Supreme Courtship (29 page)
“So that’s where we are as of now, my fellow Americans. I just wanted to let you know where we stand. And to tell you that I’m trying to do my best. I really am. But whatever happens, don’t give up on America. It’s still a great country. It’s just a little confused at the moment.
“Good night. Sorry to interrupt your TV shows. God bless.”
M
OTHER
FUCKER
,”
Dexter said. “Cocksucking motherfucking
cocksucker
. . .”
They had watched the President’s televised address in a suite purposefully and strategically situated in the Hay-Adams Hotel, directly across from the White House. It was Bussie’s idea. Send the signal:
We’re here, and we’re moving in on January 20
.
Deal with it.
Bussie and Blyster Forkmorgan and the other lieutenantry of Team Mitchell let the Senator continue with his frothing expostulations. It reminded some in the room of the possession scenes in the movie
The Exorcist
. At one point it was feared the Senator might put his foot through the television, no doubt an expensive one.
“. . . cocksucking . . .”
A few frozen moments after the President had indicated his willingness to resign, Bussie had murmured, “We’re fucked, Dex.” The language in the war room that night could hardly be called elevated.
Ignoring Dexter’s ongoing spasms, Blyster looked over at Bussie and said mildly, “Was it your impression that he was improvising? He didn’t seem to me to be reading from a text.”
“Whatever it was,” Bussie said, “we got problems.”
“Yes. But a case, still.” He looked at his watch. Right about now a courier would be arriving at the Clerk of the Court’s office at the Supreme Court to file the brief for
Mitchell v. Vanderdamp
.
“. . . mother
fucking
. . .”
“How long,” Blyster said, “does he go on like this?”
“Dex?” Bussie interjected. “
Dex? Senator?
”
“What?” Dexter said in midfoam.
“You want to get back to work? We need to respond. They’re waiting on the roof.” The television networks had permanent tents on the hotel roof, the White House serving as backdrop; especially apt here.
“Oh, I’ll
respond. Cocksucker!
” Dexter glowered at the now-muted TV. An anchorman was talking to a coanchor. Both had moist eyes.
“They’re crying! Look at them!
You pussies!
Don’t you see? It was an act! That whole fucking thing was an
act
!”
“Perhaps a sedative?” Blyster said to Bussie.
“I need him awake. It’s great energy. Just needs harnessing.”
“He’s putting out enough energy to light Cleveland,” Blyster said, rising and putting on his coat. “Well, I have to be in court tomorrow. Bussie?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t let him call the President of the United States a cocksucker on national television.”
Bussie nodded wearily.
S
o,” Chief Justice Hardwether smiled wryly, “are we granting cert?”
The remark drew a rare collective laugh from the justices around the conference table.
“I’m not going to give a speech,” he went on. “But let me just say aloud what is probably on everyone’s mind. Back in the sixties—a period some of you actually remember—I was, of course, too young, or too intellectual, to pay attention
. . . .
”
Another ripple of laughter. Pepper was struck by how relaxed Declan seemed; her own stomach was in knots. She’d lost eight pounds. Maybe there was a book in it:
Supreme Weight Loss
? Declan continued: “. . . the antiwar demonstrators used to chant, ‘The whole world’s watching’ as the police advanced with truncheons.”
This elicited a low groan from Justice Santamaria. “Truncheons?”
Declan went on: “All right, nightsticks. Batons. Clubs. Whatever, Silvio. What I am attempting to say is that I promise you all I will do my best. These last few months, I have not given you that, and I apologize to you. You deserved better. This institution deserved better. But as Chief, I have responsibilities, and one of them, it seems to me, is to remind us all that any further leaks, especially pertaining to
Mitchell v. Vanderdamp
, could have a terribly deleterious impact. Disastrous impact. This is the Supreme Court. So,” he smiled wanly, “let us act supremely.”
“Thank you, Coach Hardwether,” Crispus said.
“Anyone want to add anything?” the Chief Justice said.
“Yes,” Silvio said with a mischievous look. “I think we should start with a prayer. Why don’t
you
lead us, Mo?”
Justice Gotbaum smiled. “I tried prayer, Sil. Prayed for the Skins over Miami.
*
Looks like God
is
dead, after all.”
“Funny, I prayed for Miami,” Silvio said. “Won twenty bucks. I’d say God is great.”
“That sounds familiar. That’s right—it’s what they say as they’re flying planes into our buildings and stoning women to death. ‘God is great.’ Knew I’d heard it before. How does it go in the original?
Allahu
—”
“Won’t it be nice to have Bliss Forkmorgan back with us,” Paige Plympton interjected before Silvio’s and Mo’s badinage escalated, as it usually did, into full-blown jihad.
“He’s got his work cut out for him,” Justice Jacoby said a bit provocatively.
Justice Haro said, “So does Clenndennynn.”
“
Okay
then,” Declan said, in an cheery but emphatically peremptory tone, “I guess that’s it, unless anyone else has anything? Thank you, honorables.”
Walking out with Pepper, he whispered,
“Quis
. . .”
“Good luck,” Pepper said. “This is gonna be awful.”
“I’m not a believer, but I may ask Silvio to pray for me.”
“Say, Dec, about the leaks,” Pepper said.
“Um?”
“I was wondering—did you ever hear back from the FBI?”
Declan pursed his lips. “Not a peep. Our vaunted Federal Bureau of Investigation seems to have drawn a big fat blank. Disappointing, especially after all that abuse I got from everyone here for requesting an investigation in the first place. You’d think—how hard can it be to . . . Incompetence. Everywhere you turn, these days,
incompetence
.”
“I’m sure they did their best,” Pepper said, avoiding eye contact.
“Let’s hope they’re better at catching terrorists. Say, Pep?”
He had an embarrassed, boyish look. “Yes, Dec?”
“I . . .”
“Go on. Not going to bite ya.”
“I was thinking . . . until this is over, it might be better if . . .”
“If we don’t make violent love to each other?”
“There must have been thirty photographers and reporters outside my apartment this morning. Madness. Who’s to say they’re not tailing us.”
“I understand. This is going to be tough enough.”
Declan said sheepishly, “I’m certainly going to miss our . . . our . . . little . . .”
“You’re going to miss getting laid, is what you’re trying to say.”
He blushed. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Yeah, you did.” She gave him a chaste peck on the cheek. “I’ll try to channel my frustrated lust into oral argument. See you in Court, Chiefy.” She said after him, “If you get desperate, come on by my chambers. You can mount up, see if you can stay on for eight seconds and make the whistle.”
Pepper had never seen a human being turn that shade of red before. The Chief Justice scuttled off like a frantic crab. She laughed, feeling light, almost flighty, for the first time in a long while. It was short-lived. There was a message waiting for her: “Buddy—please call ASAP.”
She waited until “ASAP” no longer applied before returning the call. Would she meet him for a drink? He didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. He sounded subdued, not at all his blustery, cigar-smoke-blowing self.
“All right,” she said. “There’s a place called the Pork Barrel.” She couldn’t resist adding, “You’ll feel right at home.”
He was waiting for her, in the same booth, oddly, where she had conversed with Agent Lodato. As she slid in opposite, a waiter came over and said merrily, “Justice Cartwright! Good to see you again.”
“I see you’re a regular,” Buddy said when the waiter had gone to get Buddy’s beer and Pepper’s coffee.
“Yes,” Pepper said. “I do all my drinking here. We’re all major boozers on the Court.”
“You look fantastic.”
“Buddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Cut the crap.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“What did you want to talk about? I’m a little busy these days.”
“Yeah. Boy,” he laughed nervously. “Must be some kind of pressure, huh?”
“It is, yes.”
“Good luck with it.”
“Thank you.” She waited for him to get to the point. He didn’t. She said, “Is this about our divorce or your breach of contract suit? Because if it is, I’m not going to discuss either. It’s been so much fun paying someone six-fifty an hour to discuss it with that I’ve gotten used to it.”
He said heavily, as if each word were a cinder block, “I wanted to apologize to you.”
Pepper stared.
“Well?” Buddy said.
“Don’t quite know what to say. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say those words all in one sentence.”
“I mean it,” he said gravely.
“You seem of late, but wherefore I know not, to have lost all your mirth.”
“No Shakespeare, Pepper, please, I’m not in the mood.”
“What’s going on?” She looked at him with sudden concern. “You’re not—did you just get a cancer diagnosis or something?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Did you just come here to apologize, or is there some hidden agenda here?”
“Why would there be?”
“Because I know you, Buddy.”
“I’m willing to drop the breach of contract suit.”
“I told you I’m not going to discuss it.”
“I’m also willing to drop the divorce suit.”
Pepper looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m prepared to forgive and forget.”
“I don’t even know how to begin to process that statement,” Pepper said after a pause so lengthy it was measurable in geologic time.
“I’ve done a lot of thinking,” Buddy said. “Maybe you have, too.”
“Not really. I’ve been too busy to think.”
“That’s good. That would be a good line.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know, if we ever did another show, say.”
“Buddy,” Pepper laughed, “do you have any idea how transparent you are? A doctor wouldn’t even have to give you a CAT scan.”
“Okay, maybe I reacted perhaps not perfectly.”
“
That’s
a good line. ‘Maybe I reacted perhaps not perfectly.’ Are you sure you didn’t study law? Talk to me, Bud man. What are you trying to say to me?”
“I want you back, Pep.”
Pepper stared. “Why? It’s not a trick question. You never really wanted me in the first place. Marrying me was just a way of sealing the business deal.”
“No way.”
Pepper reached across the table and took his hands and held his wrists with her thumbs and forefingers. “Look into my eyes and tell me that you loved me. I mean,
loved
me.”
“Sure I did.”
Pepper released his wrists. She laughed. “That was a homemade lie detector test, darling, and
boy
did you flunk.”
“I’ll learn. Whatever. I want you back.”
“No, you don’t, baby. I think—and this isn’t a criticism, honest, we’re past that—but I think the only way you can
be
real is on TV. I don’t think reality measures up for you as well as whatever’s on a fifty-two-inch plasma-gel screen at eight o’clock on Monday nights. What’s the matter?”
“That’s a horrible thought.”
“Maybe. But I figured it out the night you locked me out of our apartment. Which, by the way, wasn’t very nice.”
“It wasn’t ‘very nice’ of you to sic the FBI on me.”
“We’ve been through that, Buddy.”
“Well, let’s go through it again.”
“What would that accomplish, other than mutual annoyance?”
“Objection. Evasion.”
“Honestly, I don’t care whether you believe me or not. But it remains a fact. I’ve got to go, baby. I’m in the middle of a constitutional crisis. This job,” she smiled. “Remind me—why
did
I take it?”
“Don’t look at me.”
Pepper stood. Buddy said, “I’m still dropping the breach of contract suit.”
“Your call.” Pepper shrugged. “But I think we might as well see the other one through.” She held out her hand. “Either way, I’d still like to go on calling you buddy.”
Buddy looked at her for a moment, smiled, said, “Motion granted,” and took her hand.
As she headed off, he said after her, “Hey, Pep?”
She turned. “Um?”
“
Supreme Court.
Make a hell of a show.”
“ ‘Nine old farts sending footnotes to each other’? I don’t know,” Pepper said. “Sounds kind of dull to me.”
A
re you sure you’re up to this?” President Vanderdamp said.
The thin, wintry morning light was slanting through the French windows into the Oval Office. Graydon was on his way to the Court for oral argument in
Mitchell v. Vanderdamp.
He looked to the President quite splendid in his London suit, but Vanderdamp saw traces of exhaustion in the old man’s face. The eyes, normally vivid blue, seemed pale and watery. He had a stoop and dabbed at his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief.
“No, I’m not,” Graydon said, “but it’s too late now.
Alea jacta est
.”
*
The President smiled. “Save the Latin for them. You may need it.”
“I was trying to think when I last argued up there, and it took that story in the
Post
today to remind me. ‘Clenndennynn’s Last Stand.’ I’d have preferred ‘The Return of the King’ or something more Augustan. Less
Custerish
, at any rate. Well, I need to review my notes and put something in my stomach. Do you know—unpleasant but not unrelevant detail—the first time I argued, I threw up. Not
during
argument—thank God. Well, Donald, aren’t you going to wish me luck?”
“I’m not sure,” the President said. “Do we really
want
to win this one?”