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judicial nominees for two years. ”
    â€œBob Long will stab you in the back just like he did Stanley and the Democratic Party,” Love fired back, blue veins in her neck showing through her fair skin. “When he does, you better fight him, or our members will not forget, and I assure you they will never forgive.” She turned the knob on the door and disappeared.
    Penneymounter stood there for a moment, pondering the ferocity of Christy’s blast. He knew the pro-choicers hated Golden’s guts, but Christy’s attitude was borderline irrational. It would be impossible for him as the chairman of the Judiciary to deny a floor vote to all of Long’s judicial picks for four years. He was going to have to disabuse the feminist crowd and the far-left blogosphere of this fantasy before things got even further out of control.
    The fun had drained out of the party for Penneymounter. It was time to go. As he breezed through the living room on his way out the door, he was careful to make discreet eye contact with the woman staffer who was his surreptitious date. That was her signal to leave the party separately and take a taxi back to the Capitol Hyatt.
    A NONDESCRIPT ADVANCE MAN wearing the official uniform of a dark suit and dark tie walked crossed the stage and placed a presidential seal on the front of the podium. The buzz of excited conversation filled the air. The crowd of more than three thousand people, bedecked in tuxedos and formal gowns, grew more anxious, the haute couture dresses of the women rustling as they pressed against the red velvet rope line. Secret Service agents took positions to either side of the stage. Above the stage, on a balcony elevated over the ballroom like a royal box at the opera house, the VIPs—elected politicians, bundlers, major donors, and lobbyists who masqueraded as power brokers—stared down at the scene as they heavily imbibed adult beverages and flashed their jewelry. At the bar in the VIP section, two bartenders worked feverishly to keep up with the demand for vodka cranberries and scotch and sodas.
    In the back of the VIP section, hiding in the shadows, stood the darkened visage of Jay Noble. Other than the president, he was the man of the hour. Following the inaugural ceremony and congressional luncheon in the Capitol, he had headed over to the media skyboxes across from the White House to do a victory lap on the cable shows. He had then briefly joined the president and Claire Long in the family box during the inaugural parade, an honor accorded to few outside the immediate Long family. Afterward, walking across Lafayette Park, he had been mobbed by the press and the great unwashed masses. At that moment it hit him like a load of bricks: he had become a political celebrity, and his life would never be the same. He had achieved the success and fame he had toiled for across two decades of smash-mouth, take-no-prisoners political combat. But now that he had arrived at The Show, Jay felt a flood of conflicting emotions and a broad continuum of ambiguity. He felt an emptiness, as though he had arrived at a banquet to find they were serving fast food. The reality of the achievement was not as satisfying as it had been in his imagination. Now, as the president made his final stop of the night at the California Ball—the hottest ticket at the inaugural—Jay was hiding in the shadows, pining for anonymity in his moment of triumph.
    â€œLadies and gentlemen, the president of the United States, Robert W. Long, accompanied by First Lady Claire Long!” came the announcement from off stage. “Hail to the Chief” blared from speakers, the crowd erupted in a cathartic roar, and Bob and Claire Long emerged from behind the curtain like Hollywood stars jumping off the pages of a glossy magazine. Long sported an Armani tuxedo, and Claire wore a glittering silver, off-the-shoulder Oscar de la Renta gown with a large black flower over the left side of her