The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “Christy Love. She would back over her own mother to stop Diaz from getting on the Court. And the media was complicit in her sucking Solis into the whole mess.” He shook his head. “What happens now?”

  “Unclear,” replied Battaglia. “I assume this will delay the hearings for a few days, maybe a week.”

  “Okay,” said Jay. “Just keep me posted.”

  Jay, still in a daze, left Phil’s office and headed down the hall toward the West Wing lobby and walked up the stairs to the second floor. Passing his assistant without a word, he closed the door to his office. Picking up the phone, he dialed a number.

  “Taylor, Jay Noble. Listen, Frida Diaz just lost her baby.”

  Sullivan let out an expletive. “I guess the attacks got to her. It makes me want to puke. The left has blood on their hands on this one.”

  “Big time. I’m done pulling our punches. It’s time we hit back. Where are you on that thing you’ve been working on?”

  “Locked and loaded,” said Sullivan proudly.

  “Good. Go ahead and get it in the water . . . carefully.”

  “Now we’re talking,” Sullivan replied excitedly.

  “Be discreet,” Jay instructed.

  “Don’t worry. There’s a lot of duct tape on the gun. There are no fingerprints.”

  Jay hung up the phone. Part of him regretted giving the order. But the loss of the Diaz baby had pushed Jay over the line. It was time to win at all costs.

  SAL STANLEY’S HAND GRIPPED the armrests of his chair, his legs crossed, his face stretched into a surgical mask of senatorial stoicism. The Democratic leadership spread out on two couches before the fireplace and several end chairs. The ticktock of the grandfather clock had the disquieting effect of increasing the tension in the room.

  “Well, everyone, it appears Maria Solis died from a mixture of prescription drugs and alcohol,” said Stanley. “By all appearances it was accidental. Our thoughts and prayers go out to her family. It is difficult at a time like this to dwell on political implications, but I’m afraid we have no choice. Our main witness against Diaz has died. Pursuing the allegations she made will be problematic at best.” He turned to Penneymounter, who sat on one of the couches. “Do I fairly summarize our situation vis-à-vis the Diaz nomination?”

  “I’m afraid so, Sal.”

  “What’s your assessment of where we stand on the committee?” asked Stanley, sliding to the bottom line.

  “I don’t sense much movement. We’ve got one undecided on our side, the rest committed to vote no on the nomination. We’re thinking of footnoting Solis’s deposition in the majority report and including it in the appendix. Beyond that we let it lie.”

  “Anybody got a reaction to that?”

  No one offered an opinion. Besides, anyone who questioned Penneymounter’s leadership of the committee was liable to be decapitated.

  “So the committee votes on the nomination . . . maybe day after tomorrow?”

  Penneymounter frowned. “That was my original plan,” he said. “But my staff heard from someone at DOJ that Frida Diaz went into premature labor and had a miscarriage.”

  Stanley sunk lower in his chair, his face going white. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were.”

  “If that report turns out to be true, it’s very bad.”

  “Fox News and talk radio will blame us,” said Craig McGowan, chairman of the Democratic Senatorial Campaign Committee. The junior senator from New Jersey was Stanley’s protégé and designated hitter (some said lackey) on all matters political.

  “When will we know?” asked Stanley, growing visibly agitated.

  “Soon,” said Penneymounter. “Should be any minute now.”

  “Assuming the committee votes this week, how does it look?”

  “I’ve got ten votes. The only wobbly on our side is Rebecca Rhoades. The Republicans have eight in favor and one undecided, but I think we should assume they’ll vote for Diaz.”

  “What’s up with R-squared?” asked Stanley, using Rhoades’s nickname. She was a centrist Democrat from Louisiana, ever mindful of the conservative sentiments of her Catholic and Cajun constituents.

  “Who knows? She won’t return my phone calls. She’s up on the mountaintop, praying.” Penneymounter rolled his eyes.

  “Whenever she prays about a vote, that usually means one of two things: she wants more money for New Orleans levees, or she wants more subsidies for sugar,” joked McGowan. Everyone chuckled appreciatively.

  “There’s a ‘dear colleague’ calling for a filibuster of Diaz,” said Leo Wells, the Democratic whip. Wells was a true liberal who made no secret of his desire to replace Stanley as Majority Leader, a fact that caused no small amount of tension between the two. “If Rhoades announces she’s voting for Diaz, I’m inclined to sign it.”

  Penneymounter moved to the edge of the couch, leaning forward. “I saw that letter. It’s way too soon to be discussing a filibuster. It plays right into the hands of the White House and scares the daylights out of the blue dogs.”

  “No one in leadership should call for a filibuster,” said Stanley declaratively.

  “Sal, with all due respect, if we get forty-one signatures, it gives us leverage,” said Wells insistently. “It doesn’t mean we necessarily filibuster. But it allows us to operate from a position of strength. R-squared is less likely to vote for Diaz if she knows he’s dead on the floor.”

  “No, it does the opposite,” said Stanley, swatting aside Wells’s self-serving suggestion like a fly. “Threatening to filibuster weakens our position because it’s an admission we don’t have the votes to stop him in committee. It lets R-squared off the hook.”

  “I won’t belabor the point,” said Wells, throwing in the towel. “But Diaz is the fifth vote to overturn Roe. Our base expects us to defeat him or die trying.”

  “What do you think I’ve been doing?” fired back Penneymounter, his eyes narrowed. “I know Rebecca. She’s prickly to a fault. If she thinks we’ve given up on her and are counting her as a yes vote, we’ll lose her.” He shot Wells a withering look. “You keep doing MSNBC and leave counting the votes to me.”

  It was a vicious shot at Wells, a notorious camera hog. Stanley jumped in to stop the fight. “Settle down, everybody. Here’s the deal: Joe’s going to make a final run at Becky. If we don’t get her, we discuss the filibuster option at that time. Alright?”

  No one said a word. No one had the stomach to argue the point any further.

  Penneymounter’s BlackBerry went off. He got up from the couch and walked across the room to the window facing the Mall to answer it, talking quietly. After about a minute he returned to the group, his face somber.

  “That was Phil Battaglia,” he said. “He just confirmed what we heard: Frida Diaz had a miscarriage.” He paused. “I have to talk with Tom Reynolds, but this means the committee won’t vote until next week.”

  Everyone rose and began to file out. Penneymounter hung back, grabbing Stanley’s arm in a power clutch, the two speaking in hushed voices. Whatever they were discussing, Penneymounter didn’t want to share with the rest of the leadership.

  FORTY

  The sun hung high and hot as Marco and Frida Diaz and their friends and family gathered in a cemetery in Arlington to bury their daughter Anna. The air was thick. The memorial service, featuring a beautiful homily by Father Henkel, was held at St. Benedict’s, their parish church in Alexandria. The graveside service, by contrast, was brief. People sought shelter from the blazing sun beneath a green funeral tent.

  A woman sang “It is Well (with My Soul)” a cappella. Father Henkel said a prayer committing Anna’s body to the earth and her soul to God. “Father, your Son instructed His disciples not to hinder the little children from coming to Him. We surrender our own desires for Anna’s life and submit to Yours, allowing her to sit in the lap of Christ, surrounded by angelic majesties and by Your glory. Amen.”

  The casket was slowly lowered into the gr
ave. Women seated in the front dabbed wet eyes, sniffling noses with tissues.

  The memorial service sparked a raging debate on talk radio, cable, and the blogosphere. Some viewed a graveside service for a child not carried to term as morbid, others creepy, while still others called it political exploitation. But to Diaz partisans, Anna was the victim of a confirmation process poisoned by partisanship and the take-no-prisoners modus operandi of the far left. She deserved a proper burial. Even in death Diaz divided the country.

  As the mourners began to drift away from the grave, greeting one another with hugs and handshakes, Jay Noble and Phil Battaglia walked up to Marco to pay their respects. When he saw them, his eyes lit up.

  “Thank you for coming,” Marco said with muted enthusiasm.

  “The president asked us to convey his condolences,” said Battaglia in official-speak. “He’s pulling for you.”

  “He called me, you know.”

  “Did he?” asked Jay. He pretended to be surprised—it made the call look more spontaneous and a greater encouragement to Diaz, who the White House desperately needed to stay in the fight.

  “Yes,” said Diaz. “I told him he didn’t have to. I know how busy he is. With all on his plate right now, it meant a lot.”

  Jay and Phil walked across the cemetery’s grassy lawn back to the government sedan they rode from the White House. The driver pulled away from the curb and proceeded slowly out of the cemetery onto a busy road that led back to I-395.

  “I’m glad we went,” said Phil.

  “Me, too,” said Jay. “Golden, too. It was a statement.”

  “Frida looked like she has been through it.”

  Jay’s BlackBerry went off. “It’s Dan Dorman,” he said, somewhat surprised.

  “I wonder what he wants.”

  “Let’s find out.” Jay answered the phone. “Dan, to what do I owe the honor?”

  “Your office said you were at the funeral for the Diaz baby. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

  “No, we just left. It was a very moving service. I’m headed back to the White House. What’s up?”

  “What do you know about Penneymounter having a fling with a Judiciary Committee staffer?”

  Dorman’s question landed like an artillery shell. “Not a thing,” he lied. “Why?”

  “Just asking. We’re hearing fairly specific rumors. I don’t know yet who’s pushing it. Supposedly it involves a press aide on the committee.”

  “Mmmmm,” said Jay. Sullivan’s black-bag operation was underway.

  “Everyone knows Joe likes the ladies,” said Dorman. “But this is pretty specific information, and its coming right before the Judiciary Committee votes on Diaz’s nomination. Pretty interesting timing, don’t you think?”

  “Dan, I can’t comment on that. I’m staying as far away from this as possible.”

  “Okay, just checking,” said Dorman, skeptical lilt in his voice. He hung up.

  “What was that about?” asked Battaglia.

  “Oh, just the rumor de jour. It’s the day before the judiciary vote, and everyone is chasing rabbits.” Jay paused. “What’s the hard count on the committee?”

  “Ten votes against, nine votes for,” said Battaglia matter-of-factly. “It’s all down to Becky Rhoades. No one knows what she’s going to do. She’s gone dark.”

  Jay shook his head in disbelief. He whipped out his BlackBerry again and dialed a number. “Ross, Jay here.”

  “What’s shaking?” asked Ross.

  “Listen, I’m sitting here with Phil Battaglia. We just left the funeral for the Diaz baby. Our count is nine yeas and ten nays, with R-squared undecided. Where are you on Louisiana?”

  “I’m carpet-bombing it,” said Ross with undisguised pride. “A thousand gross rating points on statewide TV, eight frequency on radio, and phone banks lit up like a Christmas tree. We’re hearing Rhoades is getting two thousand calls a day, and they are running 80 percent in favor of Diaz.”

  “Fantastic,” said Jay. “Keep it under the radar. Don’t have Andy go after her on the air.”

  “Don’t worry. Andy’s on a short leash.”

  Jay hung up, satisfied with Ross’s report. The sedan pulled up to the entrance to the West Wing. Jay turned to Phil. “If we don’t get Rhoades, it sure won’t be for lack of trying.”

  “If we don’t get Rhoades, I’ll be back to California making a living by handling DUI cases,” dead-panned Battaglia.

  Jay laughed. He stepped out of the car, greeted by one of his assistants, who stood on the curb clutching a leather-bound legal pad. “Senator Bottoms is here to see you,” she said. “He’s in the lobby.”

  “Again? What’s he want this time?” asked Jay.

  “The same thing he always wants. I’ll tell you while you walk,” she said. “We’re late.”

  Jay power walked through the side door to the West Wing lobby, head down, his eyes straight ahead.

  REBECCA RHOADES SAT IN a wing-back chair in her office in the Hart Senate Office Building, her chief of staff and her Judiciary Committee aide seated on the couch. Even at this late hour, no one knew how she would vote. Her office was ground zero in the battle over the Diaz nomination.

  Rhoades, thin and intense, possessed the fading beauty of a former homecoming queen at LSU. Primly clad in a patterned blue dress with D & G heels, her dirty-blonde hair was streaked with highlights and cut at her shoulders, accentuating a high forehead, lush eyebrows, and piercing blue eyes. With smoldering looks mellowing with age, her skin had softened to reveal high cheekbones and an angular jaw.

  “What’s the latest call count?” she asked.

  “Through noon today, twelve thousand calls,” said the chief of staff. “Ten thousand five hundred in favor of Diaz, fifteen hundred against.”

  “How much of that is Astroturf, and how much is real?” asked Rhoades.

  “No way to know,” replied the chief of staff. “I’d say half and half. The Andy Stanton brigades are in full battle gear, as you can imagine.”

  Rhoades nodded. As a Catholic herself, she understood religious voters even though she thought they were too easily manipulated by con men and demagogues.

  “There’s something else, Senator,” said the Judiciary Committee aide. “The NRA just announced they’re scoring the Diaz vote.”

  “What? On what basis?”

  “Diaz voted on the DC Circuit to overturn the DC gun ban,” explained the aide. “So they’re claiming that a vote against Diaz is a vote against the Second Amendment.”

  “That’s crazy. Who got to them?”

  “The White House. Jay Noble told the NRA if they wanted Long to slow-walk the assault weapon ban, they not only had to come out for Diaz; they had to score the vote.”

  “I’d hate to lose my A-plus rating from the NRA going into the re-elect.”

  “We need it,” agreed the chief of staff. “There are 200,000 NRA members in Louisiana. And they vote.”

  A secretary stuck her head in. “Senator, Sal Stanley is on the phone.”

  “Again?” sighed Rhoades. “Tell him I’m out.”

  The secretary nodded and closed the door.

  “Well, what’s the verdict, boss?” asked the chief of staff, pressing the issue. “We need to make an announcement, and I don’t recommend you wait until the day of the vote.”

  “Your advice is duly noted,” said Rhoades. “But I’m going to watch a movie.”

  “Come again?” asked the chief of staff.

  “I have to get out of here. A movie theater is dark and safe with no cell phones, and no one can find me.”

  The staffers chuckled. Rhoades picked up her purse and headed for the door. Before she exited, she turned back. “No calls until 9:00 a.m. tomorrow. That includes Stanley. Tell any press I’ll announce my decision tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” replied the chief of staff.

  With that she was gone.

  SAL STANLEY HUNG UP the phone and turned to his chief of sta
ff, the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling. “Joan of Arc is missing in action.”

  “If she doesn’t get with the program soon,” replied the chief of staff, “Her MIA status is going to be downgraded to KIA.”

  “It’s unbelievable,” said Stanley. “R-squared is pro-choice, and she may vote for a guy who is against choice and voted to sustain employment discrimination against women.”

  “I can sum it up in two words,” said the chief of staff. “God and guns.”

  “You’re right,” said Stanley with a sigh. “The NRA announcement has to give her pause. They’ll pay for that stunt, by the way. A Supreme Court nomination is now a gun vote?” He screwed up his face. “Come on!”

  The chief of staff’s face became somber, his eyes heavy. “What are we going to do about Penneymounter?”

  “We wait it out. I made him chairman of the committee. I can’t stab him in the back.”

  “Word is the Times has the story, and the Post is playing catch up,” said the chief of staff. “Best case scenario, we’ve got two or three days before the story breaks.”

  “Check in with Joe’s press secretary,” said Stanley. “I can’t imagine the Times would want to go before the story is fully baked.”

  The chief of staff nodded and got up to leave the room.

  Stanley walked behind his desk and turned to look out the window, gazing down the Mall toward the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial. The Diaz nomination had already claimed too many victims. Would Joe Penneymounter be next? The thought made him shudder.

  IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG for Stanley to get his answer. Ninety minutes later news of Penneymounter’s affair with Taylor rocketed across the Internet. Merryprankster posted its story at 4:32 p.m. under the lurid headline: “THE CHAIRMAN AND HIS MISTRESS: PENNEYMOUNTER STAFFER TARGETED DIAZ . . . SOUGHT SUGAR DADDIES ON SEX-FOR-CASH WEB SITE.” The story featured links to Taylor’s page on MySugarDaddy.com, which had been taken down ten months before. As if anyone needed another reminder that the news media now set the national agenda, Merryprankster’s post attracted eight million people to the site in the first half hour. The New York Times had no choice but to post its own still-evolving version a little after 5:00 p.m. Every evening news broadcast led with the riveting story.