by Ralph Reed
“Hurricanes, dear,” said Stephen. “Besides, where would you shop?”
“Shopping is never a problem,” shot back Felicity. She glanced at Deirdre with motherly disapproval. “Eat something, dear.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Deirdre. “I’m not hungry.”
“Let’s have a painkiller,” said Stephen with sudden inspiration. He turned to Orlando the houseman. “Four painkillers, Orlando.”
“What’s a painkiller?” asked Deirdre.
“Rum, coconut juice, pineapple juice, orange juice,” said G. G. “But mostly rum.”
“You need to get into the mind-set of the BVI,” said Stephen suggestively.
“Don’t worry, be happy?” asked Deirdre.
“That’s Jamaica, honey,” corrected G. G.
Within minutes Orlando magically appeared with a silver tray of towering painkillers. The rum hit Deirdre’s bloodstream like a long pull of moonshine. She laughed out loud at every joke, giggled at every sarcastic aside. After they polished off the painkillers, G. G. shifted to ice water. He needed to stay alert for the business he had to discuss with Stephen. The men drifted to the back deck, pulling up chairs as the crew readied for the evening sail. Felicity gave Deirdre a tour of the boat.
“Give me an update,” said Stephen, lighting a cigar. “Is Diaz going to make it?”
“It’s a jump ball,” said G. G. with clinical detachment. “The blind trust is a serious problem. If he comes out of Judiciary, even with a one-vote margin, he’ll be confirmed. If he loses in Judiciary, he’s DOA. If it’s a tie in Judiciary, all bets are off.”
“I’ve been turning over in my mind whether there’s anything we can do.”
“Not much,” said G. G. “With the Wildfire stock story, we’re in a delicate situation. I instructed our lobbyists to stand down. Right now we’re in the mode of not saying or doing anything stupid.”
“That’s a tall order,” joked Stephen.
“Tell me about it. But for now, the first rule is: do no harm.”
Stephen’s face grew serious. “Are any more shoes going to drop?”
G. G. shrugged. “Who knows? Rumors are flying.”
“Like what?” asked Stephen.
G. G. leaned forward, dropping his voice. “The word is an old college girlfriend has some interesting stories to tell.” He leaned closer, until his face almost touched Stephen’s. “Diaz was apparently into kinky stuff.”
“Really? I thought he was a Boy Scout.”
“Apparently not,” said G. G. “He beat her up, made her do things she didn’t want to do, took her to nightclubs, and tried to get her to hit on other men.” Actually, he made it up. But he knew it would entertain Stephen endlessly.
Stephen’s face fell. “That’ll kill him!”
“If she talks. Christy Love knows all about her. So does the Judiciary Committee staff. But she’s apparently reluctant to come forward and testify.”
“Can we hire her law firm?” asked Stephen. “Maybe that’ll keep her quiet.”
G. G. shook his head. “It’s past that point. If we try to hire them now, it’s radioactive.” G. G. found it quixotic the way Stephen hired and fired lawyers and consultants, sometimes layering them like a cake, as if they were a panacea for whatever ailed Wildfire at that moment in time. It helped sink Majette, yet Stephen was still on a hiring binge.
“It’s maddening,” said Stephen. “I’ve got twenty-two billion dollars riding on this antitrust case, and I’m sitting here in the BVI drinking umbrella drinks, watching from the cheap seats.” Suddenly he spun around and hurled his glass against the rail, shattering it. G. G. jumped. Orlando, who stood no more than ten feet away, never moved.
“Stephen, politics is like poker,” said G. G., trying to calm Stephen down. “Sometimes you’re dealt a bad hand, and you just play it. Hopefully Diaz’s girlfriend keeps her mouth shut.”
At that moment Felicity and Deirdre burst through the door to the yacht’s back sundeck, looking relaxed and playful. Felicity spied the shards of glass on the deck. She put her hands on her hips and gave him a wifely, disapproving look.
“Did you throw a glass again?”
“Of course not, honey,” Stephen lied. “I dropped it.”
“He did,” lied G. G. “I was a witness.
“Whatever. Orlando, please get that up before someone cuts their foot on the glass.” Felicity clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone, time for afternoon naps.”
“But I’m not tired,” protested G. G. “We just got here.”
“Well, Stephen and I are taking a nap,” said Felicity, flashing a smile. “So everyone retire to their respective bedrooms. Read a book, or . . . whatever.”
“Oh, I see,” said G. G., chagrined at being slow on the uptake.
Stephen grinned at G. G. sheepishly, his eyes seeming to say, Can you believe how lucky I am? Felicity grabbed him by the arm and led him below deck.
CHRISTY LOVE AND NATALIE Taylor entered the bar off the lobby of The Mansion, the swanky hotel in the Turtle Creek section of Dallas. When they walked through the door, Christy saw three traveling businessmen knocking back drinks at the bar. Their leering eyes followed her and Natalie like barflies. In the back of the room, sitting at a table shrouded in semi-darknesss, were two women. One of them waved. Christy walked over and extended her hand.
“You must be Christy,” said one of the women. “I’m Piper Duncan.” Duncan was vice president of the Dallas bar and a prominent attorney. She had bleached hair, toasted skin, high cheekbones, and blue-shaded glasses that gave her an exotic look. A former member of the city council, she was a mover and shaker in the Democratic Party circles who ran a lucrative municipal bond practice. “Christy, meet my good friend, Maria Solis.”
Maria had a round face, cropped black hair, and large, searching brown eyes. She shook Christy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Good to meet you, Maria,” said Christy, smiling. “Please meet my associate, Natalie Taylor.” She paused as they shook hands. “Natalie is with the Senate Judiciary Committee.”
Solis visibly drew back. “I thought we were just talking confidentially,” she said. “No one told me the committee would be involved.”
“Natalie’s my friend,” said Christy. “She’s not going to do anything without your explicit permission. She’s here simply to hear what you have to say. I trust her. So can you.”
Solis glanced at Duncan, whose eyes sought to reassure her. “They just want to hear your story,” said Duncan softly. “I made it clear you’ve made no decision about whether you want to submit anything to the committee.”
Solis seemed to calm down. She took another sip from her drink. Christy and Natalie waved over the waiter and ordered red wine.
“So Piper tells me you dated Marco at Yale,” said Christy, grabbing a handful of mixed nuts from a dish on the table.
“Yes,” said Solis haltingly. “We dated for about a year and a half. We were hot and heavy. He was my first real love. He was good-looking, smart, a big man on campus, going places.” She paused, frowning. “Marco was torn about his Mexican heritage. He felt guilty about getting into Yale and worried he might be seen as an affirmative-action baby. He worked so hard to prove them wrong. He wanted in the club. That’s part of why he was conflicted about marrying a Latino.” She flashed a sardonic smile. “A lot of Latino men want to marry a gringo. They want to fit in. I think that doomed us.”
Christy nodded. “So what happened between you two?”
“Marco was ambitious.” She chuckled at the thought. “Everyone was . . . it was Yale Law, after all. But Marco stood out. He told me someday he would be attorney general, Supreme Court justice, or the first Hispanic president. But I wanted a normal life, whatever that is. We began to grow apart.” She paused, taking a sip of gin and tonic. “But our physical attraction remained very strong.” She smiled at the memory.
“So eventually you broke up,” said Christy.
“
Yes,” said Solis. “He didn’t want to, but my feeling was, if we were not going to get married, we should move on. I cared for him, but I knew I’d take a backseat to his legal career.” Her dark eyes fixed on Christy’s. “He was also moving to the right. It was the Reagan era, and it moved him ahead in those circles. We disagreed about politics.” She looked down at the table. “Not long after we broke up, I missed my period.”
“What did you do?”
“I took a home pregnancy test, and it was positive. I walked around in a daze for an entire day. I couldn’t believe it. Hoping it was some kind of mistake, I went to the health clinic at Yale and took another test. It came back positive.”
“Did you tell Marco?”
“I did,” said Solis. “He was the father. I was young, I was scared, and I was confused. I was applying for jobs at law firms. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What did he say when you told him?” asked Christy.
Solis sighed. “At first he was speechless. Then he started pacing around the room, waving his arms, analyzing the situation. Typical male reaction to an inconvenient reality that hits him right between the eyes.”
“Was he angry?”
“Not at me. I wasn’t trying to manipulate him because I had broken up with him. I wasn’t trying to trick him. He knew that. But it was what it was.” She sighed. “It was a mess.”
“I’ve been there,” said Christy empathetically.
“I told him I might have the child and then put it up for adoption,” said Solis. “I was raised a very strict Catholic. My mother never missed Mass. It was hard for me to imagine doing anything else.”
“What did Marco say?”
“He told me he wanted me to have an abortion,” said Solis quietly. Silence hung over the table. “So that’s what I did. I’ve lived with that for twenty-four years.” She began to tear up. “Don’t get me wrong, I believe in a woman’s right to choose. But I never really felt like I had a choice, not with him.”
“So he definitely knew you were pregnant,” said Christy. “No question about that.”
Solis nodded. Her eyes were watery.
Natalie, who had remained silent up to this point, jumped in. “Maria, I know how difficult this is, and we really appreciate your courage in telling us,” she said. “I’ll respect whatever you decide to do. But it isn’t right for the members of the Senate to vote on Marco’s nomination without knowing this. She peered into Solis’s eyes with a penetrating gaze. “If it would make you feel more comfortable, we can do it without anyone knowing who you are.”
Solis bristled. “I can’t do that,” she said. “I don’t want to be the next Anita Hill . . . making an anonymous charge and then getting outed. Even though I oppose what Marco stands for, there’s a part of me that’s rooting for him. I’m proud of him. Isn’t that strange?”
“Not at all,” said Natalie. “It’s natural. You loved him. But this isn’t about your feelings. It’s about the country.”
“I know,” said Maria. “But I don’t want to hurt Marco. And I’m not the black widow.”
“I don’t want to speak for Maria,” said Duncan firmly. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to try to remain anonymous. If she’s going to tell her story to the Judiciary Committee, she has to do it for attribution.”
“We’re kidding ourselves if we think I won’t be drug through the mud,” said Maria. “Look at Monica Lewinsky. She was eviscerated, and Bill Clinton got a $10 million book deal. Clarence Thomas was confirmed. The men who take advantage of women always survive while the woman gets smeared. That’s still the nature of our society.”
Natalie reached across the table and placed her hand on Maria’s. Their eyes locked. “Maria, this is different.” She glanced at Christy. “Christy and I are as close to Penneymounter as any two people on earth. We will go to the wall for you. If the Senate votes to confirm Diaz, it’s a miscarriage of justice . . . even more than what happened to you twenty-four years ago.”
Solis remained silent for a full ten seconds. “I’ll think about it.”
Natalie and Christy pulled business cards from their purses and handed them to both Solis and Duncan. They paid the bill with a credit card and rose to excuse themselves. Duncan walked them to the door, leaving Maria at the table alone.
“Don’t put Maria in the crosshairs without her permission,” said Duncan in a whisper. “It’s her life, not ours.”
“We won’t,” said Christy. “She’s our sister. Don’t worry.”
They went back to Christy’s room and sat out on the large balcony overlooking the pool. Grey twilight faded to darkness as Christy pulled a bottle of Cabernet out of the minibar. For a few minutes they drank in eerie silence, absorbing the full weight of Solis’s extraordinary tale. They held in their hands the key to defeating Diaz, . . . but they did not know if they’d be able to use it.
“Do you believe her?” asked Christy at last.
“Yes,” replied Natalie. “I want to believe her.”
“So do I.”
“What could be her motive for lying?”
“Maybe he broke up with her. Maybe she wanted to be Mrs. Marco Diaz, but she didn’t get to be because he dumped her. Maybe she’s looking at Frida and grinding her molars every day, wanting to get even.”
“That’s a possibility,” said Natalie. “Something real went on between them. She loved him once. I’m sure of that much.”
Christy took a long sip of red wine and swallowed. “One thing’s certain: if we can persuade her to come forward, her story better be true.”
“That’s what the FBI is for,” said Natalie. “They’ll interview her, and they’ll interview anyone she has ever shared this with over the years . . . close friends, family members, maybe a marriage counselor.”
Christy walked to the rail and leaned over, staring into the twilight. Then she turned back to face Natalie. “If she doesn’t come forward, it may leak. Have you thought about that?”
Natalie raised her eyebrows. “I can’t believe we’re the only two people other than Maria and Piper who know about this. There have to be others. There are a lot of reporters who would die to get their hands on this story, starting with Marvin Myers.” she said. “I just hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“If the Wildfire stock and blind trust issue don’t sink him first,” said Christy. “We may not have any other choice.”
THE CONFERENCE ROOM ON the third floor of the Eisenhower Executive Office Building was turned into a war room, strewn with cans of Diet Coke, paper cups, rotting fruit and wilting sandwiches, whiteboards filled with illegible scribbles, and whirring laptops. Sitting around the table was the high command of the judicial confirmation team at the White House: Jay Noble, Lisa Sullivan, David Thomas, and the researchers Jay called “propeller heads.”
“Okay, what’s the next hit piece from the Times?” asked Jay.
“They’ve got a panel of public accountants who say the mistakes Diaz made in managing his blind trust were highly irregular,” said an aide. “They accuse the trustees of lying.”
Jay glanced at Lisa. Her eyes were glazed, her face pale, her skin sallow. The stress of her job was taking a heavy toll. “What’s our response?”
“We’ve got our own team of outside accountants who have reviewed all the stock transactions within Diaz’s blind trust,” reported Lisa, flipping her black hair behind her ears with her long fingers. “They’re issuing a report concluding that Diaz dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s when he established the trust. One of the accountants signing the report is the former chairman of Price Waterhouse.”
“I know him. Great guy,” said Jay.
“We also did a contribution history on the Times’ accountants,” Lisa added. “And guess what? Three of them wrote checks to Democratic candidates. Two of them gave to Stanley; one of them maxed.”
A wicked grin crossed Jay’s face. “Liberal accountants?!” he shouted in mock outrage. “Isn’t that an oxymoro
n?”
“We also have fourteen retired federal judges who have signed a letter to Penneymounter saying that Diaz should not be punished for what the trustees did,” said David Thomas.
“That works,” said Jay. “What’s our push back on Diaz’s receiving written notices of all the stock trades?”
“He says he didn’t open them,” replied Lisa. Jay raised his eyebrows and dropped his chin, projecting skepticism.
“Wildfire was less than 5 percent of the trust’s assets,” said Thomas. “There’s no way he’d risk his career over that. Besides, who doesn’t have Wildfire stock? It’s one of the most commonly held stocks in the country.”
“Does Penneymounter own any Wildfire stock?” asked Jay.
“We’re trying to find out,” said one of the opposition researchers.
“Get the goods. He’s chairman of Judiciary,” said Jay. “He has jurisdiction over the antitrust division of DOJ. It would be a conflict.” He leaned forward in his chair, jabbing the air with his finger, punctuating his words. “If not Wildfire, something that’s a conflict . . . maybe stock in one of the Wall Street firms. Keep digging until we find something.”
The researcher nodded, scribbling notes on a legal pad.
Jay got up from his chair and signaled Lisa to join him. When they left the room, he whispered, “Come here, I want you to meet the latest member of the team.”
They walked across the hall, and Jay opened a large door with no name plate. To Lisa’s astonishment, there at a plain wooden desk pecking away feverishly at a computer, was Taylor Sullivan, the famed opposition research guru and political hit man who had worked for the Republican National Committee in the previous election. His bald head glistened beneath the fluorescent lights, the worry lines on his forehead prominent, black eyes gazing out beneath bushy eyebrows. Clad in blue jeans and a button-down denim Oxford shirt, with his shaved head, beard stubble, and pumped biceps, he looked strangely like a prison inmate on furlough.
“Lisa, meet Taylor Sullivan,” said Jay grandiloquently. “He’s going to help us get Diaz confirmed.”