The Confirmation: A Novel

A FIDELIS BOOKS BOOK

An Imprint of Post Hill Press

ISBN: 978-1-64293-278-2

ISBN (eBook): 978-1-64293-279-9

The Confirmation:

A Novel

© 2019 by Ralph Reed

All Rights Reserved

Cover Design by Jomel Cequina

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.

Post Hill Press

New York • Nashville

posthillpress.com

Published in the United States of America

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Acknowledgments

About the Author

ONE

The president-elect stared into the mirror and struggled to tie the knot in his two-thousand-dollar silver Brioni tie as his fingers shook. He was surprised at how jumpy he was now that the moment he yearned for, dreamed of, and fought for his entire career had finally arrived. Satisfied at last with the knot, he gazed back at his reflection in the mirror. He noted with pleasure that his morning coat fit him snugly, the silvery tie and vest highlighting the streaks of grey in his wavy brown hair. The heels on his spit-polished alligator cowboy boots took his height to just over six feet. His steely blue eyes were open and inviting, reflecting his expansive mood.

Upstairs, an army of beauticians and hairstylists flown in from New York and Beverly Hills worked on the future First Lady’s image. Rapid footsteps on the wooden floor above conveyed harried preparations. A dress assistant flown in by Oscar de la Renta, the design house providing two dresses for the inauguration, joined them. The entire production—hair, makeup, manicure, and wardrobe—was taking more time than landing the 82nd Airborne at Normandy.

The president-elect looked at his watch. His blood pressure spiked. They were supposed to be at St. John’s Episcopal Church for the traditional prayer service in four minutes.

Claire!

No response. More frantic footsteps.

Claire!

Coming! came the cry from behind the bedroom door.

Claire, we have to leave right now! he shouted. The president and First Lady will be standing outside waiting, and the whole world will see that I can’t arrive at my own inauguration on time.

Bob Long, former governor of California, claimed the peak of American politics after winning the most bizarre presidential campaign in U.S. history. Defeated for the Democratic nomination at a convention tainted by corruption, he entered the race as an independent initially seen as merely a spoiler, and his candidacy caught fire with voters turned off by the partisan bickering in Washington. When no candidate won a majority in the electoral college, the election went to the House of Representatives. Long won an astonishing victory and became the first independent candidate elevated to the presidency in U.S. history.

Out of the fog of nerves and confusion, an advance man approached. Governor, POTUS and FLOTUS are moving from the residence. ETA, three minutes, he said, using acronyms for the president and First Lady. Should we tell them to…wait?

Long looked at the advance man with a mixture of dread and panic. Then, as if on cue, Claire Long appeared at the top of the stairs, her hair pulled up, pearls the size of miniature golf balls on her neck, wearing a stunning royal blue dress with matching pillbox hat. Well? she asked triumphantly, spreading her arms. Am I worth the wait?

Long let out a long whistle. You look just…incredible! You look like a modern Jackie Kennedy.

Thank you, Mr. President, she said.

She glided down the stairs, chin held high, followed by a retinue for hair and makeup and brushed his cheek with her lips. That was when he caught the scent of vodka masked with expensive perfume. He shook it off. Claire probably had a Bloody Mary with brunch to take the edge off, he thought.

Long introduced himself to the makeup team enthusiastically. You guys did a fantastic job. I love the hair. Which one of you is the hairstylist?

I’m a hair artist, replied a short woman wearing tight black jeans, a black T-shirt and reddish-purple hair.

Forgive me, Long replied with a touch of sarcasm. I didn’t mean to give you a demotion. Of course you’re an artist. And that goes for all of you.

They headed down the hall to the front door. Hair artist, eh? whispered Long. I guess that means she’s expensive.

Not as expensive as me, honey, replied Claire.

The door opened and the Secret Service detail led the way to the waiting limousine. Long felt his heart rate quicken. It was all really happening.

Across Lafayette Park, Jay Noble took a final sip of coffee as he finished a brunch fit for a king at the Hay-Adams Hotel. He downed an egg-white omelet, a plate of bacon (he was trying the low-carb thing), a bowl of fruit, and a syrup-drenched plate of French toast (okay, maybe not the whole Atkin’s thing). His thatch of brown hair, combed more neatly than usual, had a telltale hint of gray at the sides, white hairs he gained as the architect of one of the most brutal presidential victories ever recorded. His high forehead, cherubic cheeks, and laconic posture telegraphed an attitude of smug satisfaction. Completely out of character for an aging political hack, he wore a tailored Hugo Boss suit. He held the china cup with three fingers. A fleet of waiters flitted around the table, the maître d’ and manager did table visits, and other patrons craned their necks to see if it was really him. And why not? Jay was the political maestro who masterminded Bob Long’s rise to the presidency.

Not to pry, but why aren’t you taking Lisa to the ball? asked David Thomas, Long’s campaign manager and recently named White House political director. He was referring to Lisa Robinson, the black-haired, angular beauty who ran the press shop in the Long campaign, and who recently jetted off to an exotic eco-resort in Mexico with Jay.

Jay let the dead air hang. Should he tell the truth or feed Thomas the same spin he gave everyone else? He chose the latter.

It’s complicated, he sighed. Lisa’s going to be White House communications director, and I’m the president’s chief strategist. He shot Thomas a sly look. Besides, I live by the rule that you keep your private parts out of the payroll.

Thomas, a born sucker for locker-room talk, smiled knowingly. You’re right. But it’s still tragic, he said, shaking his head. Lisa’s hot—and smart.

She’s got the trifecta, Jay agreed. Body, brains, personality. He let out a long sigh. But there are plenty of other fish in the sea.

Jay was relieved that no one knew the truth, which was that he asked Lisa to be his date and she had turned him down flat. She needed to do her job, she insisted, and that meant being taken seriously by the press corps. They would remain friends, she assured him. Pretending not to be crushed, Jay agreed. He had to admit she had solid instincts when it came to navigating negative press coverage. But a week later Jay read in the Style section of the Washington Post that Lisa was going with Senator Russell Evans of Tennessee, the fifty-four-year-old bachelor freshly divorced from the reigning queen of country music. Evans was one of the most notorious skirt-chasers on Capitol Hill, showing up at cocktail parties in DC with a different blonde on his arm every week. This was Lisa’s idea of being taken seriously?

So you’re flying solo? asked Thomas.

No, replied Jay. He leaned back in his chair, trying to play it cool. I’m taking Satcha Sanchez.

Thomas shot him a surprised look. The Latina infobabe?

It’s all part of my Hispanic outreach strategy, said Jay. He let out a rapid-fire, evil laugh.

Thomas chuckled. You’re too much. Jay waved for the check. As he signed the bill, he saw Thomas’s eyes widen. Well, what do you know…speak of the devil.

Jay turned around to see Satcha’s five-feet-six-inch frame gliding across the room, hips swaying hypnotically, her hourglass figure wrapped in a fire-engine red dress with a plunging neckline. Her red lips formed an alluring smile, and her black hair with light brown highlights teased into an on-air bouffant that bounced as she stepped in Christian Laboutin heels. She carried a full-length mink coat over her arm.

Subtle she is not, said Thomas under his breath.

The men rose from the table as Jay dipped his head in a gentlemanly bow. "You look mahvelous," he said to Satcha.

Thank you, sugar, replied Satcha matter-of-factly. Her eyes sized up Jay’s outfit. "Love the suit. You are styling! A waiter appeared, pulling back Satcha’s chair and holding her mink gingerly as though it were still alive. Bottega loaned me the dress. If I decide to keep it, I can get it at a discount. But the mink is mine. Is it too much for television?"

Absolutely not! joked Jay. It’s positively understated.

Satcha shot him a sideward glance of mock disapproval. Her drop-dead looks and come-hither TV persona, spiced with a dollop of Latin sensuality, formed her into a symbol of Hispanic power. The ubiquitous Satcha was the empress of the Latino vote, her visage staring down from billboards and out from magazine covers as she covered the campaign and moderated presidential debates for Univision. A Puerto Rican journalist of Cuban descent, she started out in San Antonio as a meteorologist, then moved on to the Weather Channel before hitting it big at Univision, garnering higher ratings than the major networks in New York, LA, Houston, Chicago, and Miami. People magazine named her one of the 50 Most Beautiful People. With Satcha on his arm, Jay was guaranteed plenty of buzz, a play for Hispanic votes, and a measure of sweet revenge against Lisa.

Are you coming to the ceremony? asked Thomas.

No, I have to work, replied Satcha with a frown. I’m anchoring the inaugural coverage, and I stay on the air to cover the parade. She made a face. I just don’t know if I can make myself sound interested as I announce the marching band from Columbus, Ohio.

You want us to help you get some senators and congressmen to stop by the skybox so you can do some interviews? asked Jay.

That would be great! Satcha’s face lit up. Get people close to Long. I don’t want anyone who is boring. I’m looking only for important people.

You mean like me? Jay asked, his face cracking into a smile.

Not you, sweetie, she volleyed. Univision signed off on my going to the ball tonight, but if the suits think I’m getting too political, they will go nuts.

You mean you have to be careful about press coverage? asked Thomas.

They won’t leave me alone, Satcha sighed. The only thing worse is no one talking about you, right?

Jay waved over the waiter, who returned and slid the mink on Satcha. The power couple breezed from the lobby as the doormen held the door, the frigid January air blasting through the entrance. More heads turned and fingers pointed as they flew out of the hotel.

In the presidential suite of the Willard Hotel, the Reverend Andrew H. Stanton held court in a living room the size of a basketball court, surrounded by the usual clutch of aides and hangers-on, gathered like a highly compensated peanut gallery on a large sofa and several wing chairs. Like any religious broadcaster worth his salt, Andy traveled with a posse the size of a hip-hop artist. Today it included three ministry vice presidents and their wives, several drivers, two security guards, Mrs. Stanton, Andy’s four children and their spouses, and a press secretary. Also joining them was Ross Lombardy, Andy’s political right hand. Everyone had VIP tickets to the inauguration and the balls, which Ross obtained by calling in every chit he had at the inaugural committee. Twenty-nine VIP tickets to the ceremony? No problem, Mr. Lombardy! After all, Stanton delivered an estimated thirty million evangelical votes to Long on election day. Ross also obtained parking passes, which was fortunate because the delegation required six SUVs just to drive the short distance to the Capitol.

"Can you believe they asked to see my prayer in advance!? Andy fairly bellowed. I’m not going to let some bureaucrat edit my prayer."

I believe it, sir, replied Ross, whose day job was serving as executive director of the Faith and Family Federation. They want to make sure it’s politically correct.

"Meaning what?" asked Andy, his face twisted with righteous

indignation.

Meaning no J-word, said Ross. God is good, God is great. But Jesus offends some people. He shrugged with a political operative’s nonchalance.

Too bad, shot back Andy, his blue eyes smoldering. Jesus is my Lord and Savior. I’m not ashamed of the gospel. He enunciated each syllable.

The vice presidents grunted their approval with an Amen.

Can’t you make it ecumenical? asked Ross, pressing. Why stir the pot?

You’re the political guy; I’m the pastor. Leave the prayers to me.

Then there’s the Muslim thing, Ross coolly added. We’re in a global war on terror. Long’s folks are spooked by anything that might be construed by the Arab street as relaunching the Crusades. Other than Long’s inaugural address, Andy’s prayer would be one of the highlights of the ceremony, seen or heard by over a billion people. It could spark an international incident if Andy went Moses, as they liked to call it around New Life Ministries. Ross fielded several worried calls from the Long camp about Andy’s prayer. He gave them all the same answer: no one would see or hear the prayer until Andy delivered it at the Capitol.

Do you realize what today means? asked one of Andy’s obsequious aides. You’re the new Billy Graham.

Andy frowned, dipping his chin and clasping his hands firmly behind his back. There’ll never be another Billy. Besides, I’m controversial, too political, don’t ya know.

Billy prayed with presidents; Andy elects ’em, corrected Ross with a wicked grin. He turned to Andy. Andy, you’re Billy, Richard Daley, and Samuel Gompers all rolled into one.

Andy seemed momentarily taken aback by the comment. Then suddenly he broke into a little-boy grin and cackled with laughter, clapping his hands as he enjoyed the joke at his own expense. The posse, lined up on the couch like blow-up dolls, helmet hair frozen into place by too much hair spray, chuckled nervously. The comment struck close to home, but Andy’s self-deprecating sense of humor gave everyone else permission to laugh.

The door swung open and a security guard stood at attention. Reverend Stanton, time to go, sir.

Andy, followed in single file by the posse, headed out of the suite to an elevator.

Senate Majority Leader Salmon Stanley strode through the Capitol Rotunda on his way to the inauguration of his sworn enemy wearing the plastic face of a defeated candidate. His puffy, white countenance masked the trauma beneath: resentment at Long’s successful betrayal of the Democratic party and his preternaturally charmed rise, anger at the investigation of his campaign by a Republican Justice Department, and bitterness at the vicious attacks on his candidacy from the media. Still, Stanley was determined to grit his teeth and get through the ordeal, if only to deny his enemies the joy of his absence. But that didn’t make it any more pleasant. Even though he claimed to have a hide as thick as an elephant, Stanley’s wound went deep.

We’ll get through it fine, Stanley said in a hollow voice to his chief of staff, walking briskly beside him. My father used to say, ‘Son, when you get knocked down, get up, dust yourself off, and keep putting one foot in front of the other.’

You’re a far better man than the one taking the oath of office today, the aide replied.

Maybe, Stanley said. Sometimes you just have to put the country first. John Adams left town rather than attend Jefferson’s inaugural. Not me. I’m going to be on that platform when he takes the oath. He paused. I’m not a quitter.

Absolutely not, the aide agreed.

The rotunda was eerily silent save for the echo of their footsteps.

A few stragglers passed awkwardly, averting their eyes. A security guard who normally waved at the majority leader simply looked away. Clearly, it was going to be a tough day.

Will you go again in four years? I hope so. The aide turned philosophical.

I don’t know, said Stanley. That’s a long way off. Stanley turned to the aide with a twinkle in his eye. The first step in a comeback is survival. And I am a survivor.

They walked down the stairs leading to the doorway to the west front of the Capitol. As he came down the stone passageway, the director of the ceremony greeted him and escorted him onto the sun-splashed stage where he was greeted by muffled applause from glove-handed admirers. He took his seat on the second row. It struck him that he would be sitting less than ten feet from Long when he ascended to the office they had both sought. He adjusted his scarf, checked the buttons on his overcoat, and braced himself against the cold.

Two

At 11:30 a.m. the couples emerged from the White House and appeared on the North Portico, the mammoth and stately front door added in 1830 in keeping with the federal style of the time. They posed briefly for the cameras. The president then gingerly guided Claire Long to her car with an affectionate hand placed at the small of her back. The First Lady got in behind her. The president motioned for Long to get into the presidential limousine. He climbed in last. The secure package completed, surrounded by Secret Service agents on foot and surveyed by Navy Seal snipers perched on buildings above, the motorcade slowly inched down the driveway at a snail’ s pace.

For his part, Long was glad the show was finally on the road. The traditional preinaugural coffee in the Oval Office featured stilted chit-chat. The occasional pregnant pause spoke more than words, the chemistry between Long and the outgoing president awkward. And for good reason. After all, the president’s handpicked successors were respectively dead and defeated. Vice President Harrison Flaherty was murdered by terrorists as he departed the Republican convention; his running mate, former Secretary of State David Petty, imploded in a sex scandal in the final days of the campaign. It was no exaggeration to observe that Long owed his election to an assassin’s bullet and a rival’s zipper.

As Long sat across from the president for the brief ride to the Capitol, it occurred to him that he was the last person on earth the president wanted taking his place—other than Salmon Stanley, whom they both despised. Long knew the president viewed him as the accidental president, a conniving opportunist who reached the White House by a maddening combination of cutthroat opportunism and dumb luck. He hoped their mutual hatred of Stanley would unite them in a partnership, if only based on shared disdain for their nemesis.

The president shifted to the edge of his seat, leaning forward from his torso. Have you given any further thought to Iran? he asked, the question landing like a howitzer.

I guess the small talk is over, thought Long. The president’s steely eyes bore into him. He felt the walls of the limo closing in on him.

The sanctions package before the Security Council is a start, Long answered haltingly. If we could pass those, it could turn the screws. We can also interdict Iranian shipping.

The president frowned. The Chinese are slow-walking it, he said, his irritation apparent. They have the veto. He leaned forward, tapping his right index finger on Long’s knee. Iran is gaming us. If you want to stop the Iranians from getting a nuke, you’re going to have to get more proactive.

Long was thunderstruck. He felt as though he was trapped in a metal tube falling to earth. A thought raced through his mind: Thanks for the advice as you head out of town. He reached for a question: Is there a good military option?"

Not really, the president sighed. Unless you give the green light to the Israelis and that’s complicated. He looked gravely into Long’s eyes. The CIA traced the funds from the terrorists who killed Flaherty to Iran through a bank in Caracas. They know we know. If we don’t respond, they’ll interpret your inaction as weakness.

They’ll find out soon enough that I’m not weak, Long replied firmly. Long agreed with the president on a theoretical level. He did not want a repeat of 2000, when the attack on the U.S.S. Cole in Yemen went unanswered.

Salami is a lying, duplicitous terrorist and a cold-blooded killer, the president scoffed, referring to Mahmoud Salami, the president of Iran. He hates Jews, hates Israel, hates Christians, hates America. I should have acted after the election when there was still time.

The president looked out the window, his eyes searching. But Petty convinced me it would be disruptive during the House election. His eyes returned to Long’s. Now I’ve left it to you.

What about the mullahs? asked Long. Salami is just their puppet; he’s a clown, and they hold the strings. Can we reach them through a back channel?

They’re intimidated by Salami, the president replied. He’s a demagogue, and he has the radicals eating out of his hand. If you want him gone, you’ll have to push him out. He leaned forward, his steely blue eyes unblinking. Or have him removed from the picture.

Long could hardly believe his ears. Was the president really suggesting that he have the president of Iran assassinated?

The president read his facial expression. Bob, we’ve been at war with Iran since they took our hostages in ’79. They’re bankrolling Hezbollah and Hamas. They tried to overthrow the Iraqi government. They murdered Flaherty. They’ll have a nuke by the end of the year, maybe sooner. If you don’t solve it, this will haunt your successors for the next fifty years.

I said during the campaign that we can’t allow Iran to have nuclear weapons, and I meant it, Long assured him, his gaze steady.

Then may God be with you, said the president. You’ll have my support without reservation. I’ll say something publicly if that will help.

I appreciate that, Mr. President, Long heard himself say. Start a war in the Middle East, check, he thought. As he saw it, the president’s sense of personal responsibility for avenging Flaherty’s murder was eating him inside, and he was leaving office a tortured soul.

The president suddenly brightened. He glanced at his watch. You’ll be able to call me that for about fifteen more minutes, he joked. Then it’s all yours.

The presidential motorcade had arrived at the Capitol. Marine guards opened the doors of the limo. The couples emerged from their cars, the First Lady and Claire from one and the president and Long from the other, smiling and waving. A crowd of spectators behind police barricades on Constitution Avenue let out a loud cheer. Arm in arm, they walked up the steps into the Capitol.

In Room 950 of the Capitol Hill Hyatt, Senator Joseph Penneymounter, chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee, lay with a woman young enough to be his daughter. He kept one eye on the nightstand clock as it ticked toward the ceremony.

Sorry I have to run, he said as he slipped into his suit pants. If I’m late, they won’t seat me on the platform. I’ll be in the nosebleed section.

I’m surprised you want to go at all, given that it’s Long, the woman replied.

It’s painful, but I don’t have a choice. If I don’t go, it will be a story. He turned back and smiled mischievously. Call you later?

Sure, she said, sliding out from underneath the sheet. Penneymounter noticed how fit and trim her physique was as she slipped on a bathrobe. How he envied her youth. He glanced down at the paunch at his own midsection. Age is a cruel thing, he thought.

Gotta run, said Penneymounter. I have this room for another night, so you don’t have to rush out.

Another night? she asked seductively, walking over to him and pressing up against his chest. In that case…maybe I’ll stay. That is, assuming you can handle me.

Penneymounter smiled. What are you trying to do, kill me?

You’ll die with a smile on your face, she said with a grin.

Penneymounter laughed as he knotted his tie. He opened the door slowly, checking to see if anyone was in the hallway, and walked briskly to the elevator. As he waited for the elevator to arrive, he looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes to get to his seat.

The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court took his seat on the front row while the other members of the Court sat as a group to the right. One justice remained conspicuously absent. It was Peter Corbin Franklin, the eighty-eight-year-old senior justice and liberal lion of the Court. Some wondered: Was he boycotting the ceremony? Beset by old age and dementia, Franklin had taken to nodding off during oral arguments. His deteriorating mental state was an open secret among the media and Supreme Court watchers. But the feisty jurist, keeper of the progressive flame on the Court, had refused to resign his seat to prevent the outgoing Republican president to nominate a conservative to replace him. Long’s election now made retirement even less likely. His absence would be a slap in the face at Long or a further sign of his declining physical condition; his presence in temperatures barely hovering above zero degrees Fahrenheit would say loud and clear that he planned to leave the Court only one way: feet first.

At ten minutes to noon, an ambulance pulled up to the east front of the Capitol. Lifted out of the ambulance on a stretcher and helped into a wheelchair by a team of paramedics was Peter Corbin Franklin. His withered frame was folded into a dark suit and a shock of white hair topped his weathered face. A wrinkled hand, twisted by arthritis and covered with blue veins and age spots, gripped a cane. The medics wheeled him through the Capitol. When he reached the stairs on the West Front, he insisted on walking and descended the steps with agonizing deliberation, balancing himself with the cane while he held onto the arm of the Marine guard who assisted him.

As Franklin struggled to his seat, people tried not to stare. But the sight of the frail and weak man, the liberal conscience of the Supreme Court who was determined to be present at the swearing in of the new president, was moving.

Peter made it, whispered Salmon Stanley to a Democratic senator who sat next to him. I’m so glad. Good for him.

I hope he’s going to be alright in this cold, the colleague replied.

Me, too, said Stanley. We need him healthy for four more years at a minimum.

You mean until you’re elected president? the senator replied, jabbing the majority leader in the side with an elbow.

Oh, you never know about things like that, replied Stanley. It’s a funny business.

What better evidence is there than the fact that you and I are sitting here at Bob Long’s inauguration, after you beat him in the primaries?

God help us, Stanley muttered.

Andy Stanton rose to give the prayer as everyone on the platform held their collective breath. As the most prominent evangelical leader in the nation, Stanton had led a flock of millions out of the Grand Old Party, helping deliver the presidency to Bob Long. His Norman Vincent Peale demeanor and aw-shucks Southern charm masked a Christian orthodoxy blended with rare political instincts. Even standing behind the podium, Stanton’s six-foot-four-inch frame, which carried 224 pounds of the muscle and sinew of an aging Golden Gloves boxer, dominated the stage. At age fifty-six, his salt and pepper hair now showed more salt than pepper.

Let us pray, Andy said as he bowed his head. Father, we come before You today in a spirit of humility, gratitude, and repentance. Humility because we have too often followed our own ways and forsaken Your paths. Repentance because our sins are legion, both as individuals and as a nation. Gratitude because of the blessings You have mercifully bestowed on us, an undeserving people. The wind blew the sheet of paper on which Andy had written his prayer, causing it to rustle in the microphone. Forgive us. Heal our land, and grant us leaders of uncommon integrity and honor, who will walk humbly before You, seeking to do Your will and govern according to Your precepts.

Seated directly behind him, President-elect Long reached across his chair and grabbed the gloved hand of Claire, squeezing it firmly.

We pray for our new President, Robert W. Long. We pray also for the members of the Cabinet, members of Congress, both House and Senate, the Supreme Court, and all those in authority, Andy continued in his booming baritone, which echoed down the Mall. May they serve You and their conscience, not partisanship or political expediency. It was a veiled reference to Long’s status as the only independent candidate ever elected to the presidency, beholden to neither party. Turn the hearts of parents back to their children, the hearts of husbands back to their wives, the hearts of our leaders back to the common good, and the hearts of all of us back to You. Andy’s breath fogged as he spoke. "Today, as we reaffirm the American experiment in self-government and celebrate the freedoms we enjoy, of which You are the Author and Protector, we ask for Your grace over our nation. Give us what we need, not what we deserve. We ask all this in the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, the strong Son of God, Savior of all mankind, and Lord of the nations."

Andy had punched the words strong and all for emphasis, so as to leave no ambiguity in his use of evangelical vernacular for the secular ear. As he turned, Long rose to greet him. Their eyes locked. Long shook his hand and whispered words of thanks.

After the Chief Justice administered the oath of office to Vice President Johnny Whitehead, it was Long’s turn. He took his place to the right of the Chief Justice as Claire stood between them, holding the family Bible, which had once belonged to Long’s grandmother.

I, Robert Whitney Long, do solemnly swear, the Chief Justice began.

I Robert Whitney Long, do solemnly swear, repeated Long, trying hard to concentrate on the words rather than on his rapidly beating heart, which pounded like a jackhammer in his chest. His mind raced, backward in time to his first race for the state legislature and forward to the challenges of the offices he was about to assume. He heard himself say, And to protect and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God.

Congratulations, said the Chief Justice firmly.

Long reached over and kissed Claire. She beamed. Army cannons boomed a twenty-one-gun salute, the percussions echoing off the Capitol with a ceremonial thud. A loud cheer rose from the throng that stretched out before him like a human carpet, from the Capitol all the way to the Lincoln Memorial. The Capitol Police estimated the crowd at more than a half million, the largest gathering ever to attend a presidential inauguration.

My fellow citizens, today begins a new era in America, Long began. It is a day in which there are no Republicans or Democrats, no liberals or conservatives, no blue states, red states, or green states. Today we are all Americans, and we stand united. It was a safe beginning, and the crowd dutifully applauded. I did not seek this office to deliver more of the same to the American people. I came to bring honest change to the federal government. The people have spoken; they have demanded that Washington change, and change we must.

Sitting behind Long, Salmon Stanley clapped his hands silently, a look of barely disguised disdain on this face. But Long could not see him. His eyes drank in the view of the sun-splashed Mall, with the Washington Monument and Lincoln Memorial directly in front of him, the Jefferson Memorial and reflecting pool to his left. He was on a roll now.

I assume this office beholden to no party or vested interest, he proclaimed. Today we do not exchange one party for the other. We replace a tired and failed partisanship with a new era of seeking common ground for the common good. Members of the House and Senate sat impassively, their grey countenances decidedly unimpressed. Long knew they resented the fact that he had campaigned against them and everything they represented, denouncing business as usual in Washington. He was calling their bluff. Fight me, he seemed to say, and risk being drowned in a tidal wave of public disapproval. The politics of the past, in which both parties vie for power while problems fester and people are disconnected from government, ends today. The founders’ gave ultimate sovereignty to the people, not the powerful. It is they who must rule here, not the special interests.

Then Long delivered the money line. To those who say that we cannot change the ways of Washington, to those who insist that the system is broken beyond repair, to those who claim that we are too divided, I say: we can overcome the challenges before us, for we are Americans. Loud and extended applause.

Long’s speech, like most of the first inaugural addresses of his predecessors, focused on the domestic front, largely ignoring the world beyond America’s shores. But Long’s eloquence ignored a hard political reality: he had been elected by the smallest plurality of any president since Abraham Lincoln in 1860. A man without a party, he faced an openly hostile Democratic Senate and a skeptical Republican House. Could he succeed? Washington could be a petty and vicious place that took special pride in humbling those who rode into town on a white horse to tame it. Long was about to find that out the hard way.

Three

Over at the Madison Hotel at Fifteenth and M Streets, in a room near the grand ballroom, a seemingly endless click line of tuxedo and gowned donors stinking of loud perfume and cologne snaked into the hallway, down the stairs and into the lobby. The money crowd had paid $5,000 a couple to have their photo taken with two of the biggest celebrities of Red State America: Reverend Andy Stanton and former U.S. Senator Keith Golden, the new attorney general of the United States.

Golden, a tall, earnest man with inviting eyes and a ready smile, sported a surplus of wavy brown hair, a fount of charisma and the political chops to help Long on the right. A graduate of the University of Virginia law school and a former U.S. Attorney, Golden had run for Congress sixteen years earlier against an entrenched Democrat and won, surprising everyone but himself. When the Democratic legislature carved him out of his district, he ran for the U.S. Senate, defeating another Democrat. After two terms, he lost a bitter campaign to a popular former centrist Democratic governor. But like a cat pitched off a roof, Golden had landed on his feet. Some attributed it to luck, others to Machiavellian maneuvering, still others to the favor of the Almighty. Whatever the truth, Golden was back, and he was hot.

Billed as the Christian Inaugural Celebration, the black-tie gala included a five-course dinner that climaxed with flaming baked Alaska, an appearance by Vice President Johnny Whitehead (Jay Noble had deemed it too politically risky to send the president), entertainment provided by the nation’s most famous contemporary Christian singers, and an open bar that sold soft drinks but no alcohol. After forty-five minutes, the last couple filed through the click line. Andy and Golden, facial muscles exhausted from constant smiling, stood like two department-store mannequins on their tape marks.

Now what? asked Andy to no one in particular. His staff stood around holding clipboards, wearing the pensive expressions of wedding planners.

You hold here. We’ll bring you out in a few minutes, said a staffer.

Stanton nodded. He clasped the attorney general by the arm and led him to a small table covered with a white tablecloth, a plate of mints, and a pitcher of ice water with glasses. Andy shot a look at his staff to leave the room, and they hustled out. The door closed behind them.

Thanks for doing this, Andy said as he poured them both a glass of ice water.

Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, replied Golden, his puffy face a portrait of false humility and obsequiousness. The deep lines in his face and gray flecks in his hair gave him a look that was a cross between a distinguished public servant and a battle-hardened ideological warrior. God works in mysterious ways, Andy. When I lost my Senate seat, I thought my political career was over. Andy nodded. But God used my defeat to pave the way for me to be attorney general. He paused, his face like a flint. Long would never have won without the voters you mobilized. Andy, I wouldn’t be where I am without your ministry.

Andy’s face broke into a proud grin. It’s just amazing, isn’t it? he marveled. With five Supreme Court justices over the age of seventy-five and the war on terror still ongoing, you are in one of the most strategic positions on the planet.

Golden nodded vigorously. Andy pulled his chair closer, leaning into him.

Keith, you’re a modern-day Esther. God has elevated you to the position of attorney general for such a time as this. The future of the Supreme Court and the federal judiciary are in your hands. Golden stared back, his face blank. But there’s a flip side. As Mordecai said to Esther, if you are not willing to be used to deliver God’s people, then He will raise up someone else who will.

Golden gulped. He took a sip of water.

Long needs your help on court appointments. He shook his head. I love him, but he’s a former Democrat. I’m afraid our philosophy may not be in his DNA.

I hear you loud and clear, my friend, and I share your concern, said Golden, confiding in Andy as a means to further bonding. It’s why I accepted Long’s offer to be AG. But I told him I would only go to Justice if I had the lead on court appointments. He agreed. He bobbed his head in wonderment. But I will say this: Long’s judicial appointments in California were not that bad. He generally appointed centrists.

That was then, this is now, Andy said, swatting aside Golden’s assurances with a dismissive wave of his hand. Washington ain’t Sacramento. He spun a finger across the top of his glass, staring into the water as if in search of a hidden clue. "Keith, we’re one vote away from overturning Roe v. Wade. When it comes to court appointments, it’s going to be war. Anyone who thinks otherwise is deluding themselves."

Golden looked like he had been punched in the gut. The conversation had taken a quick turn into tricky rapids. The president understands that, he replied noncommittally.

He better, replied Andy. He stared blankly at Golden, letting the silence hang in the air. Although he was a preacher, Andy could negotiate like a Teamster, and he knew that