Majority Rules

Prologue

December 2013 El Paso, Texas 86 Degrees Hazy

Twenty-five years later nothing had changed. The local paper headline read, U.S. Border Agent Shot by Juarez Drug Cartel. The story detailed how two presumptive immigrants were also injured, but escaped and were recouping at a local hospital. On an outdoor patio, an Hispanic waiter placed three margaritas on a tile top table next to the newspaper and disappeared as quietly as he’d appeared. Nick Taft would have preferred ice water and inside air-conditioning but was helping a friend quietly celebrate the conviction of a gang member.

The U.S. Attorney for West Texas – who referred to his friends by their Spanish names raised a glass to his Washington colleagues – Nick and an official from the Justice Department. Here’s to you guys. Successful prosecutions on this border are difficult. Efforts by our new task force, Tomás, and information you dug up on the Immigration Act, Nicolás, drew attention to our arguments. Thanks for coming out. They sipped the chilled margaritas as if they’d earned them. Maybe we’ll finally start making some progress down here, he said with a touch of remorse.

"Over fifty thousand people murdered near border cities in the past few years, and we may start making some progress? Nick’s hand shaded his eyes, Congressman Palmer knew it would come to this. We’re so far behind the curve, it’s laughable."

The prosecutor had asked Nick before how he became involved in border politics. Taft, tell me in truth, how did you and that Congressman get involved in this never-ending battle in the first place?

Nick nodded. As he began to launch into his twenty year old tale of Washington politics, the piercing noise of a car backfiring shook the air. His eyes instinctively followed the sound to a black truck where a gun barrel rested on the passenger door. Thomas slumped forward onto the table. Wait staff scrambled in every direction. Nick looked down at the blood on his sleeves and his murdered colleague. A woman pleaded to 911 from under a counter.

Nick was helped to the men’s room. He leaned over the sink and listened to the familiar moan of emergency vehicles in the distance. He stared into a water-stained mirror and reflected back wondering how he had become so involved in this political war. There wasn’t a day when at some point, he didn’t still wonder why he ever left the routine security of his hometown in Florida.

1

November 1984 Florida 79 Degrees Sunny

Was there a worse way to make a living – anchored under dull fluorescent lighting while the Florida sun blanketed miles of ocean and beaches? A litigator. It didn’t sound as cool as lawyer and it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure if he was an uninspired lawyer or if the practice of law had become uninspiring, but Nicholas H. Taft, Esquire was long sure of one thing. He needed to get out of that firm and out of that town.

He tried explaining to the doctor who’d paid his tuition, The dark suits and mahogany library make you feel the part, but this endless legal process isn’t helping anybody.

Flamingo Beach wasn’t bad, and the local politics were intriguing. Once an outpost to renegade movie stars visiting Palm Beach just up the road, it later became known as a city of recovery, overflowing with substance abuse clinics. On its journey from martinis for breakfast to a cash-rich tourist town, Flamingo grew into a fledgling commercial hub. Still, as part of Florida’s Gold Coast, heavy partying played a strong role. Women wore lucent dresses, and businessmen were defined as much by their liquor tolerance as their ability to navigate office warfare.

Office politics, of which Taft had witnessed plenty, seemed childish. But, the electoral process that put people in office felt meaningful; and party activists were so welcoming he dove in headfirst. Presiding over a political youth organization in a coastal city fueled by tourism and drinking would seem to have few advantages. But it gave credibility to a young lawyer who’d sell his soul for a new career. After walking dozens of precincts for an array of candidates, Nick found one who kept winning despite the odds, U.S. Congressman Sanderson Palmer. He was a likable man who appreciated Nick’s few political skills, which at the time were a subtle blend of enthusiasm and desperation.

The Congressman once complimented him during a local fundraiser, Nick, you’ve done a hell of a job growing the Young Patriots here to over 300 young folks. Nice work.

Well, I just invited all my friends and all their friends and the best looking women we could find to our meetings, ensured the drinks kept coming and charged everyone membership dues.

Very resourceful, Palmer replied, clapping Nick on the shoulder.

The ’80s began two decades of greed and excess, and expensive white dust from Colombia replaced the carefree love of the ’70s. Studio 54 and Warhol carried the social scene and national politics began to see a new wave of partisanship. In the 1984 elections, everyone played their part. President Reagan was reelected in a landslide, carrying forty-nine states to only one for Walter Mondale; Palmer was reelected to the U.S. House and Florida had an incumbent Republican in the Senate for the first time in a decade. The Reagan Revolution was a reality, and having a different opinion than the predominant popular culture, while not cool, was becoming acceptable.

Conveniently, Nick’s disillusionment with the law and growing attraction to politics coincided with an opening in Palmer’s Washington office. Apparently there was a buyer’s market for souls, but it was a unique opportunity to learn the world of federal power and a perfect exit. He gave his firm notice and vowed to stay out of trouble during his last days.

__________

Born and raised on the Florida coast, Taft was accustomed to the social circuit. Sonny Hughes hosted the best parties in Flamingo Beach. They were always full of beautiful women and vodka-doused ice sculptures that wouldn’t melt in the Florida heat. Sonny, a high school friend, was now Flamingo’s best caterer. Nick shifted in his leather desk chair and looked at the perfect row of Florida Statute books on his credenza, then left his law office relishing interaction with anyone but another lawyer. He and his sometime girlfriend, Karen, headed to Sonny’s fall soirée for just one drink. He had a hearing the next morning and couldn’t be late. It was only a motion hearing, but the plaintiff’s lawyer was green and hungry and had some law on his side.

As with any good event, this started with an excellent cocktail and went from seeing some old friends to talking of fishing offshore in the Atlantic to just one more rum and tonic. They recounted how two weeks prior a rickety wooden sailboat had washed ashore on Flamingo Beach with seventeen Haitians onboard. While police waited for federal INS agents to arrive, Nick and two friends delivered twenty McDonald’s hamburgers, fries and colas to the exhausted but grateful and polite seafarers. His friends speculated and Nick hoped the tired travelers would end up in the hands of a clever immigration lawyer who could draw out the legal process and allow them to stay. But unlike others who’d survived similar voyages to remain as political refugees, these brave souls would be returned immediately to Haiti.

The party conversation meandered from the latest gossip about whomever to Nick’s pending move to Washington. After countering debate with a Florida Atlantic University professor who argued that any form of government was the same as any other government and irrelevant to reality anyway, Nick headed back to the bar.

He argued across the pass through bar from the kitchen, You know the difference between some governments, professor? Ask the brave people who’ve left behind everyone they know and risked their lives to escape to a country they know almost nothing about.

Karen with a raised eyebrow at the end of the counter, Another drink and you’ll regret it.

By midnight he was having the best discussion with a retired judge or once practicing attorney, he couldn’t remember which no matter how many times he was told. Drinking their way through the political landscape, he praised Nick for giving up the law to work in Congress. Ramifications of federal decisions may render our criminal process irrelevant anyway – the exclusionary rule for one. He passed a joint off someone handed him, Go try and make a difference, kid. Nick talked about him the entire drive home down A1A until he saw the blue lights. That it was a state trooper was unmistakable; that Nick had too much to drink, undeniable; that the lights blew right past them and kept going, unbelievable.

Most hangovers are at their worst in the beginning. He managed some cereal while choosing a dark suit for his court appearance and told Karen, There’s no way I can go to what’s her name’s party tonight. I can’t even function.

Spare me, she mumbled from the covers. Her blond hair sliding across white sheets, I’ll go by myself. I usually do when it’s my friends’ parties. Just go to work, stop obsessing about politics, and don’t get pulled over – you’d probably still blow over a point one.

Those words stuck in his head as he drove into a glaring coastal sun. Karen didn’t care about politics; it was all just a game to her and so many others to whom it didn’t matter which party was in power. Heat waves were wafting from the hood of his car and it was only 7:30 am. But why does she say obsessing? He blew through a just-turned red light and panicked as he scanned the landscape in his rearview mirror, however quickly faded back to his quandary. He’d admit to being in politics barely a year and that it was the only thing that seemed to give his life meaning.

After buying a double-brewed, he found his way to the court house elevators hoping the usually chatty cashier ladies weren’t so unusually quiet due to his damaged appearance. He walked the halls toward the courtrooms attempting to stride purposefully – hallways which seemed to get longer every year as they added more judges to that ever-growing circuit. There was a time when lawyers knew a fair percentage of judges in the county but now they were just unfamiliar names on pleadings. Suffering the usual hellos to nameless litigators awaiting their respective hearings, his eyes focused on the only one he actually recognized, Porter Oliver, the plaintiff’s lawyer in his case.

Porter hadn’t seen him, so he sat on a bench along the wall. To regroup he tried both slurping some caffeine and opening his brief case, but then clumsily spilled his coffee. It flowed on the terrazzo floor beneath him except for a few puddled drops in the holes of his worn wingtips. As he nudged the cup under the bench with his foot, his only bleary thought was, Could I get away with doing nothing about that? Before anyone noticed the door to Judge Quartel’s chambers opened.

The litigants entered and sat on opposite sides of a long oak table. The judge entered. He was an oddly familiar man in his sixties, distinguished in his black robe, but otherwise a mess. His hair was askew, his lean face haggard and gray with – was that stubble? They respectfully stood and looked toward the judge. When His Honor nodded at Nick, he squinted with surprise and recognition and a slight smile crossed his face.

The evening’s mystery was solved on the pleadings right in front of him; apparently he was, in fact, a judge and not retired. Nick was suddenly feeling better. Even if he couldn’t argue well in the next few minutes, at least the presiding judicial officer would understand why. Judge Quartel acknowledged the plaintiff’s motion for summary judgment and recognized Porter to begin. Porter’s enthusiasm stunned both Nick and the judge. He began well, but then stumbled and got nervous, then grew much louder. Nick closed his eyes trying to focus on the words.

With eyes open again, he noticed Quartel looking at him almost humorously, Mr. Taft, I would entertain a motion for cloture about now.

Nick struggled to conceal his confusion. Cloture, he thought, was a parliamentary device used to cut off debate in a political body. He’d never seen it used in a court of law. Yet, he had no better ideas.

He offered with some authority, Your Honor, I move for cloture.

Porter tried to keep talking, but the judge waved him off, Motion granted.

Porter looked up as if to ask, What the hell does that mean? Nick looked back with an expression that said, Don’t you know? It was a motion for cloture, and you lost.

Judge Quartel closed the hearing, Plaintiff’s motion for summary judgment is denied. Mr. Taft, please prepare an order for my signature with copies to all parties. Thank you, gentlemen.

The last hearing he would ever argue was over. He’d hardly said a word and his opponent had spoken too many. As they walked out of his chambers, the judge smiled, Good luck in Washington, Taft.

After exiting the building, Nick looked back at the sun-drenched county court house where he’d been sworn into the Florida Bar a few short years before and wondered if he would ever return.

2

January 1985 Washington, DC 21 Degrees Snowing

Driving in ignorant bliss through the nation’s highest ranked murder city was the start to his first imperfect day. Nick caught brief glimpses of the Capitol dome through half defrosted windows but it kept disappearing behind distant buildings.

He found a side street and pulled over to get his bearings. The icy roads weren’t helping and his gloved hands made it difficult to hold a map.

After spotting someone who might point him in the right direction, he rolled down the passenger side window, Excuse me, sir, sir? Could you tell me how to get to the Capitol?

Leaning a little too far into the window, Sure. I got you covered. I’ll show you.

Show me?

Jus’ down the road, I’m goin’ that way, as he pulled the car door shut and tucked a swing-blade into his boot.

In his relatively sheltered life, Nick had never seen such bloodshot, wired or empty eyes nor experienced quite the combined odor of alcohol, tobacco and wet socks.

Nice ride. What are you, a lawyer or somethin’?

Mentioning he’d been a prosecutor in the State Attorney’s Office had a sobering effect on some. This guy was out of the car before Nick could finish his sentence. In reality he’d only been an intern there during law school, but the experience was helpful and being able to mention it had proven more so. Fortunately, he turned down an unplowed side road and looked straight up at the Capitol dome – the ghost of a majestic white crown peering through a thick gray sky.

His next encounter was with a U.S. Capitol Police officer who provided the first clue of the attitude of his new boss. Holding up a parking sticker, Nick motioned the officer over, Excuse me, I’m here to start work with Congressman Palmer. Can you tell me which garage this is for?

The officer wearing an official blue leather Capitol Police emblazoned jacket had a friendly, but no-nonsense expression, That’s in parking lot 6. It’s about a quarter mile down this road on your right, partially underneath I-395.

Officer, with all due respect, that can’t be right.

Son, with all due respect, I’m quite certain that’s right. Now, keep it moving.

After locating the remote lot 6, he trudged uphill through ice-crusted puddles to his office in the Cannon Building – the oldest of the House buildings. But as he began to cross the intersection at First and C Streets by the Library of Congress, he heard an angry voice, "Hey! Watch your light, watch your light!" He turned in the middle of the intersection to look back at a U.S. Capitol Police officer who was grimacing at him. Nick sheepishly returned to the curb.

He eventually reached the Cannon Building, an impressive-looking structure with a subtly ornate exterior. Nick breezed through security, his wool socks and new wingtips now wet and cold. He was certain just by the building’s grandeur that meaningful debate took place inside its walls. He walked unassumingly down the corridors squinting at the room numbers. He hadn’t found contact lenses yet that actually worked and was too embarrassed to wear his nerdy glasses. Finally, he recognized the Florida state flag and could make out Palmer’s name on the door.

Then were the words he would hear a thousand times a day for the next year. In a slightly southern accent, Good mornin’, Congressman Sanderson Palmer’s office. How may I help you? However, she wasn’t actually speaking to him, but to her headset. So when he started to respond, she politely put two fingers toward him as if to say, on the one hand, Please wait while I take this call, and on the other, to say, Can’t you see I’m on the phone? He looked around at the pictures on the wall of South Florida, and photos of the Congressman with the President at the White House and on Air Force One.

The front entrance to the office was small with a desk on either side as one walked in the door. A chest-high shelf in front of each desk required one to look over it onto the person sitting there. There was one black leather couch facing the entrance doorway with a gold framed mirror above it. Three doors led from the foyer into interior offices; two of which were closed and one open just enough to partially see desks and almost hear conversations.

She reached over and pulled the slightly open door shut. Sorry, you were saying?

Hi, I’m Nick Taft...

I’m sorry, she pointed a finger toward him again, her gaze went into the middle distance, Good mornin’, Congressman Sanderson Palmer’s office, hold please. Good mornin’, Congressman Sanderson Palmer’s office, how may I help you? Yes sir...well, the Congressman is not voting in favor of gun control...no, no sir he isn’t. Yes, he does own guns of his own...now sir, I really don’t think that’s an appropriate thing to say. Well, then you have a nice day now, okay.

Turning back toward Nick, I’m sorry, are you here for the tour of the Capitol?

No, I...

At this point they were interrupted by Valerie Raney, whom Nick would learn was the Administrative Assistant or head of the office. They’d never met since Palmer had hired Nick in Florida. She was a Capitol Hill veteran in her fifties who appeared long past ready to retire. Valerie donned a brightly-colored but stiff-fitting business suit, and her jet black hair was perfectly coiffed. She wore makeup that highlighted her cheeks like little red apples and a Republican elephant pin on her lapel. She took up a position by the receptionist’s desk.

With her back to Nick, she said, You make sure I’m RSVP’ed to that Energy Institute luncheon today and there’s a printed name tag for me – it’s very important.

The receptionist, Barb, lowered her eyes, Yes, I know, I’ve responded twice to the invite.

Valerie glanced at Nick as if he was eavesdropping, Okay, but if I show up and have to write out my own name tag again, we’re going to discuss it at length.

Okay. Barb continued in a softer voice, Now then, sorry. Are you with a larger group?

No, I’m a lawyer. My name’s Nick Taft. The Congressman hired me to handle his Judiciary Committee issues.

Oh. Hey everyone look, it’s our new Legislative Assistant!

The assistant tag didn’t sit well with him from the first instant. However, he soon discovered why his title didn’t reflect his legal training. The pecking order among congressional staff was paramount to those who’d either worked or waited their way to the top of the ladder, such as the Chief of Staff (COS) or Administrative Assistant (AA). Everyone below either of those titles was less powerful as in Legislative Director (LD), Legislative Assistant (LA) or Legislative Correspondent (LC).

After he was introduced to the office manager, he asked to see his office. She smiled a wide toothy grin, Sure, it’s right here – your desk. He thought desk? You must be joking. Where’re the crayons? He’d just traded an office and secretary at a prestigious law firm for a desk where he was now an assistant something.

He suppressed that glaring contrast for the moment, and after a quick rundown of his duties, was determined to short-circuit his bureaucratic chores. The apple-cheeked Valerie or Val, as she preferred, described to him the time-consuming drudgery of constituent mail. As she was advising on how important it was he read each letter carefully and come to her with questions, he was looking past her at the bizarre print hanging from her office wall. He’d recently talked to a friend who’d once worked on the Hill and explained how ninety percent of constituent mail could be disposed of in minutes with form letters. From his Cub Scout days to his law practice, Nick had always played it by the book, but he’d come to Washington to work for Sandy Palmer, not for anyone else.

3

Inauguration Day The Capitol 17 Degrees Snowing

The second Monday of his new job was Inauguration Day. The office bustled with the Congressman’s Florida friends who flew in for the ceremonies. At nine-thirty, a savvy auto dealer from Boca Raton handed him a Bloody Mary and said, Welcome aboard, young man, I know your dad, great guy, good doctor. Say, didn’t you go to medical school? Nick hadn’t had time to hustle any passes to the swearing-in, so would watch it on TV with other staffers. It was 17 degrees with a foot of snow on the ground and still blowing. With the wind chill, it was so cold the Inaugural Parade had to be cancelled.

The office didn’t seem at all the same with so many friends and supporters of the Congressman milling around with Mimosas in hand. Instead of stacks of constituent mail on each counter or desk, there were colorful plates with sweet rolls and ham biscuits and red, white and blue napkins. In lieu of nervous murmuring and policy talk, there was laughter and celebration.

Without tickets to any Inaugural Ball that evening, Nick had a less celebratory dinner with his only Washington acquaintance – his cousin’s college roommate, Regina Moxley. She was an unusually well-tanned redhead, originally from Australia, and a lifelong liberal in no fine mood since the dimwit Ronald Reagan was beginning his second term. Her outlook improved when Nick paid off a $20 bet they’d made on the Super Bowl just the past Sunday. He’d bet with his heart on the Miami Dolphins, she on San Francisco – for the city, not the team. Although the Dolphins lost 38 to 16, they’d at least earned the right to play in the game. His demeanor improved as well when other Hill staff at the restaurant announced that due to the extreme weather, all government buildings would be closed the next day.

Daylight brought a clear blue sky and sparkling quiet snow everywhere. It felt like a Sunday morning, few cars braved the snowy streets. Smiling along the way, Nick slid down the sidewalks to a local diner for breakfast. He liked the anonymity his