Shining City

by Tom Rosenstiel

  But tonight she is watching. It almost makes her feel nostalgic for simpler days. On the screen, network anchorman Alan Tessier smiles at the camera, the swirling symbol of his network behind him:

  Tonight, new research on how to avoid cancer . . . A mystery involving wild mustangs in Wyoming . . . And the man who would be the next Supreme Court justice visits Capitol Hill. We begin tonight with the Supreme Court. Matt Alabama has our report.

  Cutter remembers a time when guys like Alabama, dashing and accomplished figures on TV, were considered the coolest people in Washington—hell, in the whole country. Alabama’s Marlboro–and–Jack Daniel’s baritone booms through the television’s speakers. He is narrating pictures: Madison mounting the stairs from the carriage entrance to the Senate . . . Madison walking down a marble stairway . . . Madison shaking hands with old Furman Morgan. In the video’s background, Cutter sees various people she knows, Senate staffers, senators, and journalists. In Washington, watching the news, Cutter thinks, is like watching your friends’ home movies. Alabama’s voice intones:

  It is, by Washington standards, an ancient ritual—which is to say one about fifty years old. Each Supreme Court nominee makes the pilgrimage up Capitol Hill, a mountain of some hundred and seventy-five feet, to pay homage to the Senate leaders who will decide his or her fate.

  Political people have to be pretty savvy about media, especially television, and about dealing with journalists personally. As she watches, Cutter realizes this is the kind of television writing she doesn’t hear much anymore. Alabama’s script is subtly ornate, witty, and without the usual painfully obvious puns that mark so much current TV writing. The pacing and syntax are carefully matched to the pictures. Most of what she saw on TV now, on cable, is live, usually interviews, people talking off the top of their heads or reciting stale talking points. She plays that game, too. Live TV gives you more control. But she has to admit, it lacks something.

  In public the ritual demands Senate supporters drape the nominee in gossamer praise.

  Democratic senator Michael Fuller, standing in a marble Senate hallway, says into the camera, “I cannot imagine a more qualified candidate.”

  Meanwhile, senators of the rival party, while insisting they will be fair, send signals to their interest groups that they will also be tough.

  Republican Wendy Upton says in a sharp, lawyerly tone: “Certainly Judge Madison is qualified intellectually, but academic credentials alone are not enough. On our highest court, we also need wisdom and respect for the Constitution. I hope and trust Judge Madison possesses those.”

  All of this is in code. To conservatives, any judge who leans left is often labeled a judicial activist, a term that suggests deviation from what the founding fathers intended in the Constitution. A judge who leans right is called a strict constructionist, a term suggesting they are interpreting the Constitution just as it was written.

  Republican Ralph Norris of Alabama says: “We need to know that Judge Madison will interpret the Constitution as it was intended, not reinterpret it to suit his own whims.”

  In private, away from cameras, something else occurs. Senators may not be constitutional scholars, but they tend to see themselves as keen judges of character. They like to size up the nominee as a person, something like a bouncer deciding whether to let one into a select downtown club.

  Senator Fred Blaylish of Vermont, the second-most-senior Democrat on Judiciary: “For me, meeting the man one-on-one, eye to eye, away from the stagecraft, tells me a lot.”

  Alabama narrating over more pictures:

  Some nominees have stumbled at these private sessions. Some years ago, White House lawyer Evelyn Miles was so evasive that she struck senators as uninformed, perhaps even ill-equipped. Two decades earlier, Robert Bork seemed too arrogant. Madison has raised concerns that he looks down on the confirmation process. And he can be shy, which may strike some as elitist. Today, he apparently avoided any obvious traps. Listen to the senator considered perhaps the most astute legal mind among Republicans in the Senate.

  Wendy Upton of Arizona says, “Madison is an impressive jurist, and I think he did well today.”

  Then Matt Alabama appears on camera standing outside the Capitol, the dome in the background.

  Today’s visit is the beginning of a shadow dance. The nominee must avoid saying too much, for fear of creating controversy. But he must also say enough to impress. He must be polite, humble, and erudite—but not so erudite as to show up the senators. It is a bit like meeting the parents of a prom date. You want it to go well, but fundamentally you are here for the date, not the parents. At bottom, Judge Madison is interested in the Court, not the Senate. Alan.

  Alan Tessier appears: “So, Matt, is the first hurdle in Madison’s confirmation cleared?”

  The camera cuts back to Alabama: “Privately, aides tell me yes. No bumps in the road over philosophy or personality, and there has never been doubt about scholarly merit.”

  Tessier: “Any word from the chairman of the Judiciary Committee, the legendary Furman Morgan, a man who can influence votes?”

  Alabama: “As a rule, Senator Morgan and his aides don’t talk to reporters before hearings. It keeps their options open and builds more mystery. And today held true to form.”

  Tessier: “Thanks, Matt.”

  Cutter’s senior staff has begun to collect in her office for their meeting. Cutter clicks off the television.

  Crap. When Madison was nominated Monday, she not only discovered he had not been on their list of possible nominees, no one had even put together a background document on him. They’ve been utterly blindsided. She had to hand it to Jim Nash in the White House. He might not have much political spine, but he knows how to play the inside game in town. Like keeping things under wraps.

  “Explain to me how we missed this again,” she demands. She knows she is grinding her people; she means to.

  “We had seven names,” explains Todd Paulson, whose job as communications director includes monitoring the White House and identifying likely candidates. “He wasn’t among them.”

  “I’d heard his name mentioned on TV, for chrissakes,” Cutter says.

  “No one took it seriously, Deborah,” says Nan Bullock. “He’s is an oddity, a loose cannon.”

  They have been having a variation of the same conversation for three days.

  The judge came out of that door into the Rose Garden like some prize on a game show.

  Were their sources at the White House that bad? Or the West Wing that battened down?

  Is the other side as surprised as they are? She wonders, for an embarrassing half second, what Josh Albin knew, that ridiculous man. Does Paulson have an inkling?

  She is overcome suddenly with a sense of losing control.

  “Listen, everyone. A nomination is a test. A moment when attention is fixed on Washington. If we are not relevant, we become irrelevant. At ten o’clock tomorrow morning, I want everyone back here with suggestions on how we become more relevant.”

  Josh Albin does not like what he is seeing, either.

  In the days since Madison’s nomination was announced, the White House has been winning. The groups on the Left, whatever their private ambivalence, are publicly echoing the White House narrative about him: an “extraordinary legal mind . . . what the Founders intended . . . nonideological.” It is better message control than the Democrats usually muster.

  The messaging on their side, meanwhile, has been slow. The most visible presence has been a guy named Willy Lopes from the Coalition for Justice: “We have concerns,” Lopes keeps saying on three different cable channels. And, “There are things that need more study.” Concerns and more study? That the best he can muster?

  The thought gives him a feeling of hollowness, as if the loss of momentum is something personal, a reflection of his own, Josh Albin’s, loss of power.

  As he fends off the feeling, Albin’s deputy, Al Thomas, pops his head in. “We’re ready.” In the conference room
the staff of Citizens for Freedom is already assembled. He can sense their eyes on him. He finds a seat, eases into it slowly, and begins.

  He tells them they’ve been “caught off guard,” that the White House enjoyed “the element of surprise. . . . I salute them.”

  The staff is listening closely, especially the younger ones. He can sense it. He recognizes the new intern, the Dartmouth boy, sitting against the wall. Good. A time for a lesson in strategic communications analysis.

  “We have time. And we have two primary ways to regain momentum. One, counter the narrative before it settles in. But to do that we need unity—all opposition groups telling an identical story. Remember, the White House always has the biggest microphone.

  “Alternatively, we can find some fact about Roland Madison that is so disturbing and clear it will change the narrative by itself. The battle can be won late, but only with the right weapon.”

  Albin pauses to see if his message is getting through. He fixes his gaze for a moment on different faces individually. Make them feel he is speaking to them personally.

  “We have to operate on both tracks simultaneously. So, next steps. First, Keith Flanders and staff in research need to dig. No rest. No diversions. All your attention: Here. Now.

  “Sally Holden and communications, you need to coordinate with other groups and see where they are.”

  Another pause, this one for effect.

  “Third, we need to have a Monday Group meeting ASAP. Al,” he says looking at Thomas, “can you put one together for tomorrow, Friday midday? That means working late tonight.”

  Hauling everyone’s ass this way will send the messages he wants. This matters. He finishes abruptly, the way he prefers.

  He makes eye contact again with several people.

  “Josh, is there a fourth step?” Holden asks. “Run the Network?”

  A hint of surprise flickers across Albin’s face. Why does Holden allude to the watchers every time they have a meeting on this? He will have to talk to her about that.

  He offers her a tight smile. “Yes, run the Network,” he says. Then to the whole room: “I want status reports twice daily on research, Keith, starting close of business tomorrow.”

  People are unsure if the meeting is over. No one apparently has anything to add.

  “Does it matter if we think he is going to be easily confirmed?” one of the younger staffers asks. “I mean he appears to be qualified on experience. So he will be hard to stop on those grounds. And if he really is a moderate . . .”

  It’s a good question. He’s pleased.

  “The point to keep in mind is this: Nominations are an opportunity. If you don’t seize them for your own gain, you’ve squandered them. We need to emerge from the battle stronger than when we went in. Even if this nominee is confirmed, we can succeed if we weaken our opponents by what they have to spend to win. That is how losing battles helps you win wars.”

  There is another pause.

  Good. Albin seizes it. “Let’s make the most of this battle. Let’s win the war.”

  Twenty-nine

  Wednesday, April 29, 10:47 A.M.

  Burlingame, California

  Nothing like a public library. The security is for shit. You could grab a library card and most people don’t notice they’ve lost theirs for years. He has three different ones.

  At the front desk, the woman hands him a slip of paper from a stack next to her with a code on it, written in pencil—numbers and letters, a password to get on the Internet—and points over his shoulder to a bank of old computers against a wall.

  He likes this part, the research. It’s like a secret he is planning and no one knows. He’s figuring how everything will go, and then it does just like he planned. Like he is making up a story. No, better. Like he is directing a movie, only the movie is real. And he is the star. The freaking scary dude, like in the Charles Bronson movies he watched when he was a kid.

  Only everything isn’t going like he planned. The judge is all over TV.

  He had spent months watching the guy, while he also researched the cop and the lawyer. Up on that stupid mountain, taking his hikes, watching birds, going to work, wandering around San Francisco. He would alternate days following the others. A week ago he had almost done it. Now what?

  Now the guy is moving to Washington? When does that happen? For all he knows, there will be guards and all kinds of shit.

  Plus there is Mama. She hasn’t said anything, but he could tell this morning she knows about the judge being promoted. She has to. It’s all over the news. And she just had a look this morning. Like the Lord had hit her with another blow.

  If something happens to the judge now, the whole country will be watching. Headlines. TV news. The heat would be incredible. So he has to change the plan.

  It takes him a few minutes to figure out how to type in the code until the words “You may now use the Internet” appear on the screen.

  He types in the name. “Alan Martell.” Martell. The prosecutor.

  He has seen his share of prosecuting attorneys. From what he can tell, they all seem pretty much the same. They think you must be a dumb shit. Otherwise, why would you be on the streets, getting arrested? If you aren’t a goddamn hump, why didn’t you stay in school and have a good job? Like them.

  You sit there in court, knowing you’re going to lose, with some lawyer you just met, and, of course, you look sad and angry. You know the system is rigged. And they think the expression on your face means you are guilty.

  That’s when your education about the system begins. It all goes so deep, is so tangled up with so many things, you don’t know where to start. If you’re poor, you’re more likely to live in a shit neighborhood, go to shit schools, live with crime all around you, without any fucking hope. You live in those places, you’re more likely to get arrested. If you’re poor, you are more likely to have a bad lawyer, or one too busy to do his job. So you are also more likely to get crap sentences. Everything has a reason.

  Shit. He’s just been sitting here dreaming. This thing with the judge has got him sideways.

  Alan Martell. Prosecutor. He had put off the prosecutor before now. He’d looked it up months ago and found the guy had moved away. So he just put him out of his mind. He was going to play the home stand first. If he survived, he would turn to Martell. But now things have changed. Martell moves up in line.

  He saw Martell once, after Peanut was gone. Watched him in court one day. Squat guy. Sweaty. Thinning hair, like medical gauze you could see through over his shiny scalp. Even though back then he was probably still in his thirties. But then the guy left town.

  He clicks on the name. There are some pictures. Mostly old.

  He clicks through more links. There is a lot of crap that isn’t connected to the guy. And of what is, most of it is old. Plenty when the guy was a DA. Stories from the local paper about cases.

  Not much since he moved away.

  He picks up the trail in snippets. And he’s not quick about this Web stuff. Never a great reader. But he can’t give up now. He is learning how to stick to things. In about an hour he has all he thinks he can get for now.

  Then he begins to feel a strange sensation.

  Yeah, a new plan forming.

  Be like a long-distance mission. Road trip. He’d have to figure out how to get there, where to hang, learn all new places.

  Would take all new planning—and whatever charm his Mama thinks he was born with. But let’s play a doubleheader.

  The judge and Martell. Both in D.C.

  Part Three

  Murder Boards

  May 18 to June 19

  Thirty

  Monday, May 18, 10:37 A.M.

  Washington, D.C.

  Out of the arch-shaped window in his office Rena sees a black town car double-park on the street below. A minute later, Eleanor O’Brien appears in the doorway. “Roland Madison is here.” She mouths the words in an exaggerated stage whisper.

  Madison is back in
Washington to begin the confirmation process, three weeks after being nominated. Rena nods to O’Brien.

  Rena finishes the call he is on with the general manager of the Philadelphia NFL team about a player in trouble.

  “Judge Madison and his daughter are in the conference room,” O’Brien tells him when he hangs up.

  Rena doesn’t like what he sees. Madison is sitting in a folding chair in the corner with his briefcase in his lap, the picture of a man uncomfortable in the moment. His blue pinstripe suit, American cut, loose and conservative, is old enough that Rena can see fray spots and hanging threads. The effect is a kind of American Mr. Chips, too effete, distracted, or uninterested to care how he looks. That would only confirm the suspicions most Americans have about professors and intellectuals. It wouldn’t sit so well with members of the U.S. Senate, either—a group inclined to hair dye and Botox.

  Madison, willful by nature, had wanted to do all of his hearing prep from California. Rina and Brooks had said no. Is he going to pout for the next two months? He’s too bright not to recognize the shabby, disrespectful impression he’s leaving. He had looked fine for his tour of the Senate a couple of weeks back. They need to get the judge some other things to wear in public. More than that, they need to get the judge to accept a bigger change of terms.

  In the center of the room is Victoria Madison. Her father has asked her to come with him to D.C. to help him through the confirmation process, and she has taken a leave from her law firm for the duration.