by Ralph Reed
“She’s a moderate?!” shrieked Andy, his blood pressure spiking. “Where is she on the moral issues? They don’t call California the land of fruits and nuts for nothing.”
“No core convictions that I know of,” answered Stamponovich. “When the California Supremes ruled on same-sex marriage, she voted to uphold the marriage amendment, but her dissent argued that the gay couple suing lacked legal standing. She pointedly did not join the minority opinion that same-sex couples have no right to marry under the California state constitution.”
“Good grief. That’s unacceptable, my dear brother,” muttered Andy.
“Totally,” said Ross firmly. “If Long nominates Majette, it’ll blow up in his face like a shrapnel grenade in his Partridge Family lunch box.”
Andy giggled morbidly. He found Ross’s bizarre analogies to be a source of constant amusement. “All of the above,” he said. “Bert, you stop Majette right now. We need a full court press on Golden.”
“I don’t think Golden’s the answer, frankly,” said Stamponovich. “He may have been promised control of judicial nominations, but that’s not how it works in the real world. This is being run out of the West Wing. Battaglia’s driving this train.”
“He’s no friend of ours,” said Ross.
“No one’s our friend, Ross. Haven’t you figured that out yet?” joked Andy.
“Phil’s a problem,” said Stamponovich. “He’s a technocrat who doesn’t care about ideology. Second, he’s part of the California mafia, so he’s biased for Majette.”
“Should I call the president?” asked Andy. “He owes me.”
“Big time. But we won’t be able to pull that off without it being staffed,” Ross warned. “Hector will want to know what the call’s about; we can’t tell the truth and we can’t lie.”
“Forget Hector!” bellowed Andy. “Who is he? I don’t need his permission to talk to the president! I can call Long any time I want.”
“Let me try something first,” suggested Stamponovich, scrambling for an alternative to Andy’s calling Long. “I’m on a daily judicial strategy conference call with the Federalist Society, Right to Life, Heritage, and the bloggers. We can start a firestorm in the blogosphere, and that will give me an excuse to call Hector.”
“We can also slip the mickey to Marvin Myers,” said Ross. “This is catnip for him. I can see the headline now: ‘Evangelical Groups Shoot Down Majette Trial Balloon.’”
“Good idea,” said Andy. “Myers is a pit bull.”
“Bert, you call Hector and I’ll call Jay,” said Ross. “Jay gets it. He still talks to the president almost every day.”
“He’s in Italy running the Brodi campaign,” said Stamponovich, chuckling. “I think he’s got his hands full.”
“He can multitask,” said Ross, chuckling.
“Somebody better tell Jay to get in the game, or Bob Long’s gonna be a one termer,” said Andy, the octave of his voice rising with anxiety. “We’ll look like idiots if he picks Majette. Our troops will turn on us. We’d have to oppose her or remain neutral at best.”
“We’re on the case, Andy,” said Ross smoothly, trying to calm down his increasingly agitated boss. “Majette will be in the trash bin by the time Bert and I get done.”
Andy laughed. He got a big kick out of it whenever Ross started trash-talking about how many bodies he was going to pile up.
JAY’S RENTAL CAR SHOT up a narrow road that skirted craggy rocks in the mountains over Carmignano, seventeen kilometers east of Florence, and he tried to stay focused as he drove past five-hundred-foot drops with only a chain-link fence separating him from certain death. Carmignano began as a medieval outpost of the Florentine army, and a mountaintop fort still intact served as a lookout for invading Siennese armies. The Medicci family summer palace was just across the valley. The Fellissi family’s summer villa was on top of the mountain right next to the ancient fort. Arriving at last, Jay pulled up to an iron gate, dialed a number into the intercom, and announced his arrival. A housekeeper buzzed him in.
“Miss Fellissi is down by the pool,” said the housekeeper, her disapproving eyes surveying him up and down.
Jay walked around the villa to find Gabriella reclining in a lounge chair in a yellow string bikini that left little to the imagination, the straps down off her shoulders, her arms, legs, and abdomen glistening with tanning oil. She flipped lazily through a fashion magazine. Tanned body wrapped in yellow, she looked like a human Brach’s candy.
“Jay, bonjourno!” she called, waving. “I see you found it alright.”
“Bonjourno. I’m just glad to be alive after that drive up the mountain,” laughed Jay. “This is not an easy place to get to.”
“But worth the effort,” she replied.
“Unbelievable,” said Jay. He gazed out over wheat fields and vineyards that stretched for kilometers. The cupola and bell tower of the Doma in Florence were faintly visible through the mist. “This has got to be one of the most incredible views in Italy.”
“Glad you like. This villa has been in our family for five hundred years,” said Gabriella matter-of-factly. “Except the pool. I made Papa build it a few years ago.”
The housekeeper brought out a tray with assorted cheeses, ham and sausage, a garden salad, fresh olives, and a bottle of red wine. Jay noticed she was sizing him up warily. He surmised he was the latest in a long string of male suitors.
“Come. Eat,” said Gabriella, putting a fishnet wrap-around skirt on her narrow hips. She seemed to float to the table, long legs gliding, hips swaying. “We’re having dinner tonight in Florence. My driver will take us so we don’t have to worry about how much we drink.” It was typical Gabriella, making plans without consulting Jay. “Then I take you to the place with the best gelato in Italy.”
“I’ve already been to about ten places that allegedly serve the best gelato in the world,” said Jay with a smile.
“Trust me. This is the best of the best.” She smiled. “After dinner I usually come back here and swim under the stars,” she said with a suggestive lilt in her voice. “You can join me if you like,” she said, winking.
“But I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” said Jay.
“You won’t need it, sugar,” said Gabriella, not missing a beat.
“In that case skip the gelato!” They both laughed. Jay cut into the huge sausage with a knife, slicing it into thin wafers to have with the cheese. “What about tomorrow? I know you have the entire weekend planned already.”
“Tomorrow big!” said Gabriella. “We are going to Sienna for the running of the horses. It is, what do you call it? A mob scene. My family rents an apartment overlooking the Piazza de Campo, and we throw big party.”
“The horses run around the square, right? It’s a little like our Kentucky Derby.”
“No mint juleps or big hats,” Gabriella said, giggling. “Red wine and short skirts.”
Jay’s BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced down at the number. It was Ross Lombardy.
“I better take this,” said Jay. “Last call of the weekend, I promise—unless it’s Brodi.”
“Always working,” said Gabriella, her lips forming a pout, shooing him from the table with a wave of her hand. Jay walked past the pool to the sloping lawn, standing on the rock wall at the edge of the property to give himself some privacy.
“Ross, my main man,” he said affectionately. “What’s shaking?”
“Sorry to bug you in Italy, Jay,” said Ross apologetically.
“How do you know where I am?”
“The New York Times did a big write-up about you helping Brodi,” said Ross. “Said it was a test of whether you could replicate the Long coalition in Europe. They had a picture of the chick you’re seeing over there, the wine heiress. . . . She’s hot!”
Jay glanced at Gabriella, chatting on her cell phone in rapid-fire Italian, gesturing with her hands. “Yes, she is,” he sighed.
“I know you’re in the weeds with the Brodi campaign, but
I need your help on something. It’s pretty important not only to us but for Long.”
The truth? Jay was barely involved in the Brodi campaign anymore, having stepped aside (partially pushed) after the latest blowup over strategy. Tired of dealing with advisors who resented his input, sick of Brodi’s ego and ingratitude, done with being harassed by the press, Jay was mailing it in. No matter. The final TV ads were on the air, and Jay was now licking his wounds with Gabriella. Besides, Brodi could not afford to fire him, and he had already pocketed his two million euro consulting fee.
“Sure, fire away, buddy. What can I do you for?”
“We’re hearing rumors that the president is looking at Yolanda Majette for the Supreme Court pick,” said Ross. “She’s not a conservative. Andy’s so mad he’s about to clear a McDonald’s parking lot with a machine gun. He wants to call the president directly and urge him not to pick Majette.”
“Ouch,” said Jay. “We don’t want that.”
“No,” said Ross gravely. “But if it’s Majette, we go to Defcon 5. Her decision in the California marriage amendment case is a big problem.” He paused, loading. “Jay, we can’t support her. And we might have to oppose her.”
Jay gulped. “I’m familiar with the marriage case,” he said. “I was in California at the time. Some have interpreted her ruling on the gay couple’s standing as an unwillingness to make the right call on the merits. But she’s a jurist, not a legislator, so she rules based on the law. If that’s giving indigestion to some of your friends, let’s figure out a way to fix it.”
“I don’t think we can. The marriage case is on its way to the Supreme Court. The next justice is the deciding vote. Majette’s unacceptable to our people.”
“Look, the president is committed to appointing judges who interpret the law, not legislate from the bench,” replied Jay, rattling off his talking points, brain on autopilot. “We’re willing to listen to objections to Majette, but they have to be based on the facts.”
“Jay, I’m your friend,” said Ross, going for the knockout. “I can’t sell her and neither can Andy. If she’s the nominee, you can count us out.”
“I got that already,” said Jay impatiently. He glanced over at Gabriella, who was chewing a bite slowly, arms across her chest, D&G sunglasses on the end of her nose, disapproving eyes cutting through him. If he didn’t end the call soon, the midnight swim was off. “Ross, the president holds Majette in high regard. She’s a woman of deep Christian faith. I know her, and I’m confident she’ll be a solid vote. But I’ll weigh in and report back within twenty-four hours.”
“Thanks, man,” said Ross, the hostility draining from his voice. “You’re the greatest. My only regret is that you’re not in the White House where you belong.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy, dude,” said Jay. “I’m a political hack, not a White House aide.”
Jay hung up and walked back to the pool, his mind a jumble. Pausing on the stone steps, he gazed at the breathtaking vista of the Tuscan countryside, the Medici summer palace across the valley, row upon row of vineyards, and Florence nestled among the hills in the distance. Impulsively, the thought occurred to him to buy a villa with the Brodi campaign fee and hang out in Italy for a while. But another thought jarred him: while he was drinking wine, playing tourist, and swimming with Gabriella, the coalition he had painstakingly built to elect Long was unraveling. If he didn’t do something soon, Long’s presidency might be on life support.
EIGHTEEN
Keith Golden dreaded making the call but felt he had no choice. After two meetings in the Oval with the president (who remained studiously opaque) and a flurry of calls with Hector and Battaglia, it was clear the Supreme Court pick was going sideways. Leaks out of the West Wing indicated Long (the scuttlebutt Battaglia was behind it) was leaning toward Yolanda Majette, Golden feared Long was about to commit political suicide and that he might be collateral damage. Nominating Majette would ruin Golden’s street cred on the right.
The president came on the line. “How’s my top cop?” he asked. “What’s on your mind, General?”
As usual Long cut to the chase. Risking alienating the president, Golden dove in. “Mr. President, I know you’re high on Yolanda Majette. She’s an outstanding jurist. But I wanted to convey a few concerns.”
“Sure, Keith,” said Long, his voice suddenly drained of enthusiasm. “But if you’re worried about the California marriage case, she’s got an answer for that one.”
“I’ve got no issue with that,” answered Golden. “Andy Stanton’s going to be bent out of shape, but her ruling was perfectly consistent with solid judicial temperament.”
“I agree,” said Long. “So then what’s the problem?”
“As the first African-American woman on the court, she would be a historic pick, no question,” Golden said, pouring a little honey on the dirt sandwich. “I just don’t want her to be your Sotomayor. Mr. President; she’s not as well versed on constitutional doctrine.”
“Mmmm-mmmm,” said Long.
“She has no background on the federal courts,” Golden continued. “She was a state superior court judge, which is a political appointment, so her facility in constitutional law is limited. In a confirmation hearing she’ll get asked really tough, probing questions.” He paused, weighing his words. “Sir, I recommend we give her an interim step by putting her on the Ninth Circuit. Let her season a bit, and then she’ll be ready for the next vacancy.”
“What if I don’t get another appointment?”
“There’s no way to know, but I wouldn’t let that drive your decision, Mr. President. You don’t want to operate on an artificial deadline.”
“I don’t disagree with that,” said Long, his tone noncommittal.
“Mr. President, if you try to make a quarter horse jump a six-foot fence, there’s a danger it will break its leg,” said Golden. An experienced rider, Golden loved horses.
“You’re right,” said Long. “But I’d rather have a mule that can plow a straight row than a show horse who looks good in the stable and can’t run worth a lick. I think Majette is a quick study and can get up to speed quickly.”
“Frankly, I’m actually less concerned about her on the Court than I am about her ability to get through the confirmation process,” said Golden. “She’s going to be pressed on her views on constitutional doctrine. It’s not like cramming for a final exam in law school. Sir, my guys are concerned that she’s not ready.”
“Well, I really appreciate the input, Keith,” said Long, his voice flat. “What I need to know is, can I count on you to be on the team?”
Golden was taken aback. On every question, it seemed, Long cared less about arriving at the right decision and more about who was on the team once the decision was made. “Mr. President, you’ll have no stronger advocate. I’ll make my best case on the inside, but once we walk out the door, no one will defend your nominee more forcefully than me.”
“Good,” said Long. “Let’s talk more often.”
Golden hung up and gazed longingly at a photo of himself in a power clutch with Long in the Oval. The picture mocked him. Phil Battaglia’s physical proximity and close relationship with Long had trumped Golden’s title. Despite Long’s promises to the contrary, Golden had been reduced to being a spectator as the future of the Supreme Court hung in the balance.
JAY SAT HUNCHED OVER a utility table, his unblinking eyes scanning a computer screen in the count room at the Brodi campaign’s makeshift headquarters. He and the campaign high command gathered in a suite at the Hotel Nationale, just across the piazza from the Chamber of Deputies building, where Frank Sinatra once crooned at the bar and where members of parliament hung out and drank with reporters and lobbyists. As returns filtered in from across Italy, the result was no surprise to Jay: the race was too close to call.
Chewing on his fingernails and downing one cup of espresso after another, chased with an occasional Pellegrino and lime, Jay was wired from a combination
of caffeine and stress-induced anxiety. The campaign had ended in a barrage of negative ads never seen in the modern political history of Italy. There were rumors of payoffs to trade union chiefs, and Jay knew some of them were true. Big Feet reporters from the States were following the election with a ferocious interest, praying Jay stumbled.
“Where are the remaining Rome wards!?” Jay asked of no one in particular.
One of Brodi’s insufferably obsequious aides appeared at Jay’s side, black hair slicked back, two days of beard growth flecking his face, shiny Italian suit cut trim. “Don’t worry, Americano,” he said in a patronizing tone. “This is Italy. We are holding back our vote so Porro can’t steal the north.” He smiled.
“So you’re telling me that we’re stealing it so he won’t?” asked Jay, incredulous.
“Not stealing exactly,” replied the aide. “But we want to make Porro go first.”
Jay calmed down but only a little. His BlackBerry’s inbox filled with e-mails from reporters in the U.S. looking for the inside scoop. He ignored them. Finally a little after 11:00 p.m., the totals from the all-critical Rome suburbs came in, and Brodi’s narrow lead widened. Jay allowed himself a broad smile. With only urban precincts remaining to be counted, Brodi was all but assured the premiership. Someone opened a bottle of champagne and began to fill glasses.
“Who’s going to call Brodi?” asked Jay.
“You should, Jay,” said the campaign manager. “Your ads did the trick.”
“Me? Absolutely not!” Jay objected. His relationship with Brodi had been a roller-coaster ride, alternately tempestuous and collaborative. He knew Brodi resented his dependence on Jay even as he admired his American wunderkind. Ignoring his protests, someone handed him a phone. The line was already ringing to the phone in Brodi’s suite.
“Sir, you’ve going to make a great prime minister,” said Jay into the phone when Brodi answered. He smiled and gave a thumbs-up to the rest of the team. Everyone applauded. “No, sir, I see no reason to wait for Porro to concede. It’s over.” He paused. “See you in ten minutes.” He hung up. “The mayor wants to go ahead and give his victory speech.”