Supreme Courtship

CHAPTER 11

Senator Dexter Mitchell looked radiantly senatorial on the first morning of the Cartwright hearings: dapper, smiling, with the air of a man upon whom the great issues of the day heavily weigh. He looked… historic. How often had it been said of Dexter Mitchell that he was every inch the part?

The TV cameras followed him as he mounted the dais and moved from colleague to colleague, shaking hands, sharing a greeting or quip, nodding thoughtfully, here and there offering a furrowed brow or blinding grin. Whatever your feelings, you had to admit-the man had poise. The cameras did love him.

This was not lost on Buddy Bixby, who was watching the proceedings on television.

Normally, the spouse of the nominee sits directly behind the nominee at the hearings. Normally, too, the spouse is warmly introduced to the nineteen senators, who couldn’t really care less, but who generally offer pleasant brief smiles of acknowledgment. Not today.

Buddy’s New York office had quietly put out the word that Mr. Bixby would not be joining his wife in Washington “owing to an inner ear infection.” Buddy’s ears-inner, outer and middle-were in fact fine. The truth was that Buddy had been keeping a low profile since the weird, unsettling visit late Friday afternoon. Buddy Bixby was freaked.

He’d been in the apartment, innocently preparing to drive out to the house in Connecticut for the weekend-alone, since Pepper was still at her goddamn hotel with her panties all in a twist, probably racking up a monster bill on his Amex card-when the doorman called and said there were “two gentlemen from the FBI.”

Gentlemen? Jesus, they looked like something out of The Sopranos. Polite-very polite-too polite. There’s something inherently nervous-making about overly considerate armed men.

Was this an inconvenient time? They didn’t want to intrude. From your bag there, Mr. Bixby, it would appear that you’re leaving on a trip. Are you leaving town? Leaving the country? Now Mr. Bixby, in the course of conducting the background investigation into your wife, Judge Cartwright-by the way, everyone at the Bureau is a major, major fan of the show. Uh, thank you. One or two items have turned up that we’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on. By the way, sir, this is not an investigation of you per se. But should you at any point in this conversation feel the need to have an attorney present, you are certainly within your rights to have one. Attorney? No, that’s fine, but could you just tell me what this is-about? Sir, during a routine search of your Internet records- Internet records? Whoa. Internet records? Hold on. Who the fuck-I mean, sorry, who gave you the right to go poking around my Internet records? Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable having an attorney be part of this conversation, sir? Yes. I mean no. I mean… just… tell me what this is about, would you? Well, sir, it appears that you have been ordering Cuban cigars on line. Jesus fucking Christ, guys, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack. Well, sir, these records appear to go back over a period of eight years. Cigars! I thought you were going to tell me I’d been sending money to al Qaeda, for Chrissake! Hah! I’m joking. But “the guys” were not laughing. They were staring, doing that G-man thing. Mr. Bixby, ordering contraband items online and receiving them is not a humorous matter. Technically, it’s a felony. Felony? Guys, fellas, what are we talking about here? Cigars- That’s correct, sir. Cuban cigars. Prohibited under The Trading with the Enemy Act, USC Title 50-106. And by virtue of being a repeated and consistent violation of federal law, you may have exposed yourself to charges of participating in an ongoing criminal conspiracy. Conspiracy? Guys… But that’s for the U.S. Attorney to decide, not us. But-cigars… Additionally, by virtue of your paying for the cigars over the Internet with your… I see you used your personal American Express card for most of these transactions… you could be susceptible to charges of wire fraud. But- Nothing needs to be done at this point in time. This is just to advise you, semiofficially, as it were, that-depending on how the U.S. Attorney decides to proceed-we are opening a file. Opening a what? A file? What does “opening a file” mean? Well, sir, that’s just standard procedure when the Justice Department initiates a criminal investigation. Criminal? This is nuts, guys. Completely- Thank you for your time, sir. By the way, do you have a number where we can reach you? Would this number be good night and day?

By the time they left, Buddy was covered in sweat, his heart was going like a jackhammer, and his hands were shaking. He dialed Pepper’s cell phone. She didn’t pick up, since she wasn’t speaking to him. He left a one-word message. [15]

When Pepper retrieved the call some hours later, she was somewhat startled but put it down to Buddy’s general hysteria-a bit too much bourbon, perhaps?-and went back to prepping for the hearings. She was pleasantly surprised when, over the course of the following days, no process server knocked on her hotel door to notify her that her husband was suing her for breach of contract. Maybe he’d just gotten it off his chest with that little phone outburst and come to his senses. Meanwhile…

… Buddy, watching from New York, found himself fascinated by Senator Dexter Mitchell. He knew of course from Pepper that he was Public Enemy Numer One, the main obstacle standing between her and a seat on the Court. He’d seen photos and clips of Mitchell over the years. But up to now he’d never realized just how… perfect-looking the guy was.

Senator Mitchell finished shaking hands and patting shoulders as he made his way to the far end of the dais, where the most junior senator sat. Having come to the end, instead of turning back to his seat at the center, he walked the few steps down onto the committee room floor and made a beeline toward Pepper, who was just then taking her seat at the green baize table facing her inquisitors.

Behind her sat Graydon Clenndennynn, leonine, pin-striped, exuding calm, confidence, serenity; JJ in bolo tie and the white forehead of a man who has lived his life under a burning sun and hat; beside him Juanita, handsomely multicultural; next to her, the Reverend Roscoe, in his trademark white patent leather boots with crucifixes, trying to look relaxed but fidgeting, a purple morocco-bound Bible on his lap.

“Don’t you worry none, Daddy,” Pepper had gently reassured Roscoe going in, “they ain’t gonna get into the Ruby thing. I won’t let them.”

Senator Dexter Mitchell strode toward Pepper, his eyes beaming like halogen headlamps.

“Judge Cartwright,” he said, full of bonhomie, “on behalf of the Committee, let me say, welcome. Welcome. This must be your lovely family here.”

“I’m the godfather,” Graydon said drily.

“Dexter Mitchell. You all must be so proud. Yes. Proud. Reverend Roscoe, sir. Welcome to Washington, welcome.”

When it came JJ’s turn to shake, he extended his hand as though it were strictly on temporary loan.

The cameras followed it all.

“That’s very unusual,” a TV commentator said. “Very. Mitchell never came down to shake hands before. At least I’ve never seen him do it. What does that tell us, Bob?”

“Jim, I think it tells us that Senator Mitchell knows that he has to handle this carefully. Very carefully, in fact. Some feel that Mitchell and his committee members may have overplayed their hands with the previous two Court nominees. And as you know, polls are showing that a striking majority of people favor Judge Cartwright’s nomination. They like this lady. Of course, she’s on TV regularly, so they feel they know her already and that’s a major plus right there.”

“Those polls, Bob-what do they tell us about where we are, that is, as a nation?”

“I guess if nothing else, they tell us that we’ve reached the point-for better or worse-where being a TV personality is a qualification for the Supreme Court.”

“Good news for us, I guess, right?”

Senator Mitchell liked to tap with the handle of his gavel rather than the hammer, signaling that he wielded his authority lightly. He invited Judge Cartwright to read an opening statement.

“Thank you, Senator Mitchell,” she said. “I do not have an opening statement.”

“You don’t?”

“Other than to thank the President for the great-if perplexing-honor of nominating me to this considerable position. And to thank the Committee for considering it.”

The Botox in Dexter Mitchell’s face felt like it was gelling. “You don’t have a statement? It is customary, Judge.”

“I realize that, sir. But I guess at this point everyone pretty much knows who I am and what I’m doing here. Don’t see much point burning up your time yapping on and on about how wonderful I am.”

[Laughter.]

“But I would like to introduce my family. That’s them behind me. This is my daddy, Roscoe Cartwright. You may have seen him on TV. He’s real popular down there. This my granddaddy JJ Cartwright, who used to be a lawman down there. And this is my might-as-well-be grandmomma, Juanita Vazquez. They all three raised me, so if you don’t like what you see, it’s their fault. [Laughter.] I could honestly give a whole opening statement just about how wonderful they are, but why don’t we just get to the grilling. I see you’re all wearing your best barbecue mitts.”

[Laughter.]

Fifteen seconds in and she’s already taken over. Goddammit. Keep smiling.

“Well, Judge, it is unusual-”

“Senator,” Pepper smiled, “with all due respect, this whole blessed thing is unusual.”

[Explosion of laughter.]

“Now, with the Committee’s indulgence,” Pepper continued, reaching under the table, “I brought with me my whole judicial record.” She placed boxed sets of Courtroom Six DVDs on the green baize.

[Wave upon wave of laughter.]

Say something, dammit.

“I think I can safely speak for the Committee,” Senator Mitchell gleamingly grinned, “that this Committee has never looked forward so much to reviewing a nominee’s judicial records.”

[Laughter.]

Thank God. Okay, Mitchell thought. Good. Keep it up…

Pepper said, “I’m happy to have made the Committee’s job more pleasant. Might I respectfully suggest that when referring to any of my distinguished legal cases, that the Committee instead of citing by case number simply refer to ‘season two, episode four,’ and so forth?”

[Laughter.]

“The Committee gratefully accepts your recommendation,” Mitchell said, flexing his maxillofacial muscles to a point approaching pain. “Shall we…?”

“Commence firing?” Pepper grinned. “Absolutely. Fire at will, sir.”

For reasons of self-preservation, Mitchell had decided to invite Senator Harriett Shimmerman of the great state of New Jersey to try to draw first blood. Better, he thought, to let two women have at each other.

Senator Shimmerman was no fool. She was not in the least thrilled by the assignment. Her office had already received an unusual volume of e-mails, letters, calls, and even personal visits from constituents insisting that she vote to approve Judge Cartwright.

“Good morning, Judge Cartwright,” she began, trying her best to sound more like a kindergarten teacher than the fabled “Iron Maiden of Newark” who had sent scores of mafiosi to spend the rest of their lives staring at the ceiling of their cells for twenty-three hours a day in super-max prisons. “You’ve made a number of public statements to the effect that you do not consider yourself qualified to sit on the Supreme Court.” She smiled and made a help-me-out-here hand gesture. “I’m just wondering… should we be disagreeing with you about this?”

“No, ma’am. I stand by my previous statements. Realizing, as I do, that that doesn’t happen a whole lot in Washington.”

[Raucous laughter.]

Senator Shimmerman kept smiling. “Yes, well, welcome to our little town, Judge,” she said. “I wonder if perhaps you might tell the Committee a little about your judicial philosophy.”

“Basically, do your best to keep an orderly courtroom. Make sure everyone abides by the rules. Punish the wicked and acquit the innocent. That’s about it. Want to fast-forward to Roe v. Wade?”

“I… well…” Senator Shimmerman said, glancing at Dexter, who was looking on with a frozen smile.

Pepper said, “I’ve reviewed transcripts of the last dozen or so Supreme Court nomination hearings and they all seem to pretty much boil down to that.”

Senator Shimmerman straightened in her chair. “No. Not at all. I think this committee would like to hear your views on a great variety of topics.”

Pepper gave an unconvinced shrug. “Okay, if you say so. Just trying to save time. We can talk till the cows come home about original intent and strict constructionism, the living Constitution, judicial temperament, the role of the court versus the role of the legislature, what-have-you, and all the rest. I’m happy to do that. I’ve spent the last couple weeks cramming my locomotive with suggested answers Mr. Hayden Cork and his folks supplied me with.”

Hayden, watching on TV with the President, closed his eyes and silently groaned. The President beamed.

“The White House told you what to say?” Senator Shimmerman said.

“Heck, yes. They gave me these briefing books,” Pepper continued. “Great big pile of ’em. Looked like a back-to-school sale at Wal-Mart. You’d need a forklift to carry ’ em all. Anyway, I memorized all the answers. I warn you, though, Senator. They’re pretty darn dull. Seems to me, they were designed to have everyone at home reaching for the channel changer, going, ‘Wake me up if they find pubic hair on any Coke cans.’ [16] But however you want to play it, Senator. This is your rodeo.”

Graydon Clenndennynn smiled.

Senator Shimmerman’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. She looked like she’d been smacked across the face with a haddock.

In the Oval Office, President Vanderdamp purred. “That’s our girl, Hayden,” he said, slapping his desk. Hayden Cork said nothing.

Nineteen senators stared mutely at the nominee.

“Well,” Pepper smiled, “doesn’t anyone have a question?”