Supreme Courtship

CHAPTER 3

White House Chief of Staff Hayden Cork was as usual in his office early on a Saturday morning, while the rest of the world slept in, played tennis, and lingered over the papers and coffee. He was putting together the final touches on the file for President Vanderdamp in this, their (sigh) third effort to fill the (damn) Brinnin vacancy.

Though he was exhausted and enervated by the Cooney and Burrows debacles, the adrenaline was pulsing in Hayden Cork’s veins. His engine normally ran cool, but there’s no more heady kind of head-hunting than picking a nominee for the Supreme Court of the United States. For a president, nothing short of war, perhaps, is more consequential than putting a justice on the Court-a fact generally pointed out every four years by whoever is running second in the polls.

Before flying off yesterday to Camp David in a simmering rage, Vanderdamp had instructed Hayden to have a name ready for him first thing Monday morning.

“See if Mother Teresa is available,” he said acidulously.

“I believe she’s dead, sir.”

“Then try the Pope.”

“I have a thought,” Hayden said cautiously. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”

“Go on.”

“Dexter Mitchell.”

The President’s normally placid Ohioan face curdled.

“Mitchell?” he said. “After what he did to Cooney and Burrows? Never mind to us. Hayden, have you taken leave of your senses?”

“Walk with me, sir. As we know all too well,” Cork said, shifting in his chair, “he wants the job himself.”

“Yes,” said the President. “I recall. That visit he paid me. Not an experience I’d care to repeat.”

“No, sir.” It was a painful memory. “But if I may, it might earn us some points on the Hill. God knows we could use a little goodwill up there. And it would be a real, boy oh boy, stunneroo. Take everyone by surprise.”

“Hayden,” the President said. “Listen to me very closely. I’ll say this once more and never again. Write it down. Dexter Mitchell will not sit on the Supreme Court while I am President. Did you get all that down? Read it back to me.”

“I understand, sir.” It was now or never. “But it was Graydon’s idea.”

Hayden Cork knew that the mere mention of the august syllables would give the President pause. “His thinking is that since most of the senators on Mitchell’s own committee can’t stand him, they’d be grateful to you for getting rid of him.”

“By making him one of the nine most powerful people in the country? In the universe? That’s one heck of a way to get rid of someone.”

“Okay, there’s that, but our immediate problem, frankly, sir, is a Congress that… Sir, let’s face it, we’re not very popular up there.”

“I don’t care about that, Hayden. I am trying to accomplish things here.”

“I understand that, sir. I’m merely saying that Graydon thinks it would be the smart move. Those were in fact his exact words. That it would be the smart move.”

The President stared at his chief of staff. “Sounds as though you two had a good long chinwag about all this,” the President said.

“He is your most trusted senior adviser, sir. Or would you prefer I not discuss the welfare of your presidency with him?”

“I’d like a name from you by close of business Monday. I don’t mean to ruin another weekend, Hayden. I know you’ve been working full-out. But just get me a name. This circus has gone on long enough.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

THERE WERE SEVEN NAMES in Hayden’s dossier this sunny Saturday morning: two (venerable) state Supreme Court justices, a (more or less venerable) senator, three appellate judges (pretty venerable), a state attorney general (venerable enough), and the dean of the Yale Law School (predictably but by no means excitingly venerable).

Another way of putting it was: two women, one African-American, two Jews, one Hispanic, and-Hayden smiled. His inner chief of staff let out a little war whoop of joy-an Indian.

Native American, Hayden corrected himself: the very first ever to be named to the high court. Yes, he was sure Vanderdamp would go for him. Vanderdamp was as American as a Jell-O mold. How more American could you get than someone named Russell Runningwater? He could hardly wait to see Dexter Mitchell’s face when he learned the news. Let’s see you try to bury this heart at Wounded Knee, you son of a bitch. Hayden beamed. Outside, birds chirped. The sun shone on dewy emerald grass. Butterflies-nature’s own screen savers-flitted about.

Hayden’s phone rang. “The President, Mr. Cork, for you.”

Excellent, Hayden thought. He sat up straight in his chair, a habit even after two and a half years and how many thousands of presidential phone calls.

“Good morning, Hayden.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“And what are you doing in the office on a Saturday?” It was a little routine they had.

“Attending to the people’s business, sir.”

“Good, good. And how sails the ship of state?”

“Steadily, sir, steadily.”

He sounded relaxed. Camp David usually had that effect. The private bowling alley. The sandpaper grit in yesterday’s conversation was gone.

Hayden was not one to waste presidential weekend time on persiflage. “I’ve got those names for you. And the one at the top of the list is one I think you’re going to like. I guarantee it’ll give our friend Senator Mitchell a case of third-degree heartburn.”

“What do you know about a Judge Pepper Cartwright?” the President said.

Odd question. “The television personality?”

“She has a show called Courtroom Six.”

“I don’t watch TV. Other than the news shows. Would you like some information on her?”

“No, no. I want to see her.”

“Is there a particular episode that you’d like me to locate for you?”

“No, Hayden. I want to see her. Judge Cartwright. In the flesh. I want to meet with her. Right away.”

“Very well, sir,” Hayden said, mystified. “I’m sure she’ll be flattered.”

“Oh,” the President chuckled softly, “I expect she will be. Call her right away.”

“Yes, sir. And what should I tell her is the purpose of the meeting?”

“Well, I’d be a little coy about that over the phone.”

“Coy, sir? I’m not sure I follow.”

“You haven’t had your second cup of coffee, Hayden,” the President said. “I want to talk to her about the Brinnin seat.”

Hayden Cork’s universe stood still.

“I’m not trying to be obtuse, sir,” Hayden stammered. “But I’m not sure I’m… tracking here.”

“The Court, Hayden.”

Hayden Cork tried to speak. His tongue refused to obey the signals being transmitted from the brain. All he could say was, “Not the Brinnin seat, sir. Surely…”

“Why? Is there another opening? Did a justice croak in the night?”

“Not to my… No, sir.”

“All right, then. Call her. Call her right now. Get her up to Camp David -today. Tomorrow at the latest. Be easier, a whole lot easier, to talk to her up here than back at the office with the whole darned press corps listening at the keyhole. Vultures.”

Say something, Hayden thought, like a man struggling against an enveloping coma. Do not let him terminate the conversation. Do not let him hang up.

“Sir… have you… discussed this with Mr. Clenndennynn?”

Graydon Clenndennynn: wisest of the Washington wise men, grayest of its eminences, adviser to seven-or was it eight?-presidents. Former Attorney General. Former Secretary of State. Former Secretary of the Exterior. Former Ambassador to France. Former everything. First among equals in the Vanderdamp kitchen cabinet. The man, it was rumored, with more n’s in his name than anyone else in Washington.

“Hayden,” the President said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Panic-panic of the pulse-pounding, skin-dampening, sphincter-tightening type-gripped Hayden Cork like a boa constrictor. How many times had those awful words-“I know what I’m doing”-been uttered throughout history as prelude to disaster? The night before Waterloo in Napoleon’s tent? In the Reichschancellery before invading Soviet Russia? Before the “cakewalk” known as Operation Iraqi Freedom?

“Mr. President,” Hayden croaked, “I really must-”

“Thank you, Hayden. Good-bye, Hayden.”

“But-”

“Thank you, Hayden.”

“Sir-Mr. President? Hello?”

Hayden Cork cradled the phone. Outside, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, bumblebees bumbled, but there was no springtime now in his heart; only winter, and a harsh wind shrieking through leaf-stripped trees.

His temples throbbed. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and gasped to the White House operator, “Get me Graydon Clenndennynn.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, Cork ’s phone rang. Graydon Clenndennynn did not personally carry a cell phone; his minions did. He was in his eighties now, and of an eminence that scorned such modern devices.

“Yes, Hayden,” he said without annoyance, but with formality that signaled this was not the time for leisurely philosophical discussion.

“Where are you?”

“ Beijing.”

“Damn,” Hayden said.

“At dinner,” Clenndennynn continued, “with the deputy chairman. What’s the emergency?”

Graydon Clenndennynn did not object to being interrupted in the middle of meetings with world leaders, as long as it was the White House calling. Nor, to tell the truth, was he above certain self-enhancing acts of legerdemain. Once, to impress a Russian foreign minister, he arranged to have himself called in the middle of their meeting, so that he could tell the interrupting aide, “Tell the President I’ll just have to call him back.” The minister was duly impressed-until the Russian security services reported to him that the call had originated from Graydon Clenndennynn’s own Washington office.

“You need to get back here,” Hayden said. “You need to get back here right away. I’ll send a plane.”

Clenndennynn said, sounding alarmed, “Is there-has the President been-”

“No, no, no, he’s fine. No, he’s not fine. He’s gone off the deep end. He’s completely and totally lost it.”

“Hayden,” said Clenndennynn, “I’m keeping the second most powerful man in China waiting. Our Peking duck is mummifying. Tell me in a simple, English sentence: what is the precise nature of this emergency?”

Hayden summarized the situation.

There was a long pause at the other end, followed by a baritone “Hmm,” a preliminary note on a large organ signaling the key of the hymn about to be played.

“I’ll be back in Washington on Tuesday,” Clenndennynn said. “Stall.”

“He told me to get her up to Camp David -today.”

“Hayden. Short of nuclear warheads that have already been launched, there is no situation that cannot be met head-on with inaction.”

“What am I supposed do?” Hayden said.

“Tell him anything. That she’s realizing a lifelong ambition and climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Temporize, Hayden. Temporize. I must go.”

Graydon Clenndennynn handed the cell phone to his aide and rejoined the deputy chairman and duck. Six thousand miles away, Hayden Cork exhaled and leaned back in his black leather chair. His intestines were still in a knot but at least the kettledrum throbbing in his temples had subsided. Graydon would figure something out. The President would listen to him. All would be well.

AN HOUR LATER, having uncharacteristically not heard back from his chief of staff, President Vanderdamp decided to place the call to Judge Pepper Cartwright himself.

He was not a man who stood on formality. He still carried cash, unlike some presidents who went four or eight years with empty pockets. He got Judge Cartwright’s unlisted number in New York from the White House operator, and dialed it himself. He liked to do that. The truth was he got a kick out of saying, “Hello, it’s Donald Vanderdamp. The President. Am I calling at a bad time?”

IN NEW YORK, in a penthouse atop a building that looked out over Central Park, the phone rang.

Pepper Cartwright opened her eyes, looked warily at the beside clock. 8:49. On a Saturday? She looked over at Buddy. Sound asleep. He’d come in after she’d gone to bed. As usual. This marriage needed to sit down and have a little talk about things.

She looked at the caller ID display. NSF THURMONT. What in hell was NSF Thurmont? She closed her eyes and listened.

“Hello. It’s Donald Vanderdamp-the President-calling for Judge Cartwright.” Pepper opened one eye and looked at the machine. “Would she be kind enough to call me back at 202-456-1414. Thanks very much. If it’s not inconvenient, perhaps she could call back at her earliest-”

Pepper picked up. “Hello? Who is this?”

“Judge Cartwright? Screening your calls. Can’t say as I blame you. I know it’s early, but I really would like to speak with you…”

He talked on as Pepper thumbed a Google search on her BlackBerry with her other hand. NSF Thurmont…

The first match came up: “ Camp David -Wikipedia, the free encylopedia.”

“Jesus Christ,” Pepper said, sitting bolt upright.

“Beg pardon?” said the President.

FOUR HOURS LATER she was in a U.S. Army helicopter descending onto the helipad of Naval Support Facility Thurmont, better known as Camp David, in the Cactoctin Mountains of Maryland, sixty miles north of Washington.

Through the window she saw aides waiting by a golf cart. She looked at her watch. Normally at about this time she might be meeting the girls for a Bloody Mary brunch, then squeezing in some Pilates. She wasn’t sure what she was doing here. The President wouldn’t say exactly what it was over the phone, only that it was “highly confidential.”

“Welcome to Camp David, Judge,” one of the aides greeted her. “The President is expecting you.”

The President is expecting you. She felt fluttery. She climbed into the golf cart, which made her feel somewhat ridiculous, like she was being given a VIP tour of Disney World. The aide, accustomed to nervousness in visitors, said, “My wife watches Courtroom Six every chance she gets.”

Moments later she found herself in a room that she recognized from news photos. It was paneled in knotty pine. In the news photos it was usually filled with world leaders wearing forced smiles, knowing that they’d been invited here to have their arms twisted while being fed navy hamburgers. Versailles, Camp David was not.

And there, suddenly, he was. The President of the United States. She’d never met one in person. He looked smaller than he did on TV. Bland-but-nice-looking. It was difficult to imagine him commanding huge armies and fleets, much less nuclear missiles. What was that he was wearing? Oh, my God. A silk bowling jacket embroidered: CAMP DAVID BOWLING LEAGUE.

“Judge Cartwright,” he said, grinning, shaking her hand. “I am sincerely sorry for interrupting your weekend like this.”

“No, that’s all right, sir,” Pepper said.

“Coffee?”

“No, thank you.”

“Well,” he said

“Well,” Pepper said.

“Do you bowl?”

The first moments of a presidential audience can be nerve-racking. Pepper froze. Had he just asked her if she wanted a bowl of something?

“A bowl, sir? Of…?”

“No,” he said, beaming, “bowling.”

“Oh. Sure. It’s been a while, but… yeah. Great. Why not?”

And so she found herself following the leader of the free world down a flight of steps. They were tailed by two silent men of football-player physique with earpieces. The President was saying something. Was he talking to himself, or her? He gave the impression of a man who might talk to himself. No, he was apparently talking to her.

“I bring world leaders down here. You can just see them rolling their eyes and thinking, Oh, my gosh, what a rube this guy is!” He chuckled. “But then what happens is-they love it. Just love it. Turns them into kids. Bowling isn’t that big in other countries. Though I’m working on that. Sometimes you have to drag them away, they’re having such a good time. Even the French president. Bet you he went home and told everyone at the Elysée Palace that the President of the United States is a bumpkin. But I will tell you for a fact that he couldn’t get enough of it. Now, I like the French. My staff is always telling me I can’t say anything nice about them in public. But I don’t listen to that. I went to France last year. And when I got there, the very first thing I did was to go lay a wreath on Lafayette’s grave-just like Pershing did in 1917. Did you know he’s buried under earth from Bunker Hill? I get choked up just thinking about that. Some of the French papers got their noses out of joint and said I was just trying to rub it in that we pulled their bacon out of the fire in World War One. And Two, of course. But that’s not why I did it. Nosiree, Bob. Wanted to pay my respects-and the respects of this country-to a great man. My staff, well, let me tell you, they had conniptions. But you can’t let the staff rule your life. Oh, no,” he said, as if savoring some hard-earned private wisdom. “No, no, no.”

She now found herself standing in complete blackness. He flicked on a switch and suddenly the room they were in was illuminated to reveal a single-lane bowling alley.

“Ahh,” he said, as if being massaged. “This makes all the rest of it worthwhile. Now, what size are you?”

“Size, sir?” What in hell was he talking about now?

“Shoe.”

The most powerful man in the world disappeared into a closet and reemerged, holding a pair of ladies bowling shoes, size eight. The shoes were red, white, and blue and had little eagles on the toes.

“I designed them myself,” he said, adding, “if you don’t mind, please don’t share that particular detail. I’ve got enough problems these days without the press having a grand old snicker about me spending my spare time-not that I have any-designing patriotic bowling shoes.”

“Not a word, sir.”

“It’s so gosh darn nice and quiet down here,” he said. “You wouldn’t know if the whole world was blowing up. Of course, they’d tell me if it were. They wake me up eighteen times a night to tell me things I’d just as soon not know. But I guess that comes with the plane and the limousine and the free housing. Well, Judge, here we are. Now, would I be correct in thinking that you’re saying to yourself, ‘What in the name of heck am I doing here and what does he want?’ ”

“That would be… yes, sir. It is crossing my mind about now.”

The President smiled and said, “I want to nominate you to the Supreme Court.”

Pepper stared. “The Supreme Court of… what, sir?”

“The United States.”

The President picked up a bowling ball, lined up his shot with care, and rolled his ball down the lane. It knocked down all but the two pins on either side. “Heartbreaking sight, the split,” he said. “Happened to Michaels at the Bayer Classic last week. He just couldn’t seem to find the pocket. Don’t suppose you…”

“No, sir, I missed that.”

“Heck of a tournament. Seat of the pants stuff. Bob Reppert made six X’s in a row.”

“Must have been quite something.”

“Oh, it was.”

The President bowled again, knocking down the tenpin.

“Big difference between nine and a spare. And here I was hoping to impress you. Your lane, Judge.”

Pepper’s first ball went into the gutter. The second one rolled slowly down the lane off center and knocked down all the pins, so slowly they seemed to go down one by one.

“Oh, beautiful, Judge. Beautiful. Sit down for a moment. You saw what happened to my last two nominees to the Court?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I saw some of the hearings on TV.”

“Disgraceful, what they did to those two men.”

“It did seem a hair… political.”

“Senator Mitchell. He doesn’t like me much. Well, no one up there does. But they shouldn’t have taken it out on those two fine men. But that’s all past. They’ve had their fun. Now it’s my turn.”

President Donald Vanderdamp suddenly looked less bland to Pepper. A Mephistophelian glint of mischief came into his eyes-incongruous in a man wearing bowling shoes and jacket. “I’m going to send them a nominee that’s going to give them a full-blown epileptic fit.” He was chortling again. “And the best part is, there’s not a darned thing they’re going to be able to do about it. Oh, this is going to be rich. Rich.”

“Sir,” Pepper said, “may I say something?”

“By all means,” he said jovially.

“I sure do appreciate your considering me, but I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no,” the President said, matter-of-factly. “It’s too late for that. It’s all been decided.”

“Decided?”

“By me, Judge,” he said, the smile disappearing. “Your country needs you. Sorry to sound like a recruiting poster. But that is the situation.”

It suddenly felt claustrophobic. “I understand if you want to make some kind of point to these senators, sir, but this is my life you’re using to make it. And I kind of like it the way it is.” She added, “Not to sound ungrateful.”

“You don’t want to be on the Supreme Court?”

“I didn’t say that, sir. I meant-”

“Meant what?”

“Mr. President,” Pepper said, “I’m a TV judge.”

“You were a real judge.”

“Well, yes, in Superior Court. But I wouldn’t presume to suppose I was qualified to sit on the Supreme Court.”

“Judge Cartwright,” the President said, trying to sound a bit huffy, “don’t you suppose that I’ve given this just a teensy bit of thought?”

“A teensy, maybe.”

“You’re perfectly qualified. Why, according to the Constitution, you don’t even have to be a lawyer to sit on the Supreme Court.”

“That might actually make for a better Court.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I wasn’t being serious, sir.”

“I Googled you,” the President said. “Sounds almost indecent, doesn’t it? Drives my staff cuckoo when I get on the Internet. They probably think I’m surfing porn sites and it’ll get out. Anyway, I know about you. Texas. Law review at Fordham-great school, that. Top notch but down-to-earth kind of place. Clerked for a federal judge out in California, stint as a prosecutor, Superior Court in LA, then Courtroom Six.”

Pepper shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You Google good, sir.”

The President nodded. “I sometimes think we don’t need the FBI and CIA, what with all the information that’s out there.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Now there’s a budget saving for you. Fold the FBI and CIA into the Department of Google. Hm. Might give that some thought. But they’ll do the routine investigation into you, not to mention the five zillion reporters looking to get a Pulitzer Prize for finding out you smoked pot when you were sixteen. Did you smoke pot when you were sixteen?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Waited until I was seventeen.”

The President stared. Then said, “Well, I suppose these days anyone who didn’t was the odd one. Did you-”

“Shoot heroin? No, sir.”

“Well, then.” The President brightened. “I don’t see a problem. However, as you know, the process is not for the faint of heart. Ask Judges Cooney and Burrows. But since you’re here and we’re on the subject, any major skeletons rattling around in the closet?”

“My closet’s so messy there isn’t room for skeletons.”

“Good answer,” the President said.

“They kind of hang around the rest of the house.”

“The Ruby business.”

“There is that ghost, yes, sir.”

“It wasn’t hardly your fault, for heaven’s sake. You weren’t even born in 1963.”

“No, but…” Pepper sighed. It wasn’t her favorite topic. “But under the general heading of Sins of the Fathers. Wasn’t really a sin, per se. Maybe not the best judgment. The Warren Commission did clear him. But it was a life-changing event, you might say.”

“Tell me. If you would.”

Pepper hesitated but, sensing that the President was inviting her to rehearse a story she would at some point most likely be compelled to relate, said:

“Daddy hadn’t been on the Dallas police force long, just a few months, really. The Sunday after the President was shot, they gave him the job of standing guard outside the garage entrance to the police headquarters while they were transferring Oswald. So he’s doing that and this man walks on by-the Warren Commission actually established that he did just happen to be walking by-sees the commotion, and says to Daddy, ‘What’s going on down there?’ Daddy says, ‘They’re moving Lee Harvey Oswald, the man who shot President Kennedy.’ The man says, ‘Gee, really? That sure would be something to tell my grandkids. Okay if I just take a look?’ Daddy being Daddy, a nice, friendly man, basically, says, ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm.’ And the man turned out to be Jack Ruby.”

The President nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, you can imagine the going-over he got. But it must have been pretty obvious to everyone-except to those who make a living off conspiracy theories-that he wasn’t a part of any plot. He was just Roscoe Cartwright. DPD. Patrolman. But that was the end of his career in law enforcement.”

The President nodded.

“He got religion. Lot of people do after something like that. Not that there’s anything quite ‘like that.’ Became a Bible salesman. He was better at that than standing guard. Made good money. Pretty soon had his own distributorship. I was born, and they bought a little house in Plano, outside Dallas. Momma, she taught high school English. I’m named for a character in Shakespeare. Perdita. Only Daddy thought said it sounded sort of Mexican so I ended up being Pepper. Do you want to hear about ghost number two?

The President nodded.

“Momma liked to play golf. They’d joined this little country club called-kind of ironic, if you think about it-Heavenly Valley Country Club. One Sunday afternoon-I wasn’t quite ten-she said, ‘Come on, honey pie, let’s go play a few holes.’ Daddy said, ‘Helen, it ain’t right to play golf on the Sabbath.’ They still call Sunday the Sabbath in that part of the world, least they did then. She said, ‘Roscoe Cartwright, I work like the dickens all week long, teaching, volunteering for every civic group in town, and I can’t see why the Good Lord would give two hoots and a holler if I play a little golf on my day off.’ Daddy went off to sulk in the garage with his power tools, like men do.”

President Vanderdamp nodded gravely in agreement.

“We were on the fourth fairway. This thunderstorm came up suddenly. They do, down there. She said, ‘You go hide under those trees, honey, I’m just going to take my swing.’ And then there was this…” Pepper’s voice trailed off.

“I’m sorry,” the President said.

“She was the twelfth person that year in the U.S. to be killed by lightning on a golf course. I read that in the newspaper, along with a hundred stories saying it wasn’t lightning at all, but part of the-don’t you know-conspiracy.”

“Can’t have been easy.”

“It’s a funny country sometimes, that way. Some people just refuse to accept the obvious. Daddy didn’t take it as a conspiracy, though. He took it as prima facie evidence of just where the Almighty stands on the subject of golfing on the Sabbath. He gave a sweet eulogy. Turned out he had kind of a talent for public speaking. Maybe it came from all the Bible study. He quoted from her favorite Shakespeare sonnet. The one that goes

‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Admit impediments. Love is not love

Which alters when it alternation finds…’

“Anyway, he waited until we got home and then had what they called back then a nervous breakdown. A serious nervous breakdown. So they came, took him off to-they called that in those days either a rest home or the happy farm. I went to live with my granddaddy-Daddy’s father-JJ. He’s a retired sheriff. He pretty much raised me, really. Sweet old bird, but tough as boots. Ready for ghost number three, sir?”

“Go on,” said the President.

“Well, they were big on electroshock therapy at that particular ‘rest home.’ Daddy came home three months later. For a while there he mostly just sat there drooling and staring at the TV, even when it wasn’t on. I overheard JJ telling someone-I remember clear as anything-‘They musta put enough electricity through that boy to run a freight train from here to El Paso.’ JJ’s full of lines like that.

“Anyway, Daddy eventually stopped drooling. He announced to us one night over fried chicken that he had a whole new meaning in life-to give witness to the Word. JJ just rolled his eyes and said, ‘Pass the biscuits.’ But Daddy was serious. He bought an old warehouse with his savings, fixed it up as a church. Called it the First Sabbath Tabernacle of Plano. For a crucifix, he mounted Momma’s golf clubs. They had gotten, well, fused by the lightning. That was,” she sighed, “kind of vivid for me.

“He started giving witness to the Word and pretty soon had himself a congregation. This was back when cable TV was starting up and they needed something to fill the air with, so they put him on. His Hour of Power was called Halleluj’all-still is. You may have even heard of it. He’s the Reverend Roscoe. Pretty soon he was a big deal. His church has twelve thousand pews. He gives a big annual barbecue. The governor comes, all the state politicians. To be honest, I think it’s his private jet they like. It’s called Spirit One. He lends it out.

“Anyway, while Daddy was getting himself famous as a minister, I hung out with JJ. He’d take me down to the courthouse and jail, taught me how to shoot. I’m good with pistols. Guess I shouldn’t say that too loud in case your Secret Service folks are listening. But it was JJ insisted I go East to school. He wanted to get me out of Roscoe world. He took a dim view of all that holy rolling stuff. I went to this boarding school in Connecticut. All the girls were named Ashley or Meredith. I was out of my social depth, but the other girls hadn’t talked to murderers in jail and most didn’t know one end of a pistol from another. And they couldn’t blow perfect smoke rings, either. And that’s about it. The rest you got from Google. You serious about all this?”

President Vanderdamp, who had been staring intently, said, “Yes. Absolutely. It’s an unusual situation, I grant you. But I think you’re just what it calls for.”

Pepper said, “I have the feeling this is a joke and I’m the only one who isn’t in on it.”

“I offered the Senate two of the most distinguished jurists in the country and they blew their noses on them.”

“And I’m the next hanky?”

“No. You’re the next associate justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, if we play our cards right. Don’t sell yourself short. You’re a TV star. Someone called you the ‘Oprah of our judicial system.’ People love you.” He chuckled. “And I for one can’t wait to see the look on Dexter Mitchell’s face. He won’t know whether to…”

“Shit or go crazy?” Pepper said.

“Really, Judge,” the President said. “Such language, in front of the President.”

Pepper said, “You’re the politician, not me. But it seems to me this thing could backfire on you, and you’ve got a reelection coming up.”

The President said, “I’ll let you in on a little secret, but it has to remain a secret. Understood?”

“Yes, sir, I can handle that.”

“I’m not going to run again.”

Pepper stared. “Isn’t that unusual?”

“It shouldn’t be. I said-going in, and you can look it up on Google-that a president who doesn’t spend four years fretting about reelection can accomplish far more than one who does, who spends every second of the day worrying about his approval ratings. As you can see,” he smiled, “I have not spent the last two and a half years trying to win popularity contests.”

“No,” Pepper said. “I suppose not.”

“They hate me up there on Capitol Hill. Why? Because I keep vetoing their spending bills. Why, they’re so mad at me they’re even rounding up votes for a constitutional amendment to limit presidents to a single term. Just to get back at me! Great heaven. It’s like passing Prohibition to keep one person from drinking. And meanwhile, of course, stringing up my Supreme Court nominees from lampposts. Well, don’t get me started on the subject of the United States Congress. But,” he patted Pepper’s knee and grinned, “they won’t find it so easy to string you up. So, Judge Cartwright. Ready to serve your country?”

“Is there a less ominous way of putting that?”

“It does sound ominous, doesn’t it?”

“Could I think about it?”

“Yes. Of course. But I’d appreciate an answer by Monday.”

“You couldn’t make it Friday, could you? I’ve got a dilly of a week. We’re going into Sweeps Week and…” The President was staring at her.

“Young lady,” he said, “I come bearing a very considerable gift, not an offer of a lunch date.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to sound unappreciative. It’s just, I have this hard time deciding things.”

“You’re a judge. Your job is to decide things.”

“See, I’m a Libra.”

The President stared. “You might want to leave that out at the hearings.”