There was plenty of time wasted and silliness, though, make no mistake about that. At 6:00-ish Wednesday, the Republican senators meandered into the chamber and stood around chatting. This was already a deviation from the plan. An email from the majority leader's office with the subject heading "Exact March in Time" found its way into Democratic hands, and was read on the floor at several points during the nearly 40-hour session. The email had reminded senatorial aides--in vain--that Fox's Brit Hume wanted to open his show with a shot of the senators entering the chamber, and thus "IT IS IMPORTANT TO DOUBLE EFFORTS TO GET YOUR BOSS TO S 230 ON TIME."
But before that embarrassing revelation hit the floor--in fact, before debate even began--the battle of the posters was underway. Democratic aides arrived on the floor and put up a large poster with "168-4" emblazoned in yellow on a bright blue background--the number of Bush judicial nominees confirmed versus the number filibustered. Democrat Tom Harkin of Iowa responded by holding up a board with "I'll be home watching 'The Bachelor'" scrawled on it in Magic Marker. Guards moved to remove Harkin before noticing that he was a senator, and not a crazy protester. Both signs were ruled out of order and stowed away. Harkin snapped, "I'm not taking part in this circus," and--after making this substantial contribution to the circus atmosphere--waltzed out.
And so the Republican-initiated "Justice for Judges Marathon" debate began. The goal, said organizers, was to draw attention to the "unprecedented" Democratic strategy of filibustering President Bush's judicial nominees. In modern practice, the threat of a filibuster and an actual, round-the-clock filibuster are functionally equivalent. Since 60 votes are required for cloture (which ends debate, thus allowing a vote on the issue being debated), a minority can stall a substantive vote simply by refusing to formally end debate.
On the floor that night (and the next day, and the next night), senators mostly rehashed the same old arguments about the nature of filibusters and the character of Bush's nominees they had made to each other a dozen times before. The real action was in the nearby Mansfield Room, where an all-night schedule of press conferences took place.
In perhaps the creepiest moment of the whole event, Emile Meppen, 16, spoke for the Family Action Council International. She was surrounded by a crowd of other kids, many of them home-schooled, at 1:30 A.M. on Thursday. Meppen proclaimed herself "disappointed" in the political process. She tossed off a bon mot about constitutional guarantees of "democracy, equality, freedom of speech, and freedom of religion--even for judicial nominees," and smoothly integrated the major Republican talking point that the nominees were "being denied the opportunity of getting an up-or-down vote." While she spoke, a baby fussed and was hushed by its mother somewhere in the crowd. When she was finished, an adult presenter quipped, "I don't know who does your writing, but it's well done."
After packing the kids off home, South Carolina Republican Lindsey Graham grabbed some shut-eye in the Strom Thurmond Room, which had been filled with cots for sleepy senators. "I got a 40-minute nap and it was really weird," he said. "One of the cots was right under the bust of Senator Thurmond," who single-handedly held the floor in 1957 for more than 24 hours to oppose civil rights legislation. "I woke up to him staring down at me."
Graham said that he did not read the "bedtime story" thoughtfully placed on the cots by Wade Henderson, the executive director of the Leadership Conference on Civil Rights. Titled "Republican Senators and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Night" with "apologies to Judith Viorst," author of a children's book with a similar title, the illustrated tale was heavy on "mean elephant" clip art and had been read aloud earlier in the Mansfield Room by women's rights activists.
Some serious topics were addressed during the session. Most of the Democrats (when they weren't speaking about how it would be more useful to speak about something else) hammered on their confirmation record thus far. T-shirts handed out by Democrats made the same point as the big blue poster: "We confirmed 98 percent of Bush's judges, and all we got was this lousy T-shirt."
Republican Saxby Chambliss of Georgia offered a snappy retort to the T-shirt slogan at 1:30 on Thursday morning: "If I told my wife that I was 98 percent faithful, she wouldn't be too happy with me." He started to note that the same applied to voting-machine accuracy, and then stopped, musing, "There's some situations where that might be good."
Other Republicans rejected the Democrats' numbers altogether, citing figures of their own. Most of those 168 were district court judges, they said. Only 58 percent of Bush's circuit court nominees have been approved, with 12 nominees stalled or blocked, by their count.
The merits of individual nominees were discussed at great length as well, particularly those of Priscilla Owen of Texas, nominated for the Fifth Circuit, Carolyn Kuhl of California, nominated for the Ninth Circuit, Janice Rogers Brown, also of California, nominated for the D.C. Circuit, and Miguel Estrada, who withdrew from consideration after more than 28 months without a vote on his confirmation.
APPARENTLY, though, it becomes difficult to keep your argument straight somewhere between the first all-nighter and the second. Democrat Mary Landrieu, who spoke early and often, with great flair, lost it around 10:00 P.M. on Thursday. In a single speech, she claimed that Janice Rogers Brown was against grandparents and referred to Orrin Hatch as "the chairman of Utah." "The chairman," she said, "seems to have forgotten where I am from." Having a bit of a memory lapse herself, she then consulted her notes before announcing: "I am from Louisiana!"
Republican Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania got into fist-pounding mode early on, and reportedly injured his hand. In a press conference at 4:00P.M. on Thursday he admitted that he had slept for only about 15 minutes since debate began. He appeared to be on the verge of tears more than once. He is known for breaking down during debates about partial-birth abortion, and blocked judicial appointments came close to eliciting the same show of feeling.
But none of the other bloopers came close to Zell Miller's. Miller was one of two Democrats to vote with the Republican majority at the end of the session. "Democrats are standing in the doorway, and they have got a sign, 'Conservative African-American women need not apply,'" he said, referring to Janice Rogers Brown's nomination in the wee hours Thursday. "If you have the temerity to do so, your reputation will be shattered and your dignity will be shredded. Gal, you will be lynched." This is heavy-duty rhetoric, especially when uttered on the Senate floor in a southern accent. Though, as Graham noted at about the same time on Friday, "the strength of this nation is that people with accents can get ahead."
One can only assume that sleep deprivation also accounts for the decision of senators Norm Coleman, Lindsey Graham, Rick Santorum, and Jeff Sessions to extend the debate for 9 hours after the planned 30 had expired. In Santorum's words, "My colleagues feel that there is more to say."
And say more they certainly did. But, exhausted by the previous all-nighter, everyone who possibly could, abandoned the ship of state.
"Hey, a civilian!" called out a member of the Capitol Police Force when I drifted by her at 4:00 on Friday morning. She said she hadn't seen anyone but other police officers and custodial staff for hours. She understood why everyone else was gone, though. "After all," she said, "it's just one guy talking, right?"
At 9:30 A.M., after a final hour of special speeches, which bore a marked resemblance to the previous 37 and a half hours of speeches, the Senate voted on cloture for the nominations of Owen, Kuhl, and Brown. To no one's surprise, cloture failed on all three counts. And with that, the Senate moved into regular session and began its morning business.
Katherine Mangu-Ward is a reporter at The Weekly Standard.