The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “We can’t oppose him because he’s Catholic,” said G. G.

  “Not because he’s Catholic. Opus Dei is commissioned by the pope to impose Catholic social doctrine,” she continued. “It’s very conspiratorial. Diaz can’t be impartial on abortion and gay marriage when he’s taken a secret oath to rule in favor of the views of the Vatican.”

  Natalie looked at G. G. He shrugged noncommitally.

  “Anyway, we’re going up with our first television ad in a few days,” said Christy. “The message is Diaz is an extremist: antiwoman, antichoice, antiworker.”

  “What markets?” asked G. G. “Please tell me it’s not a phantom buy.”

  “Oh, no,” replied Christy. “We’ll do news avails in DC. Plus national buys on CNN, MSNBC, Lifetime. In the states we’re targeting soft Ds or soft Rs on Judiciary.”

  “How much are you spending?”

  “Two million a week. A thousand gross rating points in the target markets.”

  “That’s a lot of money,” said G. G.

  The waiter appeared at the table with a medium-rare filet for G. G., salmon entrees and salads for the women. He refilled wine glasses. G. G. tapped his glass with his index finger to indicate another scotch.

  “Can you help me raise some from your clients?” asked Christy.

  “Sure,” said G. G. “I’ve got some guys in LA and Silicon Valley who will want to play. I assume this is a (c)(4) play and contributions are nonreportable?”

  “Yep. It’s a (c)(4). Donations are not disclosed.”

  “I wish I could go to Stephen Fox,” said G. G. regretfully, shaking his head. “He’s my best donor. But he’s backing Diaz.” He sighed. “I guess you can’t blame him. After all, Diaz voted with Wildfire in the antitrust case.”

  “G. G.’s firm is lobbying for Diaz because of the Wildfire ruling,” said Deirdre.

  Christy and Natalie looked stunned. G. G. shot Deirdre a sideward look of disapproval, clearly embarrassed. There was an awkward silence. G. G. raised a wine glass to his lips. . . . He was now alternating between scotch and red wine.

  “Oh, that? It’s nothing,” he said with a wave of his hand. “We have a Chinese fire wall built between me and the Wildfire lobbyists.” It was a convenient lie, and he told it smoothly. “I may be the only guy in DC who’s helping to lead the opposition to Diaz while his law firm is lobbying for his confirmation!”

  “Only in Washington,” joked Christy.

  “It pays the bills, darling,” said G. G.

  “Guess who I hired to do our press?” asked Christy, perking up.

  “Who?” asked Deirdre.

  “Nicole Dearborn.”

  G. G.’s jaw dropped. “The Nicole Dearborn . . . the chick who moled her way into the Long campaign and passed intel to Stanley?”

  “Yes, that Nicole Dearborn,” replied Christy proudly.

  “Aren’t you concerned that will raise the whole issue of the scandal?” asked Natalie, screwing up her face.

  “Are you kidding?” replied Christy, laughing. “Having Nicole on board will get us a Style section profile in WaPo and a ‘where are they now’ piece above the fold in the New York Times. Best of all, it will drive Jay Noble bats!”

  “I love it . . . playing head games with Noble!” exclaimed G. G. “Scandal-tinged political operative makes comeback. Spurned romantic interest stalks Noble, seeks Diaz’s defeat. Oh, that’s rich. Positively rich!”

  Christy cocked her head, gently flipped back her blonde hair and smiled as she took another sip of red wine. “Why, thank you, G. G.,” she said, giggling. “I thought it was pretty clever, if I do say so myself.”

  MARCO DIAZ SAT TO Sal Stanley’s left, his body coiled with nervous energy, one elbow on the armrest of the chair, eyes blinking rapidly as photographers blazed away. It was the morning after the announcement of his nomination to the Supreme Court, and Diaz was making his rounds on the Hill. The first stop: the Senate Majority Leader, who lost to Long in the previous election and blasted him in a news release just hours earlier.

  “Senator Stanley, is your mind made up? Are you going to oppose Judge Diaz’s confirmation?” asked Roll Call.

  Stanley smiled smoothly. “Judge Diaz deserves the opportunity to make his views known to the Judiciary Committee and the full Senate,” said Stanley, an empty statement belying his antipathy for Diaz. “I will not make a decision on how I will vote on Judge Diaz’s nomination until after his confirmation hearings.”

  Diaz gazed into the white hot glare of television lights. The temperature in the room rose measurably. A press aide to Stanley stepped forward, shouting, “Sorry, but that will have to be the last question. That’s all.”

  The press filed out, leaving Stanley and Diaz sitting in wing chairs, with deputy Attorney General Art Morris and Stanley’s chief of staff on the couch.

  “Judge Diaz,” Stanley began slowly, measuring his words, “I think you know that I have some deep concerns about your rulings on the DC Circuit Court. But I want you to know that I’ll keep my mind open.”

  Diaz knew the statement was a lie. Stanley was already burning the lines to members of the Democratic caucus, collecting commitments to oppose Diaz . . . and this before he had met with a single senator. It was a shocking breach of protocol.

  “I appreciate that, Senator. I hope I can allay any concerns and answer questions you might have about my record. That’s why I appreciate the offer to visit with you,” said Diaz as though reading from cue cards.

  “Judge, do you believe there is a constitutional right to privacy?” asked Stanley.

  Art Morris visibly flinched on the couch. The exchange was fraught with hazard.

  Diaz tiptoed through the minefield, choosing his words carefully. “Senator, the Supreme Court has ruled there is a right to privacy, and I have no quarrel with that finding,” Diaz replied, his posture confident. He did not rattle easily. “To put it in perspective, Griswold as a precedent is only nine years younger than Brown v. Board. The Court has upheld and expanded on that precedent repeatedly. The principle of stare decisis requires that jurists recognize precedent and overturn it only with great reluctance.”

  Stanley sat impassively, looking at Diaz with hooded eyes as he delivered his canned answer. He reloaded. “And does that privacy right extend to a woman’s right to an abortion?”

  “Senator, with all respect, I can’t comment with specificity because it involves prejudging cases that could come before me if confirmed,” said Diaz, fouling off the pitch.

  “That’s a lot of caveats and academic jargon, Judge. It’s a simple question. I would appreciate a straight answer. Do you plan to vote to sustain Roe v. Wade?”

  “Sir, my answer on Roe is no different,” said Diaz, nonplussed. “It’s a long-standing precedent. It has been refined and clarified in a number of high-profile cases. As such, while the Supreme Court is certainly not prohibited from revisiting its findings, and it has done so, for instance, in Webster v. Reproductive Health Services and Casey v. Planned Parenthood, it should do so only in those rare instances when new facts warrant.”

  Stanley frowned. Seething with frustration, he glared at Diaz, hardly disguising his contempt. Diaz thought he might lunge at him. Then, after a seemingly endless pause, he asked: “You would be the sixth Roman Catholic on the court. I assume you know that.”

  Diaz bristled, drawing back. “I hadn’t really thought about the Supreme Court in terms of the religious affiliation of its members, Senator,” he said, doing his best to control his anger.

  “Six Roman Catholics, two Jews, and one Protestant—do you think that is representative of the country?” Stanley pressed.

  “Senator, one could just as easily ask whether it’s representative for the Court currently to have no Hispanic, even though the country is 15 percent Latino,” Diaz volleyed back. “And it would be just as wrong to confirm me because I am Hispanic as it would be to oppose me because I am Catholic.”

  The tension in the room thick
ened. Stanley’s chief of staff sat impassively, jotting an occasional note on a legal pad. Morris’s face twitched with anger.

  Stanley held up his palms, shaking his head back and forth. “I didn’t suggest that I would vote for or against your confirmation based on your religion,” he said defensively. “Far from it. But I do believe it’s healthy for institutions of government to reflect the full diversity of the country, and in terms of religion and gender, the Supreme Court does not. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Senator, I’m not sure I do,” said Diaz firmly.

  There were no more fireworks after Diaz and Stanley crossed swords over the questions of abortion and his Catholicism. The rest of the meeting proceeded pro forma, with Stanley probing and Diaz bobbing and weaving. Afterwards, to avoid the media, Diaz and Morris slipped out a side door to a waiting elevator, escorted by two beefy Capitol policemen.

  When the doors to the cramped elevator closed, Morris turned to Diaz. “I wish I’d had a tape recorder for that,” he said, the vena cava in his neck showing. “I can’t believe he actually played the religion card. I don’t know how you kept from slugging him.”

  “I’ve dealt with it my whole life,” said Diaz calmly. “But who knew Sal Stanley was a bigot?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Phil Battaglia took another swig of coffee, the hot blast of java burning his tongue as his eyes scanned the front page of the New York Times. It was 5:47 a.m., and he was being whisked to the White House in a government Town Car, his driver zipping through yellow lights flashing at barren intersections, amber reminders of his sleep-deprived, stress-filled existence. Battaglia shook his head in disgust. The Times was pulling out all the stops. “Diaz’s Membership in Catholic Order Draws Fire,” read the headline.

  The four-thousand-word hit piece read like an excerpt from The Da Vinci Code, mixing innuendo with vaguely sinister rumors of alleged anti-Semitism, graphic descriptions of the mortification of the flesh (celibate members wore metal rings around their thighs), and church rituals. The objective: make Opus Dei sound like a frightening cult. The reporter hunted down the priest who recruited Diaz into the group at Yale, ambushing him at an Opus Dei retreat center in Spain and asking him if he screened Diaz’s reading materials at Yale, “dictated which classes he could take and condemned certain professors as anti-Christian” at the law school, and insisted on approving Diaz’s selection of a wife. The priest denied the charges.

  Just as he finished reading the jump page, Battaglia’s cell phone rang. It was Keith Golden.

  “Have you seen the story on Opus Dei in the Times?” he asked.

  “Reading it as we speak. Par for the course.”

  “They can’t attack him for being Hispanic so they’re going to attack him for being a devout Catholic,” said Golden with disgust.

  “It reads like a Ku Klux Klan pamphlet,” agreed Battaglia. “This will backfire big time among the Reagan Democrats in the midwest.” His wheels turned. “I think we put some nuns behind Diaz when he testifies.”

  “Great idea and make sure they wear their habits,” said Golden. He paused. “Quick question: do we have an accountant who can do some work on Diaz’s blind trust?”

  “I’m sure we do,” replied Battaglia. “Why?”

  “I know you’re sitting down. Diaz’s blind trust owns $250,000 of Wildfire.com stock.”

  Battaglia felt blood rush from his head to his abdomen, an involuntary reaction to stress, leaving him suddenly light-headed. “How did that happen?” he stammered. “He was ruling on the antitrust case, for crying out loud!”

  “I guess that’s why they call it a blind trust,” said Golden. “However it happened, it’s going to be a flap. The Judiciary Committee staff has his financial records, and they’re starting to leak. We’re going to get a bad story, maybe as early as tomorrow.”

  “Do you think this is serious enough to endanger his nomination?” asked Battaglia. The thought of yet another Supreme Court nominee imploding sent a chill down his spine.

  “I hope not,” said Golden. “But we need a top-notch accountant so we know what we’re dealing with. Right now we’re flying blind.”

  “I’ll get back to you this morning.” Battaglia hung up the phone. As his car pulled through the iron gates to the West Wing parking lot, he dialed Jay Noble’s cell phone. Jay was on his way to the office in his own car.

  “I know you’re not calling to wish me a good morning,” said Jay drily.

  “Get your tail in here,” said Battaglia. “I just got a call from Keith Golden. Diaz’s blind trust owns a quarter of a million in Wildfire stock.”

  Jay let out an expletive.

  “When it rains, it pours,” said Battaglia. “See you when you get in.”

  The door to the Town Car swung open. Battaglia took pleasure in the fact that the Wildfire story would overwhelm the Times Opus Dei piece. Diaz’s confirmation had become a fire-free zone, with shots fired from every angle.

  MARCO DIAZ TOOK THE call in the kitchen. His wife Frida was busy getting their boys off to school. Their housekeeper was at the sink, doing the breakfast dishes. The sound of dishes rattling mixed with shouted voices, the typical confusion of a house filled with young children.

  “Marco, we’ve got another story,” said Art Morris, Diaz’s chief handler from the Justice Department. “I think it’s manageable, but we want to get our ducks in a row.”

  “What now? Did they run down the priest who took my confession in college?” asked Diaz bitterly. He was livid about the Times piece on Opus Dei.

  “It’s your blind trust,” replied Morris. “Apparently it holds Wildfire stock.”

  “It’s a blind trust, for heaven’s sake!” Diaz exploded.

  “No one’s suggesting you did anything wrong, Marco,” said Morris. “But we need to talk to the trustees, and we’re bringing an accountant in to go over everything with you.”

  “This is going to delay the hearings, isn’t it?” asked Diaz, exasperated.

  “We don’t know,” said Morris. “Penneymounter hopes so. But if we have a good answer, we may still be able to go day after tomorrow.”

  Diaz fell silent. He had a bad feeling about the hearings, like he was walking into an ambush. “Art, I just don’t know how much more of this I can take,” he said, his voice shaking. “It’s like there’s some evil force trying to destroy me.”

  “Hang in there, Marco,” said Morris, trying to buck him up. “We’re almost at the finish line. We just need to answer some questions about the trust. After that you’ll do great at the hearings. Then we’re on to the confirmation vote in the Senate, which looks very solid.”

  “No,” replied Diaz, shaking his head, voice downcast. “Penneymounter will use this to delay the hearings, and they’ll dig up more garbage. After the blind trust, it’s going to be something else. It’s never going to end until they kill me with death by a thousand cuts. I can feel it.”

  “It’s going to be fine,” insisted Morris. “No one here cares what the New York Times says. I’ll bring the accountants by at noon. Can you assemble the statements from your trust account?”

  “I think so,” said Diaz. He hung up. For Diaz it was just the latest blow in a hail of punches. Between murder boards, meetings with senators, and rereading every opinion he ever wrote, he was exhausted and depressed. It was not going to be fine, he thought, it was not going to be fine at all.

  THE STORY APPEARED ON the Washington Post Web site at 3:12 p.m. under the byline of Dan Dorman, the most feared investigative journalist in DC. “Diaz’s trust bought Wildfire stock shortly before ruling on antitrust case,” screamed the headline. It was an astonishing revelation. The trustees of Diaz’s blind trust acquired ten thousand shares of Wildfire.com stock only twelve days before Diaz cast the deciding vote in the Internet giant’s favor in what was the biggest anti-trust case since the breakup of AT&T.

  Charlie Hector stared at a printout of Dorman’s story in his spacious, airy office in the West Wing. Jay,
Lisa, and Phil Battaglia sat on the couch looking shell-shocked.

  Hector let out a heavy sigh. “This complicates things,” he said.

  “Penneymounter’s going to the floor in twenty minutes,” said Lisa. “He’s calling for delaying the hearings.”

  “Figures,” said Hector. “That’s a Judiciary Committee matter. Beyond that we don’t comment. Let Tom Reynolds respond.”

  “What?! No comment?” Jay jumped up from the couch like a jack-in-the-box, waving his arms. “We have to push back hard. Diaz is the president’s nominee. We need to defend him forcefully.”

  Hector looked at the others impassively, his eyes soliciting opinions. He was a no-drama kind of guy.

  “Diaz did nothing wrong,” said Battaglia. “He fully complied with the guidelines for federal judges governing investments in blind trusts. Lisa should say that in the briefing today and put an exclamation point on it.”

  “I’m going to need the poop on the blind trust rules,” said Lisa.

  “We’ll get you some talking points,” said Battaglia. “But you can refer most of their questions on that to Justice.”

  “We should also pop the New York Times for the Opus Dei piece,” said Jay. “Roll them together. This is a search-and-destroy mission against a man of faith. Shift the subject from blind trusts to anti-Catholicism.”

  “Normally I don’t agree with starting a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel,” Lisa replied. “But the Times story is outrageous.”

  “I’ll call Ross Lombardy. We need the Federation ginned up,” said Jay.

  “You might want to recommend that Andy Stanton book that guy from the Catholic Anti-Defamation group,” said Lisa, her eyes lighting up. “He’s a pit bull.”

  “Andy doesn’t do guests,” said Jay with a sardonic smile. “There’s only one star and it’s him.”

  “And Fox News,” offered Lisa. “They’ll love the anti-Catholic angle.”