The Nomination (2 page)

P
atrick Francis Brody sat on the wooden bench facing the Boston Inner Harbor with his scuffed old leather briefcase on his lap. He'd swear it was still the dead of winter. The knife-sharp east wind blew off the water at him and sliced through his topcoat, through his suit jacket and his shirt and his undershirt, through his muscles and skin, and penetrated to the marrow of his bones. The April sun that ricocheted off the water was pale and empty of warmth.

He'd only been there ten minutes, and already he was freezing his ass off. He hunched his shoulders inside his spring-weight topcoat and shivered. Bad decision, that thin, unlined topcoat. He'd been wearing it for a couple weeks now back in D.C., where the cherry blossoms were ablaze and the endless acres of lawns had turned that amazing lime green that made your eyes hurt. It was spring back in Washington. Two hours ago, a couple hundred miles ago, it had been spring.

Behind him rose the sweeping glass facade of the John Joseph Moakley United States Courthouse. The building had won several awards, and Pat Brody, who had spent a lot of time in courthouses all over the country, had to admit that it was impressive, architecturally, not that he really gave a shit. It was what the people inside the courthouses did that impressed him, although not always favorably.

Brody glanced at his watch. Twelve noon on the dot. He turned and looked back toward the courthouse, and sure enough, punctual as hell, there was Judge Larrigan, strolling down the wide path, looking around.

Brody lifted his hand. Larrigan spotted him, waved, smiled that million-dollar one-eyed smile of his, and started toward him.

As cynical as he was—and Pat Brody didn't get to be a special assistant to the president of the United States by being naïve—he had to admit that Judge Thomas R. Larrigan was a pretty impressive specimen. Well over six lanky feet tall, with a thick shock of black hair sprinkled with dignified gray, a wide, lopsided, fun-loving grin, and, of course, that black eye patch. He moved like an athlete, oozed self-confidence. Fifty-nine years old, Brody knew, but he looked about ten years younger. Mature, but not old. Experienced, but not over the hill.

The right look didn't hurt. It didn't hurt at all. Larrigan had it.

The son of a bitch had his suit jacket hooked on his finger and slung over his shoulder. His tie was loosened at his throat, and his cuffs were rolled halfway up his forearms, as if it was the middle of July. Shirtsleeves on a day like this. Jesus.

Brody couldn't stop shivering.

Then Larrigan was standing in front of him. “Mr. Brody?” he said.

Brody looked up and nodded.

“Hope I didn't keep you waiting,” Larrigan said. “Lawyers, you know?”

“You're right on time. I just got here.”

Larrigan sat beside him on the bench and folded his jacket on his lap. “Nice day, huh?”

“I'm freezing my balls off, you want the truth.”

Larrigan grinned. “You get used to it.” He shifted so that he was half turned and looked at Brody out of that one sharp blue eye. “I got your message. Pretty mysterious. Don't know why you wouldn't want to get together in my chambers where it's warm. So what brings you to Boston?”

“Do you know who I am?” said Brody.

Larrigan nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Then I thought you might've figured out why I'm here, Judge.”

“Maybe I did,” Larrigan said. “But maybe I'd rather hear you say it, just the same. I've been trained to withhold judgment until I've heard all the evidence, you know?”

“Okay,” said Brody. “Here it is, then. Supreme Court Justice Lawrence Crenshaw has informed the president of his intention to retire at the end of the term. You've heard the rumors.” He made it a statement and looked up at Larrigan with his eyebrows arched.

“Rumors,” said Larrigan. “Sure, I've heard talk. It's true?”

“It's true,” said Brody. “And you, Judge, are on the president's personal list.”

“Personal list,” said Larrigan. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Brody, “that the president's staffers are studying and evaluating dozens of men and women. Eminent attorneys and jurists from all over the country. A dozen or more of them will be invited to the White House for interviews. Those candidates are on what we call the staff list. You are bypassing all of this, Judge. The president wants you to know that. That's why I'm here. It's why you weren't asked to make the journey to Washington. You're on the president's personal list. His is a very short list.”

“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.”