Supreme Courtship (12 page)

“Very good, sir,” Graydon said, and hung up.

“Now,” the President said, “Hayden.”

“Yes, sir,” the chief of staff said glumly.

“I think I’d like to know a little more about this . . . husband.”

“Oh, sir,” Hayden said, “we’re not going to . . . no, sir. Please.”

“The FBI is already conducting a full and vigorous background check, aren’t they?”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Hayden,” the President smiled. “This is no time to go wobbly.”
^*

G
RAYDON AND
H
AYDEN
met late that afternoon at the Retropolitan Club for a last murder board with Pepper, who was flying in from New York. Hayden greeted Graydon with a sarcastic, “Thank you. You were a big help this morning with the Chief.”

“What can I say?” Graydon shrugged. “I’ve grown accustomed to her face.”

“This is going to end in tears,” Hayden said. “Or blood. Mitchell’s hotter than lava.”

“Dexter Mitchell is a horse’s ass,” Graydon said, “but he’s not stupid. He’s seen her numbers. The people want her on the Court.”

“I didn’t realize,” Hayden said, “you were such a populist.”

“I’m not. But it doesn’t hurt to give the mob what it wants every now and then. Keeps it quiet.”

“I take it back. You know what the Chief is asking for, don’t you?”

“I’d rather be able to look the grand jury in the eye with a trace of sincerity and say, ‘I really don’t know what the special prosecutor is going on about.’ ”

“Thanks. And what do
I
tell the special prosecutor?”

“Oh,” Graydon said with a Cheshire cat grin, “you’ll think of something. And if you don’t, I’ll come visit you on Sundays. Bring you croissants and a file.”

The stand-in senators filtered in and took their places behind the committee table. Pepper arrived shortly, only fifteen minutes late, looking as though she’d had a tough day. Graydon greeted her warmly; Hayden with a perfunctory handshake and nod.

“Nice to see you, too,” Pepper muttered under her breath.

“I’m sorry about this brouhaha with your husband,” Graydon said. “But as I told you this morning over the phone, the President is behind you all the way.” He added pointedly, “As is Mr. Cork.”

Hayden pursed his lips.

“You look a bit tired,” Graydon said to her. “Are you up for this?”

“Yeah,” Pepper said without enthusiasm.

Hayden and the others fired questions at her for several hours—on privacy, interstate commerce, immigration, on whether the Eighth Amendment had been properly applied in
Miskimin v. Incontinental Airlines.
^*
He cleared his throat and said, “Now, Judge Cartwright, would you stipulate that a person’s private life is relevant when determining his—or her—suitability to serve in a high public office?”

Pepper stared at him a moment and said, “Well, Senator, I guess that would depend on the office, wouldn’t it?”

“How do you mean?”

“Let’s say this hypothetical person turned out to be a member of al Qaeda or an arms dealer or hooker. I suppose that would be relevant if they were up for the Supreme Court or Secretary of State or some big job like that. But if they were just running for, say, the Senate, I’d say a reprobate background would be a qualification.”

The senators burst out laughing.

Hayden shook his head. “Is that really how you’re going to play it at the hearings?”

“I don’t know, Corky,” Pepper said, yawning. “Just trying to get through the day, you know?”

“Would you kindly not call me that?” Hayden said, flushing.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect. My shrink says it’s a way I have of processing feelings of insecurity.”

Hayden stared. “Your . . . did you say ‘shrink’?”

“Psychiatrist. You know, someone who helps you sort things out upstairs, like.”

“Are you saying that you are under the care of a psychiatrist?”

“Well, sure. Everyone in New York is. Aren’t they down here, what with all the stress and such?”

Hayden was flipping anxiously through his briefing book. “I don’t . . . recall that on the questionnaire. Did you include it on your . . .”

Pepper smiled demurely. “Well, no, sir. It’s kinda personal.”

“God Almighty,” Hayden said. “This is . . .”

“I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. As far as the shrink goes, I didn’t really have a whole lot of choice in the matter.”

“What do you mean?” Hayden said, his voice a squeak.

“Well,” Pepper shrugged, “they more or less told me I had to see one.”

Hayden stared. “ ‘
They
’?”

“The folks at the rehab place. It was a condition for letting me out after just a month. Instead of the full six.”

“Full six?” Hayden spluttered.

“You can’t hardly see the scars,” Pepper said, holding up her wrists. “Least not when I’m wearing these bracelets. Say, any of you folks got any Valium? I left in such a rush I forgot to bring mine.”

Graydon rose. He said, “Shall we break there? Judge, if I may?”

He and Pepper left the others staring at each other in horrified stupefaction. Graydon led the way to a book-lined corner of a parlor where they sat in facing leather armchairs.

“Young lady,” he said, “you ought to spanked.”

“I was,” Pepper said. “Many times. Just trying to lighten things up. Corky’s wound so tight his bow tie’s gonna start spinning any minute now.”

A waiter appeared.

“A double martini, Hector, thank you,” Graydon said. “For the lady?”

“Tequila, straight up. Beer back. Bottle, lime.”

Hector seemed amused by the order.

“That’s probably the first time anyone has ordered that here since the Johnson administration,” Graydon said. “So, Pepper. Think you’ll make the whistle?”
^*

Pepper smiled at the question. “Been to a rodeo, have we?”

“Yes. About a century before you were born.”

“You do surprise me, Graydon. You don’t seem the type.”

“We used to summer in Wyoming when I was a boy. Why do you laugh?”

“Wasn’t until I got East to school I realized ‘summer’ was a verb. So you been out west.”

“My grandfather built the railroad to it,” Graydon said, stirring his martini idly with his forefinger.

“Oh,” Pepper said. “Well, beats flying coach.”

“As to rodeos,” he said, “I have made the whistle. You, you’re only just mounting up.”

“I’m wearing different colored socks.”
^*

The old man smiled. “All right, then. But hold on. This bull’s an arm-jerker.”

CHAPTER 11

S
enator 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.
^*

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.”