Much about the Senate grilling yesterday could be described as "quaint," the infamous adjective choice of Alberto R. Gonzales, President Bush's nominee for attorney general. In a plain, windowless chamber, the 12 men in a half-circle swivel in their fat leather chairs, refresh each other with refills of water, soak in a warm bath of mutual admiration.
They put Gonzales, who is looking up at them from a few feet away, at ease by calling him "Al." One senator begins a criticism by saying, "I love you, but . . ." The senators compliment each other for being "fine lawyers," even when the subject at hand is whether Gonzales approved a memo condoning "waterboarding," an interrogation technique in which a detainee is strapped to a board and pushed underwater to make him think he might drown.
Occasionally his Democratic questioners engage in long, indignant tirades, even though Sen. Joseph R. Biden Jr. (D-Del.) announces early on that -- despite any appearance of hostility -- none of them actually plans to vote against Gonzales and they all know he will be confirmed.
Meanwhile, the nominee himself, the White House counsel, declares that as attorney general he will abide by all U.S. laws and treaty obligations. Also, that he will represent not just the White House but also "the United States of America and its people."
Which is also very quaint and old-fashioned of him, if you think about it.
Beneath all the formal legalese, two visions of Gonzales emerge, unrelated but both touching on rather old-fashioned questions, of sin and suffering, accountability and redemption.
On one side, Democratic senators paint a picture of a man with broken bones to account for, who signed a memo calling some provisions of the Geneva Conventions "quaint," who allegedly sat through briefings on the effects of such methods as the threat of live burial and then signed memos condoning them, who created a "permissive environment," as Sen. Richard J. Durbin (D-Ill.) calls it, that ultimately resulted in the louts at Abu Ghraib.
On the other side is Gonzales the hard-luck son of Mexican immigrants, embodiment of the American dream. Sitting behind Gonzales as he testifies are witnesses to his past and his success: his mother, Maria, and brother Tony, his wife, Rebecca, and his three sons, Jared, Graham and Gabriel. Before Gonzales testifies, Sen. Arlen Specter (R-Pa.), chairman of the Judiciary Committee, insists that Gonzales introduce his family, and when Gonzales hesitates for some reason, Specter insists again.
Sen. John Cornyn (R-Tex.) refers to Gonzales as the "man from Humble" -- meaning Humble, Tex. -- a "self-effacing man" and the son of migrant workers. Only in Washington, Cornyn says, would they rake such a good man "over the coals." Sen. Ken Salazar (D-Colo.) quotes from a speech Gonzales once gave at his alma mater, Rice University.
"During my years in high school, I never once asked my friends over to our home," Gonzales had said. "You see, even though my father poured his heart into it, I was embarrassed that 10 of us lived in a cramped space with no running water or telephone."
The second version of Gonzales is not offered as a response to the first, not explicitly. It's merely mentioned over and over, an implicit ward against the accusation that Gonzales may be indifferent to suffering.
In the back of the hearing room, and outside in the drizzle, protesters are also trying to turn Gonzales into the next John Ashcroft. At the level of slogan, at least, they find it easy. The issues pinned on Gonzales by the Left are not abstract. "No Torture," the placards read. "Ship Gonzo to Gitmo." "Bush and Gonzales Are Responsible for Death and Torture." Inside the hearing room, a handful of observers sit frowning in gray T-shirts that read: "Investigate Gonzales."
But ultimately the demonization campaign fizzles. The protesters add up to 20, at most. The mass gathering at the Capitol yesterday is about opening up the recount of the presidential vote in Ohio.
At this hearing, it turns out, there's little will for investigation. Each senator gets to speak for only a few minutes, and the temptation to hold forth is strong. Plus Gonzales turns out to be a master at cutting legalese with Bush-style plainspeak. "We had captured some really bad people," he says in a honeyed Texas accent.
When Sen. Lindsey O. Graham (R-S.C.) suggests that condoning torture is behaving like the enemy, Gonzales takes it as a challenge. "I would respectfully disagree that we are more like our enemy," he says. "We are nothing like our enemy."
Hours go by and little gets clarified. Gonzales did not author or even conceive of the infamous Aug. 1, 2002, "torture memo." It was drafted by Department of Justice lawyer John Yoo and signed by then-Assistant Attorney General Jay Bybee, and neither of them are in the room. When seeking their advice, did Gonzales press them to be "forward-leaning," as some news reports have suggested?
"I don't recall ever using the term 'lean forward,' " he tells Sen. Edward M. Kennedy (D-Mass.), the first of a string of deflections.
Kennedy loses his focus and moves on to ask about civil rights. Sen. Jeff Sessions (R-Ala.) spends precious minutes opining about how the Department of Justice is "such a wonderful institution, big and complex."
Eight hours later, even Sen. Patrick J. Leahy (D-Vt.), who's been somber and hard-hitting throughout, winds up laughing and joking with Gonzales: "So, do you still want the job?"
