Supreme Courtship (30 page)

“I feel your conundrum. But the prospect of the Republic falling into Dexter Mitchell’s hands?”

“Good luck.”

“Did you see in the paper,” Graydon said, “about that woman, Señorita Cha-Cha or whatever her name is? What
could
he have been thinking? Rather good timing from our perspective. But yes, I think we do want to win this one and keep Dexter Mitchell’s mitts off an actual nuclear button.”

“Thank you, old friend.”

“Not at all. Not at all. It’s been an honor to clean up after your messes. If you
do
get another term, promise you won’t call me.”

I
T HAD NOT BEEN A GOOD WEEK
, PR-wise, for Team Mitchell. Ramona, despite silky handling by Blyster Forkmorgan, had correctly smelled a
raton
^*
and, making good on her threat, had ventilated her grievance on national television.

“Ramona,” said the interviewer, “is it true Dexter Mitchell asked you to marry him?”

“
Many
times,” Ramona said, looking suspiciously chaste in a Marc Jacobs that looked like it might have been designed as a convent school graduation dress. “
Many
times. The first time, after he win the Iowa cow-kus . . .”

“Iowa caucus?”

“That. Then after the New Hampshire primary. And the South Carolina primary. Every time he wins a primary, he says to me, ‘Ramona, I am divorcing my wife to make you Primera Dama.’ ”

“First Lady. The role you played so memorably on
POTUS
?”

Ramona dabbed at her eyes with a tissue—a beautiful television moment.

“Ramona, I have to ask you—why are you telling us this now?”

“Because Dexter Mitchell is a
horrible
person and he should
never
be President of the United States. I love this country too much. You know?”

D
EXTER WATCHED
the grotesque spectacle with his eyes closed, in the company of a somewhat somber Team Mitchell at the Hay-Adams suite which, though on the eighth floor, had of late taken on the feel of a subterranean war-bunker.

Ramona’s lurid revelations did nothing to enhance Dexter’s postelection ratings, which had been in free fall following President Vanderdamp’s public offer to resign—his Finest Hour, it was being called, to Dexter’s great vexation. But
Mitchell v. Vanderdamp
having been granted cert, Dexter went before the cameras and manfully announced his intention to see it through, that being, as he put it somewhat opaquely, “the only honorable course.” Blyster Forkmorgan, his warrior instincts aroused, and Ms. Alvilar’s claims of affection—
or
alienation—being extraneous to his client’s arguments, nodded, strapped on buckler and sword, mounted, and rode to battle.

O
YEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ! . . .”

“It just came to me,” Crispus whispered to Pepper as they filed in, “it’s Old French for
oy vey
.”

Any other day, Pepper might have giggled. Not today. She was too nervous.

Taking her seat at the bench, Pepper, trying to appear calm and collected, briefly let her eyes wander over the assembled. She and Graydon’s eyes instantly locked. It was the first time she had ever viewed him from above. He looked small but formidable; peregrine-nosed, impeccable in three-piece suit and gold watch chain. He gave her the briefest smile and nod. Pepper glanced over and got her first live look at the famous Blyster Forkmorgan: grave, knife-lean, eyes like beads of mercury.

Mitchell v. Vanderdamp
boiled down to two arguments, the first technical, the second more philosophical. The first was that President Vanderdamp’s election was invalid because the term limit amendment took legal effect the moment it was ratified by Texas, two days before the election. Mitchell’s second argument centered on the larger issue of governance, that is, whether the Court should recognize a validly adopted amendment, or the People’s decision in the election. Forkmorgan’s brief asserted that the validly adopted amendment took precedence over “metaphysical, however admirably intentioned, considerations,” i.e., the will of the people as expressed in the popular vote.

Chief Justice Hardwether managed to make the preliminaries sound so mundane it might have been another routine day in traffic court. (Which was, indeed, his intention.) And began.

“Mr. Forkmorgan, in your brief, you make two separate arguments.” He smiled. “Does that signify that one argument is stronger than the other? Or are you just piling on?”

“Either argument should be sufficient to carry the day, Mr. Chief Justice,” Forkmorgan said. “As to ‘piling on,’ perhaps I am attempting to overwhelm the Court with a veritable feast of reason.”

A ripple of laughter went through the Great Hall: the sound of hundreds of buttock cheeks unclenching.

“Which argument do
you
find more compelling?” the Chief Justice asked.

“Ah, you lay an elegant trap for me,” Forkmorgan replied. “Both arguments are equally compelling, albeit admittedly distinct in terms of texture. Call it juridical dimity.”

Dimity?
Pepper thought.
What in hell is dimity?
^*

“It seems clear enough to me,” Justice Santamaria said in a gruff, enough-already tone, “that you’re putting most of your eggs in the
Dillon v. Gloss
basket. Or am I missing something here?”

“I doubt very much that you’ve ever missed anything, Justice Santamaria,” Forkmorgan said.

“I was being sardonic.”

Laughter.

“We cite
Dillon
for a very straightforward reason. There, the Court, construing the Eighteenth Amendment—Prohibition—found that the critical date was the date of ratification, not the date of certification by the Secretary of State. It goes without saying that certification takes place
after
any election. At the time, of course, the statute vested certification authority in the Secretary of State, rather than—as now—in the National Archivist.”

“Isn’t that a somewhat narrow interpretation?”

“Even if certification—and not ratification—were the key determinative moment,” Forkmorgan said, “the amendment was in effect
prior to
certification by the Vice President of the vote of the Electoral College. Thus the term limit amendment clearly prevented the President from being chosen by the Electoral College.”

“ ‘Clearly’ is the issue here. But nice try, Counselor.”

“You clearly see through me, Mr. Justice.” Forkmorgan smiled.

As the elegant swordplay proceeded, Pepper found her eyes wandering again, toward the back of the hall. A recognizable visage came into view: walrus mustache, a beef-jerky face beneath a pale forehead.
Well, who let
you
in?
The leathery face creased into a wink. Pepper turned back to the proceedings. Forkmorgan and Silvio were still going at it. She wanted to get a word in. The clock was ticking. Each side got twenty minutes to present its case. Then there would be five minutes each for rebuttal.

No one, perhaps, had grasped better than she the CJ’s admonition that the whole world would be watching.

Yards, furlongs, miles of print, on paper and online, had been expended on feverish speculation as to which way Justice Cartwright would swing in
Mitchell v. Vanderdamp.
Editorials and TV commentators demanded she recuse herself. How could she possibly be unbiased? She owed Vanderdamp her seat! Dexter Mitchell’s loathing of her was a universally known fact, despite his shameless tactical pretense of enthusiasm for her at the hearings. (His fellow committee members had amply ventilated their anger at him to the media.)

Listening to these demands that she walk away from the case, Pepper’s reaction was a (silent) reiteration of the comment in
Swayle
that had created so much bother:
kiss my ass
. This time, she would be careful not to hit the
SEND
button. After some three a.m. tossing and turning she had come to the conclusion that she was perfectly capable of rendering judgment. And that was that. It was one advantage to being a Supreme Justice: they could beller and holler as long as they wanted, but you didn’t have to explain or account for yourself. Meanwhile, the boys were still going at it.

“The operative words, Justice Gotbaum, are ‘when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several states,’ which indicates that ratification is the critical moment. Post-election certification by the Archivist is a ministerial act that has no legal significance.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Forkmorgan. But under 18 USC 106b—to which you yourself allude on page twelve—the Congress has entrusted the Archivist with the final step necessary to complete enactment of the amendment. He or she must determine that the states have officially adopted the amendment. So it would seem to me that until he or she does so, the amendment is not effective.”

Pepper took a deep breath—
no Latin,
she warned herself—and leapt in.

“Mr. Forkmorgan, as I understand it, the Court held in
1939
, in
Coleman v. Miller
, that the efficacy of ratifications by state legislatures is a political question left to political departments, not the courts. Doesn’t the rule of
Coleman
then apply here? Aren’t you, in effect, asking us to second-guess the congressional judgment reflected in the statute?”
Whew
. . .

“Not at all, Justice Cartwright, though I thank you for highlighting this very aspect. We dispute the notion that
Dillon
should be overturned in light of
Coleman
. . .”

Suddenly the Chief Justice interrupted the attorney in the middle of a string of citations. “Thank you, Mr. Forkmorgan. Mr. Clenndennynn?”

Graydon rose. The spectators stirred at the sight of the President’s attorney.

“You seem to put quite a bit of emphasis on
Opinion of the Justices, 362 Mass. 907
,” Hardwether began.

“Indeed, but no more than it is capable of sustaining, Mr. Chief Justice. It is a hardy opinion, I would say. But we also cite
City of Duluth
;
State v. Kyle
;
Real v. People
; and
Torres v. State.
At the risk of putting the Court to sleep.”

A ripple of laughter.

“Oh, no,” the Chief Justice smiled. “I’m wide awake.”

“If I may, Mr. Chief Justice,” Graydon said, slipping his right hand into his vest pocket, imparting a faint Churchillian aspect, “despite all our—I freely admit—rather busy citing, we are making, or trying to make, a simple and straightforward argument that to the extent there is ambiguity here, this amendment should not be deemed to apply to a
sitting
president. The Twenty-second Amendment was explicitly
prospective
. It didn’t bar President Truman from running for reelection in
1952
. The people did. So the Twenty-second Amendment’s prospective reach can hardly be read as a background principle.”

A little purr of appreciation went through the Hall. Paige Plympton, always on the lookout for the high ground in any argument, asked the President’s attorney if the Framers had envisioned such a “conundrum as the one we seem to find ourselves in.” Graydon, hand still tucked in his vest pocket, arched an eyebrow in bemusement.

“Madame Justice Plympton, it has long been my impression, though I have never given voice to it publicly until now, that the Framers, had they known the procedural contortions and abominations to which their descendants would put their sublime efforts, might well have thrown up their hands in the air and begged the British to take us back.”

A wave of laughter went through the Great Hall. The old man was about to continue when he suddenly turned gray. His hand moved from his pocket to his chest. He stood, gasping. Pepper thought,
Sweet Jesus.
And then he fell forward.

News that the President’s attorney had collapsed during oral argument was received, in evangelical America, as a sign that the End of Days might, indeed, be at hand.

F
IFTEEN MINUTES LATER,
Pepper was in her chambers, stunned and teary-eyed. Crispus was keeping vigil with her at the TV set, handing her serial tissues. They watched.

Graydon Clenndennynn had been ambulanced to George Washington Hospital, where an enormity of media were now swarming. Almost all of the stand-up reporters were calling him “
Mr.
Clenndennynn,” as if in premonition of mortality. He was alive, but barely. Words crawled across the bottom of the screen:
. . . PRESIDENT’S ATTORNEY SUFFERS ‘MASSIVE’ HEART ATTACK DURING SUPREME COURT ORAL ARGUMENT OVER DISPUTED ELECTION . . .

Declan was in his own chambers, manning a sort of command post, though it was anything but clear what its precise function was at this point, Court being—obviously—adjourned.

Pepper reached for the phone and called the Marshall of the Court’s office. “I need a car. Right away.”

Crispus stirred from his own lugubrious meditations—in fact, he had been offering silent prayers for Mr. Clenndennynn; doubtless Silvio was phoning the Vatican in Rome and exhorting the Holy Father to convene the College of Cardinals and put them to collective flash-priority orisons.

“Hm? Where are you going?” Crispus said.

“To the hospital.”

This took a moment to sink in. “No,” he said, “you can’t do that.”

“Got to.”

“You
can’t
.”

“Shut up, Crispy.”

“Darling child—you’ll be crucified. . . .”

“Screw that.”

“But—”

“I’ll call you from the hospital.”

“At least let your boyfriend know,” he called after her, but she was already out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Crispus, watching on the television in his own chambers, saw the commotion at the hospital’s entrance as her town car arrived, the swarm of media turning on it like a wave as she emerged and was shouldered through the horde by Court marshals.

“Justice Cartwright . . . Supreme Court Justice Pepper Cartwright has just arrived at the hospital. . . . Justice Cartwright has arrived at George Washington Hospital where Graydon Clenndennynn is in critical condition following a heart attack during oral argument. That’s all we know at the moment, but it would appear that she has come to the bedside of the lawyer who just an hour ago was arguing the President’s case before the Supreme Court. Jeff, does that complicate matters any?