There’ll be plenty of Xeroxing. Running errands. Taking notes.” People laugh. Then Albin leans in toward him with a sudden serious stare. “But we’re shaping the future of this country. Right, everyone?”

  Smiles around the room at the ritual.

  “All hands, then. Good luck,” Albin says.

  In an instant everyone rises and the room begins to empty.

  “That was quick,” the new intern who had been singled out says to his neighbor.

  “One standing rule of an Albin staff meeting,” the staffer tells him: “Any gathering about tactics or administration that takes more than fifteen minutes is too long. Anything longer creates mischief and wastes time.”

  “He is right on time,” the boy says, looking at his watch.

  “Welcome to Josh World.”

  The intern thinks he will need to sit down tonight and write for his minders his first memo on Josh World.

  Thirteen

  7:00 P.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  “Good evening, Ms. Cutter, and welcome back to Restaurant Donna. The rest of your party is already here.”

  “Thank you, Annie.”

  The hostess is a young Eurasian woman with the cheekbones of a queen and dark, hypnotic eyes. That kind of beauty is a gift, and it can take you much further than you might otherwise go, Deborah Cutter knows. If you have the brains and drive to use it.

  Cutter follows the girl to the best table in the dining room’s famous back corner. Restaurant Donna, named for owner Donna Fleming, had been the preferred dining spot for progressives in Washington for a quarter century. During her first five struggling years in Washington, Cutter had eaten here exactly once—with her parents. Now she was a regular, and most Wednesdays they hold this table in case she comes in.

  The senior staff of Fair Chance for America—Sylvia Blechman, Nan Bullock, and Todd Paulson—is already seated.

  “Chardonnay, please,” Cutter tells the hostess, who gives her a flustered “I don’t wait on tables” look, but there is something about Debo
rah Cutter that defies rules. The wine arrives a moment later, brought by the hostess herself. Too bad, Cutter thinks. The girl wouldn’t hold her ground. Her looks might be a waste.

  “We’re debating two questions,” says Sylvia Blechman, Cutter’s deputy, a heavyset woman in her late fifties with rimless glasses.

  “Don’t tell me,” Cutter says. “Whether to strike fast and frame the public debate or wait and coordinate with other progressives.”

  “Right,” Blechman says, smiling.

  They are always the same questions, Cutter thinks, with a sudden feeling of disappointment.

  “We have the prestige to lead on this, to demand the president pick a liberal,” says Todd Paulson, Fair Chance’s new communications guru.

  Cutter has just hired Paulson to modernize their outreach. He knows social media and technology and he has a killer instinct, which she likes.

  “But we’ll have more leverage if we coordinate and speak as a unified progressive community,” says Nan Bullock, the most senior of Cutter’s team. “This president won’t listen unless we’re unified.”

  Bullock, who has been fighting the culture wars for forty-five years, always leans toward unity. But in the digital age, when you are closer than ever to your base, worrying about what gets things done in Washington isn’t always as important.

  “If we wait for the progressive community to agree, the president will have named a nominee, the Senate voted, and the Court will be in session,” Paulson says, only half-jokingly.

  Cutter is tired of this debate. Dog tired of it. It’s the same one the loose community of progressive groups has on every issue.

  “We can have it both ways,” she declares, trying to end this. “We prepare a statement pressuring the White House about the importance of picking a liberal, and we give other groups twenty-four hours to join us. No blindsiding.”

  Her deputy Blechman nods, which ends the discussion. “And what do you think the Right will do?” Blechman adds so that the conversation moves on. Good ol’ Blechman.

  “It’s possible, if we listen well, we might be able to get a read on that,” Paulson says enigmatically.

  Paulson should keep his mouth shut, thinks Cutter. Shortly after she hired him six months ago, he had come to her privately and asked her how she would feel if he had people inside other organizations who from time to time reported back to him. She had looked at him a long time, nodded slightly, and said simply, “Don’t tell me.” He had smiled. But now he can’t help himself. He keeps dropping little hints that maybe he has people actually doing it. Like that braggart Josh Albin supposedly does with his moles, or listening people, or whatever they’re called. She doubted he had any such people. She isn’t opposed to Paulson trying something like that. But he needs to zip it.

  Paulson suddenly pulls out his cell. He answers in a low whisper. Everyone is watching him, waiting. Then he closes the phone and says importantly, “I have news. From the West Wing.”

  “He’s picked someone already?” Blechman guesses.

  “No. But he’s picked who’s going to run the nomination,” says Paulson. “Peter Rena.”

  “Peter Rena and Randi Brooks?” asks Blechman.

  “Yes,” Paulson answers.

  “Isn’t Rena a Republican?” Cutter asks rhetorically.

  “But Randi Brooks is a Democrat,” Bullock adds.

  Cutter makes a huffing sound and waves her hand in the air. “Randi Brooks is a genuine progressive,” Bullock says.

  “Or she used to be,” Paulson says.

  Cutter takes a last gulp of her wine and shakes her head. “I don’t care what she used to be. You trust those fighting with you. Anyone else you don’t know what you can share.” Everyone nods, Cutter notices, except Bullock.

  “You stay and eat,” Cutter tells them. “I need to make some phone calls. If the White House has already hired someone to handle the nomination, we don’t have time to waste.” As she slides out of her chair, she sees the dark-haired hostess watching her.

  Fourteen

  Thursday, April 16, 9:15 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Belinda Cartwright’s email came in at 3:07 in the morning.

  Five sentences: how she has betrayed the public trust.

  Rena spends the first half hour at the office turning her words into a workable statement she could read in a press conference—as early as next week if she agrees. Most of the words are Cartwright’s.

  I want, first, to apologize.

  To the people I represent. This House. My country. My friends.

  I have let you down. I have let my family down. I have let myself down. I am truly so sorry.

  In the beginning, my mistake was an innocent one. I allowed myself to be tricked by a man who said he loved me.

  Yet if that were my only mistake I wouldn’t be standing in front of you here today.

  When I found out that my husband was a thief, a man who was stealing my money and my family’s money, I made my bigger mistake. I let my vanity and my shame get in the way of my judgment. I didn’t trust that the people of Utah would understand. I worried about keeping my high position. I crossed a line. To cover my growing debt, I put my husband on my personal staff though I gave him no real responsibility.

  I also began to mislead my staff, my colleagues, and the people I represented, hoping vainly that if I could just manufacture more time, I could somehow untangle everything and put it right.

  At that point I went from being a victim to being part of the deceit. The legal system will determine what formal redress is required, if any. I know by my own moral compass that it was wrong. And I must pay the price for that.

  I did not make this situation. But I did make it worse.

  Now I owe it to this institution and our system of government to allow the people of Utah to choose different representation in Congress that won’t be handicapped by what I now have to go through. And I need to turn my own personal attention to correcting what has happened to my family, and to helping any legal authorities find the money that was stolen from me and others by the person who wormed his way into my family’s life and began this nightmare.

  To do that, I am announcing today that I am resigning my seat in the House of Representatives. I need to begin to get on with the rest of my life by being part of the solution to this matter, not the problem.

  She should take questions. She will need legal counsel first to know what she can and cannot say. Courtney Palmer would be a good choice, even if Cartwright already has someone else.

  Hallie Jobe is calling from Palo Alto, up early—still on East Coast time. She’s reporting in on her day and a half spent talking to faculty about Madison, the kind of personal summary no FBI background check would get. Rena asks O’Brien to get Wiley, Brooks, and Smolonsky to come in for the call. More minds on a problem will find more problems—and that is what is needed.

  “In the end, I’d say affable but not warm. Outdoorsy but in a cerebral way. A little crunchy granola—the birding, the astronomy, the sailing—but that kind of thing is normal out here.”

  Rena smiles to himself. Jobe, who had loved the discipline of the military, is as straight as they come. Crunchy granola is not her thing.

  “How political is he?” Rena asks.

  “Well, the guy went to Berkeley from 1968 to 1972,” Jobe says.

  Rena glances at Brooks and asks, “What does that mean, Hallie?”

  “I can find people who say he took drugs in college.”

  “Berkeley in the sixties and all you got is pot?” Smolonsky asks.

  “Actually,” Wiley says, “he wrote a fascinating article on how the 1960s affected the current generation of jurists. He says that it did lead to a greater judicial activism, but that the activism is in both parties, and he cites lots of cases to prove it.”

  She doesn’t mention the ambiguous speech transcript about legalizing drugs that Brooks called about last night.

  “Anything else, Hallie?” asks Ren
a.

  “No, that’s all,” Jobe says in her clipped, efficient way. “Shall I come home?”

  “No. Write it up in the next hour and email it in drop box. And tell no one.”

  Rena looks at Wiley when the call ends. “Anything more on why Madison took that detour to the Superior Court after being dean at Stanford? Any inkling he was forced out?

  “Apparently, the opposite; it was Madison’s idea. He argued Superior is where most law is practiced, and he thought he should experience it. My guess is he knew the appeals court job was coming soon enough.”

  “You buy that it was Madison’s idea?” Brooks presses.

  “According to the public record at least,” Wiley answers. “The university was getting a new president, and he wanted Madison to stay. Madison had been the law school dean for six years and told the incoming president that was enough, and that his successor shouldn’t have him skulking around. There was even a quote from Madison. Where is it? ‘You probably do your best work as a dean in the first four years.’”

  “Humble,” says Smolonsky.

  “Not the word most people would use to describe him,” Wiley says.

  Rena’s assistant O’Brien tries to suppress a laugh.

  “We get much from the class lists from Stanford and Harvard?” Rena asks. “Anyone know people on those?”

  Rena knew two people and had called them the day before, a journalist who had gone to college with Madison whom Rena knew from Pentagon days and a law school classmate of Madison’s whom Rena had done work for as an investigator. He hasn’t heard back.

  “Details. Nothing significant,” Brooks says.

  These calls are delicate. Calling people about a nomination that isn’t public risks tipping a hand. That is why many federal background checks actually occur after someone is hired and working provisionally in a federal job. And why Rena and Brooks rely so heavily on database research. Databases don’t tattle.

  They are getting close. They’ll have to send something to the White House later today. For better or worse, they are in it.