by Ralph Reed
“You said it, brother. Six million dollars worth of television and grass roots. It was well worth it. We now have a conservative majority on the Supreme Court. It’s going to make a difference across the board: life, marriage, tort reform, religious liberty, you name it.”
Ross hung up, feeling a greater sense of satisfaction in his work than he had in years. The truth? Sometimes he wondered if he wasn’t wasting his life away beating his brains out with a right-wing group while others made the big bucks or had more power. But not today—he and Andy were in the catbird seat. Still a thought nagged him. Had he compromised his beliefs by taking Fox’s money? He thought not: if it was the devil’s money, at least it went to support a good cause.
Then a thought hit him. He clicked the Web browser on his BlackBerry, pulling up a stock-tracking Web site and typed in the stock symbol for Wildfire. When it came up on the screen, his eyes widened. Wildfire’s stock had already jumped 18 percent. Apparently the Street didn’t think Diaz would sit out the antitrust case either.
TWO THOUSAND PEOPLE GATHERED on the South Lawn waiting for Long and the newest member of the U.S. Supreme Court. The chief justice had already sworn in Diaz in a private ceremony in the Oval Office the morning after the Senate confirmed him by a 51 to 50 vote, with Vice President Whitehead breaking the tie. The White House released a photograph of the chief swearing in Diaz, but Jay was insistent they stage a public investiture ceremony for supporters.
In the Oval, Long, Marco and Frida Diaz, the chief justice, and the Diaz children gathered for photos. Long playfully scratched the tops of the heads of the two Diaz boys as the official photographer clicked away. He gave them a tour of his desk, showing them how to crawl through the trapdoor in its front, to Frida’s chagrin.
Jay and Phil Battaglia hung back, admiring the scene. Long was a natural in such settings. He wasn’t just posing for the cameras; he really liked people.
The door opened and Claire walked in, looking effervescent in a peach-colored Dior dress with matching heels, her hair and makeup exquisitely (and one guessed professionally) done, peach lip gloss gleaming on her mouth, complementing her fair complexion. Her strawberry blonde hair, high cheekbones, and blue eyes gave her a striking, if aging, beauty.
“Claire!” exclaimed Long. “So glad you could join us.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s just teasing me for being late . . . again,” she said. She turned to Marco and Frida and walked across the room, giving them both hugs. “Congratulations to both of you, and thank you for your willingness to serve. We’re so proud of you.”
“It is really we who should be thanking you,” said Frida.
“Are you sure about that?” asked Long, chuckling.
“Now that it’s over, yes,” said Diaz.
“Had we known,” said Frida with a bob of her head, “we would have said no.”
“That’s why we like to keep potential nominees in the dark,” joked Long.
“We’re glad you said yes,” said Claire, placing a hand on Frida’s shoulder. “Marco is going to do a terrific job. I hope you know how many people were praying for you.” Her eyes grew warm with emotion. “I prayed for you two every single day. Millions of others did, too.”
“We felt it,” said Marco. Frida nodded, speechless, her eyes watery.
The door to the colonnade opened. “Time to go, Mr. President,” said an aide.
Long opened his arms like a proud father and guided Marco and Frida out the door, their boys trailing like ducks waddling behind their mother. Claire and the chief justice fell in behind while Jay and Phil exited out a side door, not wanting to be within camera range of Diaz and Long when they reached the stage.
FOR DIAZ’S PUBLIC INVESTITURE, the White House staged a victory jig, inviting a euphoric crowd for what turned into a raucous celebration. It was homecoming for the vast right-wing conspiracy. Roman Catholic bishops, evangelical pastors, televangelists, conservative Hollywood types, Federalist Society lawyers, business lobbyists, and CEOs (Stephen Fox was conspicuous in his absence) shook hands, hugged and kissed, joked easily, signed autographs, and posed for photos. For them it was a dream a long time coming. For the press corps roasting on a riser, it was a freak show, the Tea Party crowd meets Barnum and Bailey.
“Ladies and gentlemen, the president of the United States and the First Lady, accompanied by the chief justice of the Supreme Court of the United States, Justice Marco Diaz and Mrs. Diaz,” intoned an announcer. People scrambled to their chairs. Applause greeted Long and Diaz as they bounded onto the stage to the opening notes of “Hail to the Chief.”
Long went directly to the podium as Diaz stood to his right, staring down at a piece of masking tape on the stage with his name on it. A roar went up from the crowd. Diaz’s eyes glistened. Frida beamed.
Long hung back, letting the crowd revel in the moment. Their cheers were a lusty rebuke of Sal Stanley, Joe Penneymounter, Christy Love, and that perennial conservative bogeyman, the mainstream media. Andy Stanton sat on the front row with Tom Reynolds and Ross Lombardy on either side. In the calculus of Washington, Andy was the man of the hour. Hated and vilified by many, adored by millions, he was the Rorschach test of American politics: some saw a snake-oil salesman while others saw a modern-day prophet. For Andy’s part, he did not care what others thought of him.
The president leaned into the microphone as people took their seats. “We already did this in private, but we wanted to make sure it took,” he joked. (Loud laughter.) Long spoke extemporaneously, ignoring the prepared remarks on the podium.
“I really don’t have much to add beyond what I have said many times before about this fine man. Judge”—he spun in Diaz’s direction—“forgive me—Justice Marco Diaz . . .” The crowd applauded. Long cocked his head. “I kind of like the sound of that—Justice Diaz.” More laughter mixed with applause. “Marco Diaz is going to make an outstanding addition to the Supreme Court. He demonstrated throughout his confirmation process what those of us who know him well already knew: this is a man of rare character, intellect, integrity, and honor.” Long pointed at Marco. “We had a spirited debate. It was tough at times. But today we are all Americans. Wherever we might have been before, Marco Diaz is now justice for all of the American people, and we wish him God speed.” He bobbed his head in the direction of Diaz. “Now the chief justice will administer the oath to Justice Diaz for his formal investiture.”
The chief justice stood to the left of the podium while Diaz stood to the right, raising his right hand and placing his left hand on a Bible held by Frida, who stood between them.
“Please repeat after me,” began the chief justice. “I, Marco Diaz, do solemnly swear that I will administer justice without respect to persons, do equal right to the poor and the rich.”
Diaz repeated the line.
“And that I will faithfully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties incumbent upon me as associate justice of the Supreme Court under the Constitution and laws of the United States.”
Diaz repeated the line, then added, “so help me God.”
“Congratulations,” said the chief justice, shaking his hand.
Marco approached the podium tentatively, his face reflecting the exhausted joy of a marathon runner crossing the finish line. The crowd roared, cheering and clapping for a full minute, shaking off Diaz’s attempts to quiet them. Finally they fell silent.
“On behalf of Frida and our family, let me say thank you, thank you, thank you,” Diaz began effusively, his voice a little hot. “My journey to this place began in a dusty little town in my father’s native Mexico. He was a simple man who worked as a janitor when I was a boy. My dad taught me the value of hard work, honesty, family, and being true to myself. I would not be standing here today without all he and my mother invested in me.” (Applause.)
“I want to thank the nuns at St. Christopher’s in Dallas who believed in me when no one else did. They taught me that character is doing the right thing, even when no on
e is looking.” Long allowed himself a slight smile as Diaz spoke. “Special thanks to Phil Battaglia here at the White House and Art Morris at the Justice Department, two of the finest public servants in government.” (Applause.) “And finally, to my wife Frida—my best friend, the mother of my children, my wife who stood by me through thick and thin. Thank you, honey.”
As Diaz turned to acknowledge Frida, the entire crowd stood to its feet in a thunderous ovation. It was an emotional moment. Frida stood motionless, tears welling in her eyes. Long walked over and put his arm around her. She buried her head in his shoulder and began to weep. News photographers scrambled to the stage, many of them going down on one knee, to capture the scene. Someone handed Frida a tissue. She wiped her eyes and waved to the crowd.
“Thank you,” said Diaz, wrapping up. “Thank you all.”
The ceremony finished, the crowd rushed the stage. They extended hands to shake Marco’s hand or offer him a program to sign, shouting his name.
“Marco! Marco! We love you!” they shouted.
Long grabbed Claire by the hand and exited the stage from the rear; he wanted Marco to enjoy his day in the sun.
Andy Stanton stood to the side of the stage, shaking hands, embracing friends, and posing for photos when he heard a voice through the noise.
“Andy!”
Andy turned to see Diaz. Marco leapt from the stage and came over to Andy, wrapping him in a bear hug. They both dripped sweat. Andy felt the heat from Diaz’s body, the sweat on their necks and faces mixing as they embraced. They seemed oblivious to the flurry of photos snapped by news photographers as they captured the moment.
“I wanted to catch you before you left and thank you for all you did,” said Marco. “You were amazing. I was honored to have you in my corner, friend.”
Andy beamed. “It was my pleasure, Marco. You’re my hero.”
“No, no,” Marco protested. “Not me—you’re my hero. You never gave up . . . ever. And I felt the prayers. No matter what happened, I was sustained by prayer.”
“You’re here because of the power of prayer,” said Andy excitedly. “I believe that.”
Diaz patted him on the back. “Stay in touch,” he said. “I’ve got a great office at the Supreme Court building, and the door is always open. Come and see me.”
“I will,” Andy promised.
They broke from their clutch. Andy ambled back toward the White House, Ross at his side.
“What a great guy!” exclaimed Ross, still pumped.
“He’s the real deal. That’s why they wanted to stop him,” said Andy. “They came close, but thank goodness they didn’t. Every now and again the good guys win.”
JAY RETURNED TO HIS office with a spring in his step. True, the IRS and Israeli election flaps trailed him, and Senate Democrats threatened to issue subpoenas and drag him before investigatory committees. Yet Jay somehow felt invincible. They won the Diaz battle, and, after a bumpy start, Long was in the zone. The mojo from the campaign was back.
He called his staff into his office, firing orders, ribbing people good-naturedly, running through the checklist of tasks. For Jay, it was compulsive and everyone knew it. He was mentally moving on to the next battle: the looming off-year elections, when he and Long hoped to gain control of the U.S. Senate and end Sal Stanley’s political career forever.
Phil Battaglia appeared at the door, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Counselor!” Jay boomed.
“You got a minute?” asked Phil.
“For you, consigliere, of course,” said Jay. He shooed the staff out of his office, the meeting now over.
Phil closed the door and pulled up a chair. “It was rough sledding out there, amigo. This wouldn’t have happened without you,” said Jay. “The president agrees.”
“We blew a few tires, but I guess the third time’s the charm, eh?” joked Battaglia, the satisfied smile on his face refusing to melt away.
“At least we didn’t have to go to round four,” said Jay, rolling his eyes. “Man, it got dicey there for a while.”
Battaglia crossed his legs in a thoughtful repose. He pulled a manila envelope out of his legal pad cover and slid it across the desk at Jay. “Check this out.”
Jay opened it and scanned the photocopied sheets of paper, flipping slowly through them. They looked like medical records. “What’s this?” he asked, his brow furrowed.
“Maria Solis’ patient records from the Yale student health clinic,” answered Battaglia. “Look at the second page . . . about halfway down.”
Jay looked intently. His eyes came to a notation: “D and C. No complications, no signs of hemorrhaging.” His eyes grew wide. “Holy smoke,” he whispered. “So Maria had an abortion after all?”
“It sure looks like it. Either that or she miscarried. My guess would be she aborted the fetus.”
“How come it never came out?” asked Jay.
Battaglia shrugged his shoulders. “The doctor who performed the procedure died in a freak automobile accident ten years ago. The only evidence is this notation. Believe it or not, the Judiciary Committee never asked Yale University for her medical records,” he said. “DOJ had them.” He shook his head. “All they had to do was ask, but they were so preoccupied with getting Maria ready to testify they forgot.” He shrugged his shoulders. “When she died, that was the end of that.”
Jay had a shocked expression on his face. “I guess we dodged a bullet.” He put the manila envelope down. “What do we do with these now?”
“Nothing,” answered Battaglia. “It’s over.”
“It doesn’t prove anything either way, does it?” asked Jay. “We don’t know for certain if it was a miscarriage or an abortion, and there’s no way to prove Marco was the father.”
“Maria called Marco the night before she was supposed to testify. She told him he was the father, she had an abortion, and she couldn’t bring herself to tell him at the time,” said Battaglia. “Was she telling the truth? Who knows?”
Jay handed the papers back. Battaglia slipped them back into the manila envelope and got up to leave. He put his hand on the door knob and opened the door. Standing in the threshold, he turned back. “This doesn’t leave this room,” he said.
“My lips are sealed.”
“I can’t believe with hundreds of reporters, lawyers, special interest groups, and sleaze merchants crawling all over Diaz, this never came out.” Phil pointed the manila envelope skyward, his eyes glancing up. “Someone wanted him on the Supreme Court.” He walked out, leaving Jay alone in his thoughts.
Jay turned and gazed out his window overlooking the South Lawn. The tranquility of manicured grass, sun-dappled gardens, freshly cut hedges, and blooming flowers contrasted with the carnage of the confirmation. Two people were dead—three if one counted Solis’s (and Marco’s?) unborn child. Penneymounter’s presidential ambitions were torched in a bonfire of scandal, Natalie Taylor was being offered millions to pose for Playboy, and Sal Stanley’s hopes for another presidential bid hung by a thread. Yolanda Majette’s reputation was destroyed, the California Assembly was investigating her husband’s law and lobby practice, and she would likely be forced to resign from the California Supreme Court. Long, who rode into Washington as a uniter pledging to heal the political breach, was now more polarizing than any president since Richard Nixon.
Jay shuddered. Diaz’s confirmation was the culmination of a series of unthinkable, apparently random events. If Yolanda Majette’s husband had not been so sloppy, Diaz never would have been nominated. If Mike Birch had said yes, Diaz would have languished on the appellate court for another decade or longer. If Maria Solis had lived, his nomination would not have been voted out of the Judiciary Committee. If Stanley had not played hardball and threatened Doerflinger, Diaz would have lost by a single vote. It was all in the bounce of the ball. Diaz’s fate, like Long’s before him in the campaign, was out of Jay’s hands. As he gazed out at the flowers and the happy crowd filing from the South Lawn,
Jay thought perhaps there was an angel in the whirlwind after all.
But there was no time to celebrate. He had to get ready for the off-year elections. That meant spreading the field on Stanley by recruiting a strong contingent of Senate candidates, raising a ton of money, and pulling up Long’s job approval number, and fast.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book began in 1991 when I was the executive director of the Christian Coalition and we mobilized support for Clarence Thomas’s nomination to the U.S. Supreme Court. In many ways that episode changed my view of politics. Many scenes in The Confirmation have their roots in the struggle where I was privileged to have a front row seat to history.
I also drew from the experience of watching the filibuster in the U.S. Senate of Miguel Estrada and other appellate court nominees of President George W. Bush. In that sense, the inspiring as well as the haunting details of this story have antecedents in real life.
Resurrection, former U.S. Senator John Danforth’s moving account of the Thomas nomination, showed the human toll of confirmations. I also am indebted to Stephen L. Carter, whose book The Confirmation Mess argued that the judicial confirmation process had become brutal, dehumanizing, and dysfunctional.
Rick Christian, my literary agent, convinced me to stick with fiction, for which I am grateful. I also want to thank Oliver North, Gary Terashita and the rest of the team at Fidelis/B&H. Gary did a terrific job editing the manuscript and helping me correct my many errors.
Jo Anne and our four children continue to allow the interference of my books in our lives. Jo Anne is the best sounding board any author could hope to have. She read and critiqued every chapter, and the final product is much improved as a result.
I owe a special debt of gratitude to my colleagues at Century Strategies and the Faith & Freedom Coalition. Having worked as outside consultants on the last four Supreme Court confirmations, my colleague Gary Marx and the rest of our team have seen firsthand how the process has changed from an inside to an outside battle.