by Ralph Reed
The room fell completely silent. No one moved. “I continue to believe Judge Diaz should recuse himself from the Wildfire case. But to reject an otherwise qualified nominee for the Supreme Court of the United States in the absence of clear evidence of unethical conduct over a single case, even a case as important as the Wildfire antitrust litigation, is unduly harsh. Therefore, with reservations, I will vote to confirm Judge Diaz.”
The room exploded in applause from Diaz supporters, who jumped to their feet. Hurley glowered at them, banging his gavel. “There are to be no outbursts of any kind during this session!” he shouted. “Marshals will remove those who disrupt these proceedings!”
The Democrats on the committee slumped in their chairs. They would pay Rhoades back for breaking ranks with a thousand slights, snubs, and public shunning. But that was all in the future. For now Rhoades had resurrected Diaz’s nomination from certain defeat, giving him a tie vote in the committee, and he was on his way to the Senate floor. The White House would live to fight another day.
SATCHA SANCHEZ BREEZED INTO the lobby of the Four Seasons in Georgetown like she owned the place. She looked smaller than she did on television, weighing 110 pounds soaking wet. Her form-fitting red dress—subtlety was not her style—with mid-thigh hemline, plunging neckline, matching lipstick and rouge, and a peek of black La Perla drew gazes. Jay Noble waited at a back table. When she reached him, they embraced. Her personal assistant gravitated to the bar.
“Hello, darling,” said Jay.
“Hey, baby,” she replied, planting fire-engine red lips on his cheek, then wiping the lipstick off his cheek with her hand. A male waiter appeared. “Do you have a mango martini per chance?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, we don’t.”
She frowned theatrically. “Mmmmm . . . bring me a dry chardonnay, honey,” she said. “Very dry.” As the waiter left, she turned to Jay, crossing her deep brown legs to reveal red six-inch Ferragamos. “Congratulations on Diaz. That was a close one.”
“Thanks,” said Jay with a slight smile. “R-squared sure made it interesting. It was a near-death experience, but we got the tie in committee, and now we move to the full Senate, which is better terrain for us.”
“How about Penneymounter blowing up in a sex scandal? There goes his presidential campaign!”
“Unbelievable.”
“Any truth to the Democrats mounting a filibuster?”
“We can’t rule that out,” said Jay. “It’s dicey . . . the moderate Democrats tell our guys they won’t go along. But Stanley and Penneymounter will fight until the last dog dies. They view stopping Diaz nomination as our Waterloo.”
“They’re right, you know.”
“We know.” Jay took a sip from his vodka on the rocks as the waiter brought Satcha’s wine. “So what brings you to town? I know it’s not me.”
“Actually, it is you,” Satcha said with a low, feminine purr. Jay’s ears perked up. “I want to interview Diaz.” She batted her eyes. “I need your help.”
“Boy,” said Jay, leaning back on the couch, his body language projecting his wariness. “That’s tough,” he replied. “We’re running out of time. The Senate is scheduled to begin debate on the nomination in two days.”
Satcha leaned forward, lowering her voice to a seductive whisper. “Jay, think about what we can do together,” she said. “The second Latino nominee to the U.S. Supreme Court in a prime-time, exclusive interview on the number one Hispanic television network in the world.” She paused. “I’ll be tough but fair. I’ll give Diaz a chance to speak directly to the American people. The ratings will be off the charts, and Diaz’s support among Hispanics will go even higher!” She tapped Jay on his knee. He felt a tingle run up his leg. “What’s wrong with that picture?”
Jay looked at her in wonderment. “You never quit, do you?”
“No. Come on, Jay, this is the ‘get’ of the century. So . . . are you game?”
“I’m game,” replied Jay. “I think Diaz is, too. The president gets it. My problem is Phil and the lawyers.”
“Is the problem Phil or Lisa?”
Jay winced. His on-again-off-again pseudo-romance with Lisa was a sore subject. “Both. Phil thinks it might turn undecided senators against us if we try to go over their heads. Lisa thinks we should leave it to surrogates. She’s concerned about putting Diaz in the crosshairs.”
“Lisa hates me. It’s personal. I’m the star she wants to be.” She shrugged her shoulders and took another sip of chardonnay. “It is what it is. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on getting me the interview.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of Lisa. If I have to roll her, I’ll roll her.”
“I don’t doubt your abilities,” replied Satcha. She leaned forward again, her knee brushing against Jay’s beneath the table. He felt a surge of sexual tension run through his body. “Jay, Diaz needs this interview. Look, I don’t pull punches for anyone. But I will be fair. I don’t cut people off, and I don’t interrupt. I let them talk. It’s not about me.” She smiled wickedly. “Which is how I get it to be about me, if you know what I mean.”
“It doesn’t hurt that you’ve got a great set of legs.”
Satcha raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Why do you think I don’t have a coffee table on the set?” Jay laughed. “Speaking of great legs, are you over the Italian hottie?”
“I think so. I had fun with Gabriella. She’s quite the accomplished businesswoman and very sharp. But when the president called, well, I couldn’t turn him down.” It was Jay’s way of highlighting his symbiotic relationship with Long. “It’s hard to maintain a relationship when you’re six thousand miles apart. It’s just not practical, you know?”
“Any regrets about coming back?”
“No. I walked away from a lot of money. But I’m serving a guy I really believe in. We’re doing important things, historic things. I know it sounds corny, but I get excited every day when I go to work.”
“I can relate,” said Satcha. She looked down at her glass; it was empty. She glanced at her watch. Jay noticed it was a diamond-studded Cartier, almost identical to the one he bought Gabriella in Paris. Did all the divas shop at the same stores? “Have you had dinner?”
“No,” replied Jay.
“Well then let me take you to dinner. I want a big fat steak to celebrate my getting the interview with Diaz.”
“Whoa—hold on. That’s not a done deal. I only said I would try.”
“Quit trying to lower expectations, honey,” said Satcha. She reached across the table and playfully patted his cheek. “The word try is not in your vocabulary. You’re Jay Noble.”
Jay laughed. The waiter brought the bill. He reached for it, but Satcha would have none of it. “Let Univision pay for this,” she insisted. “I pitched you.” She signed the bill hurriedly and grabbed her purse. “Come on. I’ve got a car and driver out front.”
“Why don’t you ride with me?” Jay replied. “I’ve got a White House car out front.”
“Well, look at you, big shot!”
Jay just smiled.
FORTY-TWO
The weekly Senate Democratic caucus luncheon was usually a sedate affair, but this day was different. Tension among senators thickened as the oversized personalities crammed into an oak-paneled room in the Russell Office Building, bruised egos and frayed nerves on display. Penneymounter, the wounded lion, sat at a rear table licking his wounds, shaking hands with well wishers. The senators made small talk over salmon and rice served on U.S. Senate bone china. Sal Stanley tapped a water glass with the edge of his knife, calling the meeting to order.
“May I have your attention, please? The first order of business is the Diaz nomination,” he said. “Two senators have asked to say a few words. First, our new chairman of the Judiciary Committee, Chuck Hurley.”
Hurley rose to polite applause. “As all of you know, the Diaz nomination was reported out of committee yesterday with a 10 to 10 tie that was, with a si
ngle exception, a party line vote.” He allowed a pregnant pause as icy stares settled on Rebecca Rhoades. “I don’t expect the vote on this nomination in the full Senate to be any different. Long is playing to the religious right, the NRA, and the U.S. Chamber. It’s a polarizing nomination.”
“You think?” joked Stanley. Nervous laughter rumbled across the tables.
“Leo has a better feel for the vote count than me”—he pointed to Majority Whip Leo Wells—“but as of yesterday we counted forty-two votes in the caucus against the nomination, one in favor, and nine undecided or unannounced. This is going to be a close vote. By mutual agreement with the Republican leadership, we have set aside thirty hours for debate. I think that is more than enough time before we vote.”
“There’s a time agreement? Since when?” asked Wells pointedly. Stanley stared down at his plate. He had excluded Wells from the discussions. “I’m sure not on board with that. I think more than a few of us are not.” His eyes scanned the room, looking for allies.
“That’s right,” said Dan Ratliff, who was circulating a letter vowing to filibuster Diaz’s nomination. “A time agreement is unilateral disarmament. I’ve got thirty-six signatures on my dear colleague. That’s only five short of forty-one. And all that was done, by the way, without the help of leadership.” Knowing guffaws rose over the clatter of the cutlery on plates.
Ratliff had challenged Stanley, who never shrunk from a fight. “Dan, you’d have far fewer signatures had leadership opposed you,” he said, his gaze steady. “I gave you every opportunity to circulate it; you’re still not at forty-one signatures, and the debate on Diaz begins tomorrow.” Stanley turned his scowl from Ratliff and faced his colleagues, his posture informal, relaxed. “I’ve never tried to dictate to the caucus, and I certainly won’t start now. But a filibuster of a Supreme Court nominee has never occurred in the history of the Senate. I’m no Don Quixote. Unless we have forty-one solid votes, we’re tilting at windmills.”
Stanley’s message was clear: put up or shut up. Wells, cheeks flushing, rose to his feet. “I have not signed Dan’s letter yet because we agreed this should not look orchestrated by leadership. But we must stop Diaz. If he gets on the Court, he’ll reverse a century of progress for women and minorities.” He pulled out a pen. “Hand me the letter.” Ratliff complied and Wells signed it with dramatic flourish.
“That’s thirty-seven signatures,” exclaimed Ratliff. “Four more and the Diaz nomination is dead.” He turned to Stanley. “Sal, if you’ll sign, it’s thirty-eight.”
Stanley’s face went slack. “I don’t think either I or Chuck should sign it . . . at least not yet. But if you get to forty, I’ll be number forty-one.”
Hurley jumped to his feet. “If you get to thirty-nine, I’ll be number forty.”
The room broke into applause. Wells sat in his seat doing a slow burn, realizing that Stanley had outmaneuvered him. By purchasing the last ticket on the filibuster train, a meaningless gesture, Sal protected his left flank. Everyone wondered: could Ratliff and the diehards get two more signatures in the next twenty-four hours?
AT 9:00 P.M. THAT evening fifteen million people tuned in to watch Satcha Sanchez’s interview with Marco Diaz, making it the highest rated program in the history of Univision and the largest audience in history for a cable news program not airing during a national convention. Fox and CNN went ballistic when they learned the White House granted the only preconfirmation interview with Diaz to Sanchez. Murmurs about Jay’s romantic ties to Sanchez and professional jealousy drove the conversation that she would go easy on the nominee.
Diaz appeared on the screen looking slightly awkward, red tie slightly askew, eyes darting, his fingers fidgeting. Satcha sat opposite him wearing a tight, grey pinstripe, pencil-thin skirt above the knee with matching jacket. Her Latina sexuality smoldered just beneath the surface like the leather bustier beneath her jacket.
“Judge Diaz, thank you for joining us. You want to sit on the Supreme Court of the United States. It is a lifetime appointment. In order to give the American people some insight into your own judicial views, which Supreme Court Justice—and you can pick either a current or former justice—do you most admire?”
“Well, first of all, I will be my own person,” replied Diaz, fouling off the pitch. “But in terms of who I most admire, I would say Louis Brandeis for his sense of justice, Anton Scalia for his intellectual courage, and John Roberts for his collegiality.”
“Brandeis was a leading liberal, Scalia a vocal conservative,” said Satcha. “Some might conclude that choosing such diametrically opposed role models is incoherent. And you would say . . . what?” She cocked her head as if to say, I’ve got your number.
“Both possessed first-rate minds and brought passion to the bench,” said Diaz. “That’s what I so admire about them. Equally important—and it is why I mentioned Roberts—is the ability to build consensus. The Supreme Court works best when it achieves common ground. I’ve done that everywhere I have served, and I will do so if confirmed as associate justice.”
Satcha crinkled her nose, telegraphing she wanted more direct answers. “Let’s turn to the issue of abortion. There is a restrictive abortion law in South Dakota pending before the Supreme Court. In your opinion, when does life begin?”
“I appreciate why you ask the question and why so many people are interested in that topic. It’s a deeply emotional issue involving one’s personal values. But as a judge my personal views are irrelevant. My job is to apply the laws passed by Congress or another legislative body in light of prior court rulings.” He gestured with his hands, growing more confident as he spoke. “Roe v. Wade has been the law of the land for almost a half century. Its core findings have been upheld in twenty-two separate Supreme Court decisions.”
It was a well rehearsed and flawlessly delivered nonanswer. Satcha hunched her shoulders and narrowed her eyes. “I think what people want to know are your values. I’m not asking about your judicial philosophy. I’m asking when you believe life begins.”
“I don’t think my views or those of any judge in an area so deeply informed by one’s moral beliefs are terribly instructive,” said Diaz, not budging. “Nor are they dispositive. The same is true of other issues with a moral dimension, such as the death penalty. I have known judges who were personally pro-choice who upheld pro-life laws and judges who were personally pro-life who upheld pro-choice laws. The issue is not what I believe; it is what the law states as informed by the Constitution.”
“In Roe the Court ruled that a woman had a fundamental constitutional right to privacy that included the ability to end a pregnancy,” said Satcha. “If I hear you correctly, you are saying you take no issue with that ruling.” She batted her eyes as if to say, Gotcha!
“That’s a clever way of asking the same question, and my answer is the same. My general inclination as a judge is to seek predictability and stability in the law such that individuals can order their lives according to legal precedents.”
“And as you testified before the Senate Judiciary Committee, that includes Roe.”
“I wouldn’t particularize it to a single case,” said Diaz, his confidence growing with each question. “But as I noted in my testimony, Roe has been upheld for decades by multiple courts and dozens of decisions.”
“I LOVE IT! PRO-CHOICE judges often uphold pro-life laws, and pro-life judges uphold pro-choice laws,” exclaimed Jay. In his office on the second floor of the West Wing, he and other aides were glued to the television. Lisa chewed on the nubs of her fingernails. Jay swayed back and forth in his chair, occasionally swigging from a bottle of water. Taylor Sullivan stood in the corner, beefy arms crossed over his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, rocking on his heels. For the White House, Diaz’s interview was the field goal at the buzzer. If it went well, they felt good about their chances in the Senate. If it went poorly, they were finished.
“He’s doing well,” said Lisa. “She tried to pin him down, and he didn’t tak
e the bait. If he can handle abortion, he can handle anything.”
Jay nodded. “He keeps going back to his testimony. That’s the key. We need to play this like it’s C-SPAN. Keep the temperature l-o-o-o-w.”
“No one’s paying attention to what he says,” said Sullivan with a smirk. “They’re too busy looking at Satcha’s polished legs.”
Lisa rolled her eyes. “That would be you and Jay. The women are listening to what he says.”
AS THE INTERVIEW PROCEEDED into the second half hour, Sanchez ratcheted up the pressure. She knew the audience wanted fireworks, not Court TV.
“Judge Diaz, there has been a great deal of controversy about your Wildfire stock holdings and whether it influenced your ruling in the company’s favor,” Satcha said, setting up an uppercut. “Can you now acknowledge it was a conflict of interest?”
“No. A blind trust is exactly what it says: blind. I had no involvement in the investments made by the trustees. They made highly diversified—”
“But you were regularly informed of the Wildfire stock purchases, Judge.”
“I received notices as required by law. I deliberately tossed them in the garbage. I didn’t want to know where my retirement fund or 401K was invested.”
“But if you were notified, the trust was not really blind, was it?”
“It was blind in that I had no involvement in the investment decisions and could not effectuate them either way—either a buy or a sell order. Had I instructed the trustees to buy or sell a particular stock, it would have violated the terms of the trust. I never did so.”
“Some have asked that you recuse yourself from the Wildfire antitrust case,” said Satcha. “You have so far refused. Why?”