by Ralph Reed
“I’m sorry to hear that, Senator. What can we do to improve her performance?”
“Charlie, it’s not her performance that is the problem,” replied Smith. “It’s her knowledge of the law. She didn’t seem to know what the Lemon test was. Every first-year law student in the country knows that. She’s asking to be confirmed as a justice of the Supreme Court for crying out loud.”
“I’m sure she knows what it is.”
“I just asked her! She gave me gobbledygook. Come on, Charlie. Throw me a bone.”
“I’m sorry the meeting did not go well, Preston, but I assure you, she’ll know the Lemon test upside down and sideways by the time of her hearings. Don’t make a final decision until after the hearings. All I ask is that you keep your powder dry.”
“I will,” said Smith. “But if she’s doing as poorly with the other members of the committee as she did with me, I’m gonna be the least of your problems.”
“Thanks for the heads-up. I’m on it.”
Smith hung up the phone and looked at his aide.
“Well?” asked the chief of staff.
“I think I got his attention,” said Smith.
CHARLIE HECTOR SAT IN the back of a nondescript Town Car, or at least as nondescript as a limo could be flying through flashing yellow lights at 5:30 a.m. on Rock Creek Parkway. There was no traffic at this early hour. Under the glow of a reading light, Hector studied the front page of the Washington Post like a coroner examining a cadaver. It was going to be a rough day. Dan Dorman served up another one of his head shots: a two-thousand word hit piece on Yolanda Majette’s husband, whose law practice catered to clients with cases pending before the California Supreme Court. The eighteen-point headline read: “Majette’s husband’s firm paid millions by clients with cases before her.”
Hector’s heart sank as he read the jump page. It was a toxic journalistic stew: an anonymous source here, blind quote there, the implication of a conflict of interest, and the proverbial goo-goo quote from some mouthpiece at Common Cause claiming that the whole thing raised “troubling questions demanding answers before Majette can be confirmed.” Just great, thought Hector with disgust. It was all part of a deliberate effort by Pro-Choice PAC and liberal groups to slow down Majette’s nomination so reporters could dig up more dirt. Dorman was acting as Joe Penneymounter’s stenographer.
The basic facts were simple enough. Clients hired Majette’s husband or other attorneys and lobbyists at his firm to make their case, often on matters unrelated, at times that coincided with disturbing frequency to their cases being heard by the California Supreme Court. In one case Charles Majette joined the board of directors of a hospital shortly before Majette voted to overturn a lower-court malpractice judgment against the hospital’s anesthesiologist. She previously addressed why she did not view the case as a conflict, pointing out the malpractice suit was against the physician, not the hospital, but the optics were bad.
Hector put down the paper and looked at the buildings and street lights whizzing by. He felt his stomach tighten. The beating had begun. He hoped Majette had a thick skin because she was going to need it.
TWENTY
Joe Penneymounter dropped the Washington Post on the coffee table in his spacious, sun-splashed office in the Russell Office Building. A blue and gold carpet that featured an outline of the state of Minnesota lay on the floor. Slumped in chairs and sprawled on the couch were key members of his Judiciary Committee staff and outside advisors on judicial confirmation strategy. They wore their best game faces. Everyone was ready to go to war.
“Well, the Post piece is the opening gun. Start your engines,” Penneymounter said.
“We already have, Senator,” said Christy Love. She leaned forward to pour cream in her coffee, Penneymounter’s eyes following her every move. Gorgeous as always, Christy positively glowed in mauve eye shadow, reddish-purple lipstick, and a touch of rouge, looking a bit like a china doll, creamy skin flawless after a recent exfoliation. “We’ve e-mailed the Post story to two million activists and asked them to sign a petition calling on her to withdraw. My statement is plastered all over the Huffington Post, and I’m doing press interviews all day.”
“I’m glad Majette’s taking on water. But I wonder: do we want her to go down?” asked Penneymounter’s chief of staff. A legal pad rested on his lap, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, tie loosened, head cocked in smart-guy bravado.
“Good point,” said Penneymounter, perched on the edge of his chair, pointing his finger dramatically. “Majette’s not my cup of tea, but she may be the best we’re going to get from this president. Frankly, she’s no Scalia or Thomas, which is why Andy Stanton is ticked.”
“It’s an open question as to whether we’d be better off with her or what’s behind door number two,” agreed Love. “But it’s theoretical. If only to weaken Long, we need to defeat her or die trying.”
“I’m going to be asked about the Post story,” said Penneymounter. “Any thoughts?” Camera crews were already gathered in the hallway outside his office, hoping to catch the senator on his way to the Senate floor.
“I’d pull the punch a little bit,” said the chief of staff with clinical detachment. “Dorman did the dirty work for you. Say you’re concerned about alleged conflicts of interest and say the committee will look into it thoroughly.”
“You don’t want to come off sounding like you’ve prejudged the situation. You don’t want to be the bad guy,” agreed Love.
“Christy, I’m already the bad guy,” said Penneymounter with a chuckle.
“The key is to defeat Majette by any means necessary,” said Christy. “We have the opportunity to strangle Long’s presidency in the crib.”
It was a startling metaphor coming from the leading pro-choice lobbyist in the nation. Everyone licked their lips at the prospect of paying Long back for bolting their party and rushing into the arms of the far right. Their hatred of Long bound them in an almost tribal loyalty.
“Defeating a Supreme Court nominee isn’t easy,” said Penneymounter, reaching for a candy from a bowl in the middle of the table. He unwrapped it, popping it into his mouth. “If we could do it, it would cripple Long. Health care’s going down. If Majette is voted down or withdraws over these ethical issues, what can he point to as an accomplishment?”
“Forget about Majette,” said Natalie Taylor, the striking Judiciary staffer who had remained silent until then. “I think she’ll withdraw within two weeks.”
“Really?” asked Love, stunned. “Why?”
“Dorman’s piece is just the beginning,” said Natalie. “There’s more.”
“What else?” asked the chief of staff.
“More clients, more conflicts for her husband and his law firm,” said Natalie. “The New York Times is all over it. And from what I’m hearing from friends on the minority staff, she’s not doing well in her one-on-ones with Republican senators.”
“That kills her,” said Penneymounter firmly. “If the Republicans cut her loose, she’s done.”
“Stick a fork in her,” said Christy. “But I’m not sure. I think we have to assume the Republicans stick with her.” She locked eyes with Taylor, who was one of Penneymounter’s favorites. “The conflict of interest charge may not have legs. After all, Majette’s husband can just resign from the firm, and the problem goes away.”
Natalie shrugged. “We’ll see. But I hear there’s more to come.”
Penneymounter rose from his chair, signaling the meeting is over. “Keep hammering away, Christy. We wouldn’t be where we are without you.”
“Mr. Chairman, when I take aim, I put metal on the target,” said Christy. She rose from her chair and shook Penneymounter’s hand, their faces inches apart, grins plastered on their faces, mutual political love oozing from every pore.
“Remind me never to be on your bad side,” joked Penneymounter. He turned and headed for the door, opening it to the outer office, where the press waited.
Penneymounter
’s press secretary raised her arms over her head, trying to calm the mob. “The Senator is going to make a brief statement.”
A hush fell over the reporters as they elbowed for position.
“The story in the Washington Post this morning raises serious questions about Yolanda Majette’s nomination to the nation’s highest court,” Penneymounter began, a grave expression on his face. “I am concerned about possible conflicts of interest involving Judge Majette and her husband’s law firm. If individuals with cases pending before the California Supreme Court hired her husband or his law firm and either expected or received favorable treatment from Judge Majette, those are serious allegations.” He glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand, then leveled his eyes at the cameras. “I will not prejudge this matter. But the committee will thoroughly look into this issue and leave no stone unturned.” Finished with his statement, Penneymounter folded up the piece of paper and placed it in his pocket.
“Thank you very much. That is all!” shouted the press secretary.
“Senator, do you believe these revelations about her husband’s lobbying, if true, are disqualifying?” asked Politico.
Penneymounter ignored the question. More shouted questions followed, again to no avail. In the shadows Christy and Natalie stood side by side, both looking like models in their form-fitting outfits and designer heels, arms crossed, wearing satisfied expressions. They were having fun. Penneymounter shot them a smile and winked in their direction, then turned and headed for the elevator.
JAY STEPPED OUT ON the terrace of Gabriella’s suite at the Hotel Ritz, just off the Place de la Vendome. He could see the gold-gilded dome of the Hotel des Invalides and the Eiffel Tower in the distance. Gabriella reached into the ice bucket and picked up the bottle of Dom Perignon, pouring into a fluted glass.
“To Paris,” she said. They clinked glasses. “And to victory.”
“Let me see your watch again,” he said.
They went to the Cartier store that morning and Gabriella fell in love with a diamond-studded, eighteen-karat white gold watch. Impulsively, Jay bought it, putting $35,000 on his American Express card without so much as a thought. What did he care? He could buy one every single day for a month and still have money from his Brodi campaign fee left over. Gabriella extended her wrist. Jay held her hand, turning it so the diamonds sparkled.
“I love it,” said Gabriella, gazing admiringly at the jewels that studded the bracelet. “Every time I look at the time, I’ll think of you and this moment.”
“That was the idea,” said Jay. He glanced out at the Parisian skyline, letting out a satisfied sigh. “What a perfect way to celebrate Brodi’s victory. I never thought it was possible to so thoroughly relish the victory of such an egoistic oaf.”
“Enjoy it while you can, cowboy,” Gabriella said, turning up her champagne glass to take a sip. “Brodi will screw it up soon enough.”
Jay laughed. “They all do,” he said. “That’s why I get paid the big bucks.”
Gabriella glanced at her watch, this time reading the time. “Mama mia, it’s six o’clock! I have to shower and put my dress on,” She quickly ushered him to the door. “Shooh, shooh!”
Jay headed down the hall to his room and changed into the black Prada suit Gabriella had persuaded him to buy. The store manager promised to finish the alterations that afternoon and deliver the suit to his hotel room at the Ritz. Jay stood before the mirror, turning in different directions. He hardly recognized himself. He tried his best to suck in his gut, which hung out over the waistband. The suit and hand-stitched Italian shoes cost him four thousand euros.
Half an hour later Jay sat in the bar of the Ritz working his way through a second glass of champagne, this one with a dollop of orange-raspberry sherbert floating on top. When Gabriella appeared at the door, he almost dropped his glass. Her hair was piled up on her head, accentuating her espresso eyes, curving eyebrows, Roman nose, and full lips. She wore an off-the-shoulder, full-length black gown with a white choker halter by John Galliano, huge diamond earrings, diamond bangles, her new Cartier watch, and a matching white Chanel purse.
“Magnifique!” Jay exclaimed. He could hardly believe she was really his date.
“Thank you, darling,” said Gabriella. “You look terrific. I told you that you would look great in Prada.”
Jay silently demurred. He hoped Gabriella’s fashion sense would not affect his entire wardrobe, or he’d be hooted out of DC. But for tonight, who cared if he looked like Austin Powers in a Beatles suit? Anything for Gabri, he thought. Holding hands, they walked through the lobby, Gabriella drawing stares, and stepped outside to their waiting car and driver.
“Grand Palais, s’il vous plait,” Gabriella instructed the driver. She turned to Jay. “The reception is around the corner. These are trade ministers, industry executives, celebrities, and the usual European political muckety mucks. Just smile and be Jay Noble.”
Jay laughed. “That’s pretty much all I do these days.”
The car shot past the Elysee Palace, the presidential residence, which had blue European Union flags fluttering next to the French flag because the French president currently occupied the rotating EU presidency. As they zipped down a side street and turned on to the Champs Elysee, Jay could see the Arch de Triomphe lit up. He leaned forward like a tourist.
“It’s beautiful at night,” said Gabriella. “Other than Rome, this is probably my favorite city in Europe.”
“It really is something,” Jay agreed. “I love Paris already.”
The car made a left on Winston Churchill Boulevard and pulled up in front of the Grand Palais, the iron and glass Beaux-Arts structure built for the 1900 World’s Fair. It was bathed in white light, its glass panels reflecting the glare, its grounds crawling with French police. The bronze statutes at each corner of the top of the building and French flag in the center were lit up with white spotlights. The street was blockaded, and soldiers paced back and forth with machine guns. Gabriella gave her name to a policeman, who checked it against a list and then waved the car through.
After ninety minutes of schmoozing, Gabriella decided to make a fashionably early exit. She grabbed Jay by the hand and led him back to the car. She rattled off the street address for the restaurant. He nodded and pulled out, making a right on to Franklin D. Roosevelt Avenue.
“Did you pick a restaurant on a street named after a U.S. president just for me?” he asked.
“No, I picked it for the food, silly.”
The car pulled up in front of Laserre. The doorman directed them to an elevator, which they rode to the second floor. As soon as the doors opened, Jay felt transported to another planet. Glittering glass chandeliers hung from the ceiling, giving the room a white glow. On the tables in the dining room, bone china shimmered, and gold cutlery gleamed in the light. Orchids lined the shelves of the barriers surrounding the main dining area, paintings by French masters hung on the walls, and the ceiling was covered with an Impressionist-style painting of nudes in an idyllic garden. In the corner a pianist incongruously played Disney songs, which Jay found odd. He made out the chords to “Beauty and the Beast.” Even in France you can’t escape American commercialism, he thought.
The maître d’ escorted them to a corner table. After ordering another glass of champagne (Jay’s fourth, and the night was still young), the head waiter did a table visit and made a big production of greeting Gabriella, kissing her on each cheek. They chatted amiably in French as Jay smiled, understanding not a word. As the head waiter handed them menus, Gabriella held up the palms of her hands.
“Reme, we don’t want to see a menu tonight,” she said. “Tell the chef to fix us a tasting menu. Surprise us.”
Reme smiled. “Certainement, mademoiselle et monsieur.” He bowed and left the table.
Within minutes another waiter brought them a large glass filled with lobster bisque topped with a scoop of caviar. The first course: pumpkin soup served slightly above room temperature. Just as Jay spoon
ed a bite of the soup, the roof of the restaurant began to open. Stars twinkled against the dark canopy of sky, green ivy hanging from the edges, a cool summer breeze rushing in through the opening.
“I’ve never seen a restaurant where the roof opened,” said Jay.
“That’s because you’ve never been to Laserre, dahling.”
“What else are you going to show me that I’ve never seen before?” asked Jay.
Gabriella said nothing in reply, giggling as she licked the spoon of the last drop of beluga caviar.
TWENTY-ONE
Phil Battaglia sat in his office on a Saturday morning hunched over his computer, burning through his e-mail. The White House was in the bunker: the wing nuts were in full-blown revolt over Majette. Battaglia was a one-man PR shop, love-bombing the Federalist society types, assuring them he had known Yolanda Majette twenty years and knew her to be a woman of faith, integrity, and judicial restraint. There was only one problem: Battaglia had no credibility with the right. In fact, they blamed him for Majette being chosen in the first place.
His deputy stuck his head in the door. “Marvin Myers is on the phone.”
Battaglia raised his eyebrows. Marvin was a size fourteen Big Foot. If he wandered into the Majette story, it could be bad. He picked up the receiver.
“Good morning, counselor,” said Marvin, his voice syrupy, his manner disarmingly ingratiating. “I wanted to ask the one person who would know: will Majette make it?”
“Yes,” said Battaglia. “We’ve seen no slippage at all in her support in the Senate.” It was a lie, but Battaglia told it convincingly. “Penneymounter will put up a faux fight for the media and his base, but he’ll let her go because he’s worried about who’s next. And he should be.” He paused. “The president is totally committed to Judge Majette’s confirmation.”
“You say Penneymounter should be worried,” said Marvin, sniffing around like a blood hound on the scent. “So you’re telling me the other names on the short list were more conservative than Majette?”