The Confirmation by Ralph Reed Page B

let out a shrill whistle. Love was head coach, field general, and attack dog all rolled into one: a Doberman in designer heels. She and her team had drawn a line in the sand: they would stop Bob Long from putting a right-wing extremist on the Supreme Court or die trying.
    THE MEDICAL TEAM AT George Washington University gathered in a small office steps, from the ICU, studying pictures from the MRI and the CT scan of Peter Corbin Franklin. Twenty minutes earlier they had finished three hours of emergency surgery on the justice, during which the surgeons inserted a stent at the base of his brain stem to relieve pressure caused by the bleeding in his skull. The lead surgeon pointed to various regions of the brain with his index finger as they talked in hushed voices. On the positive side, there was no sign of a tumor or growth in the brain. But the shaded areas on the MRI were the telltale signs of a massive cerebral hemorrhage. The bleeding in the brain had done extensive tissue damage, and the GWU hospital surgical team knew it was irreversible.
    â€œHe has massive intraparenchymal bleeding,” the lead doctor said.
    â€œDo you think it affects the medulla?” asked a member of the surgical team.
    â€œYes. We don’t know if it caused damage to the vagus nerve. The immediate objective is to stop the bleeding. We won’t know his true condition until he stabilizes. Then we’ll see if he can breathe without assistance.”
    â€œIt looks like classic CAA,” said a GWU professor of medicine who was consulting with the surgical team. One of the surgeons arched his eyebrows in curiosity. “Cerebral amyloid angiopathy,” the professor continued. “It’s a weakening of the blood vessels in the brain that makes the victim especially prone to cranial bleeding.”
    The lead surgeon nodded. That ruled out blood thinning medication, which made recovery even more unlikely. The realization deepened the already sober and determined mood in the cramped office.
    â€œHe may not regain consciousness,” said another doctor. “If he does, it’s questionable whether he’ll be fully cognizant.”
    The lead doctor frowned to signal his disapproval. The rest of the trauma team greeted this statement with silence. The reality of Franklin’s precarious condition was something only to be spoken of in hushed whispers.
    A male nurse wearing a green smock stuck his head in the door. “Doctor, phone call,” he said to the lead surgeon. “It’s the White House.”
    â€œThe White House? What in the world would they want from me?”
    â€œI don’t know, sir. It’s the operator. Line two.”
    The lead doctor looked at his colleagues, shrugged his shoulders, and picked up the phone. The voice on the other end said, “Doctor, thank you for taking my call. This is Charlie Hector, calling from the White House.”
    â€œI know who you are,” the doctor replied coldly. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hector?”
    â€œWe’re getting press inquiries about Justice Franklin’s medical condition. Obviously, I don’t want to pry or violate the confidentiality of the doctor-patient relationship. But we are trying to be responsive to the media, so I was wondering if you could provide us with any guidance in a general way on the Justice’s condition. Or I can just keep this conversation confidential.”
    â€œI’m afraid I can’t tell you anything at this time,” the doctor said, swatting aside Hector’s empty caveats.
    â€œWell,” said Hector haltingly. “In that case, do you have any plans to hold a news conference or issue a statement? An awful lot of rumors are flying around on the Internet. It might help.”
    â€œMr. Hector, my only focus is on taking care of Justice Franklin,” said the doctor, his voice distant. “I don’t have anything to report at this time. When we do, we’ll