Huddled in a modern, all-glass conference room in Greenville, South Carolina, with afternoon sunshine streaming through every window, a dozen of us were preparing for the presidential debate that evening. Our campaign had just shocked the world by winning Iowa. We placed third in New Hampshire, and South Carolina was the next primary coming up. My debate-prep team consisted of hardened political operatives, policy experts, and seasoned Supreme Court advocates.
Into the room walked Bruce Redden, my body man. Bruce had played football at Oklahoma State; he was the field-goal kicker, the team’s second leading scorer whose college nickname was “Sunshine” because of his (then) long, bleached-blonde hair. He’s charming, utterly trustworthy, and I love him like a brother.
Gesticulating with his right hand, Bruce interrupted our strategy session to ask, “You know about the thing?”
“What Scalia thing??” I replied, puzzled.
“He died,” Bruce answered.
That morning, February 13, 2016, the great Antonin Scalia was found dead in his sleep at the Cibolo Creek Ranch hunting lodge near Marfa, Texas. After nearly thirty years on the Court, after ushering in a profound restoration in judicial fidelity to the Constitution and becoming one of the greatest justices in the history of our Nation, Justice Scalia had moved on to meet the Good Lord. The news was not yet public. Nobody knew.
