William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“Have we got the votes yet, Senator?”

“For the Wilderness bill? Still three short. Don’t worry. I’ll find them.”

“You’re the only man who could.”

Hammond grinned. “Might be right about that, Ben. Might be right. I’ll let you know when we’ve got a plurality.”

“Great. I’m hoping to give Christina a signed copy of that bill for a wedding present.”

“Can’t think of anything that would please her more. Or me.” He turned his attention to the empty podium.

“You already know who it is, don’t you?” Ben asked.

“Well…a small group of the senior legislators did have a private heart-to-heart with the President this morning.”

“It’s Judge Haskins, isn’t it?”

“That would be telling.”

“Can you at least say whether you’re pleased about the selection?”

“Yes. I can tell you that, under the circumstances, I’m very pleased. It could’ve been a lot worse, given the deeply Republican President who’s doing the picking. I can only assume the President wants to end his administration on a high note with a popular, quickly confirmed addition to the Court.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Ben knew that the Supreme Court, in the wake of the death of Justice Cornwall, was evenly divided among conservatives, liberals, and centrists. The next person appointed to the Court might well cast deciding votes on the death penalty, gun control, abortion, right-to-die, and a host of other critical constitutional issues.

“They’ve been planning this dog and pony show for days,” Hammond said. “No coincidence this is happening on a Friday afternoon, either. Most of the press won’t be on the story until Monday. In the meantime, the President’s staff will blanket the Sunday news shows with flunkies selling the candidate, rattling on about how he’s God’s gift to jurisprudence. They’ll get endorsements from the Christian Congregation and law enforcement organizations and anyone else who needs a favor from the White House. They’ll distribute puff pieces and video clips, stuff the media can regurgitate until they have a chance to do a little digging on their own. By Monday you’ll be reading stories about people whose lives were changed for the better by this judge’s courtroom brilliance. The press will look for something negative. But the truth is, they won’t find much, because if there were anything to find, the President’s men would’ve found it first—and he would never have been nominated. By the end of the week, most Americans will have heard something that gives them a favorable first impression of the man. And the President’s battle will be four-fifths won.”

“The President’s investigators have missed things before,” said Ben. “Remember, they don’t do a full-fledged FBI investigation until the President makes his nomination. That’s the one wild card in every nomination—the President can never know what the Feebs might find. I was still at OU when my contracts professor Anita Hill went to Washington to testify about Clarence Thomas.”

“That was eons ago. Today, these boys take no chances. Sad result is, the only people who can get nominated are nebbishes with no lives.” He winked. “But at least this time we’re getting a fairly reasonable nebbish.”

“Good to know.”

The applause began before anyone was even in view. Advance men, Ben reminded himself. Even the President depended upon them. A few moments later, as the applause reached its crescendo, the Commander-in-Chief appeared, shaking hands as he walked, smiling, slapping people on the back, until he reached his podium. He was not a tall man, but his bearing was so straight and self-confident that he seemed taller than he truly was. He had a smile so perfect, so carefully calculated for the television cameras, that in person, Ben thought it seemed almost external to his body, something he could put on or take off like a necktie.

“Some have said that the power to appoint justices to the Supreme Court is the greatest of all executive powers,” he began, reading off an almost invisible translucent teleprompter, flashing the telegenic good looks that had gotten him elected. “Even greater than the power of war. While this administration opposes judicial activism, and judges who think they’re legislators, we nonetheless recognize that the appointment of a new member to the Supreme Court is a matter of grave import.”

A wind whistled through the Rose Garden, bathing Ben in the aroma of rose petals. The President was doing a good job, he thought, getting straight to the point yet simultaneously letting the suspense build, so the ultimate announcement would seem all the more dramatic—even if no one had heard of the man before.

“Ideally, Supreme Court justices should be many things—wise, impartial, insightful, full of idealism yet imbued with a keen eye on the wicked ways of the world,” President Blake continued. Ben thought his slow Missouri drawl—not that different from a western Oklahoma accent—effectively conveyed a sense of “regular guyness” without mitigating the importance of the occasion. “They must interpret the letter of the law, yet at the same time they must see beyond the letter to the people: the people who wrote the law, and the people it was designed to protect and defend. They must be intellectual, but never so much as to elevate the head over the heart, because every time they hear a case, every time they sign an opinion, lives are changed. This is not a mere exercise in logic, but a sacred trust with the power to alter and affect millions of Americans. Most important, Supreme Court appointees must make sure that justice—equal justice—rings out in this hallowed land of ours, now and for-evermore.”

“Is he announcing a judicial nomination,” Ben whispered, “or canonizing a saint?” Hammond motioned him to shush.

The President smiled. “Fortunately, today I am proud to announce that after an extensive search, we have found someone worthy of and equal to this daunting responsibility. It is my very great privilege to announce this day my nominee for the office of the Supreme Court of the United States—the Honorable Thaddeus T. Roush.”

Another round of applause broke out as a tall, thin man emerged from the restricted area behind the podium. He waved to the crowd, then approached the President, who gripped him by the shoulder and shook his hand.

“Am I supposed to know who he is?” Ben whispered.

“No,” Hammond answered. “But you will.”

Roush was wearing a blue suit with a red tie—standard politico television wardrobe since Ronald Reagan. He was obviously unaccustomed to the attention, not to mention the crowd, the lights, and the microphones, but he held himself together and approached the podium, readjusting the microphone to account for his greater height.

“Thank you, Mr. President. And let me say that it is my very great honor to even be considered, much less chosen, to be your Supreme Court nominee.” His slow, precise voice did not contain much inflection, highlighting his almost ascetic, intellectual appearance. “While I have enjoyed my work for the Court of Appeals, I am humbled by the possibility of playing an even greater role in the judicial affairs of this great nation. Again, I thank the President for this opportunity and assure you all that I will do the best I can to earn this honor and to respect and dignify the great tradition of the Supreme Court.”

A spattering of applause. Roush hesitated. Ben wondered if he were done. He’d said enough—no rule required a Supreme Court justice to be a great orator, after all. Not part of the job description.

“There is one thing, however,” Roush continued, “that I feel I must say, and Mr. President, I hope you will pardon me if I go off script here, because as important as the rest of it is, this must come first.”