Supreme Courtship (9 page)

Scarlet, huh? You fat pompous Sicilian gasbag,
Hardwether fumed.

Every court has its diva. Silvio Santamaria,
250
pounds, gel-slicked-back jet-black hair, former boxer, Jesuit seminarian, father of thirteen children, Knight of Malta, adviser to the Vatican on international law and even occasional guest
advocatus diaboli
in canonization cases.
^*
What relish he brought to
that
task! A reproduction of Holbein’s Sir Thomas More hung in his chambers. Indeed, his written opinions often quoted from the movie
A Man for All Seasons.
He was brilliant, with a wit as caustic as drain cleaner; good company if you were in his camp and look out if you weren’t. Silvio Santamaria didn’t take yes for an answer. He didn’t disagree—he violently opposed. Didn’t demur—he went for your throat. Didn’t nitpick—disemboweled you and flossed his teeth with your intestines. First-timers appearing before the Court for oral argument had been known to wet their pants and even faint under his withering questions and commentary. His written dissents were of the type described by the press as “blistering” or “stinging.” He loved to write, and when he was not procreating more Santamarias or inveighing against the modern world, he wrote books. Scathing books. He’d published five while a justice. Their titles included
The Road to Sodom
and
Supreme Arrogance: How the Court Is Ruining America
—
And What You Can Do to Stop It.
He gave fiery—and rather good—speeches that had his audiences stomping on the floor and standing up on their chairs calling for—demanding!—a new Inquisition. On balance, Hardwether wasn’t surprised by the scarlet robe quote; it was a miracle Silvio hadn’t called for the Chief Justice to be impeached or—better—hanged, drawn, and quartered, his head impaled on a pike.

Hardwether’s chauffeur, an ex–Secret Service agent adept at aggressive driving, suddenly drove up onto the median strip and got the CJ to Dulles in time for his flight. Alas.

Airport security whisked him through a separate entrance where he was not required to remove his shoes and surrender his gels or his bottle of Listerine—there were at least some advantages to being “the most powerful man in the country,” even if you couldn’t seize your wife’s assets and have her submitted to
peine forte et dure.
^*
But Declan noticed that the airport staff avoided eye contact. Everyone seemed faintly embarrassed around him these days.

A
FTER SOME PRIVATE CUSSING
out loud and kicking of walls, Senator Dexter Mitchell had resolved to play it cool.

He would not denounce the President’s nominee. On the contrary. He would appear to be entirely open to having a—God save us—TV judge sit on the Supreme Court of the United States of America. He would appear to be even—what was the right word?—“intrigued” by the idea.

It’s an interesting notion the President has proposed, and I and the committee look forward to hearing Judge Cartwright’s views on the substantive issues. Yes. It’s an intriguing idea. Intriguing. Yes.

He would be the soul of noblesse and politesse. He would not condescend. He would invite her to lunch with him in his private dining room. Yes.

Dexter Mitchell had decided on this bold course of action for the simple reason that his pollsters
^*
had brought him the disturbing news that the voters back in Connecticut—and, indeed, most of the other forty-nine states—were thrilled with the idea of having Judge Pepper Cartwright of
Courtroom Six
on the Court.

That imbecile Vanderdamp had finally done something popular. It would have to be handled carefully. Very carefully. Yes.

He had given strict instructions to the Wraith Riders to find something. Anything.
If necessary, pin the JFK assassination on the demented preacher father.
But he would have to be a little careful about that: one of the senators on the Judiciary was from Texas, and he spent a lot of time flying around the country on the Reverend Roscoe’s private jet. Yes.

T
HE DAY OF HIS COURTESY LUNCH
with Pepper, Dexter came up with the superb idea of greeting her not in his office, as was usual, but on the front steps of the ceremonial entrance door of the Senate.
Oh, the magnanimity. Yes.

His staff alerted the media to the impending grace note. It would lead off the coverage: the President’s bitter enemy welcoming a completely unworthy nominee—at the front door. Dexter self-scripted the crawl at the bottom of the TV screen:
GOOD-LOOKING, SUAVE, GRACIOUS, MAGNANIMOUS SENATOR MITCHELL OF CONNECTICUT DISPLAYS EXTRAORDINARY COURTESY AS HE GREETS IMBECILIC PRESIDENT VANDERDAMP’S TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE SUPREME COURT NOMINEE
. . .

Standing on the steps beneath the portico as he waited for Cartwright’s car to arrive, Senator Dexter Mitchell pursed his lips (slightly sore from yesterday’s collagen injection) and did a few labial calisthenics, practicing his thousand-dollar smile for the cameras.

“Arriving now, Senator,” an aide whispered into his ear.

“Good,” he said exuberantly. “I’m looking forward to this. Very much looking
for-ward
to it. Yes. Yes.”

Moments later a vehicle hove up inside the archway. But it was not the expected dark Lincoln town car. Instead . . .
what’s this? . . .
Dexter’s brow strained against the Botox—a bright, cherry-red pickup truck?

He was digesting this incongruity when the driver’s side door opened and out stepped—bounded—not a chauffeur but Supreme Court nominee Pepper Cartwright. Herself, in the flesh. And what flesh.

Claxons sounded in Dexter’s ears as he realized that he had just been one-upped on his own front steps.

She was coming around the car—the
pickup.
Smile!
She was wearing a figure-hugging pantsuit—
whoa, nice figure there, cookie—
a pearl necklace, turquoise stud earrings, and cowboy boots, expensive looking: ostrich, silver-toed. She was smiling for the cameras and the cameras were grinning back. She had her hand out. She was saying something.

“Senator Mitchell. Pepper Cartwright. Honor to meet you, sir.”

Say something! Smile, dammit!

“No, no. The
honor
is mine. Your Honor.
Aack!
” Dexter grinned maniacally. “Great pleasure. Great pleasure. Yes. Yes.”

He took her hand but as he tried to maneuver her to his left side for the cameras, she pivoted backward and, still gripping his hand, positioned herself to his right.

Dammit!

Dexter’s smile tightened. In the photographs and TV shots, she’d be on the left—the dominant position. It would look like
her
meeting. Like
she
was welcoming
him
.

Keep smiling!

Dexter’s mind raced: had she done this accidentally, or had she managed to one-up him twice, in less than thirty seconds?

Say something!

“That’s a . . . dandy-looking truck you’ve got there, Judge,” he said, looking straight ahead at the horde of photographers and cameramen.

Pepper paid him no attention. She smiled her lovely smile as the shutters snapped away like electric crickets.

“Shall we?” he said.

“You betcha,” she said, heading right in—
ahead of him!
—like she owned the place.

They posed for the cameras in Dexter’s office and made bland conversation for the microphones.

“I know I speak”
click click click click
“for all the members of the Committee”
click click click click click
“when I say that we’re looking forward to getting to know you better.”
Click click.

“I sure appreciate that, Mr. Chairman.”
clickclickclickclickclickclick
“And I’m sure looking forward to getting to know
you
all.”

Aides shooed the national media out like cats, leaving the Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee and the Supreme Court nominee alone in sudden, awkward silence. This was unusual for Dexter Mitchell. Normally he could fill a conversational vacuum from a hundred yards away.

“Should I call you Mr. Chairman?” Pepper said.

Dexter’s mind raced.
Another power play?

“Call me . . . whatever’s comfortable.”

“How about ‘Senator’?” Pepper smiled. “You can call me Pepper, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“Fine. Fine. Yes. Pepper.” Dexter grinned. “Wonderful name. So, now . . .”

“Do you feel kind of awkward, Senator?” Pepper said. “I sure do.”

“Awkward? No. Not in the least. No, no.”

“By the way, Mr. Clenndennynn sent his regards.”

“Well, send them back. A character, Graydon. Yes.”

“He said to watch out what I say to you,” she smiled. “I don’t think he likes you.”

Dexter stared. “Really? What makes you say that?”

“Honestly? He told me as much.”

“
Aaack!
”

“You okay, Senator?”

“Fine. Fine. You—
aack
—gave me a good laugh, that’s all. Yes. A good laugh . . .”

“I was getting ready to Heimlich you.”

“No, no, not necessary. What makes you think Graydon Clenndennynn . . . hates me?”

“Well, he said, ‘Dexter Mitchell is the embodiment of everything that is rotten and vile in government today.’ That was my first inkling.”

“Really? Well.
Aack.
That’s a compliment coming from
him
, I must say. But I thank you for your candor, Judge.”

“Candor doesn’t have anything to do with it. He told me to tell you that.”

Dexter stared. This was not going the way it should. “Judge,” he said, “this is highly unusual.”

“Whole thing’s unusual,” Pepper said. She smiled. “Did you like the pickup bit?”

Dexter recrossed his legs. “Yes,” he said, “nice touch.”

“Figured I’d need all the help I could get. So, here I am. Could I ask you something?”

“Yes. Fine.”

“You want this job for yourself, don’t you?”

“What do you mean?”

“The Supreme Court job. The one I’m up for.”

“Not at all. Well, everyone would like to be appointed to the Supreme Court. But I’m not sure I follow you.”

“Yeah, but not everyone goes and, like, personally begs the President for it.” She smiled. “Right?”

Dexter re-recrossed his legs.

“You got that restless leg syndrome thing?” Pepper said. “They got something for it. The company advertises on my TV show. I could probably get you a free sample if you’d like.”

“There is nothing wrong with my legs, thank you. As for the other, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Well,” Pepper said, like a little girl repeating a story she’d been told, “Mr. Clenndennynn said that you asked the President to name you to the Court. And when he didn’t, you got all blinky and took it out on Judges Cooney and Burrows.”

“Blinky?”

“Sorry. Texas talk. Sour milk-like.”

Dexter was about to cross his legs but didn’t.

Pepper added in a lower voice, “Don’t worry. I understand that it was a confidential visit and all. Only reason I brought it up is I wanted to make sure you didn’t resent me for trespassing on what you consider to be your land. Texans are awful sensitive about that.”

Dexter grinned and gestured. “There’s some misunderstanding here. I have the best job in this town. I’m Chairman of the Senate Judiciary Committee.”

“I noticed,” Pepper said. “By the way, sir, fantastic office. That is one heck of a view there.”

“Thank you. I don’t know about this alleged incident Clenndennynn told you, but I will tell you that it’s absurd.”

“Okay.”

“I certainly wouldn’t take everything Graydon
Clenndennynn
says as gospel. Ha. No. No, no. The stories I could tell you about Graydon Clenndennynn. Ha.”

“Well, I don’t want to be the cause of some internecine thing between a couple of dominant gorillas,” Pepper grinned. “Figure of speech.”

“Yes. Well, why don’t we get on with it. For starters, how do you see yourself fitting
in
on the Court. Your qualifications are—let’s be honest—unusual.”

“I’m not sure I’d fit in at all,” Pepper said.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well,” she said, “I can’t imagine any of the justices are exactly thrilled at the idea of having some TV judge for a colleague. Can you?”

Dexter frowned. “Well, that was what I was driving at. So you think you would be a divisive influence on the Court?”

“Probably. On the other hand, they already look pretty divided, without adding some catty whompus to the mix.”

“What?” Dexter said, exasperated.

“Sorry. More Texas talk. I revert when I’m nervous. A catty whompus is something that doesn’t, you know, fit in.”

“You don’t seem nervous,” Mitchell said, pulling his trouser leg down to cover bared calf.

“Well, I can fake it pretty good. So, let’s get to it. You fixing to nail me to a cross like you did those other two?”

Dexter smiled suavely. “That’s not the way we do things up here.”

“Oh? Funny. I watched the tapes. Looked like a replay of Good Friday to me. A regular passion play, like they do over in Germany every year at that place I can’t ever remember how to pronounce.”

“I can’t speak to that, but I will absolutely say that we gave them the hearing they deserved. Why do you smile?”

“That’s exactly what Mr. Clenndennynn said you’d say. Well, okay, whatever, it’s your show. But I might as well tell you, with all due respect, I’m not going to roll over and play dead for you.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You’ll get the hearing
you
deserve.”

Pepper laughed. “Yeah, I’ll bet. Can I call you Dexter for just a second?”

“As you wish.”

“Okay, Dex. How about we quit shoveling horseshit at each other and talk, lawyer to lawyer.”

“Very well,” Dexter said.

“Now, you don’t like anything about me, starting with the fact that I’m sitting here in your office, not kissing your ass like you’re used to. I understand. That’s fine. But I wouldn’t be here in the first place if you and your committee hadn’t strung up Judge Cooney and Judge Burrows. Let me finish. Now I don’t know what kind of witch trial you got planned for me, but this being a courtesy call, let me tell you how
I’m
going to play it. I’ve got the number one–rated TV show in the country. As of this morning—and I checked— Congress’s approval ratings are at eighteen percent. So it’s my numbers up against your numbers, Senator. And if you and your distinguished colleagues try to pull any shit, I am going to climb up on that nice wooden committee table of yours and beat you to death one by one with your microphones. We on the same page here, Dex?”