The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “Why? There’s no net increase in federal expenditures under my plan,” Long protested. “All I do is shift money from Medicaid and Medicare to cover the uninsured.”

  “Mr. President, it’s government-run health care. Your plan has employer mandates, which is a hidden tax on small business,” Jimmerson said. His face broke into a crooked grin. “I’m going to have to nail you on this one.”

  Jimmerson’s face turned serious. “What’s your thinking on the Franklin seat on the Supreme Court? What are you going to do, or do you know yet?”

  Long held his cards close. “Not really. I don’t think he’s likely to return to the Court. But until he either comes back or resigns or passes away, all we can do is sit here and wait.”

  “I’m not particularly in a waiting mood,” Jimmerson shot back.

  “Meaning?”

  “We can impeach him.”

  Long was shocked. “You’re going to impeach a guy who is comatose? Come on!”

  “I don’t see why not,” Jimmerson said, his gaze steady. “If Franklin doesn’t recover, you have a coequal branch of government rendered inoperative. The Judiciary Committee can move an impeachment resolution based on his inability to carry out the duties of his office. It’s a simple majority vote on the floor and I’ve got the votes.” He read Long’s surprised expression. “If the man can’t function, he’s got to go. Simple as that.”

  Long’s face went white. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Why make your guys walk the plank? The Democrats in the Senate will never vote to remove him.”

  “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t,” Jimmerson volleyed back. “Either way, I win. If Stanley and Penneymounter keep a vegetable on the Court, they look like fools.” He crossed his legs and opened his hands wide. “How can you defend that?”

  “I hear you. But impeachment . . .” Long’s voice trailed off. “That’s risky. Just ask the Republicans who impeached Clinton. That didn’t turn out so well.”

  “This isn’t Clinton dropping his trousers with an intern. It’s Woodrow Wilson,” Jimmerson said. “Franklin is paralyzing an institution of government because he’s unable to function. “ His eyes bore into Long. “The question is: can I get your support?”

  Long threw up his hands as if trying to calm a bucking horse. “Gerry, I can’t go there. I’d burn so many bridges in the Senate I will never be able to get a nominee confirmed.” He crossed his legs and rested his hands in his lap, assuming a thoughtful pose. “But if I can’t help you, I’ll try not to hurt you.”

  Jimmerson nodded slowly. “I appreciate that,” he replied. “But once the shooting starts, no one is going to be able to remain neutral. And that includes you.”

  Long was stunned by the audacity of Jimmerson’s plan. He was beginning to think the man was unhinged. First vowing to block health-care reform and now this? He realized Franklin’s status would not be his alone to resolve. Republicans in the House, led by Jimmerson doing his usual Braveheart routine, were plotting to impeach an eighty-eight-year old stroke victim. If Jimmerson went through with his threat, it would start a constitutional showdown.

  THE HEAD NEUROSURGEON AT George Washington University entered the family waiting room down the hall from the ICU and closed the door. He turned to face the three children of Peter Corbin Franklin and their spouses. His black eyes were hooded, his facial expression solemn, his hands stuck in the pockets of his white coat.

  “As I told Peter Jr., on the phone yesterday, your father suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage,” said the surgeon. “The bleeding caused swelling of the brain, compressing both cerebella. The damage is extensive. We controlled the swelling with medication and a stent at the base of the brain, which drains fluid from the brain. So far it’s working. But if the brain continues to swell, it will press down on the stem, affecting motor functions like breathing and circulation.”

  Franklin’s daughter Janet’s eyes filled with tears. “So he can breathe and his heart is beating, but beyond that he’s not there.”

  “He has no cognitive brain function. It is highly unlikely he will regain consciousness. But we want to make him as comfortable as possible and hope for the best.”

  “What are our options, doctor?” asked Peter Jr.

  “You can wait for an infection to take him or his heart to stop. That could take days, months, or years. Or you can choose to remove his feeding tube.”

  “Thank you. Can you give us some time alone?” asked Peter Jr.

  “Of course.” The surgeon turned and exited the waiting room. The children sat in silence for a moment, absorbing the blow.

  “Dad’s gone. His body is still here, but he’s not,” said Janet.

  “He wouldn’t want to go on like this,” said her husband.

  Peter Jr. rose from his chair and leaned against the wall. “You didn’t know my father very well if you think that,” he said. “Dad loathed Bob Long and Andy Stanton and everything they stand for. Believe me, if he had to stay alive on a respirator, he’d do it to keep Long from replacing him.”

  “This isn’t about the Supreme Court. It’s about our father,” said Terry, the youngest of the three children.

  “The heck it isn’t! This is all about the Court,” fired back Peter Jr. “Dad loved this country, and he stood for a set of principles. He wouldn’t want to quit, not with Long appointing his successor.”

  Silence hung in the air. “You’re right. Until Dad goes on his own, we have to honor him by hanging on as long as we can,” said Janet.

  Peter Jr. glanced at Terry. He silently nodded.

  “Ending Dad’s suffering is the easy way out,” said Peter Jr. “But it’s not how Dad lived his life, and it’s not how he would want to die. You know Dad. He’s going to go out swinging.” They all smiled knowingly. “Hell will freeze over before I stand idly by and let Bob Long nominate his replacement.”

  AT 7:45 A.M., THE president’s legal team gathered in the Roosevelt Room, across the hall from the Oval Office. The agenda: review the top candidates for the Supreme Court, narrow the list to those the president would interview, and discuss strategy for confirmation. No one knew if Franklin would live or die, but it was important to be ready. Everyone was a little jumpy.

  The door opened and the president walked in. He sat down as a steward brought him a cup of coffee in a china cup bearing the presidential seal. He was all business.

  Long asked Keith Golden to begin.

  “Mr. President, we’ve presented you with memoranda on eleven top candidates,” Golden began. “Some of them have been on lists in previous administrations so they’re known quantities. Anyone on an appellate court—there are four in this group—has already been confirmed. They’ve been to the dance.”

  Battaglia noticed the president had not opened the briefing book containing the memos. It gave all the appearance of a backhanded slap at Golden.

  “It’s not the dance. It’s more like triple-A ball,” Battaglia corrected. “A Supreme Court confirmation is a different ball game. Just because someone had a smooth confirmation to a circuit court does not guarantee them one for the Supreme Court.”

  “Agreed,” said Golden curtly. “But they’ve cleared an FBI background check and have been vetted.”

  “Okay,” said Long. “Give me the best and brightest.”

  “Robert Hillman on the DC Circuit is first-rate,” Golden said. “He graduated first in his class at Yale Law, clerked for Scalia, and served as solicitor general. He’s the gold standard.”

  Long nodded.

  “Hillman is Bork redux,” Battaglia objected. “It’ll be a holy war. The Democrats hate his guts. He’ll be a very tough sell.”

  “Anyone who is a strict constructionist will engender fierce opposition,” fired back Golden, clearly irritated with Battaglia’s second-guessing. “I served on the Judiciary Committee. I know Penneymounter. He’s running for president, and he’ll never support your nominee.”

  “I don’t care about Penneymounter,�
�� said Long. “But we have to pick off some red-state Democrats to win.” He took another swig of coffee, his eyes leveled at Golden. “Keep going.”

  “Marco Diaz, also on the DC Circuit, is solid,” Golden continued. “University of Chicago law, assistant attorney general, former district court judge. Great narrative. His father came to the U.S. from Mexico and turned a used car lot into the largest Hispanic auto dealership in North America. Diaz turned down offers from blue-chip law firms to return to the barrio.”

  “Upside: solid guy, good record, Hispanic,” interjected Battaglia. “Downside: he’s only been on the DC Circuit a short time.”

  Long let out a long whistle. “He sounds great. Who else?”

  “We have four women on the short list. The two strongest candidates are former Congresswoman Susan Cunningham, who currently sits on the Florida Supreme Court, and Yolanda Majette, African-American chief justice of the California Supreme Court.”

  “I know Yolanda. She’s impressive,” Long replied. “Can she handle the scrutiny of a Supreme Court confirmation?”

  “She’s tough,” offered Battaglia. “Penneymounter will have a hard time attacking her.”

  “Alright, let’s take a vote,” Long said. “Who’s your top choice?” Everyone appeared stunned that Long was putting them on the spot. “Let’s go around the table.”

  “Bob Hillman,” said Golden. “He’s the best. It’s not even close.”

  Art Morris, assistant attorney general in charge of the Office of Legal Counsel had said nothing during the meeting. He kept his head down, taking notes. “Mr. President, you won’t find a more brilliant nominee with a better judicial temperament than Judge Hillman.”

  “Phil?”

  “Majette or Diaz, in that order,” said Battaglia. “I don’t think we can ignore the fact that there is only one African-American and two women on the Court right now. There is currently no Hispanic. If you get a vacancy, it’s an opportunity to capture the country’s imagination.”

  Long nodded. “You guys meet with the top candidates very informally. This won’t rise to a presidential decision unless and until there is a vacancy.” He took a final swig of coffee. “Focus on anything personal that could be a problem. I’d prefer not to have any surprises.”

  “We’ll do a full GI track exam on all of them,” assured Golden.

  When the meeting broke up, Battaglia approached the president. “Can I see you for a moment?” he said in a half whisper. The president put his arm around him and walked him across the hall to the Oval, leaving Golden and his aides behind. He closed the door.

  “I spoke to the chief justice,” said Battaglia.

  “What did he say?”

  “He told me Franklin’s chances of recovery are zero. He’s being kept alive on a feeding tube. According to the chief, the family is in denial, and they won’t pull the plug because they don’t want you to appoint his successor.”

  “Unbelievable,” said Long. “He could live for years.”

  “The chief says he strongly opposes Congress’s removing Franklin,” said Battaglia. “He views it as a separation of powers issue. But for the same reason he does not want to take Jimmerson on publicly.”

  “That’s great,” said Long. “We’ve got a split court, a comatose justice, a renegade Speaker of the House, and the chief justice has a fit of integrity. I wish he would go public and oppose impeachment. We need someone to stop this.”

  “Instead we’re going to be subjected to the Gerry Jimmerson show, with Andy Stanton leading his army on the Capitol, followed by a show trial in the Senate,” Battaglia muttered.

  Long rolled his eyes. “I tried to charm Jimmerson, but he’s a maniac.” He sighed. “He thinks if he impeaches Franklin the conservatives will turn out and vote Republican next year. I told him I couldn’t back him but I’d stay out of it, which I viewed as doing him a favor, but he wasn’t really pacified.”

  “He’s willing to tear the country apart for his own partisan gain,” said Battaglia, his tone of voice disgusted. “It’s pathetic.”

  “Oh, well, thanks for the update. Keep me posted.”

  Battaglia turned to go. He hoped the shot at Stanton had worked. In his mind ideologues like Golden and Stanton were parasites trying to hijack the administration. Battaglia went along with using the wing nuts to get elected, but he had no intention of letting them run the government. This was a battle for the soul of Long’s presidency, and Battaglia had no intention of giving up without a fight.

  EIGHT

  The Lincoln Town Car carrying Andy Stanton and Ross Lombardy pulled slowly through the iron gate at the entrance to the White House complex and inched up the driveway to a reserved parking spot next to the West Wing. Andy sat in the back, bouncing his knees like a little boy, rubbing his hands together, giving rapid-fire instructions to the driver. Nervous energy flowed from every pore of his body. And why not? He was about to meet with the president of the United States—who he had helped to elect—and give him his recommendations for appointment to the Supreme Court. Andy had built up a lot of political chits with Bob Long, and he was now calling them in.

  Andy, accompanied by Ross and a security guard, walked through the narrow doorway leading to the West Wing lobby and approached the guard at the security desk, announcing his arrival. Ross took a seat on the couch below the oversized clock in the lobby, which seemed designed to advertise the exaggerated importance of time and space in this hallowed real estate. Andy, unable to suppress his excitement, remained standing, admiring the full-length portrait of George Washington. Truman Greenglass, national security advisor, came down the hall from the Oval Office and greeted Stanton with courteous but restrained professionalism.

  David Thomas, White House political director, came out of the Roosevelt Room, apparently leaving a staff meeting. His earnest posture, schoolboy baby face, and flame-thrower intensity radiated energy. “Dr. Stanton, how are you?” he asked solicitously, pretending to be surprised to see him. In fact, the entire building was on full alert. Even the cooks in the White House mess knew that Andy was in the building.

  “I’m wonderful,” Andy fairly gushed. “How are you?”

  “Oh, holding up, you know,” said Thomas with false humility. “I’m glad to see you here.” He cupped his hand to his mouth. “Not everybody is glad you’re here. But I am.” He winked knowingly.

  Andy forced a smile. Was it a veiled shot?

  “So you’re meeting with the president?”

  “Yes!” Andy said a tad too enthusiastically. “Should be any minute now.”

  “Great. Have a good meeting. Ross, why don’t you come with me, and we’ll catch up while Andy’s in with the boss.” Thomas and Ross headed across the alleyway to his office in the Eisenhower Executive Office Building.

  “Dr. Stanton, the president will see you now.” Andy turned to see the president’s assistant, a pretty, well-groomed woman in her fifties, smiling invitingly. She walked down the hall with him, exchanging small talk, and then opened the door. The president stood in front of a wing chair before the fireplace, which had a crackling fire. Charlie Hector stood in front of one of the couches to the side.

  “Andy!” the president greeted him. “Come on in! You know Charlie.”

  “Of course,” replied Andy. He greeted Hector, and the president waved to him to take the chair next to his. They engaged in some banter about the news of the day. Then Andy quickly got down to business. He was not a man to mince words.

  “Mr. President, my listeners and viewers are very concerned about the appointment of justices to the Supreme Court.”

  “I know,” Long replied. “It was one of the biggest applause lines I had on the stump.”

  “Peter Corbin Franklin being in a coma has piqued a lot of interest in who you might nominate should there be a vacancy.” He paused. “We are praying for his health and well-being. But my nephew, who is on the staff of the teaching hospital at Johns Hopkins, tells me it is highly unusual for someon
e with his injury to live.”

  The President stared back impassively.

  “Mr. President, I believe you will get at least one and maybe two Supreme Court picks. The future of the country is at stake. Evangelicals voted for you in large numbers in no small part because of your conservative judicial philosophy.”

  “Andy, let me stop you there,” said Long firmly, holding up the palms of his hand. He quickly took charge of the conversation, guiding it circuitously so that he was both responsive and opaque. “I’ve told Golden, Phil, and the folks in OPP that I don’t want them to yield one inch on my pledge to appoint judges who share my philosophy and have impeccable credentials. It’s going to be rough sledding with Penneymounter in charge of Judiciary. But I have told them not to change a single thing in selecting judges.” He had used the acronym for the Office of Presidential Personnel, which handled presidential appointments throughout the government.

  Hector sat silently, taking notes.

  “That is great—just great,” said Andy enthusiastically, his face beaming. “Your stand on judges was critical to your winning evangelical votes. I brought something for you that I hope will be helpful. The dean of my law school put together a dossier of leading candidates for judicial appointments,” Andy explained. “They’re available for a full range of positions, from district court all the way to the Supreme Court.” He smiled proudly. “These folks are solid citizens with impeccable credentials.”

  “Good for you,” replied Long as if he were praising a student who had completed his homework.

  Andy extended the slim bound volume toward the president, offering it to him. Long physically recoiled, eyeing it as though it were a shrapnel grenade about to explode. Hector jumped forward, snatching it out of his hands.

  “I’ll pass this on to Phil Battaglia and his team,” said Hector curtly as he flipped through the pages, feigning interest.

  “Anything else on the personnel front?” asked Long, quickly changing the subject. “I assume you were happy with our appointments at HHS.”