The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “Lisa, how would you characterize the U.S. relationship with Iran after this revelation?” asked the Washington Post. “Is it belligerent? Would it be fair to characterize Iran as a belligerent nation vis-à-vis the U.S.?”

  “As the President has said in the past, it is a very difficult and tense relationship.”

  “That’s it?” shot back the Post. “Isn’t this a virtual declaration of war by Iran?”

  “I’m not going to label it based on an unconfirmed press account that relied on anonymous sources,” said Lisa, taking another dig at the Times. “Iran’s nuclear ambitions and its unwillingness to live up to its obligations under the Nuclear Non-proliferation Agreement is destabilizing to the region and the world. That’s where we are right now.”

  The New York Times correspondent had heard enough. “You seem to be saying that any media outlet that reports on what our government has learned about Iran’s nuclear program is committing treason. Is that your claim?” asked the Times.

  “You’re trying to put words in my mouth,” Lisa fired back. “I said it was reckless and irresponsible. If the story was based on the president’s daily brief, providing that information to anyone—including a reporter—is a felony.”

  “Is the administration planning to prosecute the source or the reporter?” asked UPI.

  “That question should be directed to the Department of Justice.”

  “But you don’t rule out prosecuting reporters who publish such material?”

  “I have already noted that to provide such information is a serious violation of the law, but we do not comment on criminal investigations, hypothetical or otherwise, from this podium.” Frustrated, the press corps peppered Lisa with hostile questions for another twenty minutes. She never budged. The parlor game in Washington shifted from who might replace Peter Corbin Franklin to who was willing to risk a prison sentence to force Long’s hand on Iran.

  IT WAS 9:52 ON Sunday morning, and the Speaker of the House strolled into the Fox News green room on Capitol Hill, a large cup of Starbucks in his hand, his features hardened like a marble statute. He had already been slathered in makeup, his helmet hair blasted with hair spray. He ignored the spread of bagels, danish, and fresh fruit on the table. Like a boxer in training, Gerry Jimmerson disciplined his appetites in pursuit of a bigger prize, this one on the set of Marvin Myers’s highly rated public affairs show, Washington’s version of must-see TV. Jimmerson was wired: he took a swig of the Starbucks, the double shot of espresso hitting his bloodstream. His press aide sat on the couch monitoring the television set, his posture reflecting the low morale of a man who knew his boss wouldn’t listen to his advice, so why even bother?

  The floor director entered the room. “Mr. Speaker, we’re ready for you on the set.”

  Jimmerson followed him to the cavernous set, its thermostat set to the temperature of a meat freezer. Marvin Myers shook his hand but otherwise ignored him, his eyes glued to blue index cards that contained his questions. After the theme music and a program opening rolled on video, the floor director counted down with his fingers and then pointed at Myers.

  “Joining us now is the Speaker of the House, Gerald Jimmerson. Mr. Jimmerson, welcome back,” Myers said with hollow hospitality.

  “Thank you, Marvin, it’s good to be here,” Jimmerson said.

  “The chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, Sam Manion, announced this week that he will hold hearings on the condition of Supreme Court Justice Peter Corbin Franklin,” Myers began. He went straight for the jugular. “Do you support this move?”

  “Well, first of all, Marvin, Justice Franklin is in all of our thoughts and prayers,” replied Jimmerson in his disarming Tar Heel drawl. “His condition is serious. We pray for his full recovery.” He paused, his face etched with concern. “But if he does not recover and were to remain in a comatose state, it has the possibility to render an entire branch of our government incapable of functioning. I think that is an appropriate issue for the committee to look at.”

  “What do you say to the critics who charge this is simply a predicate to removing Justice Franklin from the court?”

  “No one wants that, least of all me. But as long as Justice Franklin remains in a coma, the Supreme Court cannot fully conduct its business. Cases on appeal will be in a permanent state of limbo.” He made animated hand gestures to drive home the point. “Justice delayed is justice denied, Marvin. People seeking redress before the federal courts need to know that their cases will be heard and adjudicated without unnecessary delay.”

  “So if Justice Franklin does not recover, you don’t rule out removing him by impeachment.” Myers phrased the explosive words as a statement, not a question.

  Jimmerson visibly flinched. “I’m not going to prejudge anything until the Judiciary Committee does its job first,” he said, scrambling for cover. “That’s why Chairman Manion is holding hearings. But without addressing the Franklin situation directly, as a general matter, the removal of a judge who cannot perform his or her duties is well within Congress’s purview.”

  Myers nearly came across the table. “But a Supreme Court justice has never been impeached. Aren’t you concerned about a backlash?”

  “No, I’m not,” shot back Jimmerson. “First, while it is true that no Supreme Court justice has ever been impeached, that is only because they resigned prior to the Senate’s voting to do so, as was the case with Abe Fortas in 1969. I will defer to Chairman Sam Manion—”

  “But you appointed Sam Manion. He is one of your closest allies in the House,” interrupted Myers. “Do you expect anyone to believe that he is acting contrary to your wishes?”

  “Sam Manion is his own man,” said Jimmerson with a smile. “He’s no wallflower.” He took a sip of water from a blue coffee cup, staring down Myers. “I have great respect for Chairman Mansion and the members of the House Judiciary Committee, and I think the committee process should proceed without interference from either side.”

  “But just to be clear, Mr. Speaker,” replied Myers, “you have no objection to removing Justice Franklin if it is determined that he is incapacitated?”

  “Marvin, I’m not going to speculate about that. We all honor Justice Franklin’s service. Right now the best thing we can all do is pray for his recovery,” Jimmerson said firmly. “But at some point the wheels of justice cannot grind to a halt because of one justice’s medical condition. I think everyone agrees on that.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker.” It took every ounce of self-discipline Myers possessed to keep from letting out a victory yell on the air. Jimmerson had walked right into his punch. The next morning every newspaper in America would lead with the screaming headline: “Jimmerson Refuses to Rule Out Removal of Ailing Franklin.” Every one of those hundreds of stories would credit the news to his program. Myers still had the mojo, which was why he was the unquestioned king of the Sunday shows.

  TEN

  Jay thought he might bake to a crisp in the red Fiat convertible with the top down and the sun blazing overhead as they pulled off the main highway and crunched over the gravel of a long driveway, a trail of white dust rising behind. Deftly guiding the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, the driver steered the car through acre after acre of sun-baked vineyards, pointing at various wineries. The car lurched from side to side, the tires occasionally spinning on the gravel.

  “This is the shortcut!” the guide shouted.

  Jay Noble wondered if Guido, his guide for the day, knew where he was going. They had been careening across the hills of Tuscany for almost two hours, gazing at the breathtaking scenery, and there was still no sign of the famous Fellissi winery. Guido, a thin, hyperkinetic man in his mid-thirties with an expansive face, sunken cheeks, penetrating eyes, and a crew cut that made him look a little like a character actor in a prison film, entertained Jay with a running monologue on the Tuscan wine country and his philosophy of life, which could be summed up crisply: eat, drink, and be merry.

  After a fi
nal sharp right turn down a driveway, they pulled up to the Fellissi winery. It was both charming and imposing, a large house with several out buildings, a courtyard, and a garden, all surrounded by vineyards for as far as the eye could see. Jay stepped out of the Fiat and stretched his legs, inhaling a deep breath. The smell of jasmine relaxed him. The view from the yard was enchanting, miles of vineyards and wheat fields as far as the eye could see, the faint outline of the spires of San Gimignano in the distance.

  Mauro Fellisi came down the stairs of his house in a welcoming gait, speaking loudly to Guido in rapid-fire Italian. He wore blue jeans, scuffed work boots, a white T-shirt, and a blue flannel shirt over his bulky frame. His bulging belly and too-small head stood atop long, spindly legs. His skull was deeply tanned, his bald head fringed with white hair.

  “Bonjourno!” he shouted before asking a question in an agitated manner.

  Guido smiled. “He wants to know where we have been,” he said with a wink.

  Guido introduced him as the famous political strategist for President Bob Long. Jay stood there in the 100-degree heat, grinning sheepishly. Mauro greeted him like a long-lost friend, shaking his hand firmly and kissing him on both cheeks. Mauro’s farmer’s tan and calloused hands betrayed a life spent working the Tuscan soil, his deep blue eyes and shy manner reflecting the genius of one of Italy’s most famous vintners.

  More rapid-fire Italian, followed by a wave to the main building of the small winery.

  “We eat first!” Guido translated. “Then he will give you a tour of the winery.”

  They walked into the basement of the home, which resembled a sunken warehouse, surrounded by gigantic oak barrels large enough to hold a small family, all filled with aging wine. A large table, covered with a checkerboard tablecloth, was spread with cheese, sausage, bread, and caprese. They each pulled up a chair. Jay noticed there was one empty seat.

  “Gabriella!” called out Mauro.

  Jay turned around to see a gorgeous woman in her early thirties gliding toward him wearing snug jeans and a ribbed, sleeveless T-shirt, black belt with an oversized silver buckle that pinched her slim waist, and black wedges. She seemed to move in slow motion. With her volleyball-player legs, long neck, high cheekbones, espresso eyes, Midlothian abdomen, and flowing brownish-blonde hair, she struck Jay as a flesh-and-blood pallet of Italian womanhood. The Tuscan sun had toasted her shoulders and arms to a deep brown. Small dots of sweat beaded on her nose and neck. Jay felt his legs go rubbery.

  “You friend of Guido,” she said warmly in broken English. She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth that gleamed against her tan.

  “Yes,” replied Jay.

  “I am Gabriella,” she said. “Welcome.”

  “Well of course you are,” he exclaimed. He motioned to the lunch awaiting them on the table. “Perfecto!” Gabriella laughed at his attempt at Italian. Jay extended his hand, and she shook it. Her skin felt soft in Jay’s hand. Mauro and Guido grinned.

  “Eat! Eat!” she ordered, and the men sat down. With the help of a middle-aged woman with a shock of dark hair and weathered skin, Gabriella brought the first course to the table, a heaping bowl of pasta.

  “Who is the other woman?” asked Jay out of the corner of his mouth to Guido.

  “Mauro’s live-in girlfriend. She and her teen-age son live here with Mauro. His wife passed away about five years ago.”

  “And Gabriella is his daughter?”

  “Yes,” replied Guido. He read Jay’s look. “Very single,” he chuckled beneath his breath.

  Mauro made a big production of bringing out the first bottle of wine for lunch. He started with a 1999 Brunello, pouring it into a glass, swirling it in the bottom, breathing in the aroma, and then taking a sip, letting it run across his tongue as he tasted it. He nodded with approval, then began methodically to pour it into each glass around the table. He and Guido exchanged words that appeared to be related to the quality of the wine.

  “This is the first of several bottles,” Guido warned. “So pace yourself.”

  Jay swirled the wine himself and drank from his glass. The taste was smooth and musky, with a hint of oak. As Mauro rattled on, Guido translated, giving Jay a crash course on the art of growing the Montelchino grape. To qualify as a Brunello, Guido explained, the wine had to be made from only a select grape and age for five years. The acres that could grow the proper grape were limited, so by definition a good Brunello was limited in supply.

  Jay was far more interested in Gabriella than the wine. She was achingly attractive, and he found himself smitten and distracted, unable to stay focused on the conversation. Her tom-boy personality only made her more compelling. As the daughter of one of the wealthiest land owners in Italy, she was well connected—not just in Italy but in America. Jay soon learned that among those who regularly visited and were investors in the Fellissi winery were Rupert Murdoch and Warren Buffet. Gabriella had vacationed on Larry Ellison’s yacht. She oversaw the business side of the winery.

  “I’ve seen you on television before,” Gabriella said, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

  “Here in Italy?” asked Jay, surprised.

  “No, in the States. I was there during the campaign.”

  “I hope I didn’t say anything stupid,” Jay said with a smile.

  “Oh, no,” Gabriella replied. She flashed him a smile. “You’re cuter in person.”

  Jay felt a sudden rush of excitement. Was she flirting? “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “I’m cuter in person, too, don’t you think?” asked Guido, happily joining the conversation.

  Gabriella smiled and reached over to pat Guido on the cheek. “Yes, my darling, you are much cuter in person.”

  “He doesn’t look cute to me,” joked Jay. “He looks like a stray dog.”

  “I’m not supposed to look cute to you,” fired back Guido. He laughed. “If I was, that would sure make headlines in the States, no?”

  “How odd you should come here, of all places,” said Gabriella, her gaze fixed on Jay.

  “I came halfway around the world. I thought it was to run a campaign. But I think it might have been to become friends with you and your father,” said Jay. He hoped the line wasn’t too corny. Gabriella smiled, raising one eyebrow suggestively.

  The wine flowed easily as Mauro’s girlfriend brought the entrée of wild boar and fresh baked vegetables. Mauro complained that the first bottle had the taste of cork. No one else had noticed, but Mauro replaced it with a 2003 Brunello, which was fabulous. Later he switched to a 1995, and then finally to a 1999 Reserve, made from the finest grapes of the harvest, personally selected by Mauro. By now the entire party was having a good time, laughing too loud and too long at one another’s jokes. Jay found himself laughing even harder when they said something funny in Italian, even though he didn’t understand it.

  “So what brings you to Italy?” asked Gabriella. “Running one country isn’t enough for you?”

  Jay burst out laughing. He leaned into her, putting his finger over his lips. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said in a half whisper, giggling. “After this, it’s on to Great Britain!”

  “No, the food there is terrible,” she protested, her mouth forming a pout. “Do France next! I’ll visit you in Paris. I’ll show you the best restaurants and the finest wines.” She waved her hands in the air as she spoke. “I will help you take over Europe, one country at a time!”

  Jay could hardly believe his ears. He began to feel warm and tingly all over. Was it the wine, or Gabriella? He suspected it was a bit of both.

  “Gabriella does business all over Europe,” Guido said. “She is beautiful, of course.” Gabriella blushed. “But her beauty is deceiving. She is a very savvy businesswoman.”

  “I have no doubt,” said Jay, taking another sip of wine. Gabriella smiled.

  After lunch, topped off by grappa (a 100-proof port made from the fermented skins of grapes) and a cup of espresso, Mauro and Gabriella escorted Jay through the wi
nery, showing him the oak casks, the vineyards, and the bottling operation. He slapped down a credit card and impulsively bought $5,000 worth of wine, letting Guido and Mauro choose the cases. By now he was flying high, intoxicated by Gabriella’s presence and the Fellissi empire.

  As they walked back to the car, their shoes crunching across the gravel, Guido asked, “Why don’t you ship one of the cases of reserve to Jay in Rome? He’s there for the month to work on the Brodi campaign.”

  “Si, si!” said Mauro.

  “Only if Gabriella personally delivers it,” said Jay with a sly smile.

  “Sure,” Gabriella said. “But you have to share some with me.”

  “Absolutely!” Jay exclaimed. “I have a suite at the Hassler. Come and visit.”

  “Don’t let her anywhere near Brodi!” joked Guido. He repeated the line to Mauro, who rolled his eyes and guffawed. Brodi was a notorious skirt chaser.

  Gabriella gave Jay her card and scribbled her cell number on the front, saying something about having to be in Rome the next week. They all exchanged hugs and pecks on the cheek, and Jay, with two bottles of reserve for the road compliments of Mauro, climbed into the Fiat. As they pulled away and screamed down the road, Guido turned to him, wagging his finger.

  “You are a bad boy!” he shouted gleefully, banging the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “You were shamelessly chasing Gabriella!”

  “Was it that obvious?” Jay asked. He furrowed his brow. “Oh, well,” he said.

  CONGRESSMAN SAM MANION OF Iowa sat in a small anteroom filled with government-issue couches and chairs that resembled a no-money-down furniture showroom. Glasses on the end of his nose, dark circles enveloping his tired eyes, his thinning brown hair combed and sprayed without a strand out of place, he resembled a trial lawyer awaiting a jury verdict. He sat on the couch, legs crossed, telephone cradled against his shoulder as he scanned notes in his hand. A staff aide sat across from him, leaning on the edge of his seat, chewing on his fingernails.