by Ralph Reed
“I like it. What about women?” asked Golden
“We have two solid candidates and one not so solid,” said Morris. “The best, at least in terms of optics, is Yolanda Majette, an African-American woman who is chief justice of the California Supreme Court. Her father was the former state chair of the NAACP.”
Golden’s eyes lit up. “Did Long appoint her?”
“No, but he will know her. She’s stellar.”
“We’re getting press calls asking if we’re preparing to transmit names to the White House,” reported the chief of staff.
“Tell them it’s business as usual,” said Golden. He raised his voice and craned his neck as if to imitate a press spokesperson. “Reviewing judicial candidates is standard at the start of every administration. There is no connection whatsoever to Franklin’s medical condition.”
“But we can always hope,” joked Morris.
“Ross Lombardy called,” said the chief of staff, changing subjects. “He wants to give us some names.”
“Get them from Andy’s legal eagle, not Lombardy.” Golden’s eyes widened and his face lit up. “By the way, Andy got in my face at the inaugural—backstage at the Faith and Family celebration—and told me that God had told him there would be a vacancy very soon.” He shook his head in wonder, chuckling. “I don’t know if he’s a prophet or clairvoyant.”
“Don’t you know Stanton’s got a direct pipeline to God?” laughed Morris. “Either that, or Mars.”
Golden rose from his chair, signaling the meeting was over. “Gentlemen, organize your team and make assignments.” He smiled wryly. “I recommend you order in some pizza because I suspect you’ll be pulling some all-nighters.”
CHRISTY LOVE PUT DOWN her ever-present can of Diet Dr. Pepper and rapped on the table. The casual conversations wafting through the room abruptly stopped. The lawyers—she called them her hired guns—sat around the conference table, yellow legal pads open, pens poised, earnest expressions on every face. The communications and political staff lined the wall in chairs. They were puffed up like blowfish, ready to attack. The tension in the room was thick. Everyone’s adrenal glands were wide open.
“Okay, folks, this is the real deal,” Love announced grandiloquently, hands on hips. “This is not a drill. Justice Franklin is in our thoughts, and we hope he pulls through. He’s tough, and he’s gotten through worse than this before. But should there be a vacancy, as much as we hope there won’t be, we have to be prepared for the mother of all confirmation battles.” She looked around the table. “Is the press release out yet?”
“Done. We shot that out fifteen minutes after the AP bulletin on Franklin,” answered the communications director, beaming. “We’ve got more than two hundred press calls. You have interviews lined up with NBC, CNN, Fox News, and the BBC.”
“CNN is setting up in your office now,” Love’s assistant reported.
“Good,” said Love. “The message is: we hope there won’t be a vacancy, but if there is, we’re ready. The stakes could not be higher, and if the Long administration tries to play politics with the Supreme Court, we will oppose them with every resource at our disposal.”
“We’re locked and loaded,” said one of the lawyers.
Christy shot him a withering look. “Off message. This is Pro-Choice PAC, not the NRA, for crying out loud!” The room broke into nervous laughter at Christy’s trademark cutting wit.
“The Faith and Family Federation issued a release saying that Franklin was in their prayers,” offered someone in the back of the room, sarcasm dripping from his voice.
“Gag me,” said Love. “Stanton makes me want to puke.” She turned to her lead staff attorney. “Do we have the legal research on all the likely candidates?”
“We do,” the counsel reported to the group. “We have dossiers on all of the candidates. We’re more ready than we’ve ever been.”
Love nodded approvingly. “People, there’s no margin for error,” she warned. “Bob Long won the White House with the religious right and angry white males. It’s payback time.” She paused, surveying every face. “We’re the only thing standing between the American people and the shredding of the Constitution.” Her eyes sparkled with intensity. She clapped her hands together twice. “Let’s get to work and fight for women’s rights like our whole lives depended on it. Because they do.”
The room broke into loud applause. Someone let out a shrill whistle. Love was head coach, field general, and attack dog all rolled into one: a Doberman in designer heels. She and her team had drawn a line in the sand: they would stop Bob Long from putting a right-wing extremist on the Supreme Court or die trying.
THE MEDICAL TEAM AT George Washington University gathered in a small office steps, from the ICU, studying pictures from the MRI and the CT scan of Peter Corbin Franklin. Twenty minutes earlier they had finished three hours of emergency surgery on the justice, during which the surgeons inserted a stent at the base of his brain stem to relieve pressure caused by the bleeding in his skull. The lead surgeon pointed to various regions of the brain with his index finger as they talked in hushed voices. On the positive side, there was no sign of a tumor or growth in the brain. But the shaded areas on the MRI were the telltale signs of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The bleeding in the brain had done extensive tissue damage, and the GWU hospital surgical team knew it was irreversible.
“He has massive intraparenchymal bleeding,” the lead doctor said.
“Do you think it affects the medulla?” asked a member of the surgical team.
“Yes. We don’t know if it caused damage to the vagus nerve. The immediate objective is to stop the bleeding. We won’t know his true condition until he stabilizes. Then we’ll see if he can breathe without assistance.”
“It looks like classic CAA,” said a GWU professor of medicine who was consulting with the surgical team. One of the surgeons arched his eyebrows in curiosity. “Cerebral amyloid angiopathy,” the professor continued. “It’s a weakening of the blood vessels in the brain that makes the victim especially prone to cranial bleeding.”
The lead surgeon nodded. That ruled out blood thinning medication, which made recovery even more unlikely. The realization deepened the already sober and determined mood in the cramped office.
“He may not regain consciousness,” said another doctor. “If he does, it’s questionable whether he’ll be fully cognizant.”
The lead doctor frowned to signal his disapproval. The rest of the trauma team greeted this statement with silence. The reality of Franklin’s precarious condition was something only to be spoken of in hushed whispers.
A male nurse wearing a green smock stuck his head in the door. “Doctor, phone call,” he said to the lead surgeon. “It’s the White House.”
“The White House? What in the world would they want from me?”
“I don’t know, sir. It’s the operator. Line two.”
The lead doctor looked at his colleagues, shrugged his shoulders, and picked up the phone. The voice on the other end said, “Doctor, thank you for taking my call. This is Charlie Hector, calling from the White House.”
“I know who you are,” the doctor replied coldly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hector?”
“We’re getting press inquiries about Justice Franklin’s medical condition. Obviously, I don’t want to pry or violate the confidentiality of the doctor-patient relationship. But we are trying to be responsive to the media, so I was wondering if you could provide us with any guidance in a general way on the Justice’s condition. Or I can just keep this conversation confidential.”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything at this time,” the doctor said, swatting aside Hector’s empty caveats.
“Well,” said Hector haltingly. “In that case, do you have any plans to hold a news conference or issue a statement? An awful lot of rumors are flying around on the Internet. It might help.”
“Mr. Hector, my only focus is on taking care of Justice Franklin,” said the doctor,
his voice distant. “I don’t have anything to report at this time. When we do, we’ll inform the public, and you’ll find out when everyone else does.”
“I know you’ll handle it in a thoroughly professional way,” said Hector, his voice hollow.
The doctor hung up the phone with a thud. He turned to his colleagues. “I can’t believe the chutzpah of this White House,” he said through clenched teeth. “It’s just beyond the pale.”
“Who was that?”
“Charlie Hector doing his best imitation of the Grim Reaper.”
“We need to release a statement and throw a wet blanket on the death watch,” urged one of the doctors. “Things are spinning out of control. There are two dozen camera crews outside the emergency room entrance.”
“We have to tell the truth, but it needs to be positive enough to force the White House and the media to back off,” said the lead physician. The doctors appointed a committee of two to work with the hospital’s public relations officer to draft a statement. The two doctors who drew the short straw headed down the hall toward an elevator.
The lead surgeon padded back into the ICU, still wearing his green surgical gown, and stopped at the foot of the bed of Peter Corbin Franklin. He stood there silently, staring. Franklin’s frail body was twisted at an impossible angle, legs pulled up to his abdomen, his right hand involuntarily forming a claw. Tubes came from every part of his body, extending from his nose, chest, and mouth. The repetitive beep of an EKG echoed in the background. Franklin’s pale, drawn face resembled a death mask. His mouth agape in a silent scream, he wore a stricken expression, black eyes unseeing. Even if he lived, he would never again be the brilliant legal mind with a rapier wit that had once enraptured audiences and intimidated lawyers at the Supreme Court. Worst of all, Franklin was now a pawn in a larger political chess game. They wouldn’t let the poor man die in peace.
SEVEN
Jay Noble used a wooden spoon to shovel shellfish and pasta onto his plate from a large bowl at the center of the table. His hosts brought him to La Terraza, a trendy restaurant around the corner from the Piazza Navona. The restaurant pulsated with energy, waiters carrying tables over their heads and setting them down to accommodate new arrivals, wine stewards floating in and out brandishing expensive bottles of wine, and loud, animated conversation filling the courtyard. Handsome couples, walking arm in arm, arrived in a steady flow. Jay’s party had already downed plates of caprese, bruschetta, and calamari. Now they were on the main course, a steaming confection of linguine, crawfish, prawns, and eel. The ever-present maître d’, who impressed Jay as having the managerial acumen of a CEO and the charisma of a pop idol, kept a close watch on their table. Even halfway around the world, Jay was a VIP.
“So tell me the truth,” Jay asked his hosts. “Do you guys eat like this every day?”
“In Italy,” one of them explained, “food is not just for nutrition. It is . . . how you say?” He drew his fingers together as though holding a pinch of salt. “The essence of life.”
“That’s food?” Jay replied with a smirk. “I thought that was sex.”
Jay’s hosts exploded with laughter. “That, too!” one of them exclaimed.
“So where does politics fit in?” asked Jay, taking another bite from a prawn lathered in sauce. “In Italy is it primarily a sport or deadly serious?”
“We’ve had forty-two governments since World War II,” one of his hosts said, swirling red wine in the bottom of his glass. “We burn through prime ministers like the French do their mistresses.” More laughter. “So I would say politics is a sport.”
“We’re getting ready to win big,” Jay said, “and when we do, we will build the most durable governing coalition of your lifetimes. A center-right coalition with a third or more of the seats in the House of Deputies from Brodi’s party will be unshakable. The left-wing parties will be irrelevant.” He paused. “We did it in the U.S. We can do it here.” They all nodded. Jay knew what they were thinking: are we paying this guy enough?
Jay’s BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced down to see the number of Marvin Myers, the media Big Foot who wrote the leading syndicated column in America, carried in four hundred newspapers, and also hosted a ratings-grabbing Sunday show. Jay was a key source for Myers. He held up his index finger and excused himself from the table.
“Jay,” came Myers’s smooth drawl. Jay was surprised how clear the connection was. “What’s the White House thinking on the Peter Corbin Franklin situation?”
Jay walked to the front of the restaurant, where a large refrigerator displayed fresh seafood, salmon, shellfish, eel, and trout. The smell of dead fish filled his nostrils. “Marvin, I’m sorry, but I’m out of the country. What’s up with Franklin?”
“He had a stroke,” said Myers, surprised that Jay was out of the loop. “He’s in intensive care at GWU hospital. From what I hear, it’s bad, as in he’s not likely to go home.”
Jay almost dropped his phone. “I can’t believe it.”
“The hospital issued a statement saying he suffered a cerebral hemorrhage,” Myers reported. “They claim his condition is not life-threatening. That doesn’t really add up.”
“No, it doesn’t. He was in bad shape before this happened.”
“A clerk for another justice told me Franklin’s in a coma and is brain dead. If that’s true, it’s going to require some kind of resolution, isn’t it?”
Jay suddenly felt nauseous from the overpowering smell of dead fish. Myers was on the case and was about to write one of his agenda-setting pieces that would have all of Washington talking. Jay stalled him. “Let me see what I can find out.”
“I’d be eternally grateful.” Myers reloaded. “If Franklin isn’t coming back, Long will have an appointment. I’m trying to get a feel for who might be on the short list.”
“You might check in with someone at DOJ,” suggested Jay. “Do you have good sources over there?” He wanted to pacify Myers without being the source on something as sensitive as Long’s short list for the Supreme Court. That was a little too hot to handle.
“Jay, I have sources everywhere,” Myers said with characteristic aplomb. “Don’t be disappointed, but you’re hardly the only person I’m talking to.”
“How well I know that,” Jay said, laughing. As he talked, a tall Italian woman with dark skin and a mane of black hair breezed by, towering in six-inch heels. She wore a black ribbed turtleneck sweater, a snug-fitting black leather jacket, and designer jeans into which it appeared she had been poured. As she passed, Jay noticed a tattoo just above the shoe line on the top of her foot. He was liking Rome more with each passing day; it was a little like LA, only with history and culture.
“Where are you?” Myers asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“I can’t say,” Jay said. “I’m working on a campaign outside the country.”
“Really?” said Myers. “I’d like to write something on it.”
“Not yet, Marvin. Give me some time to get my feet on the ground. I’ll help you on the Franklin story, but I need you to sit on this one for a while.”
“Alright, but pay attention to Franklin. This one could get sticky.”
Jay hung up, disturbed by Myers’ call. His head was swimming. If Franklin died, Sal Stanley, still bitter from losing the election and pining for revenge, would do everything he could to kill Long’s Supreme Court nominee in the Senate. The scary thing was the White House wasn’t ready; it was all happening too fast.
Jay returned to the table and poured another glass of red wine, which he suddenly needed to deaden the shock of Myers’s news. His eyes followed the black-haired beauty as she sat down at a table with a grey-haired man old enough to be her father, wearing a striped shirt unbuttoned to his navel, with gold chains hanging from his neck. Jay just shook his head: wasn’t this the way it always was?
THE PRESIDENT LEANED BACK in an easy chair in the solarium, unwinding on the second floor of the White House, his feet up on the table. He was deep i
n conversation with Gerald Jimmerson, the Republican Speaker of the House. Jimmerson, a small, intense bantam rooster of a man, led the fight against Long when the election was thrown into the House of Representatives. When members of his own party bolted to Long, Jimmerson suffered an embarrassing defeat from which he was only now recovering.
The two men needed each other. Jimmerson needed Long’s supporters to join forces with the Republican Party or at least view it favorably. Long needed Jimmerson to pass his domestic agenda so he invited Jimmerson over to talk shop. He was love-bombing him.
“Gerry, I want to put the campaign behind us,” Long said. “You did what you had to do. I respect that. I don’t hold it against you.”
“Well, that’s certainly comforting to know,” Jimmerson said with a grin. “Because if you did, we’d have a hard time working together.”
Long flashed a relaxed smile. “You went after me pretty hard.”
“I supported the nominee of my party. I felt obligated. “
“I didn’t feel obligated to support my party’s nominee,” Long chuckled.
“And I don’t think poor Sal has gotten over it yet.” He leaned on the arm of his chair, almost touching the president. “But one thing you’ll learn about me soon enough, Mr. President. I’m a bottom-line kind of guy. If I’m against you, I’ll tell you to your face. I won’t say one thing to you here and then go back to the Capitol and stab you in the back.”
“I appreciate that.” He patted Jimmerson on the arm. “You and I can do business together.”
“After eight years of a Republican administration that was devoid of ideas and politically all thumbs, I’m glad to have a president who listens.” He paused. “But I have to be up front with you. I won’t be for your health-care plan. In fact, I’m going to fight you tooth and nail.”