Free The Confirmation by Ralph Reed

well as his enemies. And from now on I will do the same for you.” He knew that any prospective client or donor was a sucker for any line that celebrated his notorious killer instincts. Jay was used to being seen as the cleaner, cleaning up other people’s messes and leaving no fingerprints.
    Brodi rattled off a response, punctuating his speech with animated hand gestures. The aide translated for Jay. “The mayor says he has far more enemies than Long, and he wants you to take care of all of them.”
    Jay stared back at Brodi as the smile had drained away from his face. “Tell the mayor I look forward to it,” he said.
    IN A THREE-STORY PREWAR townhouse on C Street, two blocks from the Supreme Court building, the live-in nurse for Justice Peter Corbin Franklin prepared lunch. She ladled chicken noodle soup into a bowl. Using a knife, she methodically cut the bits of chicken and the noodles into smaller pieces because Franklin had difficulty chewing his food. A registered nurse who specialized in home care for geriatric patients, she had worked for Franklin since the death of his wife six years earlier. But the job was getting more difficult. As his health had deteriorated and his dementia advanced, Franklin had taken to occasionally showing up at work wearing a suit coat, dress shirt, and tie with pajama bottoms, face unshaven, visibly disoriented. One day he had gone to work and sat at his desk for half an hour, buzzing absent staff and growing increasingly agitated. He wandered the halls, angrily demanding to know where his staff was. A security guard had sheepishly explained to Franklin that it was Sunday and everyone had the day off. After that sad episode, Franklin’s colleagues implored his nurse to move into his townhouse to keep a closer eye on her patient.
    Lunch was a daily ritual with an unchanging menu. She stirred the soup with a spoon and placed two crackers (no salt) on top. Exactly two crackers—never more or less or she would hear about it. She placed a single scoop of chicken salad, the Justice’s favorite from the corner deli, on the side. She walked down the hall toward Franklin’s private, sun-lit study. He preferred to take his lunch there while he read the newspaper and listened to classical music. A folded copy of the Washington Post sat on the tray.
    The instant she entered the room, she saw Franklin slumped across his desk, body motionless, one hand clutching reading glasses, the other hand reaching for his right temple. She dropped the tray, its contents shattering on the floor. She rushed to Franklin and quickly checked his vital signs. With her index finger at his neck, she felt a faint, irregular pulse. His breathing was labored. She quickly surmised that he had suffered a coronary episode of some kind, or perhaps a cranial thrombosis. She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the medical team at the Supreme Court.
    â€œI need an ambulance for Justice Franklin stat,” she said hurriedly. “He is unconscious and in severe distress. Please hurry!” She glanced back at Franklin. Every minute was critical if they had any chance of saving his life.
    PHIL BATTAGLIA AND CHARLIE Hector walked down the narrow hallway leading to the Oval Office. Battaglia, who had served as Long’s counsel in the governor’s office in California and during the presidential campaign, was only midway through his second day as White House counsel. He was still unpacking boxes. This was his first meeting with the president.
    Checking through the peephole on the door to the Oval Office, Hector rapped on the door before entering. They walked in together, signaling that something important was happening. Long’s eyes seemed to ask, “What’s up?”
    â€œPhil has some disturbing news,” Hector said.
    â€œYou’ve been on the job for one day and you already have disturbing news? What is it?” asked Long.
    â€œMr. President, Peter