Ashley had found a psalm that gave her confidence to be in public: “Those who look to him are radiant; their faces are never covered with shame.”9 Her neighbors provided a moment of relief from the intense pressure of recent weeks. To a person, they were supportive and friendly, including those whom the Kavanaughs hardly knew and who weren’t in their camp politically.
While their neighbors and the press detail showed exceptional grace and courtesy, Kavanaugh was blindsided by criticism from a surprising source. Breaking with the political reticence typical of Supreme Court justices, particularly with respect to a pending appointment, the retired justice John Paul Stevens fanned the “judicial temperament” flames by telling an audience of retirees in Florida that Kavanaugh’s emotional defense of his reputation had caused him to change his view of a judge he had previously praised. The ninety-eight-year-old jurist, who had months earlier called for a repeal of the constitutional right to keep and bear arms, declared that “for the health of the court” Kavanaugh ought not to be confirmed.10
That evening, Kavanaugh published an op-ed in the Wall Street Journal, another unprecedented act for a Supreme Court nominee. As the media echoed Democratic talking points about his demeanor at the hearing, Kavanaugh sought to assure the public that his temperament was sound: “I was very emotional last Thursday, more so than I have ever been. I might have been too emotional at times. I know that my tone was sharp, and I said a few things I should not have said. I hope everyone can understand that I was there as a son, husband and dad.” He further observed, “As a judge, I have always treated colleagues and litigants with the utmost respect. I have been known for my courtesy on and off the bench. I have not changed. I will continue to be the same kind of judge I have been for the last 12 years.”11
An especially ugly confirmation of the media’s irrational personal dislike of Kavanaugh came in the form of published opinions that he should no longer coach girls’ basketball. Erik Brady wrote in USA Today, “The U.S. Senate may yet confirm Kavanaugh to the Supreme Court, but he should stay off basketball courts for now when kids are around. . . . The nation is deeply divided. Sometimes it feels like we don’t agree on anything anymore. But credibly accused sex offenders should not coach youth basketball, girls or boys, without deeper investigation. Can’t we all agree on that?”12 Another reporter, recalling the middle school girls’ basketball team Kavanaugh coached attending his hearing, had written, “The row of young girls, legs bare in their private-school skirts, looked different now.”13
After senators had reviewed the FBI background report, McConnell announced that the cloture vote—that is, the vote to end debate so the nomination could proceed to a final vote—would take place Friday morning, October 5.
In a rare departure from his usual practice, the majority leader scheduled a vote without knowing what the result would be. All along, the Democrats had hoped that the nomination would be withdrawn, saving vulnerable Democrats from having to cast a difficult vote one way or the other. McConnell did not want to do them that favor, even if it meant losing the vote. He knew that if Manchin voted against Kavanaugh, he would be in danger of losing his seat from West Virginia.
At 10:17 on Friday morning, McConnell came to the floor of the Senate and spoke about Kavanaugh, decrying the tactics of the Democrats. At 10:30, Collins and Murkowski huddled together in their seats. They had been talking virtually every day about the nomination and had spoken early that morning when Murkowski said she was still undecided, though Collins suspected she was leaning toward voting yes. As they sat together in the noisy room, Murkowski leaned over, and Collins thought she heard her say, “I’ve decided that I can vote yes.” Collins broke into a big smile and said that was her decision as well, and she was pleased they would be voting together. Murkowski had to let her down. Touching her arm, she clarified, “You don’t understand, I’m not going to vote yes.” Collins’s face fell. She had made her own decision and was confident it was correct, but she knew it would be an even more difficult decision because she and her longtime friend would be on different sides.
The vote to advance the nomination of Kavanaugh was fifty-one in favor and forty-nine opposed. Murkowski voted no. Manchin and Collins voted yes. Manchin had not voted until after Collins and Murkowski had voted, so he was the fifty-first vote. While Kavanaugh’s confirmation was still far from assured, the vote was a major step forward. Then Collins announced that she would give a speech on the Senate floor at three o’clock.
Like Kavanaugh, even after spending hours perfecting her speech, she still wanted to fine-tune it up until the last moment. She took a back elevator to the senators’ dining room, hoping to avoid the press and have some time to work as she ate. But as the elevator doors opened, she saw Mitch McConnell and John Cornyn eating lunch together. They invited her to join them.
McConnell still didn’t know what Collins’s ultimate vote would be. Voting to end debate was not the same as voting to confirm—as Justice Alito learned when he received seventy-three votes for cloture but only fifty-eight for confirmation. If Collins voted no along with Murkowski and Manchin, it would be over. They never broached the subject, but Collins’s manner suggested to McConnell that she was preparing to vote yes.
Protesters had been harassing Collins for months. Hundreds of coat hangers, the favored symbol of the abortion-rights movement, had been sent to her field offices in Maine to dramatize the threat to Roe v Wade posed by Kavanaugh’s appointment. In a clever gesture, she donated the hangers to a local thrift store. She also received a torrent of obscene and threatening voicemails.14
One rainy night, after working late, Collins was accosted outside her Capitol Hill town house by a man who shined a flashlight in her eyes and filmed her as he asked her questions, implying he was from CNN. How long he had been waiting for her in the pouring rain she didn’t know, but she got past him and into her house, where she called the police. The man returned later and left a basket containing four potatoes on her doorstep, the significance of which she never determined.
As protesters besieged her Capitol Hill and Maine offices, Collins was particularly troubled by the abuse that her staff had to endure. A twenty-five-year-old in her Maine office, who helped constituents with Social Security, veterans’ affairs, and immigration questions, answered a call from a man who told her that if Collins voted for Kavanaugh’s confirmation then he hoped the young staffer would be raped and impregnated. The senator tried to assure her that the harassment would taper off after the vote, but she quit—a young woman driven out of public service, Collins ruefully noted, in the name of women’s rights.
Protesters occupying Collins’s office would take turns telling their stories of sexual harassment or assault, emphasizing that victims must be listened to. Annabelle Rutledge, a staffer for Concerned Women for America who was in the room with a group of women supportive of Kavanaugh, decided to tell her own story. Protesters rolled their eyes but listened as Annabelle spoke of having been sexually assaulted. She explained why it was unfair to blame Kavanaugh for what her assailant did: “We can’t take the pain we have from each of these experiences and put it on one man. You said that a vote for Kavanaugh is a vote for everyone who has sexually assaulted us collectively, and that’s just not true. You can’t take the face of the people who have hurt you and have hurt other people in this room and put it on one man,” she said. “I’m a woman but I’m also a sister, I’m a daughter, I am a niece. I’m a sister to four brothers. I’m an aunt to three nephews.”15