The President left his suit jacket hanging on his desk chair, and wore only a dress shirt with rolled sleeves. His body was trimmer than Manny’s, but less muscular. No body fat. Must be his mountain biking. It was an impressive physique, seeing as the President was a good 12 years Manny’s senior, and the judge was in great shape. Rumor had it that the 62-year-old could ditch security agents half his age on a steep hill climb if he so desired.
“So I looked at my records and saw we talked on the phone back in 2002.”
“I remember it well.”
“We got you through the Senate pretty easy that round, huh?”
“You sure did. Guess it’s not always that smooth.”
“Oh, you better believe it’s not!” President Shaw laughed. “You well, generally?”
“I am. Enjoying the Ninth Circuit. Healthy and fit.”
“I hear you’ve been divorced this year?”
“Yes, unfortunately.”
“Well, that happens. Catholic base might not like it so much, but we live in the real world, don’t we?”
“The Catholic base will likely forgive him,” MacKneer piped in, “once they see his voting record.”
Manny uncrossed his arms, and squeezed his hands together. He didn’t acknowledge the White House Counsel’s comment, but wished he could bark back at her that he didn’t care one way or another if the Catholic voting base approved of his marital status, that it was none of their damn business. Nor did he like Ms. MacKneer speaking about him in the third person when he was sitting right in front her. But nervousness always made him angry.
“Swinging single, now, are you?” The President nudged Manny on the arm.
“Not so swinging, but certainly single.”
“Been told you’re not seeing anyone?”
Manny hesitated. It was one thing to mislead advisors, another thing to lie directly to the President of the United States. But then he wasn’t going to sleep with Cassandra again, so technically it wasn’t a lie to say that he wasn’t seeing anyone actively. Furthermore, it was irritating to have the entire White House staff, including the President himself, rifling around in his private affairs. It was none of their business, and it wasn’t as if Cassandra’s pregnancy would influence Arroyo’s interpretations of statutes or his reading of the Constitution.
“I’m not actively seeing anyone.”
“Think you can keep yourself unhitched for a few months, if it comes down to it?” Shaw winked, like some overly chummy father trying to act cool with his teenage son. “After that you can do what you want.”
Manny said yes, he could stay single, and forced a smile for the man. The President didn’t have to speak so casually with him. Would Shaw have reminded a white judge to act “respectable” for the senators? On the other hand, Manny reminded himself, President Shaw was known for being comfortable with people of all races, and his multicultural cabinet could never be accused of discrimination.
Sweat trickled down Manny’s sides. He hoped it wasn’t staining his suit jacket.
“So Lorna, Gordon and the Vice President have all told me you support the Unitary Executive theory. They said you gave a speech about it back in 2000?”
“Yes, for the Federalist Society. My position hasn’t changed. I subscribe to the Unitary Executive theory in its strongest form: the president has hierarchical control over the execution of all federal law. That means Congress today oversteps its bounds, pretty much regularly. It also means independent counsels created by Congress to investigate the executive in any way are constitutionally troublesome.”
“That’s good, Manny. Keep going. You’re on a roll.” The President laughed.
“I also believe a Unitary Executive is at the apex of his powers in times of war. As soon as Congress authorizes the use of force, the president has plenary power over any decision having to do with that conflict. That’s true without exception. Now obviously, Mr. President, I can’t talk about any actual cases that might come before the Court, but broadly speaking the theory should apply to situations when the executive, say, wants to interpret treaties differently than Congress does, or when he wants to process captured foreign detainees without being subject to federal court review.”
“But that’s just your general position, right?”
Counsel MacKneer twitched and nodded beside her boss.
“Absolutely, Mr. President. That position has no bearing on how I might rule in any specific case with any of its particular constraints.”
“And that’s what you’d tell the Senate if they asked?”
“Of course. It’s the truth.”
The President and MacKneer nodded in concurrence. Manny silently congratulated himself on making a direct reference to Al-Tounsi without actually mentioning the case itself.
Out the Oval Office’s eastern windows, through the columns along the West Colonnade, there were a hundred ripe red blossoms in the Rose Garden, just as there were supposed to be. Every damned inch of this room was iconic. This office’s primary purpose was as a symbol of American power and autonomy. Isolated in the back of the West Wing, with windows facing the South Lawn and the picturesque garden, the Oval Office was a place for the President to sit and ruminate, a peaceful environment imbued with gravitas where he could make his most difficult decisions. It was an iconic room for this heroic figure.
“I think, Mr. President, the fundamental question posed by the Unitary Executive theory is this: What kind of sovereignty does our country demand, and what kind of sovereign? The framers never wanted to handcuff a sitting president with too much oversight, especially in times of war. When our nation is under attack, as it is currently, we can’t have Congress or the federal courts second-guessing each and every independent decision the president makes. We need a fully autonomous executive. That’s what the Constitution says. Nations, presidents, individual people are autonomous. Like it or not, when push comes to shove, we’re separate from one another—each as solid and indivisible as an island. The framers knew that, and so they codified natural law. They understood that if you hold a president back with hen-pecking laws and regulations and limitations, our country’s enemies, who are as ruthless now as they were in 1787—and who don’t have those same moral constraints—will tear us to shreds. They will destroy this country if we choose to restrict an executive with Congressional oversight.”
President Shaw nodded forcefully. “And you feel that in your gut?”
“I’ve reasoned it out, Mr. President, and I feel it in my gut.”
Later that night, as Manny lay sprawled on his bed in the Mayflower Hotel, watching FOX news on mute and washing down a chocolate bar with the mini-bar’s surprisingly decent scotch, he further considered the theory of a Unitary Executive. The profundity of his argument extended beyond constitutional law. Any individual person could be seen as analogous to the executive of the United States. Personal freedom was always under attack, always precarious. Consider Manny’s own autonomy, and how Cassandra’s pregnancy had threatened it. If Cassandra had behaved in a fully moral and trustworthy manner, she would have taken the damn pill until it was clear both of them wanted to have children. But Cassandra hadn’t done that, had she? Her behavior had transgressed the accepted rules of engagement for a budding relationship. Her behavior was an attack—vicious or unconscious, or just plain careless—that hit its target, and had bonded them together for life. Worse, now that she was pregnant, the accepted rules of conduct for Manny, the would-be father, demanded his prudence, admission to the president, and lifelong financial compensation. It meant being constrained by rules of propriety even after his girlfriend hadn’t conformed to any accepted rules. Manny was supposed to stand up like a man, raise a baby he didn’t want, and put his own professional future at risk. That was obviously the “right” thing to do—Christ, there might as well be a Geneva Conventions governing personal relationships that claimed as much. But Manny had no autonomy left if he accepted those full restraints. He would never be able to def
end himself.
Of course, Manny’s political philosophy and personal philosophies had the same root. Why should this Executive bow to every absurd clause in the Geneva Conventions or every bit of Congressional oversight when the terrorists flouted the rules of war, crashing commercial airplanes into the twin towers? And why should Manny let Cassandra’s pregnancy determine his behavior? She had entrapped and ensnared him with her deceit, but now it was his duty to acknowledge and respect their relationship, and to tell the President about it? No. Sometimes the right thing to do is to refuse to play by the accepted rules. If someone comes at you with trickery, you have to respond with flexibility and autonomy. In the political example, only a strong, unitary executive who isn’t under the thumb of Congress or the courts can make the perfectly logical and moral decision to opt out of oppressive “rules” when they are certain to destroy him.
Manny tilted the last few drops of scotch out of the tiny plastic bottle into his mouth. Too much was at stake. This was his only shot at the Supreme Court. There was no way he would let Cassandra’s irresponsibility destroy his career now.
In the morning, the brilliantly sunlit Oval Office showed signs of having been worked in. A mostly empty plate of bagels rested beside a bowl of cream cheese, and another platter, with a few chunks of melon and berries left on it, had replaced the yellow roses on the coffee table. Papers were strewn across the Resolute desk, probably Manny’s own rulings from the Ninth Circuit. President Shaw, wearing a suit jacket and a crisp red tie, seemed hale and refreshed, but MacKneer, Nicolaides and Kale had haggard faces and bloodshot eyes. Together they reeked of a harsh amalgam of perfume, cologne and sporty deodorant. But beneath those floral and musky scents, Manny could smell the vinegary aroma of their bodies. A long night’s work, he guessed. President Shaw ushered Manny into one of the Martha Washington chairs and patted him on the back.
“Manny, we’d like to nominate you to the Court. Congratulations.”
Manny gripped the arms of his chair, pressed his lips together. “I accept your offer.”
“Excellent. I suspect that’s going be your first of many right calls.”
Everyone laughed.
“Thank you, Mr. President. I hope you’ll be proud of this decision long after you’ve left office.”
“Now, I want to announce your nomination Monday morning. In the meantime, Rolando and Lorna would like to start working with you this weekend.”
“Preparation will be intense. It will pretty well have to be your full-time job for the next six to eight weeks.” Attorney General Nicolaides leaned his hands on the back of the couch.
“Won’t exactly be a good time either.” The President laughed. “I’m sure you know the drill.”
Manny’s heart quickened. Of course he knew about the nomination process, but he hadn’t let himself consider it seriously. He would have to visit all the senators in their offices when they returned from their summer breaks, answer their tough questions, and generally be on his best behavior. He would have to fill out the Judiciary Committee’s extensive questionnaire, which would require detailed answers, like writing a large memoir. The White House would stage mock hearings for him. The press would be everywhere, poking their snouts into his past decisions, his lectures, his traffic tickets, his whole life. They would want to talk to Manny’s colleagues and friends. They would want to speak with Sonia and his clerks. They would speak with Cassandra.
“It’ll be a hard process, but you will be confirmed.” The President smiled at him. “We have the votes. I guarantee it.”
For the rest of the day, Manny worked with Rolando Nicolaides and Lorna MacKneer in the Roosevelt Room, doors closed to everyone but that core contingent originally present in the Oval Office. He collated his written opinions into broad categories, answered questions about his jurisprudence, his private law career, his years at Baylor and Penn, his parents’ background and his own childhood. All the while he was unable to shake his thoughts of Cassandra. Would the President drop Manny from consideration if the White House discovered that he had slept with the daughter of his future colleague, Rodney Sykes? And what if they knew she was pregnant? His Senate hearings would turn sordid and comic. His ethics would be questioned, doubted. It would be easier for him if Cassandra got an abortion this week—if she did that without telling him about it, so he wouldn’t have to consent. He was adamantly against abortion; he would castigate and denounce her if she asked for his approval, but he would be so relieved if it just happened. Then he could break up with her and move on cleanly. Sleeping with Cassandra suddenly seemed like the stupidest thing he had ever done.
At 6 P.M., Gordon Kale ushered Manny out of the West Wing’s entrance toward a limo. “We’ll leak your nomination to the press Monday morning.” Kale opened the car door for him. “So don’t tell your former bosses, friends, anyone. Just core family.”
“Absolutely.”
That night, Manny called Cassandra from his hotel room.
“I’m having the baby,” she declared, as soon as she answered the phone.
“Good, Cassandra. I think that’s a wise decision.”
“You don’t sound like you mean that.”
“Well, I’m not exactly thrilled about this situation. But I’ll help. I’m not a deadbeat.”
“You mean you’ll give me money as long as the implication’s clear I’m the whore, not you?”
Manny gripped the television remote. She was just begging for a fight, wasn’t she? But then his deadbeat comment was a mistake. It sounded as if he was planning on dumping her. He had to be more careful. God, he wished he could end this ridiculous relationship right now.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about us, Cassandra, and I don’t think you should reconsider your counsel position with the IRS. You should take the job and move to Washington in September.”
“That way you won’t have to witness my growing belly, or be there to take care of our kid.”
“No, quite the opposite. I will be with you in Washington in September. We’ll have a fighting chance at working through our problems and staying together.” That silenced her. “The President has just nominated me to take Van Cleve’s seat on the Supreme Court.” He threw the TV remote into the air, where it spun on its axis and turned over twice—a perfect double flip and a twist, like an Olympic diver—and landed back in his palm.
“The Supreme Court?”
“The United States Supreme Court. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”
“But my father.”
“Don’t worry about him. I’ll make peace with your father. It won’t be difficult.”
“Oh my God.”
“They’re not announcing it until Monday, so you have to keep it quiet.”
Manny fingered the power button on the remote. If only he could switch this woman on and off as easily as he could the television.
“Look, Cassandra, I am really sorry about the other night. I said some terrible things to you. I was under a great deal of pressure. I knew they were considering me, and I was freaked out and preoccupied, and then very surprised by your news. Please don’t let my one bout of unwarranted anger ruin us.”
Manny tossed the remote on the bed. This was a better approach. He would act like a Unitary Executive from here on out: the rules of traditional relationships didn’t apply to him anymore. He would pretend he wanted marriage, stability and permanence until he was confirmed. That meant six to eight weeks. He would avoid any trouble in his confirmation hearings only if Cassandra stayed with him. She would have no desire to come forward with a public confession about their relationship. She would avoid the press to protect him. It was early enough in her pregnancy that no questions would arise about the baby’s father until well after his confirmation. This whole debacle would stay secret unless they broke up and Cassandra’s fury clouded her judgment. Unless she were provoked into attacking him.
And maybe their relationship would improve temporarily. Back in September, Manny had actually liked C
assandra Sykes. She cracked filthy and dark jokes, worthy of any locker room, and shimmered with vivaciousness. She had myriad faults, certainly, but she was never egotistical or attention seeking. It was possible that Cassandra might even come to enjoy the nomination process, that as his ex-clerk she would feel flattered to help the White House gather his opinions, speeches and articles, and summarize his work. He might suggest to the White House staff that she be involved, not just for cynical reasons. It was true she had been a great aide to him on the Ninth Circuit.
“I don’t know if I want to be with you, Manny.”
“You want to have my child.”
“That isn’t about what I want. I’m pregnant. I take that as seriously as you do.”
“Look, Cassandra, I want you to come to Washington. I want to be with you. We’re going to have a baby together. It’s incredible. Catch the next flight and help me do this. I need you with me.”
He waited for her answer, but the silence between them extended for a few seconds too long. Goddamn it, he had said too much. She didn’t believe a word. He had fucked it all up.
“Denny told my brother we’re getting a divorce.”
Arroyo’s breath shortened. “Did he tell your brother anything else? Does Sam know about us?”
“I don’t know what Sam knows and what Sam doesn’t know. He and Denny are good friends. I can’t control what they say to each other.”
“What about your father?”
“I don’t know, Manny.”
“No one should know about our relationship until after my confirmation. It wouldn’t be fair to put a spotlight on your father.”
Cassandra snorted. “Oh, you’re suddenly worried about him?”
“There are many reasons why silence is the right option, Cassandra.”
“I’m sure that’s true. All I’m saying is my father—Mr. Adolph Eichmann himself—is not the person you’re worried about. You’re worried about yourself, Manny. No one but yourself.”
Al-Tounsi Page 16
