The Confirmation (60 page)

“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 one 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.

In the end, this book is not just about politics. It is about men and women struggling to do the right thing under enormous pressure and for very high stakes. It is also about the spiritual dimension of the battle over our judicial system. Napolean said there were two forces in the world: the sword and the spirit, and the spirit is stronger. I hope that comes through in these pages.