“Here’s the deal,” he says, “this is heady stuff, I’m sure. History of the nation. Highest court in the land. You want it. I want you to get it. Blah, blah. So let me lay things out for you. This president, my boss, is a moderate, and he’s tried to govern as a moderate. Hell, he’s even got a secretary of defense from your side. I got picked for chief of staff because I did time running campaigns for evangelical figures in the Bible Belt. That’s his motto. He’s the Compromise President, and he believes we’re in a war for the soul of the nation. And that the only way to win the war is to relearn the art of cooperation. To focus on our similarities, not our differences. But what is the war for a human soul, and who do you fight against? The devil. And we all know there can be no compromises with the devil.”
“Amen,” says Jay.
“It’s a fight to the death,” says Malcolm. “So we’ve sold you to our president as an agent of compromise. Just look at your family, for Chrissake. It’s a goddamn rainbow coalition. You’re young. You’re attractive. You’re warm. And on paper you don’t look like a zealot.”
“I’m not a zealot.”
“That’s good,” says Jay. “Say that.”
Malcolm’s iPhone beeps. He ignores it, leans forward.
“When you sit down with the president tomorrow, tell him you want to heal the wounds of the nation, that you will lead this divided court toward unity. And you will, but it’ll be our unity. An alignment of the like-minded, a conversion of the nonbelievers, until this country gets back to its proper destiny as a God-fearing Christian nation.”
For some reason Margot thinks of her daughter at nine, standing on a stage in Brooklyn singing our national anthem, and how the whole room rose to its feet.
“I’m not an originalist,” she says.
“We know,” says Jay. “That’s fine. Your rulings for the last ten years have all been well reasoned, your opinions sound. It’s clear your heart’s in the right place.”
“I won’t make any quid pro quos,” says Margot.
“No one wants that,” says Jay. “Just be who you are. But, you know, remember that a lot of time and money has been invested in your education, your advancement, your career. You’ve been groomed for this moment, Margot. By me and Bruce and dozens of right-thinking Americans willing to put their money where their mouth is. We all believe in you, but you need to understand that you’re a piece of a puzzle that’s bigger than all of us. You believe that, right?”
“I believe God has a plan for this world, and we are here to do his will, yessir. I truly do.”
“That’s good,” says Jay, “but with this president it’s best—he’s Christian, but with a small c, if you know what I mean.”
“Yes, sir.”
Malcolm rubs his eyes. “We’re going to win this war,” he says. “We have to. But we can’t do it without you. Do you understand?”
Margot nods. She knows that her whole life has led her to this moment. Every choice she’s made. Every ideal she’s fought for. Every compromise. “I won’t let you down,” she tells them.
The wine arrives. The waiter starts the opening presentation, but Malcolm shoos him away. He massacres the cork, places the bottle between his knees and muscles it open, spilling red wine on his pants. He pours them each a full glass.
“Cheers,” says Margot, and they clink glasses and drink. Malcolm lowers his glass, looks at Margot like she’s the turkey on Thanksgiving.
“Fucking A,” he says.
*
The next few days are a blur. Margot tours the Russell Senate offices, shaking hands. She meets Drinkers and Cooks alike. From their faces, she can tell she is a Cook’s worst nightmare. A conservative judge married to a Black man with a mixed-race son. Margot charms them as best she can, saying only that she will rule on every case based on its merits, not on a prescribed set of beliefs.
The Drinkers are suspicious too, trying to figure out the angle. A Cook nominated a Drinker. Is the Drinker not a real Drinker, or is the Cook not a real Cook? The idea of true bipartisanship never occurs to them.
On Friday she sits with the junior senator from Idaho, Kurt LaRue. He is a wiry man in his forties with a black comb-over, swept from left to right. LaRue was raised in a Christian community outside Devil’s Elbow. He is a building contractor turned land developer, who won his Senate race last year by just under one hundred votes. Before she’s even in the room, he grabs her hand warmly, two male aides standing in the background. They look like Bible study missionaries, just out of high school.