Supreme Courtship

CHAPTER 31

Are you sure you’re up to this?” President Vanderdamp said.

The thin, wintry morning light was slanting through the French windows into the Oval Office. Graydon was on his way to the Court for oral argument in Mitchell v. Vanderdamp. He looked to the President quite splendid in his London suit, but Vanderdamp saw traces of exhaustion in the old man’s face. The eyes, normally vivid blue, seemed pale and watery. He had a stoop and dabbed at his nose with a monogrammed handkerchief.

“No, I’m not,” Graydon said, “but it’s too late now. Alea jacta est.” [30]

The President smiled. “Save the Latin for them. You may need it.”

“I was trying to think when I last argued up there, and it took that story in the Post today to remind me. ‘Clenndennynn’s Last Stand.’ I’d have preferred ‘The Return of the King’ or something more Augustan. Less Custerish, at any rate. Well, I need to review my notes and put something in my stomach. Do you know-unpleasant but not unrelevant detail-the first time I argued, I threw up. Not during argument-thank God. Well, Donald, aren’t you going to wish me luck?”

“I’m not sure,” the President said. “Do we really want to win this one?”

“I feel your conundrum. But the prospect of the Republic falling into Dexter Mitchell’s hands?”

“Good luck.”

“Did you see in the paper,” Graydon said, “about that woman, Señorita Cha-Cha or whatever her name is? What could he have been thinking? Rather good timing from our perspective. But yes, I think we do want to win this one and keep Dexter Mitchell’s mitts off an actual nuclear button.”

“Thank you, old friend.”

“Not at all. Not at all. It’s been an honor to clean up after your messes. If you do get another term, promise you won’t call me.”

IT HAD NOT BEEN A GOOD WEEK, PR-wise, for Team Mitchell. Ramona, despite silky handling by Blyster Forkmorgan, had correctly smelled a raton [31] and, making good on her threat, had ventilated her grievance on national television.

“Ramona,” said the interviewer, “is it true Dexter Mitchell asked you to marry him?”

“Many times,” Ramona said, looking suspiciously chaste in a Marc Jacobs that looked like it might have been designed as a convent school graduation dress. “Many times. The first time, after he win the Iowa cow-kus…”

“ Iowa caucus?”

“That. Then after the New Hampshire primary. And the South Carolina primary. Every time he wins a primary, he says to me, ‘Ramona, I am divorcing my wife to make you Primera Dama.’ ”

“First Lady. The role you played so memorably on POTUS?”

Ramona dabbed at her eyes with a tissue-a beautiful television moment.

“Ramona, I have to ask you-why are you telling us this now?”

“Because Dexter Mitchell is a horrible person and he should never be President of the United States. I love this country too much. You know?”

DEXTER WATCHED the grotesque spectacle with his eyes closed, in the company of a somewhat somber Team Mitchell at the Hay-Adams suite which, though on the eighth floor, had of late taken on the feel of a subterranean war-bunker.

Ramona’s lurid revelations did nothing to enhance Dexter’s postelection ratings, which had been in free fall following President Vanderdamp’s public offer to resign-his Finest Hour, it was being called, to Dexter’s great vexation. But Mitchell v. Vanderdamp having been granted cert, Dexter went before the cameras and manfully announced his intention to see it through, that being, as he put it somewhat opaquely, “the only honorable course.” Blyster Forkmorgan, his warrior instincts aroused, and Ms. Alvilar’s claims of affection-or alienation-being extraneous to his client’s arguments, nodded, strapped on buckler and sword, mounted, and rode to battle.

O YEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!…”

“It just came to me,” Crispus whispered to Pepper as they filed in, “it’s Old French for oy vey.”

Any other day, Pepper might have giggled. Not today. She was too nervous.

Taking her seat at the bench, Pepper, trying to appear calm and collected, briefly let her eyes wander over the assembled. She and Graydon’s eyes instantly locked. It was the first time she had ever viewed him from above. He looked small but formidable; peregrine-nosed, impeccable in three-piece suit and gold watch chain. He gave her the briefest smile and nod. Pepper glanced over and got her first live look at the famous Blyster Forkmorgan: grave, knife-lean, eyes like beads of mercury.

Mitchell v. Vanderdamp boiled down to two arguments, the first technical, the second more philosophical. The first was that President Vanderdamp’s election was invalid because the term limit amendment took legal effect the moment it was ratified by Texas, two days before the election. Mitchell’s second argument centered on the larger issue of governance, that is, whether the Court should recognize a validly adopted amendment, or the People’s decision in the election. Forkmorgan’s brief asserted that the validly adopted amendment took precedence over “metaphysical, however admirably intentioned, considerations,” i.e., the will of the people as expressed in the popular vote.

Chief Justice Hardwether managed to make the preliminaries sound so mundane it might have been another routine day in traffic court. (Which was, indeed, his intention.) And began.

“Mr. Forkmorgan, in your brief, you make two separate arguments.” He smiled. “Does that signify that one argument is stronger than the other? Or are you just piling on?”

“Either argument should be sufficient to carry the day, Mr. Chief Justice,” Forkmorgan said. “As to ‘piling on,’ perhaps I am attempting to overwhelm the Court with a veritable feast of reason.”

A ripple of laughter went through the Great Hall: the sound of hundreds of buttock cheeks unclenching.

“Which argument do you find more compelling?” the Chief Justice asked.

“Ah, you lay an elegant trap for me,” Forkmorgan replied. “Both arguments are equally compelling, albeit admittedly distinct in terms of texture. Call it juridical dimity.”

Dimity? Pepper thought. What in hell is dimity? [32]

“It seems clear enough to me,” Justice Santamaria said in a gruff, enough-already tone, “that you’re putting most of your eggs in the Dillon v. Gloss basket. Or am I missing something here?”

“I doubt very much that you’ve ever missed anything, Justice Santamaria,” Forkmorgan said.

“I was being sardonic.”

Laughter.

“We cite Dillon for a very straightforward reason. There, the Court, construing the Eighteenth Amendment-Prohibition-found that the critical date was the date of ratification, not the date of certification by the Secretary of State. It goes without saying that certification takes place after any election. At the time, of course, the statute vested certification authority in the Secretary of State, rather than-as now-in the National Archivist.”

“Isn’t that a somewhat narrow interpretation?”

“Even if certification-and not ratification-were the key determinative moment,” Forkmorgan said, “the amendment was in effect prior to certification by the Vice President of the vote of the Electoral College. Thus the term limit amendment clearly prevented the President from being chosen by the Electoral College.”

“ ‘Clearly’ is the issue here. But nice try, Counselor.”

“You clearly see through me, Mr. Justice.” Forkmorgan smiled.

As the elegant swordplay proceeded, Pepper found her eyes wandering again, toward the back of the hall. A recognizable visage came into view: walrus mustache, a beef-jerky face beneath a pale forehead. Well, who let you in? The leathery face creased into a wink. Pepper turned back to the proceedings. Forkmorgan and Silvio were still going at it. She wanted to get a word in. The clock was ticking. Each side got twenty minutes to present its case. Then there would be five minutes each for rebuttal.

No one, perhaps, had grasped better than she the CJ’s admonition that the whole world would be watching.

Yards, furlongs, miles of print, on paper and online, had been expended on feverish speculation as to which way Justice Cartwright would swing in Mitchell v. Vanderdamp. Editorials and TV commentators demanded she recuse herself. How could she possibly be unbiased? She owed Vanderdamp her seat! Dexter Mitchell’s loathing of her was a universally known fact, despite his shameless tactical pretense of enthusiasm for her at the hearings. (His fellow committee members had amply ventilated their anger at him to the media.)

Listening to these demands that she walk away from the case, Pepper’s reaction was a (silent) reiteration of the comment in Swayle that had created so much bother: kiss my ass. This time, she would be careful not to hit the SEND button. After some three a.m. tossing and turning she had come to the conclusion that she was perfectly capable of rendering judgment. And that was that. It was one advantage to being a Supreme Justice: they could beller and holler as long as they wanted, but you didn’t have to explain or account for yourself. Meanwhile, the boys were still going at it.

“The operative words, Justice Gotbaum, are ‘when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several states,’ which indicates that ratification is the critical moment. Post-election certification by the Archivist is a ministerial act that has no legal significance.”

“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Forkmorgan. But under 18 USC 106b-to which you yourself allude on page twelve-the Congress has entrusted the Archivist with the final step necessary to complete enactment of the amendment. He or she must determine that the states have officially adopted the amendment. So it would seem to me that until he or she does so, the amendment is not effective.”

Pepper took a deep breath-no Latin, she warned herself-and leapt in.

“Mr. Forkmorgan, as I understand it, the Court held in 1939, in Coleman v. Miller, that the efficacy of ratifications by state legislatures is a political question left to political departments, not the courts. Doesn’t the rule of Coleman then apply here? Aren’t you, in effect, asking us to second-guess the congressional judgment reflected in the statute?” Whew…

“Not at all, Justice Cartwright, though I thank you for highlighting this very aspect. We dispute the notion that Dillon should be overturned in light of Coleman…”

Suddenly the Chief Justice interrupted the attorney in the middle of a string of citations. “Thank you, Mr. Forkmorgan. Mr. Clenndennynn?”

Graydon rose. The spectators stirred at the sight of the President’s attorney.

“You seem to put quite a bit of emphasis on Opinion of the Justices, 362 Mass. 907,” Hardwether began.

“Indeed, but no more than it is capable of sustaining, Mr. Chief Justice. It is a hardy opinion, I would say. But we also cite City of Duluth; State v. Kyle; Real v. People; and Torres v. State. At the risk of putting the Court to sleep.”

A ripple of laughter.

“Oh, no,” the Chief Justice smiled. “I’m wide awake.”

“If I may, Mr. Chief Justice,” Graydon said, slipping his right hand into his vest pocket, imparting a faint Churchillian aspect, “despite all our-I freely admit-rather busy citing, we are making, or trying to make, a simple and straightforward argument that to the extent there is ambiguity here, this amendment should not be deemed to apply to a sitting president. The Twenty-second Amendment was explicitly prospective. It didn’t bar President Truman from running for reelection in 1952. The people did. So the Twenty-second Amendment’s prospective reach can hardly be read as a background principle.”

A little purr of appreciation went through the Hall. Paige Plympton, always on the lookout for the high ground in any argument, asked the President’s attorney if the Framers had envisioned such a “conundrum as the one we seem to find ourselves in.” Graydon, hand still tucked in his vest pocket, arched an eyebrow in bemusement.

“Madame Justice Plympton, it has long been my impression, though I have never given voice to it publicly until now, that the Framers, had they known the procedural contortions and abominations to which their descendants would put their sublime efforts, might well have thrown up their hands in the air and begged the British to take us back.”

A wave of laughter went through the Great Hall. The old man was about to continue when he suddenly turned gray. His hand moved from his pocket to his chest. He stood, gasping. Pepper thought, Sweet Jesus. And then he fell forward.

News that the President’s attorney had collapsed during oral argument was received, in evangelical America, as a sign that the End of Days might, indeed, be at hand.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, Pepper was in her chambers, stunned and teary-eyed. Crispus was keeping vigil with her at the TV set, handing her serial tissues. They watched.

Graydon Clenndennynn had been ambulanced to George Washington Hospital, where an enormity of media were now swarming. Almost all of the stand-up reporters were calling him “Mr. Clenndennynn,” as if in premonition of mortality. He was alive, but barely. Words crawled across the bottom of the screen:… PRESIDENT’S ATTORNEY SUFFERS ‘MASSIVE’ HEART ATTACK DURING SUPREME COURT ORAL ARGUMENT OVER DISPUTED ELECTION…

Declan was in his own chambers, manning a sort of command post, though it was anything but clear what its precise function was at this point, Court being-obviously-adjourned.

Pepper reached for the phone and called the Marshall of the Court’s office. “I need a car. Right away.”

Crispus stirred from his own lugubrious meditations-in fact, he had been offering silent prayers for Mr. Clenndennynn; doubtless Silvio was phoning the Vatican in Rome and exhorting the Holy Father to convene the College of Cardinals and put them to collective flash-priority orisons.

“Hm? Where are you going?” Crispus said.

“To the hospital.”

This took a moment to sink in. “No,” he said, “you can’t do that.”

“Got to.”

“You can’t.”

“Shut up, Crispy.”

“Darling child-you’ll be crucified…”

“Screw that.”

“But-”

“I’ll call you from the hospital.”

“At least let your boyfriend know,” he called after her, but she was already out the door.

Twenty minutes later, Crispus, watching on the television in his own chambers, saw the commotion at the hospital’s entrance as her town car arrived, the swarm of media turning on it like a wave as she emerged and was shouldered through the horde by Court marshals.

“Justice Cartwright… Supreme Court Justice Pepper Cartwright has just arrived at the hospital… Justice Cartwright has arrived at George Washington Hospital where Graydon Clenndennynn is in critical condition following a heart attack during oral argument. That’s all we know at the moment, but it would appear that she has come to the bedside of the lawyer who just an hour ago was arguing the President’s case before the Supreme Court. Jeff, does that complicate matters any?

“Well, yes, it could. Judges and attorneys are proscribed-prohibited-from discussing a case outside of court. The term for it is ex parte discussion. While it’s obvious-at least I would think-that Justice Cartwright hasn’t come to the hospital to discuss Mitchell v. Vanderdamp with Clenndennynn, there is so much tension surrounding this case that her presence here could play into the hands of those who have been insisting that she recuse herself. So the short answer to your question would be, yes, it could be a complicating factor in an already hypercomplicated matter.”

Crispus closed his eyes and shook his head. Less than a minute later, his phone rang. It was the CJ.

“Jesus Christ, Crispus.”

“She’s your girlfriend, Dec, not mine.”

“Does she have any idea…”

“Declan. Why don’t you just breathe into a bag and calm down. She didn’t go down there to get his views on Coleman v. Miller, for God’s sake. She cares for the old goat.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Well, it’s going to have to be ‘the point.’ Look, he’s probably not even going to regain consciousness, so it’s moot.”

“Let’s hope he doesn’t.”

“A fine sentiment.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Steady hand on the tiller, Declan. Steady hand. Dec? Hello?”

PEPPER HAD REACHED THE ICU when her cell phone began twittering. She pulled it out and flipped it open when an intercepting nurse said, “You need to turn that off, ma’am.” She looked ready to pluck it out of Pepper’s hand before it could compromise life-sustaining telemetry.

JUSTICE’S CELL CALL FINISHES OFF GRAYDON CLENNDENNYNN- MURDER CHARGES BROUGHT

Pepper looked at the phone as she was pressing the OFF button and saw DEC.

She paused, then did a 180 and walked briskly to an area where cell phones were not considered lethal weapons.

“I’m at the hospital-”

“I know you’re at the hospital,” he said. “It’s on TV. You need to not be at the hospital.”

“Dec, for Pete’s sake, I didn’t come here to discuss the damn case with him.”

“I don’t care. I want you to leave the hospital now, Pep.”

People were staring at her. She said in a whisper, “He doesn’t have family. I’m just going to hold his hand is all.”

“No, no, no. That is not your role, Justice Cartwright. Now leave. And make sure everyone sees you leaving. I want to watch you leave on TV. Tell the reporters you didn’t talk to him, you just came to… talk to the doctors and see how he was doing.”

“Jesus, Dec. I don’t want him to die alone.”

“You’re not a hospice worker. You’re a Supreme Court justice.”

“And you’re a supreme jerk.” She pressed END and turned back to the ICU. Normally, visitors were not admitted, but apparently they made exceptions for the Supreme Court.

SHE’D BEEN BY HIS BED for a half hour, sitting, hovering, pacing. She counted the machines he was hooked up to and stopped at nine. From her conversations with the chief of cardiology, the head of the unit, and the head of the hospital, he was being well looked after, Mr. Clenndennynn. She grasped that the end was near for the old man. She pulled a rolling stool up to the bed and, finding a part of his hand that didn’t have an IV or O₂ saturation sensor attached, held it.

She whispered to him, “Don’t you dare leave me alone with this mess you got me into.”

Suddenly, behind her there was a commotion and she became aware of men in suits with earpieces. She heard someone saying to her, in commanding terms, “Ma’am?” She looked up. There were several men, all large, grave-looking. One was saying to her, “Ma’am? You need to vacate the room.”

She ignored him and turned back to Clenndennynn.

“Ma’am.”

She heard her name being uttered, murmurs, then no more barking at her. A few moments later there was another commotion, louder, the room filled. She looked up and there was the President. He looked stricken and his eyes were red. Hayden Cork was there, too, looking pale and drawn. She stood. She and the President stared at each other awkwardly and then embraced. The imminence of death forces intimacy. Even Hayden Cork, who gave the impression of someone who’d gone unhugged even by his own mother, embraced her.

The President’s arrival at the hospital was duly reported. At the Supreme Court, Chief Justice Hardwether, watching on TV, muttered, “Oh, great.”

Graydon Clenndennynn died at 5:42 p.m. that afternoon. He regained consciousness briefly. He opened his eyes, took in Pepper, the President of the United States, the White House Chief of Staff, and smiled as if satisfied by this bedside concentration of eminence.

“Did we win?” he whispered. Poignant, as last words go, but in this instance, far from ideal. Pepper was trying to formulate some answer when the old man closed his eyes.