The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “Very good,” said Ross.

  “Sorry we couldn’t meet in Bermuda,” said Fox apologetically. “Felicity and I would have loved to host you at our house, but business called.” He smiled. “Another time, I hope.”

  Fox introduced Ross to his colleagues. One was the bright-eyed, thin vice president for global public affairs at Fox’s private equity firm, the other a smarmy Republican lobbyist, wrapped in a pin-striped suit with a loud tie and a custom shirt with French cuffs and presidential cufflinks, who boasted a shallow and dated background in GOP circles. Ross knew them both. The GOP lobbyist was a right-wing Uncle Tom who had been recruited by Fox and paid an embarrassingly large monthly retainer to influence-peddle for his liberal paymaster in DC. Everyone grabbed a soft drink or coffee, ignoring the expensive spread of food, and sat down in the living room.

  “Ross, you’re a smart guy, and I know you’re plugged into the Long administration,” said Fox, diving right into the business at hand. “I’ve got more lobbyists than Carter has liver pills”—he glanced at the GOP lobbyist—“and they tell me your views are highly regarded at the White House.”

  Ross nodded and allowed himself a self-satisfying smile. It was good to know that his importance had filtered up to Silicon Valley and Manhattan boardrooms.

  “You and I don’t see eye to eye on everything politically,” Fox continued. “But I’m a businessman. I buy and sell companies and create value for my investors. That’s what I’m about.” He paused, his eyes twinkling. “If you ever want to come work for me, let me know.”

  Everyone laughed, Ross a little more nervously than the others.

  Fox stood up and paced the floor, walking over to the dining room table. “I don’t share Long’s politics, but that’s neither here nor there,” said Fox, chopping the air a dismissive wave of his hand. “Five years ago I became the largest single investor in Wildfire.com, which is doing for the Internet what Bill Paley did for broadcast television and Ted Turner did for cable. That bet has paid off handsomely for me. Wildfire created the first workable online advertising model for the Internet.” His face lit up. “Wildfire makes Google look like the Model T Ford. With Google, money tipped the scales of their search engine. With Wildfire, you follow the eyeballs. So wherever someone goes—any search engine, Web site, or news site—Wildfire finds your customers, tracks them, and advertises your product on the pages they visit. They sell pages by individual impression, which was unheard of even a few years ago.”

  “It’s an amazing technology,” said Ross. “How much of Wildfire does your firm own?”

  “Twenty-three percent,” said Fox. “The company is currently valued at $92 billion.”

  Ross let out a whistle.

  “Wildfire lost the antitrust suit at the district court level, then won its appeal to the DC Circuit. Diaz ruled in our favor. That decision has been appealed by the Department of Justice,” Fox said. He paused, picking up a single blueberry and popping it in his mouth, chewing. “All we want is a fair hearing. Diaz understands that the marketplace, not bureaucrats, should determine the future of the Internet. We want to see him confirmed, and I understand you’re generating support for him.”

  “Big time, Mr. Fox,” said Ross, brightening.

  “Please, it’s Stephen.” He pointed to the GOP lobbyist. “Except for Fred here. He has to call me sir.” Everyone laughed again.

  Ross nodded. “We’re sending out millions of e-mails a week, dropping hundreds of thousands of pieces of mail, organizing over 100,000 churches, and advertising on television and radio in seven states, including Pennsylvania and Ohio.”

  “How much does all that cost?”

  “It varies from week to week, but about $750,000 to one million a week. We estimate that when it is all said and done, we will spend $5 million to get Diaz confirmed.”

  Fox looked impressed. “You’re a pro,” he said. “You know how to get things done. I like that.” He paused. “I want to help you. Not Wildfire—I think that’s too close for comfort—but I have some other entities that can support your efforts.”

  “I don’t think we should accept a contribution from Wildfire or its executives,” said Ross. “We don’t need the headline, and neither do they.”

  “A hundred percent,” agreed Fox. He pointed to his vice president. “My team can iron out all the details. We have a number of entities we can use.” He shook his head. “I own more companies than I can keep track of. We could give it to another group that we work with, and then let them give you a grant.” He glanced at the VP. “What’s the name of that (c)(4) again?”

  “Citizens for Technological Innovation.”

  “Right,” said Stephen, snapping his fingers. “That’s permissible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir,” said the vice president. “The Federation will have to report the contribution to the IRS, but all they will show on their 990 is CTI. Perfectly legal.” He smiled.

  “Good!” Fox smiled. He walked over to Ross, extending a hand generously. Ross pumped it enthusiastically.

  “How ’bout I give you a million dollars?” asked Fox. “How does that grab you?”

  Ross looked like he had just won the lottery. “Fine, sir,” he stammered. “That’s . . . terrific!”

  “That probably makes me the largest donor to your group, doesn’t it?” asked Fox.

  “Yes, sir, I believe it would.”

  Fox burst out laughing. “Super!” he exclaimed, seeming to enjoy lavishing his largesse on the unsuspecting. “Go get ’em, champ.” He slapped Ross affectionately on his shoulder, then turned and disappeared into the bedroom.

  Ross walked back to the elevator, head swimming. He had heard of people who played both sides, but Stephen Fox was in a class by himself. He wondered: was it too good to be true?

  THE BLACK CADILLAC ESCALADE carrying Maria Solis and her entourage shot past the Mayflower Hotel on Connecticut Avenue, where an unruly mob of reporters and camera crews gathered. The scene was pandemonium. News vans and satellite trucks were parked three deep in front of the hotel’s motor entrance.

  “It’s a total cluster!” shouted Christy Love from the backseat. “Find another way in,” she ordered the driver. “We can’t walk Maria into an ambush.”

  In the backseat Solis glanced out the dark-tinted window nervously. “How did they find out where I was staying?” she asked, her soft voice plaintive.

  “Who knows?” replied Christy. “Probably the minority staff. They’re total jerks.”

  “Make a right on DeSalles Street,” Natalie Taylor said, leaning forward from the backseat and pointing to her left. “Try the service entrance.”

  Christy called the head of security at the Mayflower on her cell phone and worked out a diversionary tactic: while the hotel security staff gathered in front of the building, pretending to prepare for their arrival, they would duck in a side entrance and take a service elevator. The driver steered down a narrow alleyway. Halfway down, they pulled up to an open door where a man in grey slacks and blue blazer holding a walkie-talkie waved at them.

  “That’s the entrance. Go! Go!” shouted the driver.

  Natalie and Christy bolted from their seats, pulling Solis along with them. As they clambered up the stairs, they caught sight of two camera crews jogging down the alley.

  “Block them!” yelled Christy.

  The driver threw the Escalade in reverse and gunned the engine, careening backward down the alley, nearly running the cameramen over. They dove to the asphalt to avoid being struck, spewing profanity.

  The security guard pushed them into the building and closed the door. They walked into an elevator, its door held open by a second guard. Climbing aboard, the group was silent except for the sound of their labored breathing. Solis looked like she had seen a ghost.

  Christy turned to the security guard. “I want a hotel guard at the elevator to her floor 24/7 and a DC cop guarding her room. No one gets in except people on a list I give you. Everyone has to show a photo I
D. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied crisply.

  Once they were safely inside the suite, Maria went to a back bedroom to freshen up. The others gathered around the bar where they grabbed bottles of water and soft drinks.

  Natalie walked over to Piper Duncan, Solis’s Dallas attorney, who had first contacted Christy about her story. “Is she going to be okay?” she asked quietly. “She seems pretty rattled.”

  “Wouldn’t you?” asked Duncan. “She’s been carrying this secret for twenty-five years, and now it’s plastered on the front page of every newspaper in the country. Forty-eight hours ago no one outside of Dallas knew who she was. She’s overwhelmed.”

  “Can she handle the pressure?” pressed Natalie. “We’re out on a ledge here. If she’s not going to be able to go through with it, we need to know now.”

  “I don’t think you’re really in a position to question her commitment,” said Duncan. “Someone leaked her story. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t her.” She glared accusingly.

  Solis walked into the living room area of the suite. Their conversation abruptly stopped.

  “Maria, feel better now?” asked Christy affectionately.

  “A little,” said Solis haltingly. “There were a hundred reporters out there. I hope it’s not going to be like that tomorrow when I testify.”

  “It won’t be,” Natalie lied. “We’ll take you in the back way. The Capitol is very secure.” In fact, it would be a complete circus.

  “We should probably go ahead and call the committee lawyers and tell them to come on up to the suite,” suggested Christy. “That way we can get the deposition out of the way, and Maria can get some sleep.”

  “Fine by me,” said Duncan. “Maria, you okay with that?” She glanced at Maria, who appeared to hesitate for a moment. She bit her lower lip, her eyes searching.

  “Sure,” she said at last.

  Christy reached over to the phone to dial the committee counsel. As he did, she wondered if Solis was really ready. Were they riding a three-legged horse?

  PHIL BATTAGLIA AND JAY Noble stood outside the Oval Office, cooling their heels. The president was wrapping up a meeting with Truman Greenglass and the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The shocking story of Rassem el Zafarshan hijacking a shipment of yellowcake from Iraq led every news broadcast, threatening to eclipse even the latest bizarre twist in the Diaz confirmation struggle off the front page. And why not? Zafarshan had already masterminded the assassination of a U.S. vice president, and now he had the raw material for a dirty bomb that could be exploded in a major American city.

  The door opened and the Joint Chiefs chairman walked past them with a nod, his head down, face somber. Long hung back, talking in a low voice with Greenglass. When he caught sight of Jay and Phil, he waved them in. “Get in here guys,” he said wearily. “And you better have some good news.”

  “Good is a relative term, Mr. President,” said Battaglia with morbid humor.

  “So I’m finding,” said Long.

  Jay noticed the strain on the president’s face, the worry lines on his forehead like crevices in granite. He knew the meeting with Greenglass and the chiefs had been about Zafarshan and Iran. But as Long’s political advisor, national security was not in his portfolio. As the pressures on Long increased, Jay sensed he was drifting away, consumed by Iran and foreign policy, growing more distant. Jay was helpless to stop it.

  “Phil has an update on Diaz,” said Jay.

  “Fire away,” said Long. He sat behind his desk, leaning back in the chair and slowly exhaling. Jay and Battaglia took the chairs on either side.

  “We’ve debriefed Diaz,” reported Battaglia. “His story is straightforward. He says that Solis was late and feared she might be pregnant. She went to the campus clinic to take a pregnancy test. The test came back negative. End of story.”

  “You believe him?” asked Long, his eyes boring into Battaglia.

  “I do, Mr. President,” said Battaglia. “We’ve got good facts. Solis has no extant medical records in her possession from the time period in question. The FBI has interviewed all the doctors and nurses who worked at the clinic at the time who are still alive. They’re coming up empty.”

  “Sounds open and shut. Now what?” asked Long.

  “She testifies tomorrow, Diaz rebuts her testimony. A day or two later, the committee votes.”

  “Where do we stand?”

  Jay let out a sigh. “We’re still short by one vote, sir,” said Jay. “Reynolds has done his job. We’ve got all the R’s, but we still don’t have a Democrat.”

  Long arched his eyebrows. “Should I work the phones?”

  “Not yet,” answered Jay. “We want to get past Solis tomorrow. But we’ve got two lined up for meetings in the Oval. We need to give them the full treatment.”

  “Penneymounter’s playing hardball,” explained Battaglia. “He’s twisting arms.”

  “So is Stanley,” added Jay. “He’s making it very tough on any Democrat who votes for Diaz. Everything’s on the table: committee assignments, fund-raisers, earmarks, you name it.”

  “I’m amazed they’re falling in line with Stanley,” said Long, shaking his head in wonderment. “They’re kicking thirty million Hispanics in the teeth. What gives?”

  “Two things,” observed Jay dispassionately. “First, their liberal base won’t stand for a pro-Diaz vote. Their assumption is this is the fifth vote to overturn Roe v. Wade.”

  Long nodded. He got it.

  “Second,” Jay continued, “Stanley’s running for president again. If he stops Diaz, he’s probably the Democratic front-runner, in spite of Dele-gate. But if he fails, he’s done. The Diaz nomination is literally the first primary for the Democratic nomination.”

  “Stanley’s never gotten over the campaign. It consumes him.” He stared into the middle distance, his expression reflective. “What’s the bottom line?”

  “Unless something changes in the next forty-eight hours, Diaz will not be reported out of the committee favorably,” said Battaglia slowly.

  Long nodded slowly, absorbing the blow. “And that’ll be it, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Jay quietly. “We can force a floor vote, but we’ll lose.”

  Long rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “You were supposed to bring me good news,” he joked. They chuckled, rising to leave. As they walked to the door, Long stopped them. “Keep fighting,” he said with a determined look. He wagged his finger. “If they crucify the first Hispanic nominated to the court in decades, we’ll carry the Latino vote by a landslide in four years. One way or the other, we’re going to have the last laugh.”

  They nodded and left. Walking back to their offices, Jay turned to Battaglia. “Assuming Diaz doesn’t make it, what’s the plan?” he asked, whispering under his breath.

  “There isn’t one,” Battaglia replied.

  Jay gulped. They were staring into the abyss.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It was 11:30 p.m. when the den phone in the Diaz family home rang. Marco leapt for it, an instinct developed from having young children who went to bed early. He wondered who could be calling so late.

  “Marco?” asked a familiar voice. Even after a quarter century, he recognized it instantly.

  “Maria?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I sure wasn’t expecting to hear from you of all people,” he said.

  “I just wanted to call and tell you I’m sorry all this happened.” She paused. “I never meant to hurt you. I still don’t.” Her speech was slightly slurred.

  His initial reaction was to be careful—he might be being taped. The woman who was going to accuse him publicly in less than ten hours of forcing her to abort their child was expressing affection for him. In an odd way he understood. They once loved each other. On one level he believed her—the entire confirmation had spun out of control, and they were both trapped on the roller coaster.

  “I . . . I don’t know what to
say,” said Diaz. “I never meant to hurt you either. I never wanted anything but the best for you, Maria. That’s always been the case. I just wanted you to be happy, that’s all.”

  “I know,” she replied solemnly. There was a long silence. Then she spoke. “Marco, I aborted our baby. I did it. . . . I had an abortion. I never told you.”

  Diaz was floored. “Why?”

  “I wanted something else for myself,” said Maria. “I knew someday you’d be where you are right now. I knew that in the future you would either run for president or be nominated to the Supreme Court. I didn’t want that. I made a different choice.”

  Diaz’s mind raced. Should he say something designed to protect himself in case he was being taped? Instead, he threw caution to the wind. “You made the choice, but someone else paid the price. And now you’re trying to make me pay the price.”

  “That’s why I’m calling,” said Maria. “To tell you I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted you to know that before tomorrow.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Marco. “I will pray for you tomorrow, Maria.”

  “Thank you,” she said quietly. She hung up the phone.

  Diaz put the receiver down. Had he said anything incriminating? He didn’t think so. He hoped the conversation might cause Maria to pull her punch the next morning.

  ROSS LOMBARDY WAS BACK in his Alpharetta, Georgia, office, inhaling his second black venti bold Starbucks of the morning, losing the battle to calm his jumpy nerves. He was mainlining so much caffeine his wild eyes reflected his internal turmoil. And for good reason. Maria Solis was scheduled to testify before the Senate Judiciary Committee in less than two hours. The Faith and Family Federation was now blanketing eleven states and national cable with pro-Diaz ads, and its phone banks buried Senate offices beneath thousands of calls a day. One could not turn on Fox News without seeing the triple-F ads, which were running every five minutes. In the midst of this full-court press, at 8:04 a.m., Ross’s cell phone went off. On the line was Dick Land, dean of the law school at Trinity University and prominent evangelical legal eagle.