Supreme Courtship

CHAPTER 6

Tuesday morning, Senator Dexter Mitchell was in his office on Capitol Hill when the phone rang. Graydon Clenndennynn calling, mandarin in chief.

The two men knew-and loathed-each other. Graydon referred to Mitchell (in private) as “a jumped-up mediocrity.” Dexter referred to Graydon (in public) as “an insufferable, overpaid egomaniac.” Both points of view had some merit.

The phone call was like a meeting on the plain of battle when representatives of the about-to-clash armies came forward to offer terms and bribes by which carnage might be averted.

“So,” Graydon Clenndennynn said, “habemus papam.” He enjoyed lording his knowledge of arcana over Mitchell.

Mitchell said, “I didn’t go to boarding school, Graydon. Try it in English.”

“It’s what they say at the Vatican when they’ve elected a new pope,” Graydon said, yawning from jet leg. “It appears we have a nominee. This is the obligatory courtesy call.”

“All right.” Dexter took a pencil and poised it above a legal pad, an old habit from his prosecuting days. “Shoot.”

“I’m going to say something to you, without prejudice,” Clenndennynn said. “Agreed?”

“All right,” Mitchell said, suddenly curious.

“You will most likely deduce that this name did not originate with me.”

You old fox, Dexter thought.

“That said,” Clenndennynn continued, “I have given the President my word that I will do everything I can to move the nomination forward. And that is my intention.”

“All right, Graydon. I get it. You’re behind it one thousand percent. Is it Runningwater?”

“No. Cartwright.”

Dexter Mitchell’s mind raced. Wasn’t there a Cartwright on the Sixth Circuit…?

“Judge Pepper Cartwright,” Graydon said.

“Did you say Pepper Cartwright?”

“Yes.”

“Pepper Cartwright.”

“Yes.”

“The TV judge?”

“The same.”

Dexter Mitchell leaned forward over his desk and massaged his forehead, still tender from that morning’s injection of live botulinum cells. “What the hell, Graydon? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Far from it. It is the President’s view, and I must say I agree with him, that the last two nominations devolved into grotesque spectacles, thanks to you. So now he’s trying another tack. You have to give him credit. It’s out of the box, as they say. Are you familiar with the expression?”

“Those hearings were full and fair. It’s not my fault if-”

“Let’s dispense with the folderol, shall we? He sent you two men, two lions of the bar. Men of distinction, ability, probity. Reputations you could eat off. You turned it into a reprise of the Salem witch trials.”

In moments of stress, Dexter Mitchell had a tendency to laugh unpleasantly. It came out as a high-pitched staccato burst, a sort of cackle. One observer likened it to the sound geese make when being force-fed. He had done it once or twice during the presidential debates, causing some in the audience to wonder if they really wanted to hear four years of it in the White House.

“That’s just-aack!-absurd!”

“Please. It was unseemly.” Unseemliness was the worst sort of crime to Graydon Clenndennynn, worthy of the death penalty.

“I’m sorry you and the President feel that way. I happen to disagree. Let me point out that-”

Clenndennynn was not about submit to a marathon Dexter Mitchell harangue. “Have you seen her television show?” he said.

“What? No,” Dexter lied.

“Maybe you should. Everyone else in America seems to. She’s very popular, I gather. A tall, cool drink of tequila. Yes. From Texas, too. Her grandfather was a sheriff.”

“I don’t care if she’s descended from Sam Houston. This is unacceptable. It’s an insult. A travesty. This is-”

“Unacceptable?” said Clenndennynn in his woodiest voice. “Unacceptable? To whom?”

“To the United States Senate!”

“Well, before you go speaking for the entire United States Senate, you might spend five minutes thinking about how the country is going to react. We happen to think it will go for her in rather a big way. Look up her ratings if you don’t believe me. So, there we are. Courtesy call concluded. Good day, Senator. Always good talking with you.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. I get it. This is some kind of vendetta?”

“Oh, please, Senator. Let me point out a very basic fact to you about the man you and your distinguished colleagues like to call Don Veto. Donald Vanderdamp isn’t Sicilian. He’s from Ohio. He’s a nice, really not terribly complicated man from-I can never pronounce it-Wapakoneta. Two boys grow up in Wapakoneta. One was good in math and became the first man to walk on the moon. [4] The other was president of the student council and became President of the United States. My idea of diversity. But if you prefer to think of it as a vendetta, why not? Adds a bit of garlic to the stew.”

“Well,” Dexter said, “you can tell Don Veto that he’s going to wake up with a horse head in his bed.”

“Threats, Senator? Well, if that’s how you want to play it, what about that pathetic call you made on him in the Oval Office, begging to be appointed to the Court. He hasn’t told anyone about that. Up to now.”

“For the record, I did not ‘beg.’ I gave him six perfectly compelling reasons why I would be a reasonable, logical choice for the Court.”

“He fell asleep after number three. Good-bye, Senator. See you on the field of honor.”