The Nomination Page 2

  “So what does this mean, exactly?”

  Brody cocked his head, smiled, and nodded.

  “Oh,” said Larrigan.

  “The president asked me to come here today to ask you—informally, of course, strictly off the record for now—whether, if you were officially asked, you’d be willing to serve your country as an associate justice of the United States Supreme Court.”

  Larrigan leaned back against the bench, tilted up his head, and laughed.

  Brody frowned. “I don’t—”

  “I’m sorry,” said Larrigan. “It’s just, like every lawyer in the country, I’ve fantasized about someone asking me to be a Supreme Court Justice ever since I started filling out applications to law school, and in all my fantasies, not once did I imagine it would happen on some random April day in Boston, sitting on a wooden bench during noon recess with . . . excuse me, Mr. Brody, but with a man who is pretty much anonymous. I visualized the Rose Garden, the president himself, television cameras . . .” He shook his head. “I do apologize. I know you’re one of the president’s most trusted aides. It’s just that this seems terribly . . . I don’t know . . . clandestine.”

  “No offense taken,” said Brody. “I appreciate your candor. It is clandestine. I’m sure you understand why at this point the president must keep himself removed from this process.”

  “Ah, yes.” Larrigan smiled. “The process. So what exactly is the process?”

  It was interesting, Brody thought, how the eye behind the black patch crinkled at the corner just like the sharp blue one did. He wondered vaguely whether the eye socket behind that patch was empty, and if so, what it looked like. Angry red scar tissue? Or was there a cloudy, sightless eyeball there that still moved in unison with the functional one?

  Brody folded his hands on top of the briefcase on his lap. “The process has already begun,” he said. “Our meeting here today—this clandestine get-together, as you call it—is evidence of that. It actually began before the president even took office.” He paused and looked at Larrigan, who was peering steadily at him. That single blue eye blazed with intensity. He suspected that Thomas Larrigan had no trouble intimidating lawyers. “Here’s where we’re at. At some appropriate time within the next month or two, Justice Crenshaw will formally announce his retirement. By then we will have leaked a list of the president’s possible nominees to the press. The Fourth Estate, in their own relentless way, will vet the names, dredge up what they can, and the list will shake itself down. Of those names, only two or three will be serious contenders. The rest will be stalking horses. The president must appear to be considering a representative demographic and philosophical sampling of possible candidates—conservatives, liberals, moderates, women and men, gay and straight, African-Americans, Native Americans, Hispanic Americans, disabled Americans—”

  “One-eyed Americans,” said Larrigan.

  Brody did not smile. “Marine lieutenant, decorated Vietnam veteran. Bronze Star and Purple Heart. Suffolk Law School. Night classes, no less. Blue-collar, up-by-your-own-bootstraps, American dream stuff. Intrepid prosecutor, tough on criminals, elected twice as crime-busting District Attorney, once as state Attorney General, well-respected Federal District Court judge, loving family man.” He paused. “Not to mention, occasional golf partner of the president. Your wife and the First Lady were college classmates. He likes you. Trusts you.”

  Not to mention, Brody chose not to say, you are the closest person with anything remotely resembling acceptable credentials we could find to match the profile that the researchers distilled from the focus groups and opinion polls. The profile of a man who could complement—cynics would say “compensate for”—the president’s perceived character. The profile of a strong, confident, sturdy, vigorous man. A man of conviction. A man who knows who he is and what he stands for and doesn’t mind who else knows it.

  Unlike, lately, the president.

  “And sure.” Brody smiled. “That patch over your eye doesn’t hurt at all.”

  “Fair enough.” Larrigan grinned.

  “You would be the first Vietnam vet on the Court. The president absolutely loves that idea.”

  “Then—”

  “It’s early times,” said Brody.

  Larrigan nodded.

  Brody liked the fact that he didn’t seem too eager. “The fact that you’ve played golf with him, that your wives are friends,” he said, “those things don’t count for much. With the staff, in fact, they’re seen as negatives. They link you too closely with him. The whiff of nepotism.”

  “That makes sense,” said Larrigan.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” said Brody. “You’re exactly what the president is looking for.”

  “He likes my, um, my demographics.”

  “He likes your record, Judge. He likes what you stand for. He thinks you’d make a terrific Justice of the Supreme Court. He likes everything about you. And he thinks you can win the consent of the Senate.”

  “What you mean is, I wouldn’t embarrass him.”

  “Well,” said Brody, “that, of course, we’ll have to verify. We have scrutinized your record as a prosecutor, as a judge. It appears impeccable.”

  Larrigan smiled. “Meaning I’ve managed to avoid any controversial rulings. Let’s face it. That’s my record. That’s what I stand for.”

  Brody shrugged. “We found no red flags. You’re a moderate. A centrist. Your record will cause no problems.”

  “But?”

  “There are no buts, Judge. Your personal life, what we know of it, should cause no problems, either.” Brody narrowed his eyes. “I need a direct answer, Judge, before this goes any farther. If asked, would you accept the president’s nomination to the Supreme Court?”

  Larrigan combed his fingers through his hair. “It’s an awesome question.” He fell silent.

  Brody waited. He huddled in his thin topcoat and gazed at the Inner Harbor. A few sailboats were skimming over the gray, choppy water. Seagulls wheeled overhead with their wings set, riding the air currents.

  After a minute or so, Larrigan swiveled back to face him. “Of course I’d accept. It’s the ultimate honor, the ultimate challenge for any lawyer.”

  “Good.” Brody cleared his throat. “I just need to ask you a few questions, then. Eventually, of course, if you’re his final choice, you’ll be asked a great many questions.”

  “I understand.”

  Brody snapped the latches on his briefcase, flipped it open on his lap, and removed a manila folder. He slid out a sheet of paper and squinted at it. “First, some issues that, according to our research, have never come before your court. Please confirm this. Abortion?”

  “No. I’ve never had any case involving abortion.”

  “Or violence at an abortion clinic, malpractice involving abortion, anything of that sort?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “And when you were a prosecutor?” Brody was frowning down at his notebook.

  Larrigan shook his head. “I prosecuted murderers mostly. Some drug stuff.”

  Brody peered up at him. “What is your position on abortion, Judge?”

  Larrigan looked up at the sky for a moment, then turned to Brody. “How do you mean?”

  Brody shrugged. “Simple question. Are you for it or against it?”

  “I’ve never had a case brought before me that involved abortion.”

  “If you are nominated, you will be grilled.”

  “You mean, what are my personal beliefs?”

  “I mean,” said Brody, “have you ever revealed your opinion on abortion in any forum? Your public statements as well as your legal opinions are all fair game.”

  “I’ve never revealed my opinion,” said Larrigan. “I try to avoid public statements on any legal or political issue. I’m a judge. It’s the law, not my personal opinions, that matters. I don’t believe a judge should even have personal opinions. We find answers to difficult questions in the law, the Constitution. We deal with cases,
not issues.”

  “What about gay marriage?”

  “I have no personal opinion,” Larrigan said. “If the question came before me, I’d consult case law, seek precedent.”

  “You’d consider yourself a strict constructionist, then?” said Brody.

  “Judges don’t make law,” said Larrigan. “Legislators do that. Judges merely apply it to specific situations.”

  Brody nodded noncommittally. “What about abused women and children, deadbeat dads, the sanctity of marriage? The president is very big on family values, you know.”

  “So am I,” said Larrigan. “You are talking about legal matters. Crimes. I have a record on abuse. I prosecuted dozens of cases when I was an A.D.A.” He shrugged. “I’m against breaking the law.”

  Brody smiled. “We know. Just checking. You are tough on abuse. Your decisions reflect a solid commitment to family values, women’s rights, children. Not radical, but solid. That’s good stuff.” He glanced into his notebook, then looked up. “There’ll be more of this. Every case you’ve ever prosecuted, every closing argument you’ve ever delivered, every decision you’ve ever handed down, every quote you’ve ever given a reporter, every country club you’ve ever joined, every gardener you ever employed, every woman you ever danced with, all of it will be dredged up. The media has no compunctions, and the Senate takes its advice and consent function very seriously.”

  “Sure. I know how it works, Mr. Brody.”

  “I need to ask you a harder question.”

  Larrigan smiled. “You want to meet all the skeletons in my closet.”

  “Yes. Now. Today. There must not be any surprises down the road.”

  “I inhaled when I was in law school.” Larrigan grinned. “Drank beer in high school a couple times, too. Never got caught.”

  “Twenty years ago,” said Brody, “I would’ve shook your hand and said, oh well, too bad, thanks just the same. Today, those things are not a concern.”

  Larrigan folded his arms and frowned. “I’m an alcoholic,” he said quietly.

  Brody nodded. “We know that. It’s very much to your credit that you are forthright about it.”

  “I’ve never tried to make it a secret.”

  “You’ve been dry for sixteen years,” said Brody. “The president believes that fact can work to our advantage. What you’ve done is heroic, Judge. You’ve overcome a very common and terrible disease and risen to the top of your profession. It makes you human and ... interesting. A kind of role model.”

  “I never thought being an alcoholic would work to my advantage for anything.”

  “Did you ever do anything, um, regrettable in those years?”

  “Lots of things that I regret,” said Larrigan. “I suppose I embarrassed myself and my friends and family more than once. But I was never arrested for DUI, never hit my wife, never ended up in the wrong bed, never a public nuisance, nothing like that. I wouldn’t have been confirmed for the seat I presently hold if I had. I sought help, and I got it, and I’ve been dry all this time.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, I’m still an alcoholic. Always will be. Nobody is cured.”

  “You understand,” said Brody, “the scrutiny will be a lot more intense when the Senate Judiciary Committee holds its confirmation hearings. More scrutiny than you’ve ever had before. Your friendship with the president and the senators and congressmen from Massachusetts will not protect you. Probably intensify the scrutiny, in fact.”

  “There’s nothing.”

  “What about when you were in Vietnam?”

  “I’m proud of my record.” Larrigan’s forefinger went to his eye patch. It was no doubt a meaningless, unconscious gesture, but Brody had the odd sense that Larrigan was staring at him right through his patch. “It was a crazy, nightmarish time, of course, those last months in Saigon before the evacuation. I saw friends, men under my command, die. I saw innocent civilians, women and children, die. I was responsible for the deaths of many of our enemies. I lost my eye in combat. The nightmares still come back sometimes.” He leaned forward and fixed Brody with that unnerving one-eyed gaze. “You know that I spoke out about the war after my discharge.”

  Brody nodded. “We do know that. What you did, the way you went about doing it, was admirable. You served your country honorably as a soldier, and then you came home and served your country as a citizen.”

  Larrigan smiled. “I never thought of it that way.”

  “The president does.” Brody shut his notebook, shoved it into his briefcase, and snapped it shut. “If you are nominated, you can expect your entire life history to be made public. Are you prepared for that?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Good.” Brody stood up. “For now, the president must have your assurance that our meeting today will remain confidential.”

  “What about my wife?”

  Brody shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

  Larrigan stood up, too. “I understand.”

  Brody held out his hand. “You’ll be hearing from us. The president wants me to tell you that he’s very much looking forward to seeing you again.”

  Larrigan gripped Brody’s hand. “Please tell the president that I am greatly honored.”

  THOMAS LARRIGAN WATCHED the little man with the big briefcase walk down the wide pathway and disappear around the bend. It took all his willpower not to leap in the air and click his heels together.

  Justice Thomas R. Larrigan. Oh, yes. It had a nice ring to it. It sounded good.

  What lawyer didn’t dream of someday sitting on the Supreme Court? He wanted it. Of course he wanted it. If Brody only knew how badly he wanted it . . .

  Surprises, Brody had called them. Skeletons—that was Tom Larrigan’s own word. Shit, who didn’t have skeletons? Nobody who’d spent three years in Southeast Asia during the war. Certainly nobody who’d been a drunk for twenty years. If you looked close enough, you’d find a skeleton in every closet in America. If you looked close enough, you wouldn’t find anybody who’d qualify for the Supreme Court.

  Old dusty skeletons, long dead. Skeletons can’t tell stories.

  Larrigan reached into his pants pocket, took out his cell phone, and pecked out a number. When the voicemail recording invited him to leave a message, Larrigan said, “Meet me at five-thirty. You know where. I’ve got some news. Semper fi.”

  He snapped the phone shut, shoved it into his pocket, turned, and strode back into the courthouse.

  DURING THE FORTY-FIVE-MINUTE limo ride to Hanscom Field in Bedford, where the anonymous private jet waited to take him back to Andrews A.F.B., Pat Brody transposed his cryptic handwritten notes into his laptop, then shaped them into an eyes-only memo to the president.

  He concluded with these words: “You are right. Larrigan’s perfect. Almost too good to be true.”

  Brody liked everything about Thomas Larrigan. He liked his record as both a prosecutor and as a judge. He liked the way he insisted on putting the law above his personal views. He liked the man’s life story. American dream stuff. And he liked his appearance and his personality. He was handsome and likable. Charismatic, even. He’d play well in the media.

  The president needed someone exactly like Larrigan. The reelection campaign was looming, and he needed a slam dunk. He needed something that would make everybody in both parties stand up and cheer. He needed an appointee that the Judiciary Committee would approve unanimously and enthusiastically.

  The president desperately needed some good wound-healing, bipartisan, no-controversy, polls-spiking, feel-good publicity, and this Judge Larrigan should give him just that. To oppose the appointment of this perfect nominee would appear mean-spirited and partisan. It was a no-lose situation for the president.

  Pat Brody couldn’t figure out why he felt vaguely uneasy about the judge. He was perfect.

  He sighed. He’d been in the political game too long. He was too damned cynical.

  Brody had earned his Ph.D. in history, and in all of his studies, not even to mention h
is fourteen years in public service, nobody yet had been perfect.

  Somewhere along the way the rules had shifted. Now a one-eyed alcoholic federal district court judge who’d never handed down an important decision in his career, never made a decision with constitutional implications, a plodding jurist at best, but an attractive man—okay, a charismatic man with an interesting personal history and a spotless but bland professional history, and a good golf swing—such a man looked like the perfect Supreme Court appointee.

  A Bronze Star and an eye patch and a blank slate on every controversial issue of the day. That was the ticket. It was all about perception.

  The times they were a-changin’, all right, and Pat Brody supposed he just wasn’t keeping up.

  Like his daughter kept saying: Nobody listens to the Kingston Trio anymore, Dad.

  The president would be pleased, though. That, he reminded himself, was what counted.

  Pleasing the president. That was Patrick Brody’s job.

  CHAPTER 2

  That evening Pat Brody was sitting at his desk in his windowless basement office almost directly underneath the most powerful office in the world. Brody’s own little workspace was dim, lit only by the single fluorescent bulb on the desk lamp and the glow of his computer screen.

  He had delivered his memo to the president, debriefed him, and chatted for the allotted five minutes.

  The president had seemed pleased. “So far so good, then,” he had said. “Do what needs to be done.”

  And Brody understood his meaning: “Don’t tell me anything else. What I don’t know I can’t be responsible for. But don’t let me make a mistake.”

  Brody typed in his password—an utterly random eight-digit number that he changed daily, memorized, and wrote down nowhere—hit the “write letter” icon, and typed in the six-digit address, also random, that he had also memorized.