The Confirmation (35 page)

“I'm all for it,” replied Lisa. “Use surrogates. Don't put the nominee out there unless it turns into World War Three.”

“It's World War Three now,” quipped Thomas.

Everyone laughed again. It was less painful than crying.

“Enough discussion, we're talking in circles.” Hector pointed to Jay. “Jay, draw up the campaign plan for the new nominee. You'll have a chance to make your case. The president will make the call. Everyone on board?” Heads nodded.

Everyone got up from the table and filed out. Jay found himself sitting across from Lisa, who was still gathering up her papers, eyes glued to the table, ignoring him.

“You're not disagreeing with me just because you're mad at me, are you?” he asked.

“I'm not mad at you, Jay,” Lisa replied, rising from her chair.

“Yes you are.”

“Is that so?” she said. “So now you can read my mind?”

Jay did a double take, then fired back, “As a matter of fact, I can.”

“Okay,” said Lisa slowly, a sarcastic lilt in her voice. “What am I thinking right now?”

“You're thinking how good it is to have the gang back together.” He glanced around the table. “The verbal jostling, the intellectual swordplay. We're a good team.”

“Bzzzzzzz,” said Lisa. “Sorry, that's not the answer I was looking for.” She raised her chin and did her best game-show announcer impersonation. “Don Pardo, tell our contestant about his consolation prize.” She twisted her face into a theatrical frown. “Lunch by himself in the White House mess!” She spun on her heel and left.

A SECRETARY LED ROSS Lombardy through a confusing labyrinth of narrow hallways deep within the bowels of the Capitol. Ross had no clue where they were. At last they arrived at the hideaway office of Senator Tom Reynolds. The assistant knocked gently. The door swung open to reveal a beaming and effervescent Reynolds, coatless, his tie loosened, striking a casual and confident pose. He looked smaller and more genial than he appeared on the cable scream-fests in which he was a regular and enthusiastic participant. In the Senate the joke was that the most dangerous place on earth was between Tom Reynolds and a camera.

“Ross, come in,” said Reynolds. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Thank you, Senator,” said Ross. “It's all very cozy.” He glanced around the tiny room, furnished unpretentiously with a small desk, a couch, a large ottoman, and a bare coffee table. He directed Ross to sit on the couch while he put his feet up on the ottoman.

“So what brings you to town?” Reynolds asked.

“Meetings. The pending Supreme Court nomination,” replied Ross.

“I'm glad Mike Birch turned it down,” said Reynolds, diving in without hesitation. “He would have been a
disaster
! I don't know what the president was thinking.”

“What in the world is going on at the White House?”

Reynolds sighed. “I don't think anyone's in charge. Golden's a great guy. . . . I served with him in the Senate. But Justice is Siberia. Hector and Battaglia have their own agenda. Jay Noble's very capable, he's brought a strategic sense, but he's still finding his sea legs.”

“They better get their act together, or Bob Long is going to be a one-term president,” said Ross.

Reynolds placed his hands in his lap, linking his fingers in a thoughtful pose. “The president knows that. I've told Hector and the president they're running out of political capital. I was a good soldier on Majette.” He sat up suddenly. “I was the best friend Long had here! But I told Hector she wouldn't be confirmed, . . . and that was before the stuff about her husband's law practice.”

“We told them the same thing. Who are they leaning toward naming now?”

Reynolds placed his feet on the floor and leaned into Ross. “The president hasn't decided,” he said, lowering his voice. “I'm working him hard. I told him Diaz and Hillman were both excellent.” He paused for effect. “The president is listening to me. I think I'm having a real impact on him.”

The phone rang. Reynolds answered it. “It's the White House,” he said, his eyes apologetic. “I have to take this. Can you excuse me for just a minute?”

Ross stepped out into the cramped hallway, the brick walls, low ceiling, and concrete floor echoing with the sound of shuffling footsteps. A water pipe squeaked. He stood there awkwardly for about three minutes. The door opened and Reynolds waved him in.

“That was the president,” said Reynolds, his voice lowered, self-importance radiating from every pore. “He calls me directly. I can't say exactly what I told him. I'm making progress.” His voice became a barely audible hush. “I told him not to nominate Jan Cargo because I can't support her.” Cargo was a centrist appellate court judge on Long's short list who was anathema to conservatives.

“Good for you,” said Ross. “We can make a great team. If you work the inside while we work from the outside, we can really turn the screws.”

“Keep the fact that I'm talking to the president between us,” Reynolds instructed him, seemingly nervous. “If Long thinks I'm talking about our conversations, he won't call me.”

“Are you giving any thought to running for president?” asked Ross.

Reynolds's eyes lit up like headlights on high beam. “I'm thinking about it seriously,” he said in a half whisper. “Don't get me wrong. . . . I want Long to succeed. But he's a Democrat. He's off to a rough start. If it looks like he will not get reelected, I may have to run.”

Ross nodded, saying nothing.

“When I was twelve, I went to the altar at a revival when a traveling preacher came to my hometown in Oklahoma,” Reynolds said, his face growing animated at the telling. “The altar call was not for salvation. I had already been saved. I got down on my knees. I can still smell the sawdust to this day. I asked God for a clear understanding of his calling on my life.”

When I was twelve, I was playing with G.I. Joe,
thought Ross.

Reynolds leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees, gazing into Ross's eyes intently. “I heard the Lord clearly. Not an audible voice, but it was like He was speaking right behind me. He told me I was called to public service.” His eyes grew wider. “And he told me that someday I would be the president of the United States.”

He apparently told the same thing to every other member of the Senate,
thought Ross.

“If that's what God called me to do, I can't go to my grave and not be faithful,” said Reynolds firmly.

“Of course not,” Ross replied. He'd heard a similar story from three other senators and a governor.

“With your help I could win.” He tapped Ross on the knee. “You and I would make quite a team. Me as the candidate, and you would be my Jay Noble.”

Ross didn't quite know how to respond. He already had a job, and being Tom Reynolds's Jay Noble was not really on his list of things to do before he died. “We would indeed,” he heard himself say.

“I'll stay in touch,” Reynolds said. “If I go, I want you on my team.”

Ross smiled wanly. The meeting over, the staffer appeared at the door to show him the way out.

TO MARCO DIAZ'S SURPRISE, his second meeting with the president took place upstairs in the second-floor living quarters in the long and airy West Reception Hall, which served as a living room of sorts for the First Family. Diaz's eye caught a Monet on the opposite wall. The place seemed deserted; the First Lady was still away at rehab. Diaz felt bad for the president, living alone in such a big house. Long settled into an overstuffed chair while Diaz took the couch. The sunlight flowed through the window, giving the meeting a bright, cheery overtone.

Long was remarkably relaxed and loose, which in turn calmed Diaz's frazzled nerves. If the president was at ease, he figured he could be, too.

“So tell me about your family,” Long began informally.

“My family of origin or my wife and children?” asked Diaz.

“Both.”

“Well, my father came to America from Mexico when he was nineteen years old,” Diaz began. “When he arrived, he had fifty cents in his pocket. He worked hard, sometimes holding three jobs at once. He never took a dime of public support. Today he's worth $100 million dollars and has twenty-five car dealerships, including the largest Ford dealership in the state of Texas.”

“What a great story,” exclaimed Long. “That's the American dream.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” said Diaz, his voice catching. “Sir, I was the first member of my family to go to college. My parents spoke Spanish at home. But they insisted that all of us children, seven brothers and sisters and I, speak English. Every one of us went to college. I've got a brother with an MBA from Harvard, two brothers who are lawyers, and two sisters who are doctors.”

“I'll forgive you for the lawyers,” joked Long. Diaz laughed. “You've got a great mom and dad,” said Long affectionately. “I talk a lot about the three Es: English, a good education, and excellence in doing a job . . . any job.” It was one of his favorite riffs, a CliffNotes version of one of his stump speeches. He cocked his head. “Tell me about your own family.”

“I met my wife when I worked as a summer intern in a Dallas law firm,” Diaz said. “I was going into my final year at Yale Law. She was a junior associate. You might say it was love at first sight.”

Long smiled. He seemed to warm to the story.

“We have two boys, six and eight, and my wife is pregnant with our third child.”

“Terrific,” said Long. He seemed to have not a care in the world. If Diaz had not known he was a candidate for the Supreme Court, they might have just as easily been shooting the breeze on the porch of a country store.
Long is one cool customer,
he thought to himself.

“Let me ask you a judicial question: which justice do you most admire?” asked Long.

It was a predictable question, and Diaz came loaded for bear. “For his passion and sense of justice, Thurgood Marshall,” he said without hesitation. “For his first-rate intellect and understanding of the role of a judge, John Roberts. For the quality of his opinions, his rapier wit, analytical ability and overall judicial philosophy, Scalia.”

“That's three,” said Long. “I asked for one.”

“I'm more conservative than Marshall, more collegial than Scalia,” said Diaz. “I hope I'm as smart as Roberts, but I don't know if anyone is.”

“You're too humble,” said Long. “Don't sell yourself short. You're plenty smart.”

“My father used to quote a verse from Proverbs to me all the time,” replied Diaz. “Before honor comes humility.”

Long nodded, his face brightening, seeming to sense an opening. “You're Catholic, aren't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I like this pope. He's the real deal . . . a man of God. He wrote me a beautiful letter after I won the election. I'm going to meet with him in Rome next month.”

Diaz nodded.

“Do you believe in destiny, Marco?”

Diaz froze. It was not a question he had prepared for. He searched for the right words. “Yes, God has a plan for all of us,” he said. “But He also has a plan that's bigger than all of us.”

“Well said.” Long's eyes bore into him. “Majette's decision to withdraw and Mike Birch turning me down might have looked like setbacks to the chattering class. But I don't see things as the world does. I think God just had a better plan.”

Diaz could hardly believe his ears. Was this a job interview? “I believe that, sir,” he said as if on autopilot.

“Good.” Long suddenly stood bolt upright, extending his hand. Diaz rose and took it, shaking his hand with a firm grip. “Thanks for coming. Very impressive.”

An aide appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, to lead Diaz to an elevator that took him back to the passageway leading to the Treasury Building. He and the aide walked silently, exchanging few words. Diaz's mind ran at warp speed. Had the lightning bolt he had been waiting for his entire career finally struck?

TWENTY-EIGHT

At 9:00 p.m. every television network went live as two figures walked purposefully down the hallway toward the East Room. They strode shoulder to shoulder on the red carpet between the busts of former presidents. The White House scheduled the announcement in prime time for maximum impact, and amazingly nothing had leaked. The president turned to his companion, still shrouded in shadows, and stage-whispered an aside. He looked relaxed and at ease.

“Is it Marco Diaz?” someone in the front row whispered.

Indeed it was. The East Room crackled with anticipation as Diaz walked up the steps of the stage and stood on a tape mark. His expression earnest, dark eyes staring straight ahead, he wore a charcoal suit with a striped blue tie. As he and Long took their places on stage, a staffer assisted his wife, dark haired with espresso eyes, and the Diazes' two boys, aged eight and six years, dressed in suits and ties with Buster Brown shoes, as they came on stage and stood beside him.