Supreme Courtship

CHAPTER 13

Pepper’s nomination was approved by the Senate Judiciary Committee 18-0 (one abstention) and 91-7 (two abstentions) by the full Senate.

Graydon Clenndennynn warmly accepted congratulations for his stewarding of the nomination, and dropped hints that it had been his idea all along. President Vanderdamp’s approval ratings shot up another few points. Complimented on his role, Hayden Cork mustered a tight smile and changed the subject.

Dexter Mitchell went on Greet the Press to assert manfully that there are times when “the courageous thing to do is to accept the will of the people and move on.” He quoted a leader of the 1848 Revolution in France, someone named Alexandre Ledru-Rollin, who had declared, completely sans irony, “There go the people. I must follow them. I am their leader.”

Though he put on a brave front, Dexter Mitchell felt inwardly humiliated. His fellow committee members now viewed him with outright loathing. There was murmuring (of high senatorial quality) in the cloakroom about the need for “fresh leadership.” Nights he lay awake grinding his molars after failing to satisfy his wife maritally. How, he wondered, had it come to this? Three decades of dutiful, steady, occasionally brilliant public service-to be outgunned and outshone by some chick TV judge from Texas. Where-Dexter Mitchell asked the ceiling gods-was the justice in that?

A few days later he took some satisfaction (however guilty) in reading in the Washington Post that Judge Cartwright’s marriage was apparently unraveling.

“Associate justice-designate Pepper Cartwright’s office today issued a statement announcing that she and her husband, producer Buddy Bixby, are ‘amicably separating’ after seven years of marriage.”

Fortunately, certain details did not make the paper.

Pepper had returned, triumphant, from Washington, eager to make up and move on with Buddy, only to find that her key no longer opened the door to their apartment. When she called him on her cell phone to ask what was going on, he informed her in a businesslike voice that she was no longer welcome.

“Buddy,” Pepper said, tapping the toe of her cowboy boot on the marble of the entryway, “what are you talking about? This is our home. You can’t just go changing the locks. What’s gotten into you?”

“If you will recall,” Buddy said coolly, “the apartment is in my name. But then you’re pretty casual about remembering the wording of certain documents. Like employment contracts.”

Pepper groaned. “You still going on about that? I thought you were going to sue me for breach of contract.”

“I was. Until you sicced the FBI on me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Oh, ha-ha-ha. Like you know nothing about it.”

“I haven’t got the slightest idea what you’re talking about. But I would like to get into my apartment. Among other things, I got to pee.”

“Try the coffee shop around the corner. They have a restroom.” He hung up.

On her way to the coffee shop, cussing and fuming, Pepper called Hayden Cork.

“Do you know anything about the FBI visiting my husband and making some kind of threat? He’s having a conniption the size of Guatemala about it.”

There was a lengthy pause. “I have no direct knowledge of such an event,” Hayden said.

Pepper said, “Is that ‘no’ in Washingtonese?”

“That’s all I’ll say,” Hayden said. “Congratulations on the Senate vote. The President is very pleased. He looks forward to the swearing-in.” He hung up.

Fighting hot flashes, Pepper called Graydon Clenndennynn, reaching him aboard someone’s jet en route to Tokyo.

“My dear,” he said mellifluously, “you don’t make the whistle in this town by knowing things you don’t need to know. My warmest congratulations to you.” He hung up.

She called Buddy, who didn’t answer. She left a message.

“I made a few calls. No one’ll tell me anything, but I guess something happened. Whatever it was, I didn’t have anything to do with it. You’re going to have to believe that. Either way, I hope it isn’t going to end like this for us, leaving messages on each other’s phones.”

The next day after an uneasy sleep in the fetal position, she heard a knock on her hotel room door. Expecting maid service, Pepper opened it to find a man she instantly recognized as a process server, who with some embarrassment handed her two sets of documents, one a suit for divorce, another for breach of contract.

Pepper accepted the papers. She told the man, “Hold on.” She returned and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“What’s this?” he said.

“It’s a tip,” Pepper said.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Two days later, the New York Post reported that Judge Cartwright had tipped the process server. The item appeared under the headline CLASS ACTION.

Figuring that Buddy would leak it that he’d served her with papers, Pepper decided she might as well get in the last lick.

DEXTER MITCHELL was at his desk morosely contemplating his future, which, as Judiciary Committee Chairman, did not promise to be long-term. His secretary entered with the news that a Mr. Buddy Bixby was on the phone. His mind raced. What would he be calling about? If it was information that could torpedo his wife’s nomination, he was a day late and a dollar short. Cautiously but curiously, he took the call.

“Senator Mitchell, I’d like to discuss a proposition with you.”

“Proposition,” Dexter said. “Could you be a little more precise?”

“Not over the phone. Is there some way we could meet privately? It probably wouldn’t make sense for us both to be public, given the situation.”

Alarm bells rang in Dexter’s brain, but he was intrigued. He told Bixby that he would be on the Acela train from Washington to Stamford, Connecticut, the next day, seated in the last seat on the last car.

The next afternoon as the train stopped at Penn Station, Buddy Bixby slid into the empty seat next to Senator Mitchell.

“Feels like a spy movie, huh?” Buddy said.

“What can I do for you?” Dexter said.

“In addition to Courtroom Six,” Buddy said, “I produce a number of other TV shows.”

“Yes,” Dexter said. “People jumping off bridges and eating themselves to death.”

Buddy laughed, “Yeah, well, those are the ones that pay for the quality shows.”

“Mr. Bixby, I’ll be getting off in Stamford in about thirty-five minutes from now. Shall we get to the point?”

“You bet. Ever considered going on TV, Senator?”

Dexter stared. “I ‘go on TV’ all the time. Recently, in fact. You may have seen me. I was on with your wife.”

“Nah. Your own show.”

“What kind of show?” Dexter said, trying not to sound too interested. “I’m not leaping off any bridges. Or gaining five hundred pounds.”

“Nothing like that. Senator, how’d you like to be President of the United States?”

“I tried,” Dexter said drily. “Several times.”

“This time, you win. And you don’t have to enter the Iowa caucuses or the New Hampshire primary. You don’t have to kiss babies or anyone’s ass. You don’t have to pretend you give a shit about the Middle East -”

“Mr. Bixby. I do give a shit about the Middle East.”

“That’s great. Someone has to, right? Look, I’ve been watching you. You were born to play this part. You’ve got this incredible… authority. You really look like the real deal.”

“Thank you. I like to think that I am the real deal. You want me to play a president, is that the idea?”

“Exactly.”

“Like The West Wing?” [17]

“Yeah. But without all the hand-wringing. With balls. Gritty. And sexy. Hot. I’m casting Ramona Alvilar as the First Lady.”

“Really?” Dexter said. “I saw her in what-was-it-called. She’s quite…”

“Hot? Oh,” Buddy chuckled, “let me tell you. I came three times during the meeting.”

Senator Mitchell’s expression suggested to Buddy that this might not have been appropriate. Buddy shrugged. “Figure of speech. You know what sold her on the deal?”

“No,” Dexter said, “I don’t.”

“When I told her I was going to approach you to play the President.”

“Oh. Really.”

“She’s a huge fan.”

“Well. Please tell her that I’m a fan of hers. Look, Mr. Bixby-”

“Buddy. Please.”

“I already have a job. A good one.”

“I recognize that and appreciate that,” Buddy said. “And I respect that. I would say this: if at this moment in your life you’re completely fulfilled, if you feel that you have nothing left to prove, no heights left to scale, then… I’ll shake your hand, thank you for your time, and be out of here. I guess someone in your position, when they retire, they can make a few dollars working for some lobbying firm on K Street, right? On the other hand, if you’re up for taking on something that could be extremely exciting, very high profile, to say nothing of insanely lucrative, then… sleep on it.”

Dexter looked out the window, seeing his own face staring back at him. It was a handsome reflection, he reflected. He tilted his head just so. Yes. It did look presidential. Yes. Yes.

“Are you doing this to spite your wife?” Dexter said.

“Well,” Buddy shrugged, “sure. But there’s also the money.”

IN A VAST MARBLE BATHROOM of a vastly expensive hotel suite with a splendid view of the Washington Monument, Pepper Cartwright, associate justice-designate of the U.S. Supreme Court, was throwing up.

JJ and Juanita hovered on the other side of the door.

“Amor,” Juanita said, “por favor, abre la puerta.”

From Pepper’s side of the door came a hollow, bellowy sound of the kind heard in the sea mammal section of the zoo as feeding time approaches.

“You all right, honey?” JJ said somewhat pointlessly.

“Of course she’s not all right,” Juanita said.

JJ took out his gold pocket watch and said, “Maybe I oughta call the White House.”

“Sí. Call them.”

“What am I supposed to tell ’em?”

“That she’s sick.”

“I can’t tell the President of the United States she’s got her head in the toilet. It ain’t dignified.”

“Tell them that she ate something.”

Pepper, listening to it all from behind the door, said, “I’m all right. Just give me a…” This was followed by another aquatic sound.

She had, to be sure, been through rather a lot at this point and had run through a lifetime’s supply of adrenaline. A few hours earlier, as she lay awake, sweating into her 800-count hotel sheets, staring at the time display on the clock, it had dawned on her that there was now no going back. Her new office was in a marble building that looked like it belonged on the Acropolis. She’d had recurring dreams in which its great bronze doors clanged shut behind her. When she turned around, she saw hooded figures welding the doors shut, to the accompaniment of demonic cackling. She stared into the blue water in the toilet bowl. Even the toilet water looks expensive. The President of the United States and the world media were cooling their heels waiting for her in the Oval Office.

Oh, girl, she thought, struggling to her feet and looking at the ghastly reflection in the mirror. What in hell have you got yourself into?

“What about a nip of bourbon?” JJ suggested through the door.

“No seas tonto, JJ. She can’t have bourbon on her breath for the President,” Juanita said crossly.

“Wasn’t suggestin’ she drink the whole bottle.”

Pepper opened the door, pale, but upright. “All right,” she gasped. “Let’s do this thing.”

Juanita marched her back into the bathroom to attend to hair and lipstick and other necessaries. JJ shrugged and drank the bourbon himself. The swearing-in went without incident, with Chief Justice Hardwether doing the honors. Pepper had gargled beforehand with about a quart of mouthwash and smelled like a spearmint forest. The Chief Justice smelled kind of minty himself. There was a nice small lunch, and President Vanderdamp autographed his place card for Juanita.