Supreme Courtship (19 page)
“You don’t owe him an apology,” Haro said. “Not after the things he’s said about you. And not just in print.”
Was this an invitation to say,
What things?
“I better get back to this.”
“Do you like wine?”
“Generally. Not right now.” Something made her add, “I’m more of a beer girl.”
“I have eight thousand bottles in my cellar.”
“Sounds like quite some cellar.”
“Yes, it is. Maybe I’ll show it to you sometime.”
Haro turned to leave. As he did, he said, “By the way,
Mortimer
isn’t the key to this case. But I’ll take care of it when your draft circulates.”
Pepper wondered if the woman who’d poured out her ex-husband’s wine and replaced it with grape juice was available, and went back to her Augean stable.
She finished the opinion late the next day and sent it out for comments by the four other justices in the majority. She felt as though she were back in school, hoping to find an “A” in red ink at the top of the returned term paper.
One morning a few days later she logged on to SupremeNet, the Court’s secure Intranet, and found the opinion in her inbox. There was no grade on it, but it was full of comments by the justices. Next to one section she found a “Good—DH.” Chief Justice Hardwether was not known to be liberal with his compliments, so she purred to find this. The pleasure was short-lived. On the next page, he had struck out a line in which she had used the Texas phrase “more confused than a cow on Astroturf”—a sentiment she had felt condign enough in a case like
Swayle
—and written, “Let’s try to keep it dignified.” Ouch.
When she came to the centerpiece of her argument citing
Mortimer v. Great Lakes Suction
, she found that every line— indeed, the entire page—had been struck out. In the margin was a note: “
Mortimer
is a rotting branch—see attachment. IH.”
*
The attachment consisted of twelve pages in which Justice Haro essentially took over and rewrote her opinion from top to bottom. It hinged on a case called
Kozinko v. Mixmaster
, in which, as Justice Haro eloquently explained, “the South Dakota Supreme Court rightly held that liability was not
in quem pro tanto
automatically waived simply because the blender was being used to manufacture methamphetamine, a federally prohibited controlled substance. Indeed, the very absence of legality in that case, pari passu, argues convincingly on behalf of Swayle’s assertion of denial of equal protection.”
Pepper read it several times, each time getting madder, but in the end conceded that it was, alas, a better argument than hers. Nonetheless, she typed
KISS MY ASS
on the top of the attachment, closed the file, and went to the gym to cool down. When she got back from the gym, she reopened the file, deleted
KISS MY ASS
, and typed,
yes, right—thank you
, and closed the file and e-mailed it back to the Clerk of the Court and went home to have a good cry, only to find a court summons in her mailbox relating to Buddy’s breach of contract suit. It sure was great, being on the Supreme Court. But there was better yet to come.
The Court was due to render its Swayle decision from the bench on Friday. On Tuesday morning, Washington awoke to a riveting story in the
Washington Times
:
The Supreme Court is expected to rule Friday in favor of a bank robber who is suing the manufacturer of the gun he used in the commission of the crime because it failed to fire when he tried to shoot the arresting officer.
According to a source within the Court, the justices have voted
5–4
in favor of the plaintiff, one Jimmy James Swayle, a career criminal currently serving
25
years in federal prison. The deciding vote was cast by the newest justice on the high bench, former TV personality Pepper Cartwright. Justice Cartwright, the source noted, has made “an already polarized court even more antipodal.”
The word means “diametrically opposite.”
It was a breathtaking leak, even by the standards of Washington, DC, where everything short of actual nuclear launch code sequences routinely turns up on the front page of the paper. Pepper’s clerk, Sandoval, reached her at home just before seven a.m. to alert her to it. An hour later, two Court marshals knocked on her door to announce that they had instructions “to provide for your security, ma’am. Orders of the Chief Justice.”
By the time she had arrived at the marble palace, Chief Justice Hardwether had already sent a SupremeNet e-mail to all the justices deploring the leak, apologizing to Justice Cartwright “on behalf of the
entire
Court,” announcing that he would initiate an internal investigation, and hinting that he might even bring in the FBI. This last part did not sit well with various justices, unleashing a torrent of furious postings on J-Blog, the justices’ Intranet chat room.
Emphatically resent implication my chambers might have had anything to do with this tawdry affair and shall in no way cooperate. Strong letter follows. SS [Silvio Santamaria]
Dismaying as the episode may be, I find even more outrageous the imputation that suspicion should be so casually and widely applied here. What happened to Equal Protection? RR [Ruth Richter]
Why don’t you just install a polygraph machine in the Great Hall? IH [Ishiguro Haro]
Quis custodiet . . . sigh.
*
MG [Mo Gotbaum]
Come on, everyone—let’s all take a deep breath and calm down. PP [Paige Plympton]
Reading them, Pepper was struck by the fact that most of them seemed most outraged about being subjected to an investigation, not the leak.
Outside, the world at large was howling not for the head of the leaker but for—hers. The article had managed to focus all the rage over the decision on Pepper, not on the other four justices who had joined her. The blogosphere and airwaves were in meltdown. By noon, the first calls to
IMPEACH CARTWRIGHT
had been posted and a crowd had gathered in front of the Court. A candlelight vigil was duly announced.
In the midst of the storm of outrage, Pepper’s secretary announced that her grandfather was on the phone. This was the moment she had been dreading above all. She had even sent him and Juanita round-trip business-class tickets to Cancún, Mexico, and paid for a suite at a fancy hotel (with casino—JJ loved to gamble) for the express purpose of getting him out of the country when
Swayle
hit the news. With any luck he’d be in the casino when CNN reported the decision. Now this.
“Hello, JJ,” she said.
“Is this true?” he said.
She sighed. “Yep.”
There was a long silence, not even a
pwwttt.
“Did you call just to not say anything?” Pepper said. “Why don’t you just cuss me out and get it over with?”
“I just don’t see how you coulda . . .” JJ said. “That coulda been me that son of a bitch was aiming at.”
“I know. But there was this case called
Kozinko v. Mixmaster
where . . .” Her heart wasn’t quite in it.
“Is that why you sent us those tickets?”
She drew in a breath to lie, but couldn’t. The air came back out, unpolluted by mendacity. “Yep,” she said.
Another long silence. “I know most everyone who goes to Washington loses their way sooner or later. But I didn’t think it happened this fast.”
“It’s a complicated case, JJ. The Second Circuit found that—”
Pwwttt
. “No, Pepper. It ain’t complicated.” Silence. Pepper couldn’t think what to say. JJ said, “Guess I’m gonna hang up now,” and he did.
A
GRIM-LOOKING
H
AYDEN
C
ORK
had brought in the news yesterday morning, having just gotten a whip count from the White House Congressional Liaison. The Senate was about to pass the Presidential Term Limit Amendment,
77–23
.
“Apparently the
Swayle
vote was the final nail,” he reported.
Graydon Clenndennynn had been yanked back from another remunerative negotiation, persuading Russia to equip its domestic security forces with U.S.-made Taser guns, there being increasing need in Moscow these days to deal with a restive citizenry.
Hayden said to the President, “We’re going to kill him if we keep putting him through this kind of jet lag.” But Clenndennynn showed up in the Oval Office looking crisp and ready to lend wisdom and eminence to yet another presidential emergency.
“I’m not sure I see what the crisis is,” Graydon said, setting down his china coffee cup. “I was under the impression you didn’t
want
to run again.”
“I don’t,” the President said gloomily.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Because now I’ll have to run. To show them what I think of their ridiculous amendment.”
“Why don’t you just denounce them and be done with it?”
“I denounce the Congress all the time. Now, if I don’t run, everyone will think it’s because I was intimidated or scared off. I won’t have that. Because it’s not the truth.”
“All right. Then in that case, run.”
“Graydon,” the President said, “stop pretending to be obtuse. I don’t
want
to run. Everything I’ve tried to do has been predicated on being in office for only one term. There’s a principle at stake here.”
How many times had Graydon heard that hoary asseveration. “Then
don’t
run,” he said with a fleck of petulance.
“Hayden,” the President said, “would you please call Andrews and have a jet fueled to take Mr. Clenndennynn
back
to Moscow?”
“Donald,” Graydon said, “there are times when a leader has to choose—”
“If this is one of your what-would-Winston-do lectures,” the President said, “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not in the mood for Churchillian wisdom today, thank you.”
“—between the between the unpalatable and the poisonous. All right. The amendment is an insult, a slap across the face administered by a bunch of self-dealing scoundrels. So what else is new? You’ve been warring with the Congress since day one. All I’m saying is, you’re perfectly right. If you don’t run now, it’ll look like . . . cowardice. That you’re throwing in the towel.”
“So I’m damned either way. Is that it?”
“Sorry. Look,” Graydon said, “if it’s the prospect of serving another term that’s got you tied up in knots, I wouldn’t worry too much on that score. You certainly have my vote. But I didn’t pass huge crowds here on my way in from Andrews chanting, ‘Four more years.’ Where are we in the polls, Hayden?”
“Low thirties,” Hayden said. “We had some bounce from Cartwright, but
Swayle
eliminated that.”
“How could the Court have ruled for that . . . Oh, well.” Graydon sighed. “Supreme Court justices almost always disappoint. Remember what Truman said when they asked him if he had any disappointments. ‘Yes, and they’re both sitting on the Supreme Court.’ Well. There we are. Point is, sir, I think you can safely run for reelection and expect to be back on your front porch in Wapa—however it’s pronounced—by the following January
21
.”
*
“It’s too cold in Wapakoneta in January to sit on the porch,” the President said, “but I appreciate the sentiment. Well, this is going to be one heck of a queer campaign.”
T
HE
S
ENATE VOTED
the next day,
78–22
, in favor of the Presidential Term Limit Amendment. Having cleared both the House and the Senate, the measure would now go to the states to be ratified. Getting three-quarters of state legislatures to agree on something can take a long time. It took four years (
1947
to
1951
) to ratify the amendment limiting presidents to two terms; but lowering the voting age to eighteen took a mere one hundred days to pass (during the Vietnam War). The punditariat
†
predicted that given President Vanderdamp’s unpopularity, the amendment stood a good chance of being briskly ratified. They confidently predicted that Vanderdamp would not seek reelection. He might be politically inept, they said, but he was not a fool, nor one to seek further humiliation. He would finish out his term and slink back to Wapawhatever with his tail between his legs.
A solemn-faced Hayden Cork, making a rare personal appearance in the White House pressroom, announced that the President would shortly address the nation from the Oval Office.
T
he President looked as though all the cares of the world rested upon his shoulders alone.
“It’s not going to happen,” he said to the somber faces around the table. “They will not become a nuclear power on my watch.” No one spoke. “Is that clear?” he said, his voice grave. “Are we all on the same page here?”
Heads nodded reluctantly. The Secretary of State had gone ashen, slumped in his chair.
“All right then,” the President said.
“
Let’s quit dicking around. Send in the
Nimitz
.”
“Cut.”
“What was wrong with that?” Dexter said.
“The line is, ‘Let’s quit messing around,’” the director said. “We can’t say ‘dicking.’ We’ll get fined by the FCC.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know the chairman of the FCC. He’s been to dinner at my house. We’re pals.”
“That’s great. Always nice to have friends in important places. But for now, let’s stay with the script. By the way, Senator, the energy in that scene—great. Amazing. I was blown away. Weren’t you blown away?”
The assistant director nodded. “Totally.”
President Mitchell Lovestorm grumbled assent. They reshot the scene. Lunch was called.
He remained at the table while the other actors dispersed in the direction of the craft services table, adrift in reverie. He was finding it harder and harder to turn his character on and off. One day, discussing it with the makeup lady, she’d told him about something called Method Acting, where you stayed in the character you were playing. He’d decided to try it. It worked. His wife, Terry, didn’t quite get it and seemed to resent it when he told her not to “tie up the hotline,” but generally it worked.
