Authors: Ralph Reed
Long moved directly to the podium. “Tonight I announce that I am nominating Judge Marco Diaz to be the one hundred and seventeenth associate justice to the Supreme Court of the United States,” said Long. “Judge Diaz is truly the personification of the American dream. His father came to this country from Mexico forty years ago with only fifty cents in his pocket. He started out as a janitor at a Ford dealership in Dallas, Texas. Later he became a salesman and ultimately bought his own dealership. He retired as the largest Hispanic automobile dealer in North America with twenty-five dealerships in six states.”
Battaglia and Hector exchanged knowing glances. A palpable sense of relief filled the staff section. Diaz had been ordered up from central casting.
Long continued, his baritone deep and commanding. “Marco was the first member of his family to attend college. He went to the University of Texas, so he's a Longhorn. He graduated with honors from Yale Law.” Long glanced at the first row. “His father Manuel is with us tonight. Mr. Diaz, I know you are very proud of your son.”
Jay sat between Battaglia and Hector, his eyes twinkling, his facial expression a mixture of relief and joy.
“Judge Diaz has served with distinction as a deputy attorney general, a district court, and an appellate court judge on the DC Circuit. During that time he has impressed colleagues and the attorneys who worked with him or appeared before him with his collegiality, fairness, and open-mindedness,” Long continued on a roll. “His superior judicial temperament, personal integrity, and knowledge of the law will make him an outstanding addition to the Supreme Court.” He cocked his head for emphasis. “I am confident the U.S. Senate will be as impressed with his remarkable judicial record as I was when I decided to nominate him.”
Diaz came to the podium. Shorter than Long, he stood a little lower to the microphone, his facial expression serious, a shock of black hair combed perfectly. “Mr. President, thank you for the confidence you have placed in me,” he said. “Serving on the Supreme Court of the United States is the highest privilege and honor that can be accorded in my profession and is one I approach with a love for the Constitution, a deep and abiding respect for the rule of law, and a recognition that for many the Court is the final arbiter of justice.”
The younger of his two sons began to edge toward him. Diaz glanced down, smiling awkwardly. His wife reached out and grabbed the boy by the hand, pulling him back. He tried to twist away. The audience chuckled appreciatively.
The news conference ended, Diaz stepped toward Long, who shook his hand firmly, their eyes locked. As Long and Diaz stepped back down the hallway, flanked by his wife and children, the network correspondents scrambled to do their stand-ups.
“Tonight a beleaguered President Long sought to pacify his estranged social conservative base and rescue a Supreme Court vacancy plagued by fitful starts, ethically challenged nominees, and self-inflicted wounds. In so doing, he selected one of the most controversial and conservative appellate court judges in the nation,” the NBC White House correspondent said into the camera. “Tacking right by choosing Diaz is sure to unleash a battle royale in the Democratic-controlled Senate. Senate Majority Leader Salmon Stanley has already issued a statement pledging to examine thoroughly Diaz's record and rulings.” He held up Stanley's statement for the cameras. “And the Pro-Choice PAC joined the attack, denouncing him as an extremist with ultraconservative views.” A barely controlled grin rose at both corners of his mouth. “After a series of miscues and mistakes, including the withdrawal of Yolanda Majette and an embarrassing rejection by Mike Birch, the White House is bracing for a firefight in the Senate, and they are going to get one.”
G. G. HOTERMAN HELD court in his usual corner booth at The Palm, working his way through his second scotch (Macallan 25, two ice cubes only) on the rocks. An artist's caricature of his head (minus receding hairline) adorned the wall above his seat. Joining him at the power dinner were three of the hottest “It” girls of the moment in DC, Christy Love, Deirdre Rahall, and Natalie Taylor. Any man in Washington would have been happy squiring any one of them, but G. G. was just two short of a women's basketball team. The Palm was where the famous and powerful, or those who wanted to be famous and hungered for power, gathered to gaze at one another while pretending to eat. Waiters rushed to and fro past every table, the din of conversation loud, the room pulsing with energy. Popping corks, rattling plates, and clinking glasses created a cacophony of noise. Sizzling steaks hot off the grill arrived at tables. Hoterman noticed other patrons staring at his table. Others might find such gawking mildly irritating, but not G. G.
“I'm here with my harem!” said G. G. to the waiter with a laugh, rattling the ice in his glass to signal he needed another scotch. “What are people going to say?”
The waiter grinned embarrassingly. His body language seemed to say,
I'm not touching that with a ten-foot pole.
“They'll say you're a very lucky man to be in the presence of such a combination of brains and beauty,” laughed Deirdre, patting his fleshy fist with her long fingers.
“And they'd be right!”
“I'm concerned about people overhearing us plotting strategy,” said Christy. “Everybody keep your heads on swivels. You never know who's in the next booth.” She cast a suspicious eye at neighboring tables.
“Speaking of which: do you have the dirt on Diaz?” asked G. G.
“Do I ever,” replied Christy. “There's a discrimination case where he ruled against three women who were sexually harassed by the same supervisor. The details are ghastly.”
“Tell me more.” G. G. loved gossip, the more salacious the better.
“The case involved a manager at a hedge fund,” said Christy, going into lawyer-speak. “Lewd remarks, sexually explicit e-mails, fondling, lingerie left on women's desks during their lunch hour.” She paused a beat, leaning forward and speaking in a quiet whisper. “One time he called a female trader into his office, and when she came in for the meeting, he was watching porn.”
“That's incredible. How in the world could he rule against the women?” asked G. G.
“He said they failed to file their complaint with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission within the time limit required under the law.”
G. G. shook his head in disbelief. “This guy's out of touch with reality.”
“Fortunately, G. G., you don't have to worry about me filing a sexual harassment complaint,” said Deirdre, her eyes dancing. “I was a willing participant.”
G. G. shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Christy and Natalie's eyes widened. Neither said a word. G. G.'s affair and pending divorce were the talk of the town. Deirdre grinned away, apparently either unconcerned or oblivious to the awkwardness of her remark.
“There's something else,” said Christy, deftly getting the conversation back on track. “Diaz is a member of Opus Dei, the right-wing Catholic society.”
“We can't oppose him because he's Catholic,” said G. G.
“Not because he's Catholic. Opus Dei is commissioned by the pope to impose Catholic social doctrine,” she continued. “It's very conspiratorial. Diaz can't be impartial on abortion and gay marriage when he's taken a secret oath to rule in favor of the views of the Vatican.”
Natalie looked at G. G. He shrugged noncommitally.
“Anyway, we're going up with our first television ad in a few days,” said Christy. “The message is Diaz is an extremist: antiwoman, antichoice, antiworker.”
“What markets?” asked G. G. “Please tell me it's not a phantom buy.”
“Oh, no,” replied Christy. “We'll do news avails in DC. Plus national buys on CNN, MSNBC, Lifetime. In the states we're targeting soft Ds or soft Rs on Judiciary.”
“How much are you spending?”
“Two million a week. A thousand gross rating points in the target markets.”
“That's a lot of money,” said G. G.
The waiter appeared at the table with a medium-rare filet for G. G., salmon entrees and salads for the women. He refilled wine glasses. G. G. tapped his glass with his index finger to indicate another scotch.
“Can you help me raise some from your clients?” asked Christy.
“Sure,” said G. G. “I've got some guys in LA and Silicon Valley who will want to play. I assume this is a (c)(4) play and contributions are nonreportable?”
“Yep. It's a (c)(4). Donations are not disclosed.”
“I wish I could go to Stephen Fox,” said G. G. regretfully, shaking his head. “He's my best donor. But he's backing Diaz.” He sighed. “I guess you can't blame him. After all, Diaz voted with Wildfire in the antitrust case.”
“G. G.'s firm is lobbying
for
Diaz because of the Wildfire ruling,” said Deirdre.
Christy and Natalie looked stunned. G. G. shot Deirdre a sideward look of disapproval, clearly embarrassed. There was an awkward silence. G. G. raised a wine glass to his lips. . . . He was now alternating between scotch and red wine.
“Oh, that? It's nothing,” he said with a wave of his hand. “We have a Chinese fire wall built between me and the Wildfire lobbyists.” It was a convenient lie, and he told it smoothly. “I may be the only guy in DC who's helping to lead the opposition to Diaz while his law firm is lobbying for his confirmation!”
“Only in Washington,” joked Christy.
“It pays the bills, darling,” said G. G.
“Guess who I hired to do our press?” asked Christy, perking up.
“Who?” asked Deirdre.
“Nicole Dearborn.”
G. G.'s jaw dropped. “
The
Nicole Dearborn . . . the chick who moled her way into the Long campaign and passed intel to Stanley?”
“Yes, that Nicole Dearborn,” replied Christy proudly.
“Aren't you concerned that will raise the whole issue of the scandal?” asked Natalie, screwing up her face.
“Are you kidding?” replied Christy, laughing. “Having Nicole on board will get us a Style section profile in WaPo and a âwhere are they now' piece above the fold in the
New York Times
. Best of all, it will drive Jay Noble bats!”
“I love it . . . playing head games with Noble!” exclaimed G. G. “Scandal-tinged political operative makes comeback. Spurned romantic interest stalks Noble, seeks Diaz's defeat. Oh, that's rich. Positively rich!”
Christy cocked her head, gently flipped back her blonde hair and smiled as she took another sip of red wine. “Why, thank you, G. G.,” she said, giggling. “I thought it was pretty clever, if I do say so myself.”
MARCO DIAZ SAT TO Sal Stanley's left, his body coiled with nervous energy, one elbow on the armrest of the chair, eyes blinking rapidly as photographers blazed away. It was the morning after the announcement of his nomination to the Supreme Court, and Diaz was making his rounds on the Hill. The first stop: the Senate Majority Leader, who lost to Long in the previous election and blasted him in a news release just hours earlier.
“Senator Stanley, is your mind made up? Are you going to oppose Judge Diaz's confirmation?” asked
Roll Call
.
Stanley smiled smoothly. “Judge Diaz deserves the opportunity to make his views known to the Judiciary Committee and the full Senate,” said Stanley, an empty statement belying his antipathy for Diaz. “I will not make a decision on how I will vote on Judge Diaz's nomination until after his confirmation hearings.”
Diaz gazed into the white hot glare of television lights. The temperature in the room rose measurably. A press aide to Stanley stepped forward, shouting, “Sorry, but that will have to be the last question. That's all.”
The press filed out, leaving Stanley and Diaz sitting in wing chairs, with deputy Attorney General Art Morris and Stanley's chief of staff on the couch.
“Judge Diaz,” Stanley began slowly, measuring his words, “I think you know that I have some deep concerns about your rulings on the DC Circuit Court. But I want you to know that I'll keep my mind open.”
Diaz knew the statement was a lie. Stanley was already burning the lines to members of the Democratic caucus, collecting commitments to oppose Diaz . . . and this before he had met with a single senator. It was a shocking breach of protocol.
“I appreciate that, Senator. I hope I can allay any concerns and answer questions you might have about my record. That's why I appreciate the offer to visit with you,” said Diaz as though reading from cue cards.
“Judge, do you believe there is a constitutional right to privacy?” asked Stanley.
Art Morris visibly flinched on the couch. The exchange was fraught with hazard.
Diaz tiptoed through the minefield, choosing his words carefully. “Senator, the Supreme Court has ruled there is a right to privacy, and I have no quarrel with that finding,” Diaz replied, his posture confident. He did not rattle easily. “To put it in perspective, Griswold as a precedent is only nine years younger than
Brown v. Board
. The Court has upheld and expanded on that precedent repeatedly. The principle of stare decisis requires that jurists recognize precedent and overturn it only with great reluctance.”
Stanley sat impassively, looking at Diaz with hooded eyes as he delivered his canned answer. He reloaded. “And does that privacy right extend to a woman's right to an abortion?”
“Senator, with all respect, I can't comment with specificity because it involves prejudging cases that could come before me if confirmed,” said Diaz, fouling off the pitch.
“That's a lot of caveats and academic jargon, Judge. It's a simple question. I would appreciate a straight answer. Do you plan to vote to sustain
Roe v. Wade
?”
“Sir, my answer on
Roe
is no different,” said Diaz, nonplussed. “It's a long-standing precedent. It has been refined and clarified in a number of high-profile cases. As such, while the Supreme Court is certainly not prohibited from revisiting its findings, and it has done so, for instance, in
Webster v. Reproductive Health Services
and
Casey v. Planned Parenthood,
it should do so only in those rare instances when new facts warrant.”