The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  They all stuffed into a small elevator and jumped into waiting taxis to head over to the victory celebration at the Exelsior Hotel. For Jay it was Groundhog Day: another brutal campaign, another bloodletting, another near-death experience dodged. Only now the highs were no longer so high. Still Brodi’s victory showed that Jay still had his mojo. He was also 500,000 euros richer; his win bonus was payable within ten days. That brought his total to $2.8 million for eight weeks of work—assuming one could call his Italian adventure work.

  They pulled up in front of the Excelsior and quickly encountered a mob that filled the street, crammed the lobby, and snaked out of the ballroom. Someone grabbed a policeman who acted like a cow-catcher, pushing bodies to the side. News photographers recognized Jay and began to snap photos. As they walked into the ballroom of the Excelsior, Brodi was already on stage, soaking up the wild adoration of the crowd. He clutched his wife’s hand (she stood beside him despite rumors of infidelity and embarrassing revelations about the parties at his Lake Como villa), and together they celebrated vindication.

  “Brodi! Brodi! Brodi!” the crowd chanted. Little Italian flags chopped the air.

  As Jay arrived backstage, his BlackBerry vibrated in his pocket. Hiding behind the curtains, hand cupped over his other ear to block out the crowd noise, he took the call.

  “Congratulations, my American top gun,” came Gabriella’s husky voice.

  “Thanks,” replied Jay, trying to block out the raucous celebration. “It was ugly, but a win is a win.”

  “This calls for a proper celebration, no?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” replied Jay. “Just tell me where and when.”

  “W-e-l-l,” replied Gabriella, drawing out the word. “I fly to Paris tomorrow morning for an industry show. We’re unveiling a new vintage. It’s a big deal.” She paused for a beat. “Why don’t you come? We can celebrate with a long weekend in grand Paree.”

  Jay knew he should get back stateside and help out on health care and the Supreme Court pick. But when it came to Gabriella , Jay’s judgment was nonexistent.

  “I only have two questions,” replied Jay. “When do we leave, and what do I wear?”

  “I’ll pick you up in front of the Hassler at 10:00 a.m. Bring some casual clothes and a suit for dinner. I have a couple of official functions, but otherwise we’re free to do whatever we want.”

  “Whatever we want?” said Jay.

  “You won’t be disappointed,” said Gabri. “I know how to have a good time in Paris.”

  “I’m beginning to think you know how to have a good time anywhere,” said Jay.

  Gabriella let out a throaty laugh. “I don’t have a lot of use for Brodi, but I’m happy for you. Congratulations, baby. See you tomorrow.”

  Jay hung up and peeked back around the curtain to see Brodi gesticulating wildly, waving his arms, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. Our guy may be a demagogue, he thought, but at least he’s better than the other guy. Then it hit him: he had not even bothered to bring a nice suit to Italy. His closet at the Hassler was filled with a political consultant’s uniform: khakis, jeans, and blazers. He wondered where he could find a new suit in Rome in the middle of the night.

  THE PRESIDENT STRODE DOWN the colonnade leading from the Oval Office, shoulders thrown back and arms swinging at his side, a sprightly spring in his step, his Supreme Court nominee glued to his side. The press snapped to attention. Who was the person with him? Necks craned. The dark complexion and statuesque height gave it away. It was Yolanda Majette! To the surprise of virtually everyone, Bob Long had stared down the right-wing poo-bahs at the Faith and Family Federation and the Federalist Society and nominated a centrist from the Golden State in his own image. And the cherry on top was Majette would be the first African-American woman ever to sit on the Supreme Court. It was an electric moment.

  Long and Majette walked down the steps leading to the Rose Garden, their earnest expressions telegraphing the gravity of the moment. Long stepped to the podium and half smiled; Majette stood behind him. Seeing her regal beauty and stately poise on stage after days of speculation and handicapping came as a bit of surprise. Her milk-chocolate skin, jet-black hair, high cheekbones, feline eyes, and athletic frame made her look like Noami Campbell crossed with Condoleezza Rice. No shrinking violet, she wore a fire-engine red Chanel dress with black trim, black buttons, a wide black belt that pinched her thin waist, and red pumps.

  Long glanced down at the blue index cards bearing his remarks and then glanced up at the press, savoring the moment. He loved surprises. As when he selected Johnny Whitehead as his running mate, Majette was not only a complete surprise but a stroke of genius.

  “No greater responsibility befalls a president than to nominate justices to the Supreme Court,” Long began. “It is the forum of last resort for those seeking to protect their rights under the Constitution. Throughout our history the Supreme Court has passed judgment on the most central and contentious issues facing the American people. This is a decision I made after seeking bipartisan input from a wide range of people.”

  By protocol congressional leaders from both chambers sat on the front row. Chief among them, wearing strained poker faces leaking emotions ranging from begrudging admiration to abject hatred, were Salmon Stanley and Joe Penneymounter. The chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, in particular, looked as if he had just been punched in the gut. He slumped down in his chair, legs crossed, hands clasped on his knees, looking pale and wan.

  Long launched the opening salvo on what promised to be the vigorous marketing by the White House of Majette’s compelling personal story. “I wanted someone with outstanding professional qualifications. But I also wanted someone with a heart who could bring wisdom and compassion to the court, as well as respect for the rule of law, and the intellect to translate the hopes and aspirations of average Americans for social justice into an enduring body of constitutional jurisprudence.” He flipped over a card, plowing through the talking points. “I found that person in Yolanda Majette. The daughter of a Methodist preacher who grew up in the shadow of segregation in George Wallace’s Montgomery, Justice Majette knows the sting of discrimination, the humility of social ostracism, and the vital role of the judiciary in redressing injustice.” The whir and clicks of still cameras echoed across the lawn.

  “Justice Majette has enjoyed a legal career of remarkable distinction. She graduated from Harvard Law School, where she was the first African-American woman elected to the law review, and served her country as an officer and judge advocate in the U.S. Army. She taught constitutional law at the University of California and was elected as a superior court judge.” Majette stood to the side, stoic and humble as Long recounted her many achievements. “Appointed to a vacancy on the California Supreme Court, she was elected in her own right with a margin of 68 percent of the vote.” Long raised his head, his face filled with mirth. “I never got that margin in four campaigns for statewide office.” (Laughter, scattered applause.) “On California’s highest court she has been a model of fairness, judicial temperament, and achieving consensus. I am proud to nominate her to the U.S. Supreme Court and will transmit her name to the U.S. Senate for confirmation.”

  Majette shook Long’s hand and stepped confidently to the podium. Her back straight, shoulders square, chin high, she was a picture of America’s possibility. She clearly grasped that her nomination symbolized the twin and tortured destinies of race and gender in the nation’s history. Her physicality, striking appearance, and poise spoke preternatural toughness, an inner core shaped by the experience of growing up black in the segregated South. At five feet ten inches in her heels, she stood almost as tall as Long. She was a living metaphor for the old anthem of the civil rights movement: “We Shall Overcome.”

  “Mr. President, thank you for the great honor of this nomination. It is a long way from the white clapboard church my father pastored in Montgomery, Alabama, to the White House,” she said as Long smiled proudly. “I stand before
you today not only as a judge but also as my father and mother’s daughter, a soldier, an educator, and a woman of color whose country has afforded me unimaginable opportunities.” The enraptured press corps gobbled it up. This was no Al Sharpton in pumps. “If anyone doubts that in America anyone can rise as high and as far as their talents will carry them, today is a reminder of the great promise of our country.”

  Long began to tear up. Even the normally cynical reporters were moved. Majette was speaking not just for minorities but for all Americans. Her success was their success, and her accomplishments were the nation’s accomplishments.

  “Should I be fortunate enough to be confirmed as an associate justice of the Supreme Court, I will seek to ensure the law embodies that same promise of equality, opportunity, and liberty for all.” She glanced in Long’s direction. “Thank you again for your confidence, Mr. President. I look forward to meeting with individual senators and confirmation hearings as soon as they can be arranged.”

  Long and Majette stepped gingerly from the podium and walked back to the Oval Office. They took no questions.

  All eyes turned to Joe Penneymounter. Doing his best not to look outmaneuvered, he pumped hands, slapped backs, and grasped the arms of senators and congressmen, all for the benefit of the cameras. Would he launch an all-out attack on Majette or take a pass on what was an unquestionably inspired selection, both a minority and a woman? No one knew, least of all him.

  NINETEEN

  Ross Lombardy was in his hotel room at the airport Radisson in Orlando preparing for a rally and fund-raiser when Long made the announcement in the Rose Garden. As he watched it on television, he was overcome with nausea. It was a total betrayal. Three minutes after the news conference ended, the phone rang. It was Andy, and he was puffed up like a blowfish.

  “Brother, Bob Long stabbed us right between the shoulder blades,” said Andy. “He’s no better than the Republicans.”

  “I’m in a state of shock,” said Ross. “How could the guy be this dumb? We elected him. Now he gives us this?”

  “Sin can be forgiven, but stupid is forever. I won’t support him for reelection,” Andy said. “I got a call from a friend of mine who pastors one of the biggest churches in the country. He said Long’s going to bring God’s judgment down on his administration.”

  Ross was more interested in whip counts in the U.S. Senate than hell-fire-and-brimstone jeremiads. The evangelicals had already divorced the Grand Old Party. Now Bob Long was leaving them at the altar.

  “We can’t support Majette,” said Ross. “But I think you need to be careful. Stay above the fray.”

  “Stay above the fray!?” bellowed Andy. “We put twenty-two million votes in Long’s back pocket, and he has betrayed everything he stood for during the campaign. We have to make an example out of him, just like we did Petty. I’m going to unload on him!”

  Andy was in the midst of what vice presidents at New Life Ministries referred to in hushed whispers as one of his “Dennis Hopper moments.” At times like this Ross longed for a tranquilizer gun. “I don’t recommend that, sir,” he said.

  “Why not?” asked Andy.

  “I don’t believe in putting the general out on the point where he can get shot,” said Ross.

  “Meaning what precisely?”

  “Let our friends in the Senate take the lead,” said Ross. “It’s time they started earning their keep. If they want our support in the next election, they need to show some guts.”

  “The honorables are profiles in cowardice. Who will do it?”

  “Tom Reynolds. He’s ambitious, and he’ll do anything to separate from the pack.”

  “Or get on television. The guy is a shameless camera hog.”

  “And in this case that works in our favor.”

  “Alright,” said Andy, sounding chastened. “But I can’t guarantee I won’t say something on my radio show. This is the biggest story in the country, and I can’t just ignore it.”

  “Why don’t you book Reynolds on the show and let him say it?”

  “Call him and see if he’ll come today.”

  “Will do, Andy.” He paused. “You want to fly above the battlefield like a blimp. Between Penneymounter on the left and us on the right, we can take down Majette without your becoming a lightning rod in the process.”

  “Lightning rod? Are you kidding? I’m the lightning bolt.”

  Ross hung up the phone and walked out on the balcony, his legs rubbery, his head spinning, watching the cars whizzing by on Interstate 4. He drew in a breath of hot, humid air. It reached his lungs but seemed to carry no oxygen. He was physically sick. Jay Noble shafted him.

  THE PRESS JAMMED INTO the office of Senator Preston Smith of Alabama, arch conservative and a junior member of the Judiciary Committee. Beneath his good ole boy charm and country lawyer exterior simmered white-hot ambition. Sheathed in an off-the-rack blue suit with a red-and-blue rep tie and button-down dress shirt, he smiled awkwardly under the television lights, his doughy face and chipmunk cheeks glistening. His pale skin looked bleached, and his high forehead was topped with a wave of jet-black hair. Yolanda Majette sat beside him in a straight-back chair, hands clasped in her lap, legs crossed, a tremulous smile on her face.

  “Senator, how concerned are you about the allegations regarding Judge Majette’s husband’s law practice?”

  “I’m looking forward to talking to the judge about her judicial philosophy,” said Smith, his voice a monotone, swatting aside the question.

  “Are you going to ask her about her husband’s firm making millions off clients with cases on which she ruled?”

  Smith just kept right on smiling.

  “Judge Majette, Christy Love with Pro-Choice PAC has called for you to withdraw your name from nomination? Any comment?”

  Majette’s face hardened but she betrayed no emotion.

  “Thank you!” shouted a press aide. He spread his arms, gently prodding reporters and photographers out of the room. The door closed. Only four remained: Smith, his chief of staff, Majette, and Don Kottkamp, a former senator turned lobbyist that the White House recruited to escort her to meetings with senators.

  “Judge, how are you holding up?” asked Smith.

  “I’m pretty immune from the hoopla,” said Majette. “I’m so busy getting ready for the confirmation hearings and meeting with folks like you that I don’t pay a lot of attention.”

  “Good for you,” said Smith. “Judge, I’m particularly concerned about what I see as an overt hostility toward religion by the courts. Take the war on Christmas. You’ve got courts pulling down crèches and nativity scenes, or requiring that atheist exhibits be displayed next to Christmas trees. It’s total nonsense.”

  Majette nodded sympathetically.

  “How do you feel about the federal courts driving faith in God out of the public square?”

  “I believe there is an appropriate role for the public expression of faith,” said Majette noncommittally. “The jurisprudence in this area is complex. The Supreme Court, as you know, has generally taken a positive view of free speech, including speech with a religious content, such as Bible clubs meeting in public schools. It has taken a dimmer view of official actions by public officials, such as the posting of the Ten Commandments in a courthouse.”

  Smith looked bored with the first-year law school lecture. He crossed his legs and frowned. “What’s your view of the Lemon test?” he asked, referring to the Supreme Court’s Lemon v. Kurtzman decision in 1971 involving state aid to parochial schools.

  “Senator, as one justice has observed, the Lemon test is a lemon,” Majette said, as if reading a cue card. The room fell silent. Kottkamp shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “I don’t know that I can address that with greater specificity,” said Majette haltingly. “The ‘lemon test’ has not provided a consistent standard to guide local communities in making decisions involving the establishment clause. But how I w
ould rule on a specific case would depend on the facts.”

  “Have you given any thought to what might be a different constitutional standard?” asked Smith helpfully.

  “I’m sure there is one,” Majette replied. She looked as if she were reaching for a lifeline. “There is, of course, the . . . the compelling state interest standard.”

  “I see,” said Smith. “The Lemon test says government can’t be excessively entangled with religion. I don’t even know what that means. Do you?”

  Majette looked sucker punched. “Establishment clause jurisprudence is an area of law replete with vagaries and permutations.” She glanced at Kottkamp, who nodded and smiled.

  They chatted amiably for about half an hour. After Majette departed, Smith closed the door and turned to his chief of staff.

  “Could you believe that?” asked Smith. “I hate to say it, but she’s a quota appointment, pure and simple. She’s Souter in pumps.”

  “It’s scary,” the aide replied.

  “If I hadn’t been sitting here, I don’t know that I would believe it myself,” Smith said. “I tried to help her out, but it was hopeless. Does Long really want to give her a lifetime appointment to the Supreme Court?”

  Smith walked briskly to his desk and picked up the phone. “Charlie Hector, please. Tell him it’s Senator Preston Smith.” He tapped his foot and compulsively rearranged papers on his desk. He knew Hector; they had served together in the House.

  Hector came on the line. “Senator, how are you?”

  “Charlie, Yolanda Majette just left my office. We talked for thirty minutes. She’s a very attractive woman with a compelling personal story. I know this was a courtesy call, but I have to be honest with you, I don’t know if I can support her. If I had to decide now, I’d vote no.”