by Ralph Reed
“Mr. Speaker,” Manion said into the receiver. “I’ve got the votes. Wanted to let you know where we stood. Just waiting for the green light and we pull the trigger.”
“So were you able to pull over a Democrat?” asked Gerald Jimmerson in his silky Southern baritone.
“Not a one,” Manion replied with a chuckle. “Mr. Speaker, this is the most ideologically polarized committee in the House. I’m not gonna get a Democrat. Not now, not ever. I had to hold the hands of my squishy Republicans just to get a majority.”
Jimmerson laughed knowingly. “It would have been better if we could have gotten at least one D. I guess they’re not going to carry our water on this one.”
“Nope,” agreed Manion. “They’re in the bunker. It’s going to be like the Clinton impeachment all over again. The Democrats are playing to their base, and we’re giving our guys a backbone transplant so they’ll do the right thing.”
Jimmerson sighed. “Well, if you’ve got the votes, I say we go.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Speaker.” Manion hung up the phone and looked directly into the eyes of his staff aide. “That guy has got the gonads of an elephant.”
“So he wants to jump without a single Democrat?”
Manion shot him the weary look of an abused understudy. “He’d run over his own mother if he had the votes to do it.” They both laughed.
There were two quick raps on the door. Another aide stuck his head through the door. “Mr. Chairman, we’re ready.”
“Showtime!” said Manion. He walked out of the anteroom, crossed a narrow hallway, and walked through an open door into the cavernous hearing room of the House Judiciary Committee. It was in this very room in the Cannon House Office Building that the Judiciary Committee had passed articles of impeachment against Richard Nixon in 1974. It was the same room where House Republicans passed two articles impeaching Bill Clinton on a straight-party vote during the Monica Lewinsky scandal in 1998. As he stepped through the door and into the blaze of the television lights, Manion heard the rustle of the press corps, the explosion of still cameras, and murmurs from the assembled throng. Cable newscasts broke away from regular coverage to broadcast the proceedings live.
Manion sat down in his chair at the center of the dais and raised his gavel, ceremonially banging it with authority. “This meeting of the committee will please come to order,” he said firmly, his voice booming over the sound system. “I have a brief statement, and then I will ask the ranking member of the other party to make his statement. Each member of the committee will then have five minutes to make their own statement before we proceed to a final vote.” He paused and looked around the committee room, glancing down each end of the dais, then quickly snapped his head back to the papers he held in his hand.
“This committee has before it one article of impeachment of Supreme Court Justice Peter Corbin Franklin,” Manion began. “On January 22 of this year, Justice Franklin suffered a cerebral hemorrhage that left him in an irreversible comatose condition, incapacitating him and thereby rendering him unable to carry out his duties as a member of the highest court. Under Article Three, Section X, the House is empowered to impeach and the Senate to remove a judge so incapacitated.”
“Lies! Lies!” shouted a protestor from the back of the room. “Peter Corbin Franklin lives!” The wild-eyed, slightly disheveled woman wearing thick glasses had stripped off her overcoat to reveal a yellow shirt with the slogan “Stop the War against Women” emblazoned in black letters. Two muscled Capitol police hustled her toward the door. She began to kick and squirm as she shouted. “Stop the lies!”
Manion banged the gavel three times. “Spectators will refrain from outbursts or any other disruptive activity, or they will be removed.”
The protestor shouted still louder. The members of the committee watched with bemused expressions on their faces. The Capitol police dragged her from the room, her limp legs dragging behind.
“Few members of the Court have served with such honor and distinction. No one has ever brought more passion and intelligence to the cause of justice than Justice Franklin,” Manion continued. “But the fact is his medical condition is grave. I regret that none of his doctors chose to appear before this committee. But the expert testimony we heard from other witnesses made clear that the stroke he suffered was massive and incapacitating. None of us on either side of the aisle have asked for this sad duty. But it is a duty we cannot shirk, and we cannot deny. There are times in public life when we must choose between what is politically expedient and what is best for the country. This is one of those times. Therefore, I will reluctantly and sadly vote for the article of impeachment removing Justice Franklin.”
Manion turned to the ranking Democrat on the committee, a bespectacled and fiery liberal from Boston, Massachusetts, Alan Freedman.
“Mr. Chairman, fellow members of the committee, ladies and gentlemen, what is occurring here today is a disgrace. It is an affront to this body, the Supreme Court, the separation of powers, and the Constitution itself.” Freeman spat the words in an agitated squeak, rising slightly in his chair in righteous indignation. His voice quavered with anger. “On the basis of highly speculative testimony from doctors who had never treated or examined Justice Franklin, this committee is rushing in an unprecedented action to remove a member of the Supreme Court. This is a kangaroo court, Mr. Chairman.” He held up a sheaf of papers, waving them in the air. Still camera shutters exploded to record the scene. “I hold in my hands affidavits from some of the leading brain surgeons in the country. They all say that a patient in Justice Franklin’s condition could recover from his condition and return to this position on the court. He deserves the benefit of the doubt.” He turned to Manion, his eyes shooting darts. “Today’s action will be viewed by future generations as one of the darkest days recorded in the history of the Congress.”
Loud cheers erupted from liberal partisans who had packed the hearing room. Manion sat impassively, his face expressionless, his eyes stone cold. He had the votes, and their venting meant nothing. After two hours of pontificating and finger-pointing, much of it heated and emotional, the committee voted twenty-three to nineteen to send the article of impeachment against Peter Corbin Franklin to the House floor. All the Republican members of the committee voted for it; all the Democrats voted against it. Manion had done his job, but a nagging doubt gnawed at his gut: was he the next Peter Rodino or the next Henry Hyde? Was he striking a blow for the Constitution, or was he on an errand, however vaunted its motive, that was doomed to fail? He feared it might be the latter.
ELEVEN
G. G. Hoterman’s Falcon III banked as it descended to two thousand feet and made its final approach. G. G. glanced out the window at the seemingly endless expanse of turquoise water rippling beneath the sun and the white beaches of the islands. A massive hulk of a man, he resembled a human bowling ball sheathed in a custom French-cuffed dress shirt from Charvet’s and a four-thousand dollar tailored suit. He felt a sudden jolt of adrenalin—or was it the three cups of coffee and two Diet Cokes he had sucked down during the flight? G. G. was about to meet Stephen Fox, the Internet billionaire, at his seaside compound in the Turks and the Caicos, where Stephen escaped when he got bored of his Newport Beach mansion or his 140-foot yacht, which he kept docked in Bermuda. Fox was one of G. G.’s “angels,” a multimillion dollar donor to Democratic causes and a client of G. G.’s law and lobbying firm, Hoterman and Schiff.
It was a dicey time for both men. G. G. had barely dodged indictment in the Dele-gate cash-for-votes scandal that torched Sal Stanley’s presidential campaign and might yet send his political consigliere Michael Kaplan to prison. Fox, meanwhile, was under investigation by the Federal Trade Commission, the IRS, and two separate divisions of the Justice Department. The public integrity division was still looking into Fox’s contributions to the qualified 501c4 that had allegedly paid bribes to delegates in the Dele-gate scandal; the antitrust division had sued Wildfire.com, the Internet giant
acquired by Fox’s private equity firm, alleging that it had improperly discriminated against competitors in its online advertising business. Fox lived perpetually in the fast lane, veering into gray areas that constantly attracted the attention of regulators. He hired gumshoes and private eyes to dumpster dive and dig up dirt on competitors and retained an army of lawyers to sue his many enemies. Sometimes he put a law firm on retainer just so they wouldn’t sue him. Stephen and G. G. lived in the rarefied world where business intersected with hardball politics, where destroying one’s foes was blood sport, and where politics was just another means to the ultimate end of making the almighty buck.
That went double when it came to their relationship with the opposite sex. Fox was on wife number three, the beautiful and ravishing Felicity, who sat on numerous charity boards, raised millions for the arts, and serially decorated homes in Bermuda, Manhattan, Silicon Valley, Switzerland, Aspen, and the Turks and Caicos. G. G. was on his second mistress, the striking Deirdre Rahall, who had departed his law firm in disgrace when she and her brother were implicated in Dele-gate. She had testified before the federal grand jury investigating the scandal and became tabloid fodder and cable news candy after being romantically linked to G. G. She sat across from G. G., her blonde hair cascading across her shoulders, her trim figure folded into the seat, legs crossed, wearing a Lily Pulitzer pink-and-green skirt with a white blouse and pink heels. Also on board was Christy Love, clad in a Bebe T-shirt, skinny jeans, and a blue-and-white spectator jacket. As chairwoman of Pro-Choice PAC, Christy was one of the most important women political leaders in the country.
After the plane taxied to a stop in front of the nondescript FBO, they cleared customs and deplaned, loading their luggage into the trunk of a Mercedes sedan that drove them to Fox’s compound. After a two-mile drive, they pulled up to the deceptively inconspicuous front door. A butler wearing a white coat with gold trim and white polo shorts opened the door and escorted them to the beach, where Felicity and Stephen were having a drink at the poolside bar under a thatched roof.
“G. G., you made it!” boomed Stephen. He caught sight of Deirdre and Christy and his face lit up. “I hope you’re going to introduce me to these beautiful women!”
“These are my DC power chicks,” joked G. G. “Meet Deirdre Rahall, who was most recently at my law firm, and Christy Love, the most powerful woman in Washington.”
“I am not!” protested Christy. She leveled her baby blues at Stephen, shaking her head. “Don’t believe a word he says,” she said with a faint Long Island accent.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Stephen as he walked toward Christy, greeting her with a peck on each cheek, his hands grasping hers. “Your reputation precedes you.” He glanced up and down approvingly at Deirdre before kissing her politely. “Deirdre, so glad you could join us.” He glanced at G. G. “It sure relieves me from having nothing but G. G.’s fat frame to look at!” Everyone laughed nervously while G. G. cracked an embarrassed grin. Stephen then pivoted in the direction of Felicity, who had walked around from behind the bar. He put his arm around her narrow waist. “Meet my wife Felicity.”
As usual, Felicity looked like a million bucks. She wore a sleeveless teal, turtleneck, ribbed sweater; black pants with aqua threading that made her look even taller than her five feet, eight inches, black zippered Dior heels; and a stunning five-carat David Yurman black onyx and diamond necklace with matching earrings and popcorn bracelet. Felicity shook everyone’s hands. “Welcome to our little paradise,” she said.
“It really is,” said G. G., stepping forward and putting his hands on his hips, gazing out over the Caribbean. “What a wonderful respite from Washington.”
“Especially with Bob Long in the White House,” said Stephen.
“Tell me about it,” muttered Christy, her voice laced with disgust.
“Don’t ruin dinner by talking about Long!” ordered Felicity. “I’ve got a great meal planned. Save the politics for after-dinner drinks and cigars.”
Over a round of incredibly strong margaritas, the conversation flowed easily with talk centered on children, careers, and travel, avoiding thorny topics like Dele-gate or G. G.’s wife throwing him out of the house after learning about Deirdre in the newspaper. After watching the sun set over the ocean, they walked to a candlelit glass-and-cane dining room table. The chef presented a sushi tuna appetizer that featured soy sauce flowing down a waterfall powered by a small electric motor. The sauce flowed into a small dipping bowl.
“I didn’t eat like this growing up in south Alabama!” joked G. G.
“Wait until you see the entrée,” said Felicity. “This chef is an absolute genius. He used to work at our favorite restaurant in Manhattan. We liked him so much that Stephen hired him.”
Felicity appeared oblivious to the fact that most people didn’t hire help from five-star restaurants to cook for them at home. Stephen just smiled awkwardly.
The main course did not disappoint: thinly cut slices of seared Kobe beef that melted in their mouths. Then came a key lime pie presented with a mango puree and splayed kiwi fruit with whipped cream. Felicity made a big deal of calling their chef to the table, where everyone applauded and showered him with compliments.
After dinner the women chitchatted over decaf coffee while the men retired for cigars. Stephen signaled G. G. to walk with him back to the thatch hut by the beach.
“Cigar?” he asked.
“Sure. What are we smoking?”
“Aroma de Cuba. It’s a turn-of-the-century cigar made famous by Winston Churchill. It’s my favorite cigar right now,” said Stephen. They both lit up and took long drags, the lit ends glowing in the dark. Stephen shifted gears. “Well, we lost the election, in spite of our best efforts. Stanley blew it. He should have put Long on the ticket. Fortunately, we still have the Senate, where we have an outside chance of blocking Long’s agenda. I know you didn’t come here to take a dip in the ocean. So what’s the strategy and how can I help?”
G. G. leaned in close, holding his cigar to the side, and raised his chin, blowing a whiff of smoke into the air, where the wind took it. “Stephen, we can end Long’s presidency in its first year. Peter Corbin Franklin is not going to make it. Long’s going to nominate a right-winger to pacify the Federalist Society crowd. If we can beat him, it will be Long’s Waterloo.”
“No question. But Franklin is still on life support.”
“The House is going to impeach Franklin,” Hoterman said with clinical detachment. “The Senate won’t go along. Once he dies, whenever that is, Long will appoint a strict constructionist in the model of Scalia, Roberts, or Alito.” He took a puff from the cigar and exhaled. “That’s where we come in. We have to defeat the nominee, or the court will overturn Roe. This is like taking down Bork under Reagan. Let’s face it, Reagan never really recovered. Everyone remembers Iran-contra, but it was really defeating Bork that signaled the end of the Reagan era.”
“I agree with your analysis 100 percent, and I agree we have to stop Long,” said Stephen. “But when it comes to his Supreme Court nominee, I have a problem.”
G. G. felt his stomach tighten. He had been counting on Stephen for a million dollars. He tried to maintain his composure. “What problem?” he asked.
Stephen lifted his cigar and took a long puff, the ash turning bright orange. “We lost the Wildfire antitrust case before the DC Circuit in a split decision. We’re appealing to the Supreme Court.”
“Sure, I know,” said G. G. “We’re working the Democratic state AGs and lobbying the Judiciary Committee members on the Hill, remember? I’m all over it.”
“I know what you’re doing. So you understand this is a pending legal issue. The largest investment of my equity fund is at stake.” He lowered his voice. “We’re reaching out to Golden to see if we can settle.” Stephen turned toward the ocean, his eyes staring into the blackness. “Franklin is a New Deal liberal. I did everything I could to beat Long, but ironically his nominee will be more p
ro-business than Franklin.” Stephen shook his head, laughing. “So the guy I tried to beat could end up saving me billions of dollars.”
“But are you sure you need the vote of Long’s nominee?” asked G. G. hopefully, watching desperately as Fox’s contribution went down the drain.
“We don’t know,” Stephen said. “But we can’t take any chances. Wildfire’s ability to innovate and utilize personalized and predictive consumer data to drive online advertising will be destroyed. My investors will be out twenty-two billion dollars.” He looked into G. G.’s eyes. “That’s a lot of money, pal.”
G. G. kept his game face on, but inside he was reeling. He had come to view Fox as an ATM—insert card, enter password, take cash. “I don’t see that as a problem,” he said smoothly, unflappable as always on the outside. “We just have to make sure that whoever Long picks to replace any extremist we defeat is good on antitrust.”
Fox shot G. G. a withering look. “That’s quite a bank shot when the future of my equity fund is on the line.”
“Okay, okay,” Hoterman said, reading Stephen’s doubt. “Just give us an initial contribution to do the polling, focus groups, and oppo research and prepare the ground game. We won’t use anything you give toward any negative ads against Long’s nominee until we run it by you first.”
“How much?” asked Stephen.
“One million.”
“Alright,” Stephen said. “But no paid ads.”
“You have my word,” G. G. said smoothly. In reality he would use it for whatever he wanted.