by Ralph Reed
“Ross, come in,” said Reynolds. “Welcome to my humble abode.”
“Thank you, Senator,” said Ross. “It’s all very cozy.” He glanced around the tiny room, furnished unpretentiously with a small desk, a couch, a large ottoman, and a bare coffee table. He directed Ross to sit on the couch while he put his feet up on the ottoman.
“So what brings you to town?” Reynolds asked.
“Meetings. The pending Supreme Court nomination,” replied Ross.
“I’m glad Mike Birch turned it down,” said Reynolds, diving in without hesitation. “He would have been a disaster! I don’t know what the president was thinking.”
“What in the world is going on at the White House?”
Reynolds sighed. “I don’t think anyone’s in charge. Golden’s a great guy. . . . I served with him in the Senate. But Justice is Siberia. Hector and Battaglia have their own agenda. Jay Noble’s very capable, he’s brought a strategic sense, but he’s still finding his sea legs.”
“They better get their act together, or Bob Long is going to be a one-term president,” said Ross.
Reynolds placed his hands in his lap, linking his fingers in a thoughtful pose. “The president knows that. I’ve told Hector and the president they’re running out of political capital. I was a good soldier on Majette.” He sat up suddenly. “I was the best friend Long had here! But I told Hector she wouldn’t be confirmed, . . . and that was before the stuff about her husband’s law practice.”
“We told them the same thing. Who are they leaning toward naming now?”
Reynolds placed his feet on the floor and leaned into Ross. “The president hasn’t decided,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m working him hard. I told him Diaz and Hillman were both excellent.” He paused for effect. “The president is listening to me. I think I’m having a real impact on him.”
The phone rang. Reynolds answered it. “It’s the White House,” he said, his eyes apologetic. “I have to take this. Can you excuse me for just a minute?”
Ross stepped out into the cramped hallway, the brick walls, low ceiling, and concrete floor echoing with the sound of shuffling footsteps. A water pipe squeaked. He stood there awkwardly for about three minutes. The door opened and Reynolds waved him in.
“That was the president,” said Reynolds, his voice lowered, self-importance radiating from every pore. “He calls me directly. I can’t say exactly what I told him. I’m making progress.” His voice became a barely audible hush. “I told him not to nominate Jan Cargo because I can’t support her.” Cargo was a centrist appellate court judge on Long’s short list who was anathema to conservatives.
“Good for you,” said Ross. “We can make a great team. If you work the inside while we work from the outside, we can really turn the screws.”
“Keep the fact that I’m talking to the president between us,” Reynolds instructed him, seemingly nervous. “If Long thinks I’m talking about our conversations, he won’t call me.”
“Are you giving any thought to running for president?” asked Ross.
Reynolds’s eyes lit up like headlights on high beam. “I’m thinking about it seriously,” he said in a half whisper. “Don’t get me wrong. . . . I want Long to succeed. But he’s a Democrat. He’s off to a rough start. If it looks like he will not get reelected, I may have to run.”
Ross nodded, saying nothing.
“When I was twelve, I went to the altar at a revival when a traveling preacher came to my hometown in Oklahoma,” Reynolds said, his face growing animated at the telling. “The altar call was not for salvation. I had already been saved. I got down on my knees. I can still smell the sawdust to this day. I asked God for a clear understanding of his calling on my life.”
When I was twelve, I was playing with G.I. Joe, thought Ross.
Reynolds leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, gazing into Ross’s eyes intently. “I heard the Lord clearly. Not an audible voice, but it was like He was speaking right behind me. He told me I was called to public service.” His eyes grew wider. “And he told me that someday I would be the president of the United States.”
He apparently told the same thing to every other member of the Senate, thought Ross.
“If that’s what God called me to do, I can’t go to my grave and not be faithful,” said Reynolds firmly.
“Of course not,” Ross replied. He’d heard a similar story from three other senators and a governor.
“With your help I could win.” He tapped Ross on the knee. “You and I would make quite a team. Me as the candidate, and you would be my Jay Noble.”
Ross didn’t quite know how to respond. He already had a job, and being Tom Reynolds’s Jay Noble was not really on his list of things to do before he died. “We would indeed,” he heard himself say.
“I’ll stay in touch,” Reynolds said. “If I go, I want you on my team.”
Ross smiled wanly. The meeting over, the staffer appeared at the door to show him the way out.
TO MARCO DIAZ’S SURPRISE, his second meeting with the president took place upstairs in the second-floor living quarters in the long and airy West Reception Hall, which served as a living room of sorts for the First Family. Diaz’s eye caught a Monet on the opposite wall. The place seemed deserted; the First Lady was still away at rehab. Diaz felt bad for the president, living alone in such a big house. Long settled into an overstuffed chair while Diaz took the couch. The sunlight flowed through the window, giving the meeting a bright, cheery overtone.
Long was remarkably relaxed and loose, which in turn calmed Diaz’s frazzled nerves. If the president was at ease, he figured he could be, too.
“So tell me about your family,” Long began informally.
“My family of origin or my wife and children?” asked Diaz.
“Both.”
“Well, my father came to America from Mexico when he was nineteen years old,” Diaz began. “When he arrived, he had fifty cents in his pocket. He worked hard, sometimes holding three jobs at once. He never took a dime of public support. Today he’s worth $100 million dollars and has twenty-five car dealerships, including the largest Ford dealership in the state of Texas.”
“What a great story,” exclaimed Long. “That’s the American dream.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said Diaz, his voice catching. “Sir, I was the first member of my family to go to college. My parents spoke Spanish at home. But they insisted that all of us children, seven brothers and sisters and I, speak English. Every one of us went to college. I’ve got a brother with an MBA from Harvard, two brothers who are lawyers, and two sisters who are doctors.”
“I’ll forgive you for the lawyers,” joked Long. Diaz laughed. “You’ve got a great mom and dad,” said Long affectionately. “I talk a lot about the three Es: English, a good education, and excellence in doing a job . . . any job.” It was one of his favorite riffs, a CliffNotes version of one of his stump speeches. He cocked his head. “Tell me about your own family.”
“I met my wife when I worked as a summer intern in a Dallas law firm,” Diaz said. “I was going into my final year at Yale Law. She was a junior associate. You might say it was love at first sight.”
Long smiled. He seemed to warm to the story.
“We have two boys, six and eight, and my wife is pregnant with our third child.”
“Terrific,” said Long. He seemed to have not a care in the world. If Diaz had not known he was a candidate for the Supreme Court, they might have just as easily been shooting the breeze on the porch of a country store. Long is one cool customer, he thought to himself.
“Let me ask you a judicial question: which justice do you most admire?” asked Long.
It was a predictable question, and Diaz came loaded for bear. “For his passion and sense of justice, Thurgood Marshall,” he said without hesitation. “For his first-rate intellect and understanding of the role of a judge, John Roberts. For the quality of his opinions, his rapier wit, analytical ability and overall judi
cial philosophy, Scalia.”
“That’s three,” said Long. “I asked for one.”
“I’m more conservative than Marshall, more collegial than Scalia,” said Diaz. “I hope I’m as smart as Roberts, but I don’t know if anyone is.”
“You’re too humble,” said Long. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re plenty smart.”
“My father used to quote a verse from Proverbs to me all the time,” replied Diaz. “Before honor comes humility.”
Long nodded, his face brightening, seeming to sense an opening. “You’re Catholic, aren’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I like this pope. He’s the real deal . . . a man of God. He wrote me a beautiful letter after I won the election. I’m going to meet with him in Rome next month.”
Diaz nodded.
“Do you believe in destiny, Marco?”
Diaz froze. It was not a question he had prepared for. He searched for the right words. “Yes, God has a plan for all of us,” he said. “But He also has a plan that’s bigger than all of us.”
“Well said.” Long’s eyes bore into him. “Majette’s decision to withdraw and Mike Birch turning me down might have looked like setbacks to the chattering class. But I don’t see things as the world does. I think God just had a better plan.”
Diaz could hardly believe his ears. Was this a job interview? “I believe that, sir,” he said as if on autopilot.
“Good.” Long suddenly stood bolt upright, extending his hand. Diaz rose and took it, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “Thanks for coming. Very impressive.”
An aide appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to lead Diaz to an elevator that took him back to the passageway leading to the Treasury Building. He and the aide walked silently, exchanging few words. Diaz’s mind ran at warp speed. Had the lightning bolt he had been waiting for his entire career finally struck?
TWENTY-EIGHT
At 9:00 p.m. every television network went live as two figures walked purposefully down the hallway toward the East Room. They strode shoulder to shoulder on the red carpet between the busts of former presidents. The White House scheduled the announcement in prime time for maximum impact, and amazingly nothing had leaked. The president turned to his companion, still shrouded in shadows, and stage-whispered an aside. He looked relaxed and at ease.
“Is it Marco Diaz?” someone in the front row whispered.
Indeed it was. The East Room crackled with anticipation as Diaz walked up the steps of the stage and stood on a tape mark. His expression earnest, dark eyes staring straight ahead, he wore a charcoal suit with a striped blue tie. As he and Long took their places on stage, a staffer assisted his wife, dark haired with espresso eyes, and the Diazes’ two boys, aged eight and six years, dressed in suits and ties with Buster Brown shoes, as they came on stage and stood beside him.
Long moved directly to the podium. “Tonight I announce that I am nominating Judge Marco Diaz to be the one hundred and seventeenth associate justice to the Supreme Court of the United States,” said Long. “Judge Diaz is truly the personification of the American dream. His father came to this country from Mexico forty years ago with only fifty cents in his pocket. He started out as a janitor at a Ford dealership in Dallas, Texas. Later he became a salesman and ultimately bought his own dealership. He retired as the largest Hispanic automobile dealer in North America with twenty-five dealerships in six states.”
Battaglia and Hector exchanged knowing glances. A palpable sense of relief filled the staff section. Diaz had been ordered up from central casting.
Long continued, his baritone deep and commanding. “Marco was the first member of his family to attend college. He went to the University of Texas, so he’s a Longhorn. He graduated with honors from Yale Law.” Long glanced at the first row. “His father Manuel is with us tonight. Mr. Diaz, I know you are very proud of your son.”
Jay sat between Battaglia and Hector, his eyes twinkling, his facial expression a mixture of relief and joy.
“Judge Diaz has served with distinction as a deputy attorney general, a district court, and an appellate court judge on the DC Circuit. During that time he has impressed colleagues and the attorneys who worked with him or appeared before him with his collegiality, fairness, and open-mindedness,” Long continued on a roll. “His superior judicial temperament, personal integrity, and knowledge of the law will make him an outstanding addition to the Supreme Court.” He cocked his head for emphasis. “I am confident the U.S. Senate will be as impressed with his remarkable judicial record as I was when I decided to nominate him.”
Diaz came to the podium. Shorter than Long, he stood a little lower to the microphone, his facial expression serious, a shock of black hair combed perfectly. “Mr. President, thank you for the confidence you have placed in me,” he said. “Serving on the Supreme Court of the United States is the highest privilege and honor that can be accorded in my profession and is one I approach with a love for the Constitution, a deep and abiding respect for the rule of law, and a recognition that for many the Court is the final arbiter of justice.”
The younger of his two sons began to edge toward him. Diaz glanced down, smiling awkwardly. His wife reached out and grabbed the boy by the hand, pulling him back. He tried to twist away. The audience chuckled appreciatively.
The news conference ended, Diaz stepped toward Long, who shook his hand firmly, their eyes locked. As Long and Diaz stepped back down the hallway, flanked by his wife and children, the network correspondents scrambled to do their stand-ups.
“Tonight a beleaguered President Long sought to pacify his estranged social conservative base and rescue a Supreme Court vacancy plagued by fitful starts, ethically challenged nominees, and self-inflicted wounds. In so doing, he selected one of the most controversial and conservative appellate court judges in the nation,” the NBC White House correspondent said into the camera. “Tacking right by choosing Diaz is sure to unleash a battle royale in the Democratic-controlled Senate. Senate Majority Leader Salmon Stanley has already issued a statement pledging to examine thoroughly Diaz’s record and rulings.” He held up Stanley’s statement for the cameras. “And the Pro-Choice PAC joined the attack, denouncing him as an extremist with ultraconservative views.” A barely controlled grin rose at both corners of his mouth. “After a series of miscues and mistakes, including the withdrawal of Yolanda Majette and an embarrassing rejection by Mike Birch, the White House is bracing for a firefight in the Senate, and they are going to get one.”
G. G. HOTERMAN HELD court in his usual corner booth at The Palm, working his way through his second scotch (Macallan 25, two ice cubes only) on the rocks. An artist’s caricature of his head (minus receding hairline) adorned the wall above his seat. Joining him at the power dinner were three of the hottest “It” girls of the moment in DC, Christy Love, Deirdre Rahall, and Natalie Taylor. Any man in Washington would have been happy squiring any one of them, but G. G. was just two short of a women’s basketball team. The Palm was where the famous and powerful, or those who wanted to be famous and hungered for power, gathered to gaze at one another while pretending to eat. Waiters rushed to and fro past every table, the din of conversation loud, the room pulsing with energy. Popping corks, rattling plates, and clinking glasses created a cacophony of noise. Sizzling steaks hot off the grill arrived at tables. Hoterman noticed other patrons staring at his table. Others might find such gawking mildly irritating, but not G. G.
“I’m here with my harem!” said G. G. to the waiter with a laugh, rattling the ice in his glass to signal he needed another scotch. “What are people going to say?”
The waiter grinned embarrassingly. His body language seemed to say, I’m not touching that with a ten-foot pole.
“They’ll say you’re a very lucky man to be in the presence of such a combination of brains and beauty,” laughed Deirdre, patting his fleshy fist with her long fingers.
“And they’d be right!”
“I’m concerned about people overhearing u
s plotting strategy,” said Christy. “Everybody keep your heads on swivels. You never know who’s in the next booth.” She cast a suspicious eye at neighboring tables.
“Speaking of which: do you have the dirt on Diaz?” asked G. G.
“Do I ever,” replied Christy. “There’s a discrimination case where he ruled against three women who were sexually harassed by the same supervisor. The details are ghastly.”
“Tell me more.” G. G. loved gossip, the more salacious the better.
“The case involved a manager at a hedge fund,” said Christy, going into lawyer-speak. “Lewd remarks, sexually explicit e-mails, fondling, lingerie left on women’s desks during their lunch hour.” She paused a beat, leaning forward and speaking in a quiet whisper. “One time he called a female trader into his office, and when she came in for the meeting, he was watching porn.”
“That’s incredible. How in the world could he rule against the women?” asked G. G.
“He said they failed to file their complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission within the time limit required under the law.”
G. G. shook his head in disbelief. “This guy’s out of touch with reality.”
“Fortunately, G. G., you don’t have to worry about me filing a sexual harassment complaint,” said Deirdre, her eyes dancing. “I was a willing participant.”
G. G. shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Christy and Natalie’s eyes widened. Neither said a word. G. G.’s affair and pending divorce were the talk of the town. Deirdre grinned away, apparently either unconcerned or oblivious to the awkwardness of her remark.
“There’s something else,” said Christy, deftly getting the conversation back on track. “Diaz is a member of Opus Dei, the right-wing Catholic society.”