“You sent a town car to my hotel,” she says to laughter.
“No, I mean your path. How did you personally come to be a nominee for the highest court in the land?”
So she tells him about her father, about debate club and being first in her class at Yale, about the professors that inspired her at Notre Dame, but then Senator Albright interrupts.
“That’s good, thank you,” he says. “But I wonder if we could talk about a different process that brought you to us today. A secretive process. A process of dark money and fringe ideology that selects and grooms law students or young lawyers who share a conservative world view.”
He pauses for effect.
“I heard you had dinner with Jay Bryant last week. Is he part of the team that’s been preparing you for these hearings?”
“Senator,” says Margot, “Mr. Bryant and I had dinner with Chuck Malcolm the night I got in. I believe he was also at the Rose Garden reception the president held for my nomination announcement.”
“Would you say he’s a friend?”
Margot thinks about that. “More of a colleague.”
“Has he ever tried a case in front of you?”
“No, sir. Mr. Bryant doesn’t practice law.”
“But he is a lawyer.”
“That’s right.”
“In truth, he runs an organization called the Liberty Society. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And what is the Liberty Society?”
“It’s a think tank.”
“Oh, it’s a lot more than that.”
Margot doesn’t answer. She can tell he isn’t looking for information. He has a speech to make.
“What the Liberty Society actually does,” he says, “is work to reshape the entire United States court system, by manipulating the process by which judges are chosen and confirmed. And it does so with the help of tens of millions of dollars in private donations from a host of unnamed benefactors. Benefactors with an agenda. I’m sure you’ve met many of them.”
It’s not a question, so Margot doesn’t volunteer that yes, she has in fact met many of the Society’s major donors at retreats and private gatherings. If she wanted to engage in healthy debate, she would ask what the problem is with American citizens exercising their free speech through the use of their hard-earned money. She would say the Society exists to give conservative attorneys and judges a home inside an elitist system that considers progressive ideas “normal.” A place to engage in study and debate without fear of attack by an establishment trying to turn the Constitution into an unrecognizable proclamation of personal politics. Why shouldn’t we have a clubhouse? she has asked at safe gatherings. They get the Soho House.
Bars and Restaurants.
Drinkers and Cooks.
Apples and oranges.
Senator Albright mistakes her silence for concession. “Now, let’s be clear. Jay Bryant has never held a public office. Nobody voted for him, but he has spent the last twenty years working to get control over our courts. He spends millions of dollars of donor money to block confirmation of judges he doesn’t like and tens of millions pushing judges who subscribe to his beliefs. Would you say that’s accurate, Judge Nadir?”
“It’s Burr-Nadir,” she says. “Burr is my husband’s name, and I hyphenate.”
“How progressive of you,” says Senator Albright.
For the next fifteen minutes, he tries to paint her as the acolyte of a dark master trying to destroy America. Margot answers his direct questions patiently. She isn’t defensive or combative. She knows that for most people the complicated picture the senator paints of a network of influence and power will go over their heads. Turns out, Cooks like conspiracy theories too. So she maintains her composure and reminds the committee that she is an independent juror, indebted to no one. That she makes her decisions based on precedent and a measured consideration of the law. She has no agenda to push. No ideology.
*
The next morning Hadrian comes to breakfast in a long-sleeve shirt and a hoodie. They are eating in the hotel restaurant downstairs. Margot has gone ahead to prepare for the day’s testimony. Remy orders pancakes but doesn’t eat. When Hadrian reaches for the syrup, his sleeve slides up, and Remy notices two Band-Aids on his right wrist. Something about the sight snaps him out of his trance.
“What’s that?” he says.
“Nothing,” says Hadrian, pulling his hand back and lowering his arm under the table.
“Did you get cut?”