The Confirmation

by Ralph Reed

  “I have not said I would not recuse myself. But I declined to commit to recusal as a condition of confirmation. To do so would set a dangerous precedent for future nominees, endangering judicial independence and violating the separation of powers. Under that scenario any senator could withhold their vote for confirmation until a nominee agreed to rule a particular way or not rule at all on a specific case. That’s wrong.”

  “So you’re still open to recusal in the Wildfire case?”

  “I will seriously weigh that issue if confirmed. I will consult with the chief justice and ethics experts whose judgment I respect. I will do the right thing if confirmed, and those who have raised the issue will be satisfied with the outcome.” He allowed himself a smile.

  G. G. HOTERMAN SAT in his office spooning Chinese takeout, the empty containers and beer cans littering the coffee table, his lobbying team gathered around him. Beer, soda, and a bucket of ice filled the table, but G. G. drank Chivas on the rocks. The phone on his credenza rang.

  “Did you hear what he just said!?” thundered Stephen Fox.

  “I sure did,” replied G. G., his voice steady, always unflappable.

  “I can’t believe I’ve spent millions of dollars getting this guy confirmed, and he throws us under the bus at the eleventh hour!”

  “Welcome to DC,” deadpanned G. G. “If you want a friend in this town, buy a dog.”

  “At least in my world, when someone gets bought, they stay bought.”

  “I’m not convinced he means it. Remember Noble’s in charge. He’s running this like a campaign, so Diaz is going to say whatever he has to in order to be confirmed. Once he’s on the court and he doesn’t recuse himself, what can they do . . . impeach him?”

  “You’re more cynical then me, G. G. I think he means it. But even if he doesn’t, will floating the trial balloon work?”

  “I dunno. The real question isn’t whether the White House has fifty-one votes. The only question is: are there forty-one Democrats who will vote against cloture? Because if the answer to that is yes, then it doesn’t matter how many votes Diaz has. He’s dead already.”

  “What’s your best guess? Can the Democrats muster forty-one votes against cloture?”

  “I think it’s right on the bubble. They’ve got thirty-eight hard votes but they’re stuck. Stanley committed in front of the entire caucus at their weekly lunch that if they got to forty, he would be the forty-first vote. Hurley committed to being the fortieth vote. That still leaves them one vote short.”

  “I don’t know what’s worse,” sighed Fox. “A filibuster that takes Diaz down, or Diaz getting confirmed and then recusing himself from our case.”

  “The latter. If he’s rejected by the Senate, at least we get another crack.”

  “I agree. Keep me posted.”

  G. G. hung up the phone.

  “Who was that?” asked one of G. G.’s line lobbyists.

  “Stephen Fox. I had to talk him down off the ledge after Diaz all but promised to hit the eject button on the Wildfire case.”

  “He’s probably shorting his own stock as we speak,” joked the lobbyist.

  G. G.’s assistant appeared at the door. “G. G., it’s Christy Love to see you.”

  “What? On the phone?”

  “No, she’s in the conference room. I told her you were busy. She said she’d wait.”

  G. G. arched his eyebrows, surprised by Christy’s impromptu visit. He kept the Wildfire lobbyists in the dark about the money he was raising for Pro-Choice PAC. He walked down the hall to find Christy in the conference room watching the Diaz interview on a flat-screen TV.

  As usual, she looked striking, her blonde hair brushed back to reveal three-carat diamond earrings, a snug knit top flattering her figure, billowing white pants, and Christian Laboutin heels. She was a bundle of nervous energy.

  “Christy!” exclaimed G. G. “How goes it?”

  “Still fighting the wars.”

  “Are we winning?”

  “I think so. I totally disagree with the CW on the Satcha Sanchez interview. I think it’s going to backfire. The guy is overcoached, he’s delivering talking points like an automaton, and the senators are not going to buy it.”

  “I sure hope you’re right. What can I do you for?” asked G. G.

  “What do I always need, G. G.? Faith and Family’s up with a thousand gross rating points. We’re at eight hundred. I have to match them. And I need more radio. Limbaugh and Hannity are killing us.”

  “How much do you need?”

  “Two million. About 1.5 million for TV, half a million for radio.”

  “Wow,” said G. G. slowly, wheels turning. “That’s a lot.”

  “It’s crunch time, boyfriend. I talked to Hurley. He says we’re one vote away from being able to defeat cloture.”

  “So I heard. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Thanks, G. G. You’re the best.” Christy picked up her purse, giving him an affectionate hug and a peck on his cheek, then walked through the lobby to the front door.

  “Hey!” shouted G. G. from behind her. Christy turned around to face him.

  “I’m the money king, you hear me?” G. G. exclaimed, pointing at her with his index finger. “Other people talk big. I deliver! I’ve raised forty million bucks for this party in the past two years! I’m the second coming, for crying out loud!”

  Christy looked at G. G. with disbelief and then walked out the door.

  IN THE BOOK-LINED, OAK-PANELED den of Andy Stanton’s well-appointed McMansion in a gated community in Alpharetta, Georgia, Andy and Ross Lombardy watched Diaz’s interview with Satcha Sanchez like rabid fans watching a college football game. Andy sat on the edge of a large, leather upholstered chair, peppering the television with unsolicited commentary.

  “Why doesn’t he just tell the truth: Roe v. Wade was wrongly decided?” asked Andy in frustration. “Even Ruth Bader Ginsburg said that. She put it in writing!”

  “It’s mind-boggling,” sighed Ross, sprawling his legs across an ottoman. “It’s become mandatory for conservative nominees to deny the obvious.”

  “The Bible says if the bugle gives an indistinct sound, no one will rally for battle. You better tell our friend Jay that Diaz needs to quit playing around.”

  “I’m afraid it’s a little late. The hearings are over. This is Diaz’s only scheduled interview. The Senate begins debate tomorrow.” Ross knew what Andy was really upset about—the White House gave the interview to Univision and not the God Channel. To Andy, it was the latest example of being taken for granted after putting Long in the Oval Office.

  “What’s the vote look like?” asked Andy.

  “We’re sitting at forty-eight. We need two more Democrats to come over. Whitehead will break a tie.”

  “What about cloture?”

  Ross shrugged. “They’re still one vote short. It’s the nuclear option, and Stanley doesn’t want to pull the trigger, but he’s getting major pressure from the left.”

  “Keep after the centrist, red-state Democrats—the Rebecca Rhoades types. We’ll either get their votes, or we’ll defeat them in the next election.”

  Ross thought Diaz did well in the interview. He didn’t care if Diaz took a powder on abortion and marriage, as long as he voted right once he was on the Court. Was it enough? He didn’t know. But Ross knew how to count votes. And one thing was certain: win or lose, they were headed for the closest confirmation vote for a Supreme Court nominee in U.S. history.

  FORTY-THREE

  Charlie Hector hung up the phone and immediately dialed Jay’s extension. “Jay, come down to my office when you get a chance.”

  Jay appeared at the doorway minutes later. Hector motioned for him to close the door.

  “I just got off the phone with Doerflinger,” said Hector, referring to Senator Richard Doerflinger of New Mexico, one of the final undecided Democrats. “He’s willing to vote for Diaz.” He paused. “He wants a few things in exchange.”

  �
��Like what?”

  “More money for Los Alamos. No surprise there. He wants an F-22 fighter jet wing relocated to Holloman Air Force Base.” He glanced down at his notes. “That’s a new one on me. I’ve got to look into it.” He twisted his face into a scowl. “He also wants the president to do a fund-raiser.”

  Jay pursed his lips, thinking. “Los Alamos is a no brainer. The F-22 wing is a Pentagon call, but it’s theoretically doable. The fund-raiser is a nonstarter.”

  “I need to run this by the president. We’re running out of time and undecided senators. As much as I hate to say it, I think we need to cut a deal with Doerflinger.”

  Jay nodded. “There aren’t a lot of good options at this juncture.”

  “Come with me,” said Hector, catapulting out of his chair.

  He opened the door, and they turned to the right, walking down the hall to the Oval Office. Hector looked through the peephole in the door, knocked gently, and opened the door. The president was seated at his desk, talking to Phil Battaglia.

  “It’s the Sanhedrin!” joked Long. “Come on in, guys. Do we have fifty-one votes yet?”

  “Not yet. But we might have found a way to get there, sir,” said Hector. He repeated the substance of his phone conversation with Doerflinger, including the list of demands.

  Long shook his head in disbelief. “It never pays to be a man of principle, does it?” he sighed. “In this town, if you do the right thing, you get nothing. Someone like Doerflinger hangs back in the grass, asks for the moon, and gets it.” He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. “We need his vote. And he knows it.”

  “All true. But we’re negotiating from a position of strength, Mr. President. New Mexico has a huge Hispanic population,” said Jay. “It’s 47 percent of the population, 51 percent of registered voters. There are 624,000 registered voters in the state of Hispanic origin.”

  Long nodded. He never ceased to be amazed by Jay’s recall of political facts.

  “That’s where the Satcha Sanchez interview really helped. It sent Diaz’s numbers with Hispanics to 83 percent fav, 12 percent unfav. So we’ve got Doerflinger by the short hairs. He can’t vote against Diaz without alienating Hispanics, which is death for him.”

  “Jay’s just trying to take credit for the Sanchez interview because it was his idea,” needled Battaglia good-naturedly.

  “I think it’s because he’s got a crush on Satcha,” joked the president. “I notice you didn’t recommend that Diaz sit down with Marvin Myers, did you, Jay?”

  Everyone enjoyed a chuckle at Jay’s expense. Long loved putting Jay in his place, showing him that even if Jay had the brain power, Long was still in charge.

  “It’s all part of my Hispanic outreach strategy for the reelect,” shot back Jay.

  “I can’t imagine giving him more money for Los Alamos would be a problem, do you?” asked Hector as the locker-room mirth drained away.

  “I can’t say I do,” replied Long. “How much is he asking for?”

  “He mentioned $400 million.”

  Long let out a whistle. “He doesn’t sell out cheap, does he?”

  “No. We can submit the budget request,” replied Hector. “But will the authorizing committees and the appropriators go along with that much of an increase?” He shrugged. “I tend to doubt it. Frankly, in the end, it’s a promise we can’t guarantee we can deliver.”

  “My favorite kind,” said Long.

  “Where is the F-22 fighter squadron he wants?” asked Battaglia.

  “It was at Langley in Virginia; now it’s in Nevada,” said Jay.

  Battaglia looked at him as if to ask, how do you know that?

  “Hey, it’s twenty electoral votes, and they’re both battleground states,” said Jay sheepishly by way of explanation. “It’s my job to know these things.”

  “The bigger problem is Holloway Air Force base already has a squadron, so he’s taking from Nevada to beef up his own state’s share of squadrons,” said Hector.

  “We can give him that or some reasonable substitute,” said Long. “Run it by DOD to make sure there’s not some logistical issue I’m missing.”

  “The fund-raiser’s highly problematic,” said Jay.

  “I agree,” said Long. “What if we offer him Johnny W?”

  “He’s not going to want Whitehead,” said Jay. Everyone smiled knowingly.

  “I shouldn’t commit to the fund-raiser in exchange for his vote,” said Long. “But I don’t want to rule it out either.” He narrowed his eyes, thinking. “Charlie, tell Doerflinger we’re worried about getting deluged with other requests. What if he has a fund-raiser at a hotel somewhere and then we bring them over here for a briefing and I drop by and work the room?”

  Hector nodded. “That’s perfect.” He scribbled notes on his legal pad. “He can’t advertise the briefing in any printed invitations. There can’t be a connection between the fund-raiser and an official White House event.”

  “Okay,” said Long. “Reel him in. I’ll call him after you seal the deal.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hector. He headed for the door with Jay in tow.

  “Don’t let him get away,” Long said as Hector grabbed the door knob. “And don’t give away more than we need to.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hector. With that he opened the door and they left.

  As they turned the corner and headed down the hall, Hector and Jay nearly ran into Truman Greenglass, who was studying a piece of paper he was carrying and was not looking where he was going.

  “Are you into your head or something?” joked Hector.

  “No, but I think congratulations are in order for Mr. Noble,” said Greenglass, smiling.

  “How so?” asked Jay.

  “We’ve been looking at the returns from Israel,” said Greenglass, referring to the Israeli election. “All we have so far is Tel Aviv, but it looks like Hannah Shoval got over a third of the vote. She should be able to assemble a government with the help of religious parties and Labor.”

  “That’s great,” said Jay. “The nightly tracking started going our way the last week. The election was about three things: Iran, Iran, and Iran.”

  “I’m on my way to place a congratulatory call from the president,” said Greenglass.”

  “And I bet that’s not all,” said Hector.

  Greenglass just stared back. They all knew Shoval’s election was the predicate to an Israeli military strike on Iran’s nuclear facilities. Jay had begun his career working state legislative races, and now he elected prime ministers for the express purpose of starting a war in the Middle East. He hoped no one ever found out about his involvement.

  ON CAPITOL HILL, TENSION over the Diaz nomination reached a snapping point. Attack ads lobbed by both sides ran in a dozen states, phones in Senate offices jangled off the hook, and cable television was a twenty-four-hour-a-day slugfest. Reynolds’s accusatory speech in the Judiciary Committee had Democrats spitting nails. Meanwhile the liberal attempt to filibuster the Diaz nomination had Republicans threatening retribution, vowing to sink any judge later nominated with input from a Democratic senator. The Senate, which prided itself on its collegiality, threatened to come apart. A bipartisan group of senators appealed to their colleagues to hash things out before debate on Diaz began. They gathered in the old Senate chamber, the first such meeting since a similar gathering during the impeachment trial of Bill Clinton. Everyone agreed that the meeting was off the record—which meant the New York Times and the Washington Post would report the details within the hour.

  Ed Bell, the Republican vice-presidential nominee from the previous campaign and the most influential moderate voice in the GOP, spoke first. “As we walked into this historic chamber, I thought of the giants who came before us,” Bell said in a hushed voice. “Webster, Calhoun, Crittendon—the men who tried in vain to stop the Civil War and narrowly averted the conviction of Andrew Johnson in this very room.” He walked from behind his desk, standing in the aisle, facing the presi
ding officer. “The apostle Paul spoke of being surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses. Well, we are surrounded by the memory of those who rose to the occasion in their own time. Now it’s our turn.” He cast a furtive glance in the direction of Sal Stanley, who sat at a desk in the front row. “Senator Stanley and I were on opposite sides in the last election. Neither one of us got what we wanted.” The senator chuckled at Bell’s use of humor. “Perhaps we lost so we could be in this place at this hour to ensure the Senate lives up to its traditions and our nation is not torn apart by this nomination.”

  Bell sat down to the loud applause. Stanley rose to his feet. He allowed the silence to hang.

  “I believe the Senate’s role of advice and consent is vital to our constitutional system of government,” said Stanley. “It is the hinge point ensuring the proper balance of power between three coequal branches of government.” The Democrats nodded with approval while Republicans listened impassively. “I oppose Marco Diaz’s nomination. I will fight it vigorously on the floor.” He paused, shifting gears. “But I hope all of us, in the zeal of advocating for our own position, do not do permanent damage to the Senate. Something more than a Supreme Court nomination is at stake. More even than Judge Diaz, I believe the Senate is on trial. May we not be found wanting.”

  The room fell deathly silent. Stanley was not known for self-reflection. It was a riveting moment for everyone, a rare instance when Stanley seemed to put his ambition aside. Was he finally recovering from his defeat for the presidency, finding his voice as a lion of the Senate?

  “Unless we change the current trajectory of events, I worry that history will judge us harshly.” He raised his arm, pointing in the direction of Penneymounter. “My friend Joe Penneymounter, one of the finest members of the Senate I have ever had the privilege of knowing, paid a heavy price for his stand on this nomination. One of the witnesses scheduled to appear before the Judiciary Committee has died. The Diazes have lost a child.” He wheeled to face the Republicans, raising his arms. “Who is to blame? I supposed we can each point to the other. But the truth is, we’re all to blame.” His voice trailed off. “I’m prepared to meet the minority halfway. We can filibuster this nomination. Or we can discuss a range of options with the minority. If we can find agreement, I will recommend we proceed to a vote without unnecessary delay.”