The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “G. G. and Amy, I’m going to send one of our technicians to your offices later in the week to install encryption software for your e-mail,” Gross said. “From now on we think it is advisable that all e-mail sent between Wildfire employees and you two needs to be encrypted.”

  “But my communications are privileged,” said Amy, her voice betraying concern.

  Gross’s gaze cut right through her. “If anything goes wrong, we simply can’t count on your firm not waiving that privilege. Our competitors don’t like the idea of our winning this antitrust case. They will stop at nothing. So we can’t take any chances.”

  Amy nodded. They rose from the table and walked out of the restaurant, strolling through the lobby and making small talk. Gross excused himself, heading to the elevator. Once outside, Amy peeled off, hailing a taxi.

  G. G. glanced up Pennsylvania Avenue and saw the Capitol dome glowing under the morning sunrise. It was a cool, brisk morning, and the crisp air invigorated him. “Not that I really care, Stephen, but why are we encrypting our e-mail?” he asked Fox.

  “Get in,” said Fox, pointing to his Town Car.

  G. G. waved to his driver to follow Fox’s car, and he slid into the backseat next to Fox. Stephen reached over and pressed a button on the console, raising the dark glass partition between them and the driver.

  “Frank is extremely capable . . . and discreet,” Fox said quietly, his tone grave. “He’s a professional. He’s going to be overseeing some aspects of our operations, and we don’t want them compromised in any way.”

  “What kind of operations?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Just be careful, Stephen,” warned G. G. “We can probably still settle with DOJ. I don’t want us to do something stupid.”

  “We’re not going to do anything stupid,” Fox replied. “You do what you do. Frank will do what he does.”

  “That guy gives me the creeps.”

  “Guys like Frank are cut from a different cloth.” Fox turned in his seat to face G. G. “Don’t worry. Pretty soon Peter Corbin Franklin will be gone. Long will appoint a new justice, and we will get our day in court.”

  The car pulled up in front of the large building off Seventeenth Street where Hoterman and Schiff had its offices. Fox’s driver jumped out and walked around the front of the car, opening the door for G. G. He stepped out and stood on the curb, watching Fox’s car drive off.

  JEFF LINKS, BOB LONG’S pastor, was on a golf course in Laguna Niguel when his cell phone buzzed, and the White House operator announced that the president was on the line. He broke away from his foursome and walked alone up the fairway.

  “Jeff, it’s Bob Long,” came the voice on the line.

  “Bob, it’s great to hear your voice,” said Jeff.

  “Jeff, I need your help on something.” Long wasted no time getting to the point.

  “Absolutely. Just say the word.”

  “Well,” Long began slowly, a hint of embarrassment in his voice. “I’m usually the one helping others and not making a call like this asking for help myself. But Claire has been drinking too much. I’m not saying she’s an alcoholic, but she has not been able to work this out on her own. Maybe I’ve just been too busy to confront her. Maybe I just didn’t want to create a major conflict. But she had a couple of drinks before a speech she gave today and it was obvious. It’s leading all the newscasts.”

  “How is she?” asked Links.

  “She’s embarrassed and distraught, as you can imagine,” Long replied. “I’ve only talked to her briefly. She’s blaming herself and taking it hard. But when I asked her if she thought she had an alcohol problem and needed help, she said no.”

  “That’s not unusual,” said Links.

  “Jeff, the upshot is, if she doesn’t get help, there could be more episodes like this. I think we need to do something,” Long said. “Claire respects you. She’ll listen to you. Can you come out here and talk to her?”

  “Of course,” said Links. “I’ll be on the next airplane.”

  “Should I tell Claire that you’re coming?” asked Long.

  “Yes, but only to talk to her. Don’t let her think that this is a full-blown intervention. That might put her on the defensive. We have to get her help and soon.”

  “I agree 100 percent,” said Long. “I’m really worried about her.” Long’s voice caught, and his eyes filled with tears. He could hardly believe that he was conspiring with his minister to get his wife emergency medical help.

  “Bob, I’ve dealt with these kinds of situations many times,” said Links. “I know a place that can do a world of good for Claire. It’s an inpatient clinic that treats this problem from a Christian perspective.”

  “I trust your judgment, Jeff. I need help, and I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

  “I’ll help you, Bob. Believe me, I’m glad you’re doing this. It takes a lot of courage to do what you’re doing,” said Links. “I’ll be there no later than tomorrow.”

  “God bless you, Jeff,” said Long. “Thank you so much for your help.”

  Long hung up the phone. He knew Claire was going to be livid when she found out that he had been plotting with Jeff behind her back. But she had left him no choice. Her alcohol problem was no longer just threatening their marriage and her health; it was threatening his presidency.

  THIRTEEN

  The House of Representatives chamber crackled with tension. Not a single seat was empty. Staff lined the walls, spectators swelled the galleries, and a long line of those waiting to get in snaked through the Capitol and out into the parking lot. Just five months after the House had elected Bob Long as president by a single vote, the wounds from that ugly battle still raw, its members prepared to vote on the impeachment of a Supreme Court justice for the first time since 1805.

  Sam Manion, chairman of the House Judiciary Committee, wrapped up his speech. His message was joyless and pedantic, a thoroughly boring recitation of the Constitution, the separation of powers, and the founders’ conception of impeachment. Everyone heard; no one listened. They had already decided how they would vote, and the rest was noise.

  “The Chair recognizes the gentleman from North Carolina!”

  Gerry Jimmerson strode to the podium in a confident gait. There had been some discussion within the GOP leadership as to the advisability of the Speaker addressing the chamber at all, but his forward-leaning posture indicated it would have taken a pack of wild horses to keep him out of the well. To say that Jimmerson was a lightning rod was being charitable. He was the chief bogeyman of the left, vilified by the liberal commentator and blamed by the Democrats for railroading the resolution to the floor. But Jimmerson was not easily intimidated. Indeed, he seemed to revel in their hatred.

  “Fellow members of the House,” Jimmerson began, his voice strong and resonant. “I come before you today not as a North Carolinian, not as a Republican, not as a Southerner, not as a conservative. I come before you as an American.” Members were taken aback. Jimmerson, whose encyclopedic knowledge of American history was legendary, had invoked Daniel Webster’s peroration from his famous speech that led to the Compromise of 1850. Jimmerson paused, letting the drama build, surveying the anticipatory expressions on the faces of his GOP colleagues and drinking in the disdain of the Democrats, who watched him through narrowed eyes.

  “No matter which way each of us votes today on the question before us, no one is happy about casting this vote,” he continued. “Least of all me.”

  The Democratic side of the aisle erupted in sarcastic guffaws. None of them believed that Jimmerson, the ultimate practitioner of slash-and-burn politics, regretted his vote to remove the most prominent liberal voice on the Supreme Court. Jimmerson ignored them, his head turned away, chin raised, black eyes unblinking.

  “That’s what leadership is about,” Jimmerson said, his voice booming, echoing off the walls and ceiling. He rose up on his toes and pointed to the four lawgivers whose statutes ringed the corne
rs of the chamber. “Moses, Washington, Aristotle, and Jesus Christ—they are the models of justice upon which our nation was founded. They knew that respect for the rule of law is the foundation of civil order, and when it breaks down, chaos is inevitable.” He cast the impeachment of Franklin as a matter of patriotic duty. “If the highest Court in the land is paralyzed or hopelessly deadlocked, the rule of law will collapse.”

  “The issue before us is not a single case, though the cases pending before the Supreme Court are among the most important in our lifetimes. The issue before us is not a single justice, though Peter Corbin Franklin is one of the most distinguished and accomplished jurists to ever sit on the Court.” Jimmerson paused, his voice falling to a whisper. “The issue before us, ladies and gentlemen of this House, is justice itself and the rule of law.” He pointed his finger for emphasis, jabbing the air. “No matter how much we may honor an individual justice, they like all of us, must yield to the demands of the law. I urge this House to do its duty.” He lowered his head and closed his eyes for a moment, seemingly emotional, though everyone knew it was an act. “Reluctantly, sadly, and with a heavy heart—but do . . . its . . . duty. May God bless this House, and may God bless these United States of America.”

  Republicans leapt to their feet. The Democrats sat impassively, their faces frozen, staring at Jimmerson with hatred. They despised everything that Jimmerson, in their eyes, symbolized: partisanship, cynicism, political calculation, the abuse of power. No matter. Jimmerson’s whips had counted 230 solid votes to impeach Franklin, twelve more than they needed.

  FRANK GROSS PARKED ON a side street near George Washington University hospital. He wanted no security cameras in the parking lot to record his coming or going. He glanced at his watch: it was 4:50 p.m., and the guard would be changing in ten minutes. Wearing green chinos, work shoes, and a denim oxford shirt, he looked like any visitor stopping by to see a family member. He walked into the hospital lobby and headed for the elevator, keeping his head down and his feet moving. Through decades of security work, he had learned to carry himself with the confidence of someone who belonged, above all, to move quickly and avoid eye contact.

  Getting off the elevator on the fifth floor, he ducked into a restroom and closed the door to the far stall. He methodically removed his outer clothes and placed them in a plastic bag, stripping down to a green hospital orderly uniform that he wore underneath. He clipped on an employee identification card. He walked back to the elevators and, after looking in both directions, opened the door to a service area, dropping the plastic bag containing his street clothes down a garbage shaft.

  Walking down the hallway, he felt his heart rate quicken. This was the moment of maximum danger. He could be seen, captured by video cameras, or stopped by security. But he knew the route well, and he knew the patterns of the DC police officer who guarded the hospital room of Peter Corbin Franklin. He knew when he came on duty, when he took his lunch break, and when he relieved himself or visited the vending machines in the break room.

  It was 5:42 p.m. when the cop left his station. Gross moved quickly, stepping into a room and disconnecting the EKG from a patient, setting off an alarm at the nurse’s station. As hospital personnel hustled to the patient’s aid, Gross went down a side stairwell to the fourth floor. The lead nurse left her station to check on the patient. As she reconnected the EKG machine, Gross moved down the hall to another stairwell and walked back up to the fifth floor. Reaching the door, he opened it and looked both ways. All clear.

  He stepped across the hall to Peter Corbin Franklin’s room. It was dark and quiet, with a fluorescent light on over the bed. Franklin looked like a sack of bones underneath the sheets, and Gross guessed he now weighed no more 110 pounds. An intravenous drip emptied into a vein in his right arm. Gross moved quickly. He opened the valve of the drip, pulled a syringe out of his pocket, and pressed down the plunger, inserting a burst of air into the tube. Closing the valve, he put the syringe back in his pocket and exited the room.

  As he headed back to the elevators, the DC cop passed him, carrying a Diet Coke in one hand and a package of mini doughnuts in the other. They briefly made eye contact. A wave of fear passed through Gross: had the cop made him? There was nothing left to do but keep moving. He took the stairs down to the first floor, passed through the lobby, and walked out the front door. Turning down the side street, he looked around to make sure no one else was watching him. He got into his car and pulled away. He dialed a number on his cell phone. “It’s done.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Gross lied. “I passed a DC cop in the hall. That’s it.”

  “You’re probably alright,” replied the person on the other end of the line. “But just to be safe, lay low.”

  THE AIDE IN THE Speaker’s office hung up the phone, her hand shaking as she scribbled a note on a piece of paper. She bolted from behind her desk, nearly tripping over a trash can, and stumbled down the hall to the Speaker’s private office, her dress heels clicking on the white marble floor. Gerald Jimmerson was meeting with a group of utility executives.

  The aide quietly opened the door and walked wordlessly to the Speaker. Jimmerson kept one eye on a television set in the corner tuned to C-Span and the vote proceeding on the House floor. She passed him the note. Jimmerson opened it and read its contents, his face going white. He immediately rose to his feet.

  “Gentlemen, forgive me, but I’m needed on the floor,” he said with a start. He quickly pumped hands around the coffee table. “Please forgive me for having to duck out. I’ll try to rejoin you, but you are in able hands.” He nodded to two aides and turned on his heel to go.

  After the door closed behind him, one of the aides leaned over and picked up the note. It read: “AP News Alert: Peter Corbin Franklin Dies.”

  ON THE HOUSE FLOOR, word of Franklin’s death spread rapidly, sparking pandemonium. Panic-stricken Republicans scrambled to change their votes to “present”—they didn’t want to be seen as kicking a dead man. Democrats buzzed with energy, pointing accusing fingers as the Republicans’ votes kept changing from green to amber on the display board. Whips for both sides darted in and out of the aisles.

  Sam Manion stood in the midst of the chaos looking as if a grenade had just gone off in his foxhole. His colleagues came up to ask him what should be done. His face ashen, he mumbled that he didn’t know.

  An aide appeared at his side. “The Speaker would like to see you in the cloak room.”

  Manion hurried off the floor and found Jimmerson standing in a circle of worried members of the GOP leadership. “Franklin has died,” said the Speaker. “He must have passed as we were giving our speeches.”

  “Good God,” said Manion.

  “How much time is left?” asked Jimmerson.

  “Two minutes,” answered a staffer.

  “Alright,” Jimmerson began, taking charge. “Can we stop the vote?”

  “Stop the vote?” asked Manion, incredulous. “I don’t think so.”

  “We can do whatever we darn well please,” Jimmerson fired back. He tapped Manion on the chest. “When we get inside a minute, move to suspend the rules. After that motion passes, we’ll pull the resolution from the floor.”

  “But that takes a two-thirds vote,” Manion objected. “It’ll never pass.”

  “Just do it, Sam,” sputtered Jimmerson, highly agitated. Everyone filed through the door of the cloakroom and onto the floor.

  When the Democrats caught sight of Jimmerson, they smelled blood. “Shame! Shame!” shouted several Democratic congressmen, pointing accusingly as they shouted.

  “Mr. Speaker, I seek recognition for the purpose of a parliamentary inquiry,” said the ranking Democrat on the Judiciary Committee.

  “The chair recognizes the gentleman from Michigan.”

  “I note that the members on the other side of the aisle are changing their votes from yes to present and now to no,” he said with a smirk. “I wonder if given the
fact that they have preoccupied the House with this charade and now have egg on their face, if they wouldn’t feel more comfortable under the circumstances simply abstaining.”

  Laughter rumbled up and down the Democratic side of the aisle. Republican members hurled insults and shouted catcalls at their tormentors. In the press gallery reporters sat on the edge of their seats, scribbling notes, their eyes on high beam, unable to believe what they were witnessing.

  “The gentleman from Michigan’s inquiry is not of a parliamentary nature,” the presiding officer said. He raised the gavel and banged it three times. “The House will come to order! Order in the House!”

  The Democrats ignored him. “Shame! Shame!”

  “Mr. Speaker, I move that the resolution before the House be placed on the table,” said Manion into a microphone on the floor.

  “Cowards!” shouted the Democrats.

  “The gentlemen from Virginia has moved that the resolution be tabled. All those in—”

  “Mr. Speaker, this motion is out of order!” screamed the Democratic floor manager.

  “—favor, signify by saying aye.”

  “Aye!” shouted the Republicans.

  “All those opposed, signify by saying nay.”

  “Division of the House! Division of the House!” The Democrats demanded a roll call on the motion.

  “The ayes have it. The resolution is put on the table.”

  Boos filled the air as Democrats joyfully vented their outrage. By now they were performing for the cameras. Out in the hallway members from both sides held dueling news conferences beneath a blaze of television lights. Reporters flitted between them, dutifully recording the charges and insults that each side hurled at the other.

  Gerald Jimmerson decided it was time to make his exit. He had nothing to gain from remaining in camera range. He ducked into the cloakroom. A harried press aide approached.