by Ralph Reed
“Marvin Myers says he’s writing his column, and Joe Penneymounter gave him a quote saying you are abusing your office to trampling on civil rights.” He paused, gulping. “He compared you to George Wallace.”
Several members stood around, transfixed. They seemed to flinch as Jimmerson stood there, a smoking volcano about to blow.
“He said what?!” Jimmerson shouted. His eyes darted around the room. “He compared me to whom?”
“George Wallace, sir.”
Jimmerson’s face went beet red. The veins in his forehead began to protrude. “You tell Myers that I said that is the most despicable, dishonest, disingenuous smear I have heard in my political career. It is beneath contempt.” He turned on his heel and began to march away, then wheeled around and pointed at his press aide. “Tell him to quote me on that!”
IT WAS A LITTLE after 6:00 p.m. when G. G. Hoterman climbed on to the treadmill at the Washington Sports Club next to the Ritz Carlton downtown. It was all part of his losing battle with his weight, a battle he had been fighting for three decades, ever since the two-a-days of his college playing days gave way to the sedentary lifestyle of a Washington lobbyist. Too many steaks, too little exercise, thought G. G. He began moving his legs in a brisk walk, flipping the television built into the treadmill to MSNBC. But when he saw the News Alert logo at the bottom of the screen, he almost fell off the treadmill. “Justice Peter Corbin Franklin Dead” read the headline. The female anchor delivered the news in a grave tone of voice. “After suffering a stroke from which he never regained consciousness, leaving him in a coma for the past four and a half months, Peter Corbin Franklin died last night from heart failure,” she said. “One of the greatest progressive champions and among the most celebrated liberal icons in the modern history of the Supreme Court is gone. President Long will now make arguably the most important decision of his young presidency: whom to nominate to replace Franklin.”
Hoterman slowed down the treadmill and reached for his BlackBerry, dialing Christy Love’s office number. She answered on the first ring.
“I assume you heard about Franklin,” said G. G., his breathing heavy.
“Yes,” answered Christy in a stricken voice. “We all knew this day was coming. But it still hits you like a ton of bricks.”
“Poor Franklin is spinning in his grave at the thought of Long picking his successor.”
“That may be why he hung on as long as he did.”
“What’s the game plan?” asked G. G.
“I’m jumping on a strategy call in ten minutes,” said Christy. “Preliminarily, I expect Long will move quickly. He’s had plenty of time to get ready.”
“I agree,” said G. G. “I think he’ll wait until after Franklin’s funeral, at least for appearances sake.”
“I’d say we have five to seven days tops,” said Christy. “And if he picks who we think he will, there’ll be plenty to work with. We’ve got enough research to fill a small warehouse.”
“Who do you think it’s going to be?”
“Majette or Diaz.”
G. G. dialed the treadmill down until it was barely moving. “The first African-American woman or the second Hispanic,” G. G. replied. “Brilliant.”
“Bingo,” said Christy. “Majette is from California so it’s home cookin’ for Long. The Diaz play is so cynical that it’s obvious. It’s a twofer: energize social conservatives and make a play for Latinos.”
“What have you got on them?”
“Between us? Enough dirt to fill a dump truck,” said Christy.
“That’s very encouraging to hear.”
“We’re going to need some more dough,” Christy added, moving in for the kill. “The other side will be well funded.”
“Absolutely. I’ll help you,” said G. G. “How much do you need?”
Christy thought a second. “Five million.” She paused, letting the blow sink in. “That’s just to start. I’ll need twenty million before it’s over.”
“Get me a budget,” said G. G. crisply.
“You’ll have it by COB tomorrow at the latest.”
G. G. hung up the phone and dialed up the treadmill, quickening his pace. Over the noise of the treadmill motor, the voices of the cable chatter faded into background noise. A jumble of unanswered questions filled G. G.’s head. How had Franklin died? He suspected foul play. His mind raced back to his conversation with Fox the previous day and his expression of confidence that Franklin would soon be gone. A shudder went through him.
ANDY STANTON SAT IN the chair in his dressing room just off the set of his television show as a female makeup artist wiped his face with a hot washcloth. He had been taping some promotional spots for his next prime-time special. She occasionally paused to look in the mirror to check her handiwork. Stanton paid no attention. He was engrossed in the Associated Press copy announcing Peter Corbin Franklin’s death.
The phone in the dressing room rang. It was Ross Lombardy. The makeup artist handed Andy the phone.
“Ross, I told you Long would have a Supreme Court appointment in his first year as president,” said Andy with characteristic self-assurance. “The Lord told me.”
“You heard Him alright,” Ross agreed, suck up juices flowing. “Did you hear about what just happened in the House?”
“No, what?” asked Andy.
“They were literally voting on Franklin’s impeachment when the news broke about Franklin dying,” related Ross. “The Republicans immediately tabled the resolution. The Democrats are livid. They have still refused to leave the floor. Jimmerson ordered the clerk of the House to turn off the air-conditioning and the lights, but they still won’t leave.”
“The Democrats are holding a sit-in in the dark in the House chamber?” asked Andy in an excitable squeal. “Brother, you can’t make this stuff up!”
“They’re lighting candles and singing ‘We Shall Overcome,’” chuckled Ross. “It’s total chaos.”
“Jimmerson has all the subtlety of a sledgehammer,” said Andy, his voice dripping with contempt. “He tried to play hardball with us during the House election of Long and that totally backfired. Now he’s overplayed his hand on Franklin.” Andy thought Jimmerson had grown increasingly erratic, lurching from crisis to crisis with no strategic plan. It made Andy’s ties to the Republican party, already frayed from his endorsement of Long, weaken further.
“Well, at the end of the day, it’s a blessing in disguise,” Ross replied. “We couldn’t be against impeachment, given where our base is, but we didn’t have the votes in the Senate. It was like the Clinton impeachment only we were trying to remove a grandfather in a coma. What a mess.”
“This is for all the marbles, Ross,” Andy continued, barely pausing to breathe. “Long’s got the chance of a lifetime with this appointment. This is for Roe v. Wade, the sanctity of marriage, tort reform, the right to pray in school, the future of the family. It’s everything we’ve worked for over four decades.”
“No question,” said Ross. “But it’s not going to be a cakewalk with Penneymounter and Stanley already sharpening their knives.”
“By the way, did you get my list to Golden?” asked Andy.
“He’s got it.”
“Any feedback?”
“Not yet, but I’ll check back in with his chief of staff,” promised Ross.
“No more Souters,” said Andy. “I told the president that when I met with him in January.”
“I remember well. Let’s hope he listened.”
Ross hung up the phone and felt a surge of energy go through him. He had a front-row seat to the most important Supreme Court pick in two generations. Long’s pick would be Bork cubed. This time, Ross vowed silently to himself, they would win.
FOURTEEN
“Mrs. Long?” asked the woman at the door, her manner pleasant but professional.
“Yes,” replied Claire.
“Dr. Kelly will see you now.”
Claire rose from a straight-back chair in the airy, b
rightly lit lobby painted in pastel colors on the campus of Hope Ranch, the rehabilitation and wellness center outside Phoenix she checked into the previous night. Secretly ferried from Camp David by helicopter to Andrews Air Force Base, she transferred to a government Gulfstream V for the long flight to Phoenix, arriving at a little past 10:00 p.m. After a night of tossing and turning in her private room (fresh roses on the bedside table, her own private sitting room, a spacious bathroom with marble floors and Jacuzzi), Claire awaited her introductory counseling session. In rehab speak, it was her “initial consultation.”
Vanilla-scented mood candles flickered on the coffee table, a Spanish guitar strummed softly on the sound system, and hushed voices and forced smiles of Hope Ranch employees greeted patients (in rehab speak, “residents”) at every turn. To Claire, it was fingernails on a chalkboard, sensory reminders of a bad dream in which she awoke to find she was an inmate in an asylum.
Don’t they know I don’t belong here! The words echoed in her head in a silent scream. I am not an alcoholic! Through a maze of jangled nerves and jumbled emotions, her overriding feeling was pure anger. She was mad at Bob for overreacting to the East Room mishap, angry with the media for portraying her as a drunken witch and the latest poster child for alcohol-laced bad behavior, and angry at Jeff Links for deceiving her and selling her down the river. Once again Bob’s political career came first, and once again Claire was being sacrificed on the altar of his ambition.
Hope Ranch had a strict policy of confidentiality. But Claire knew it would not spare her from public scandal. It was only a matter of time before tabloid helicopters buzzed overhead, telephoto lenses poised.
Mostly she felt suppressed anxiety (sheer terror better described it) at confronting the demons that had hounded her for years, snapping at her heels until they finally brought her to this antiseptic hell masquerading as a $25,000 a month resort for drunks, druggies, and losers. Consumed by an overwhelming sense of guilt and fear, Claire followed the woman down the hall to the office of Dr. Jack Kelly.
She half expected a male version of Nurse Ratchet. But Kelly was so understated as to be unimpressive, greeting her with a smile that crinkled the crow’s feet around his eyes and gave his brown eyes a soft glow. Dressed in blue slacks and a white button-down shirt, he appeared to be in his mid-sixties, with a shock of whitish hair, but his manner was that of a young, energetic man. He motioned Claire to a simple leather couch while he sat across from her in a chair, crossing his legs and placing his hands on his lap, a model of empathy.
“Claire, welcome. I guess we should start with why you are here,” Kelly said. A manila folder sat on his lap, and Claire assumed it was her patient records.
“Yes, I’ve thought about what I would say about that,” said Claire, her voice halting and nervous. “The short answer is my husband and pastor made me come.” Her barely concealed hostility curled her red lips, her face hard and brittle.
“Does that make you angry?”
“Not really angry,” she lied. “I’m past anger. Upset, maybe.”
“So you don’t think you should be here?” Kelly asked.
“No.”
“And if someone were to ask you if you were an alcoholic, what would you say?” asked Kelly, putting his hand on his chin, drawing her out.
“I would say no.”
Kelly nodded as if he had expected the answer before he asked. “And why would you say no?”
“Because I can quit any time I want to,” replied Claire.
Kelly flashed a knowing smile. “That is a common misconception about alcoholism,” he said. “But in reality, whether or not someone can stop drinking has little or nothing to do with whether he or she is an alcoholic.” He leaned forward, his eyes steady. “In fact, as strange as it sounds, alcohol itself is not the problem. It’s simply the medication people use to treat the deeper problem.”
Claire rose from the couch and walked to the window, gazing out at the desert. It was beautiful: rolling hills of sand, brush, and cactus, bathed in the morning desert sunlight. She turned back from the window. “Doctor, with all due respect—”
“Please, call me Jack. I got over being impressed by my medical degree a long time ago.”
“Alright, then. Jack, that’s nonsensical. If someone can quit drinking any time they want and they don’t need alcohol, how can they be an alcoholic?”
Dr. Kelly went to a whiteboard on the wall. He drew a circle and divided it into six sections. Above it, he wrote “Emotions/Feelings.” In the six sections, he wrote Love, Joy, Peace followed by Fear, Anger, Depression. He tapped the three sections in which he had written the negative emotions.
“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘I need a drink’?”
“Sure.”
“Ever say it yourself?”
“Of course.”
Kelly walked back to his chair and sat down. “That’s fine. It’s a common phrase, thoroughly embedded in our culture at this point.” He pointed back to the lower half of the circle, where he wrote Anger, Fear, and Depression. “But alcoholism is about these negative feelings. It actually has little to do with alcohol. Chemicals such as alcohol, prescription medication, or illegal drugs are simply the thing outside themselves people take to cope with and manage negative feelings. They don’t know how to deal with negative emotions, and rather than process them, they medicate themselves. It doesn’t have to be alcohol.”
Claire crossed her arms and nodded. “How about Diet Dr. Pepper?” she asked.
Kelly smiled wanly. Claire was toying with him. It was a self-defense mechanism, they both knew. “I suppose one can be addicted to caffeine from coffee or soft drinks but not in the way that I am talking about,” he said. “The point is, someone who can’t deal with negative feelings becomes dependent on a chemical to make them feel better. With continued usage over time, there is a biochemical reaction in the brain to the alcohol. Without realizing it, they cannot function without it.”
“That’s not me,” said Claire firmly.
“You’ve never had a drink to make yourself feel better?”
“Sure, doesn’t everyone?” asked Claire. “Why else do people drink?’
“Because they like the taste. Such as a fine red wine.”
Claire shot Dr. Kelly a disbelieving look. “What if I simply don’t agree that I’m an alcoholic and I decide to leave?”
“You can choose to do that,” Kelly answered. “But I think you should ask yourself whether everyone else who suggested you come here is wrong.” He reloaded, crossing his legs. “Tell you what: give it three days. If after three days you have not learned something about yourself and how to deal with negative feelings, there’s the door.” He pointed to the door of his office. “I’ll even drive you to the airport. But I predict you’ll learn a lot and it will greatly benefit you and make you a better person.”
Claire found herself lowering her guard. Was it a trick? “Just three days?”
“Three days. But there are two rules.”
Claire arched her right eyebrow. “And what are those?”
“First, no alcohol. Not even a sip. Second, you have to attend the group and individual sessions.” He paused. “That’s all. Do you want to give it a try?”
Claire mentally reviewed her options. She figured if she gave it three days and it was a dud, she could call Bob and Jeff, and they might let her come home. “Alright,” she said with a hint of resignation. “Three days, but that’s it.”
BOB LONG SAT AT the head of a green tablecloth-covered table and talked health care, jobs, and taxes with a group of business leaders in Akron, Ohio. In White House lingo, it was a “message event,” the latest in a mind-numbing string of public appearances by the president designed to sell his health-care plan, which was on life support in the Republican-controlled House and buffeted by grassroots protests from the very right-wing activists who voted for him six months earlier. The VFW center in Akron was filled to capacity with two thousand screaming and angry ci
tizens, and another thousand milling around in the parking lot, holding up handmade signs and gesturing to the cameras.
Long prowled the stage like a lynx, his eyes intense and deep blue. He seemed to feed off adversity (including the marital trauma roiling his personal world, still unknown to the outside world). His chief domestic policy initiative lay in shambles, his as-yet-unnamed Supreme Court nominee awaited a hostile U.S. Senate, and his wife was in rehab. Yet a strange calm enveloped Long. He wielded the microphone like a saber, his rhetorical flourishes and charisma giving him a Luke Skywalker glow. The local congressman was still on the fence, and the White House hoped a presidential visit might sway him. But the offer backfired. Still blaming Long for the attempted impeachment of Franklin, the congressman blew off the event. It was a slap in the face.
After fielding tough questions from the audience and parrying with the business leaders, Long exited through a blue curtain. David Thomas slid up beside him, walking rapidly.
“Is this doing any good?” Long asked.
“Yes, sir,” replied Thomas. “It’ll dominate the local news. The Cleveland nets and Fox carried it live.” He used communication-shop shorthand for the network television affiliates.
“I don’t know,” Long sighed. “It’s hard to break through when the House is impeaching a comatose Supreme Court justice. What a sideshow that is.”
Long reached the limousine, where a line of greeters, local dignitaries and elected officials who had supported him or he was wooing, awaited. Long worked each one, hand on shoulders, eyes glued to each face, as the official photographer snapped away. Then he climbed into the back of the limo.
Long looked at Thomas’s face. His expression was noticeably strained.
“What is it?” asked Long.
“Mr. President, Justice Franklin is dead,” said Thomas softly.
Long’s face fell. He had expected the news for some time but the gravity of it still rattled. “Poor old guy,” he said. Then suddenly his face cracked into a grin, and he let out a low rat-tat-tat chuckle. “You’ve got to hand it to Franklin. He stabbed Jimmerson in the back as he walked through the pearly gates, didn’t he?”