Supreme Courtship

CHAPTER 9

In an effort to appease Buddy, Pepper was taping back-to-back episodes of Courtroom Six. His gloom over the prospect of losing his star was only slightly mitigated by Courtroom Six’s having become-as Pepper had pointed out to Chairman Mitchell-the number one-rated show in the country. He acted as though Pepper’s acceptance of a Supreme Court nomination was a betrayal and inconvenience. At this point Pepper wasn’t clear which of the two Buddy considered the more heinous.

In her not-so-free time, she was cramming her head with the thick briefing book Hayden Cork ’s staff had prepared. It contained précis of significant Supreme Court rulings and transcripts of previous confirmation hearings, along with “suggested responses,” which to Pepper seemed mainly to consist of smoke grenades of obfuscation.

Judge Cartwright, will you respect stare decisis [10] with respect to Roe v. Wade?

Answer: I’m delighted to have the opportunity to discuss this important aspect, Senator. Stare decisis is, of course, itself an important concept dating all the way back to the days of the Roman Empire, when everyone was speaking Latin. We do things differently from the Romans, of course. We do not feed criminals to live animals, or crucify them, or make them row in galleys. We do not even use galleys, in fact, though it might be energy efficient if we put our two million prisoners to work powering our naval vessels. But to your question…

Pepper gathered that the object was to put the senators to sleep. She was having a hard enough time herself keeping awake.

One night after a tiring day as she was curled up on the couch doing her homework, Buddy came in from a late dinner and announced, “I’m not going to live in Washington. You can. I’m not.”

Pepper looked up and said, “Okay.”

Buddy said, “I’ve got way too much going on up here.”

“I understand,” Pepper said.

“There aren’t any decent restaurants.”

Pepper sighed quietly. “Whatever.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

Not looking up, Pepper said, “What am I supposed to say?”

“You might at least fake disappointment.”

“Buddy, honey, if you’re spoiling for a fight, could you just go punch the doorman? I gotta memorize all this mumbo jumbo.”

“Don’t you want us to live together?”

“Sure I do. But I don’t want you to be miserable. It’s not that far. I’ll commute up on weekends.”

“Swell,” Buddy snorted. “Great.”

Pepper took off her reading glasses. “Shall we do an instant replay? You came in the door and announced, like the Holy Roman Emperor, that you weren’t going to live with me in Washington. I said okay. I don’t recall lack of restaurants being the deal breaker in the marriage vows. I was actually under the general impression that Washington is halfway civilized and has decent, even fine restaurants that serve edible food. But recognizing that living there would be an inconvenience to you, I understand and agree. Whatever works for you.”

“You’re such a lawyer,” Buddy said.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” She closed the briefing book. “But if you’re spoiling for a fight, okay. What’s the theme of this one? How I’ve ruined your life?”

“Don’t let me take you away from your studying.”

“Baby,” Pepper said tenderly, “I got to ask you a serious question at this point.”

“Go ahead.”

“Are you aware that from the get-go you’ve been a total a-hole about all this?”

“Oh,” Buddy laughed bitterly, “I get it. Thank you for pointing it out. I’m the asshole.”

“Well, glad we got that settled,” Pepper said, putting her glasses back on and reopening the book.

Buddy said, “How am I supposed to react? Am I supposed to be thrilled that you’re willing to throw away everything that we’ve worked for so hard?”

“Baby. Your wife has been asked to sit on the Supreme Court. How does that amount to throwing it all away? Looky here. We’ve got more money than God. You’ve got more money than the Holy Trinity. I probably won’t even make it past the confirmation hearings. But if I do, you’ll find another judge for Courtroom Six in about twenty seconds. And you got six other shows running. Two of ’em in the top twenty.”

“Right. People jumping off bridges and eating themselves to death.”

“Well, honey, they were your ideas. And you’re making a fortune off ’em.”

“They’re shit.”

“Now, don’t you be too hard on yourself. You’ve brought awareness to the issue of people hurling themselves off bridges. And G.O… that episode about that 750-pound food writer-what was her name, Mrs. Stern?-having to be surgically separated from her sofa, that was right… human. I’ll bet you that touched a lot of chords with large folks who’ll be inspired to get up off the sofa before they fuse with it.”

“It’s all shit. It’s crap. Courtroom Six is a showcase. Without you, there’s no Courtroom Six. Without you, I’ve got no class act. There. Okay? You see the problem?”

“Doesn’t your wife being on the Supreme Court amount to some kind of ‘class’?”

“Is this where I’m supposed to tell you-for the eighteenth time-that I’m proud of you? All right. Great. I am so fucking happy for you.”

Pepper closed the briefing book and shoved it into her briefcase. She stood and disappeared into the bedroom, re-emerging a few short minutes later with an overnight bag.

“All right. What are you doing?” Buddy said, in a tone suggesting he knew exactly what she was doing.

“Going to a hotel,” Pepper said. “That way, if I feel the overwhelming need to be congratulated in the middle of the night, I’ll just ring down to the concierge and have him send someone up to pat me on the back.”

“Go ahead,” Buddy said. “You’ve become an expert at walking away from things. Be my guest.”

“I’ll be the hotel’s guest,” Pepper said, exiting, “but I will put it on your credit card.”

NEW YORK BEING NEW YORK, there was a five-star hotel just a few blocks away, off Columbus Circle. Pepper checked into a suite on the fifty-eighth floor, tipped the bellman, and stood staring out the floor-to-ceiling window at the great black-and-white panorama before her: a million lights, ships tugging up and down the Hudson, the necklace strand of the George Washington Bridge in the distance. All it lacked was Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.

She was relieved to be here and not back at the apartment being nattered at by Buddy. Still she looked for her building amid all the others and found it at the edge of the park. She could make out the windows of their bedroom, and her study. What room was Buddy in now? What was he thinking? I really am an asshole or What a bitch? She didn’t know the answer, and it troubled her, on reflection, that she didn’t. They’d been together now seven years. He’d proposed to her the day the show was picked up by the network. And she’d said yes, automatically, a little joylessly, now that she looked back on it. It occurred to her, for the first time, that her feelings for Buddy might have been a little… self-referential, maybe? Or-she thought on it coldly and clearly-self-reverential. Being on TV does tend to bring out the inner Narcissus. Had they ever actually loved each other-or was it the success they’d brought each other that they’d loved? Confronting this unpleasant, humiliating epiphany, Pepper decided she didn’t want to dwell on it anymore just now. Which, she realized, was confirmation enough of its probable, essential truth. Aw, hell, she thought, you-dummy. You deserve every bit of what you’re getting. Every kick in the butt. It wasn’t ever really a marriage. It was just a damn business arrangement.

Her cell phone trilled. She rummaged urgently in her bag, then saw the call was from JJ.

“Hey,” she said.

“What’s wrong?” he said.

“Nuthin’. How you?” Her Texas accent tended to deepen when talking to JJ.

“Nuthin’ name of Bixby?” JJ had never been a big fan of Buddy. He was generally suspicious of anyone who had anything to do with television, the only exception being his granddaughter.

“He’s being a pain in the butt. But I was the one who walked out. Never done that before.”

“Where are you?”

“In a hotel.”

“Hotel? Where?”

“Around the corner from my apartment. It was either that or whack him upside the head with one of my Emmys. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted.”

“Hell, make him go check into a hotel.” Pwwttt. JJ’s sentences were punctuated by the sound of expectorated tobacco juice.

“Don’t worry. I’m puttin’ it on his plastic,” Pepper said.

“Hope it’s an expensive hotel.”

“Oh, it is. I’m gonna eat all the macadamia nuts in the minibar. That oughta add a thousand bucks to the tab. So, what’s up down there?”

“Everyone’s having a fit and steppin’ in it over this damn border-mining bill,” JJ said. Pwwttt.

A Texas state senator had introduced a bill in the legislature calling for the state to mine its border with Mexico, on the grounds that the federal government had failed to stem the tide of illegal immigrants. It had started out as a symbolic protest, but America being America -and Texas definitely being Texas -the thing had acquired a life of its own. The bill now had so many supporters it looked like it might actually pass in the upcoming session. Pwwttt.

“I guess I feel as strongly about immigration as the next person,” JJ said, “but I don’t know if the solution is to start blowin’ up Mexicans. Be a heck of a mess. But we got to do something. Juanita feels kinda strongly against it.”

“I’ll bet she does,” Pepper said. Juanita was JJ’s girlfriend. She’d been the housekeeper and cook up until JJ’s wife, Pearl, had passed. Juanita still did the cooking and housekeeping; a few other duties had been added.

“Hold on,” Pepper said. “I think I’m supposed to have an opinion on that. I’m supposed to have an opinion on everything, including the moons of Jupiter. It’s somewhere in here…” She opened her briefing book, flipped through the pages. “Here it is. Get a load of this.” She read aloud:

“Question: In the event the Texas Border Enforcement Initiative (TBEI) becomes state law and is challenged in the federal courts-as would almost certainly be the case-how would you vote on that?

“Answer: I am very glad you raised that, Senator. The issue of illegal immigration is indeed a complex and highly charged one, at the federal, state, and certainly local level. While it would not be appropriate for me to comment about this or for that matter any hypothetical case that might come before the Court, I would point out that in Jimenez v. California, the Ninth Circuit held, in a case involving a private aircraft chartered by an out-of-state corporation, that state legislation permitting the strafing of illegal aliens did not run afoul of the Dormant Commerce Clause. At the same time, in Montez v. Arizona Minutemen, the Fifth Circuit held, in another case involving a private aircraft chartered from an out-of-state corporation, that Title 14-266 of the Arizona Revised Statutes 19b, which permitted dropping incendiary devices on illegal immigrants, did, in fact, run afoul of the Dormant Commerce Clause. Now, as to reconciling these divergent opinions…”

“What in the hell is that?” JJ said. “I didn’t understand one damn word.”

“It’s my homework,” Pepper said. “I got to memorize that, along with a thousand other pages just like it.”

“Julius Caesar. You sure you want this job?”

“Suppose.”

“Suppose? That don’t sound like ‘whuppee’ to me.”

“I don’t know, JJ,” Pepper said, suddenly feeling like she was going to cry. “It’s the Supreme Court, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I ought to want it?”

“Wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to me, either way. We’re already proud of you just for being asked. Juanita’s bought a new dress for the hearings. Oh, I’m supposed to ask you-she supposed to curtsy when we meet the President?”

“No, JJ. It’s America. Nobody’s got to curtsy to nobody. We fought a war over that.”

“That’s what I told her.” Pwwttt. “But you know how she is. Hell, she’s about the first person in her family ever to own a pair of shoes.”

“Well, you tell her not to. Tell her I said. You talk to the bishop?”

“Bishop” was the word Pepper and JJ used privately for the Reverend Roscoe.

“I called him on Monday.” Pwwttt. “He called me back on Thursday. I said, ‘Been so long since I called I can’t remember what I was callin’ you about.’ That boy’s got the manners of a…”

“Now, JJ,” Pepper said. “You go easy on him. You know Daddy ain’t dealin’ off a full deck.”

Pwwtttt. “I know that. I think he’s got a case of the guiltys. He offered me and Juanita a ride up there to Washington on that plane of his.” JJ chuckled darkly. “Preachers with their own planes. I said to him, ‘So what kind of private plane did the twelve apostles have?’ He didn’t laugh none.”

JJ and his son, Roscoe, had a somewhat textured relationship. Though JJ had never admitted as much, Pepper suspected that he’d taken a major amount of ribbing from his fellow lawmen about his son being the one who told Jack Ruby where he could go shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. JJ was as down-to-earth as asphalt. His idea of a religious experience was a pretty sunset; of religious service, doffing his hat when a hearse went by. He tended toward skepticism in the matter of his son’s ministry, with its rhinestone sermons and televised Sunday services, $20 million private jet and all-female choir that looked like the Dallas Cowgirls got up in angel costumes.

“Now, JJ,” Pepper said, “you don’t mind that plane none when he lets you use it to go trout fishing with your buddies up in Montana.”

“That’s different,” JJ said.

Pepper laughed. “How is that different?”

“It’s putting the plane to some decent use. I don’t mind if he’s flying some kid with cancer to a hospital or whatnot, but most of the time, he’s lendin’ it to politicians so they’ll give his church another tax break. What’s he need another tax break for, I want to know. Hell, he’s already got enough money to burn a wet dog.”

Pepper said, “President’s folks asked me to try to keep him from coming up to the hearings.”

“Can’t say’s I blame ’em.”

“They’re just worried it’ll give the media the excuse to drag up the whole damn Ruby business. I told them under no circumstances. And I told them they ought to be ashamed for asking me. Maybe he’s a little unusual, okay, but he’s my daddy and he’s going to be there.”

JJ snorted. “ ‘Unusual.’ You got that right.”

“Now, JJ Cartwright, you look here,” Pepper said. “It would be nice if while the senators are peeling the bark off me, the two of you weren’t sitting behind me pecking at each other like a pair of snake-bit roosters.”

“Don’t you worry none about that. We’ll be quiet as the Tetons. As for those senators,” JJ pronounced the word with disdain, “if there’s one thing they can do, it’s read polls. You’re about the one thing this country agrees on right now.”

“Well,” Pepper yawned, “we’ll see about that. All right. I’m gonna eat a thousand dollars’ worth of nuts and memorize another forty pages of this horseshit. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Pep.”

THE NEXT MORNING at six-fifteen on the set of Courtroom Six, Pepper was sitting in front of the mirror, eyes closed, as the makeup lady was doing her thing when Bob the director entered and, looking embarrassed, said that he had a “couple of notes” for her.

“They’re from Buddy,” he added. “Not me. So you know.”

Pepper opened one eye warily. She was tired from staying up late with Corky’s Gutenberg Bible-sized briefing book. Macadamia residue sat uneasily in her tummy.

“He wants a guilty verdict in the Robinson case. And in the Bofferding case. And in Nguyen v. Rite-Aid, not guilty.”

Pepper cocked her head to one side. Both eyes were open now. She liked Bob. He was an affable old pro in his midsixties, with nothing left to prove professionally, nicely devoid of ego. In six years she and he had had maybe three arguments, all of them forgotten within an hour.

“Bob,” Pepper said, “what in hell are you talking about?”

“Like I said, they’re from Buddy.” Bob shrugged. “I told him you’d probably want to hear it from him directly, but he said for me to tell you. So I have. You look terrific, by the way.”

“Who does he think he is… Hammurabi? Since when does he dictate verdicts?”

“I know. It’s…”

“Well, you tell our producer for me he can kiss my Texas…”

Bob smiled and gestured with open palms-universal sign language for Ireally, really do not want to get involved in this.

Throughout the taping of the Robinson case, which involved a leaf blower that had (allegedly) been used for indecent purposes, Buddy sat in his usual chair behind Bob. Instead of following the proceedings, he ostentatiously thumbed his BlackBerry. Pepper concentrated on the case. When it came time to pronounce the verdict, she said, a little more loudly than usual, “Not guilty,” adding, “and I ought to fine the plaintiff for costs for wasting this court’s time. Shame on you, sir. And you will apologize-right now-to Mr. Gomez here.”

Buddy looked up from his BlackBerry, tapped Jerry on the back, and drew his hand across his throat.

“Cut,” Bob said.

Buddy whispered something to him. Bob rose, walked over to Pepper, crouched down beside her behind the bench.

“Sorry about this, kiddo. Boss says you need to find the guy guilty.”

Pepper, blood pressure rising, said calmly, “He isn’t guilty. He was blowing leaves. He wasn’t aiming under Mrs. Robinson’s skirt on purpose. Look at him. Mr. Gomez hasn’t probably had a sexual thought since he left El Salvador thirty-five years ago.”

Bob nodded and winced. “That was my-right. Right. But he’s the producer. I’m just the schmuck director.”

“And I’m the judge in this courtroom.”

“Nolo contendere. But I’m still just the salaried schmuck.”

“In that case,” Pepper said, “just tell our producer what I said back in makeup. You can finish the sentence, too.”

Bob smiled. “I’m between the rock and the hard place here.”

“You tell the rock what I said he could do.”

“You want me to tell the rock to kiss the hard place’s ass.”

Pepper rose. “Okay,” she said, “stand aside.” She walked over toward Buddy, all eyes on the set and the audience on her. He’d gone back to his BlackBerry.

Pepper said to him in a lowered voice, “Am I interrupting?”

“Problem?” Buddy said, not looking up.

“Not if you let Bob and me get on with it, there isn’t.”

“You have my notes.”

“Since when do you dictate verdicts? Where do you think this is, North Korea?”

“No, I was under the impression it was New York City. Where actors abide by their contracts.”

“I see. So that’s what this is about. Well, stupid old me. Here I thought it was about whether Mr. Gomez was on a beaver hunt up Mrs. Robinson’s skirt.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Buddy said in a bored tone of voice. “Bob, let’s take it from ‘Mr. Gomez, it is the opinion of this court that you are guilty et cetera et cetera of using a leaf blower with indecent et cetera and sentences you to et cetera.’ ” Buddy turned to Pepper. “And can you put some oomph into it? You’ve been a little flat this morning.”

Bob looked at Pepper. Pepper stared at Buddy, said nothing, took her seat.

“Quiet on the set, please. Five seconds, Three, two, one, and… action.”

“Mr. Gomez,” Judge Cartwright said, “it is the opinion of this court that the producer of this TV show here is full of a substance I cannot name, on account of this being a family show; further, that he is hereby sentenced to have that leaf blower of yours inserted in a portion of his anatomy I also cannot name. Case dismissed. Sorry for your trouble.”

On her way off the set, she said to Buddy, “Enough oomph for you?”

That concluded the day’s taping of Courtroom Six.

Pepper rechecked into the hotel, having checked out of it that morning. The front desk clerk asked how long she would be stayng this time.

“Damn good question,” Pepper said.

Well, she thought on her way back up to the fifty-eighth floor, least I’ll get plenty of studying done.

The incident was all over the blogosphere and Internet within minutes and was well covered in the papers the next day. Page Six ran an item:

SEPARATE CHAMBERS

Supreme-to-be Judge Pepper Cartwright has moved into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, a few blocks from the $14 million penthouse duplex coop she shares with husband-producer Buddy Bixby. Producer and star nearly came to blows yesterday while taping a segment involving a leaf blower. A spokesman for Courtroom Six denied rumors of marital troubles and said the move was simply to provide Cartwright with “a little peace and quiet” so she can prep for next week’s grilling by Senator Dexter “Hang ’Em High” Mitchell’s Judiciary Committee. But a source tells Page Six that Supreme Hubby Buddy, whose other TV fare consists of reality shows about bridge suicides and human hippos, is in a reality lather over the prospect of losing the jewel in his crown. Yesterday, Her Honor stunned the studio audience by telling a puzzled Honduran gardener-defendant to insert the evidence-the leaf blower-in a unmentionable portion of her husband’s anatomy. Speaking of anatomical metaphors, our source says that the atmosphere between the two of them lately has been “chillier than a penguin’s ass.”

Pepper was boning up on Griswold v. Connecticut when her cell phone rang.

“What?” she said after glancing at the caller ID.

“ ‘Chillier than a penguin’s ass’?” Buddy shouted. “Are you trying to drive away our sponsors?”

“That’s not my quote,” Pepper said coolly.

“Bullshit. And I can’t believe you told that fucking illegal alien gardener to put a leaf blower up my ass. In front of everyone! Jesus Christ… But okay, okay. Will you just please come back to work? We’ve missed a whole day’s taping. I’m paying union wages-caterers-for nothing. I’m running a million-dollar soup kitchen here.”

“Baby,” Pepper said, “you got a genuine gift for prioritizing.”

“Okay,” Buddy said. “I’m a second-rate hustler. At least I know who I am.”

Pepper said, “What in the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means. And it’s from the heart.”

“You are dis-missed,” Pepper said, reaching for the END button.

“Whoa. You can wield absolute power when-and if-you get to the Supreme Court. Until then, I’ll remind Your Honor that you have a legally binding contract. And don’t tell me to shove that up my anatomy.”

Pepper said, “I was going to suggest that you first fold it up like a nice origami giraffe. Well, darling, before I terminate this conversation, which I am on the brink of doing, I want to thank you for all your loving support at this critical point in my career. It’s meant so much to have you behind me.” With that, Pepper pressed END.

The phone rang again.

“What?” she said.

Buddy said calmly, “If you’re not on the set tomorrow, I will sue you for breach of contract.”

“Okay then, guess I’ll see you in court.” She said, “Funny…”

“What?”

“Always wanted to say that.”