Supreme Courtship (14 page)

“Let’s have it,” Dexter said.

“Senior year at her boarding school, she and another girl put shaving cream on the headmistress’s toilet seat.”

Dexter stared at his chief of staff. “Well, that’ll drive a stake through her heart.”

“Sorry, Senator. We’ll keep trying.”

And so, on the brink of the final day of the Cartwright hearings, Senator Dexter Mitchell found himself standing on a diving board above a large pool full of—nothing.

“Good morning,” he said, giving the gavel handle the lightest little tippy-tap. “Senator Ramos y Gualtapo, your witness.”

Silvia dutifully asked Judge Cartwright a technical question about the applicability of the commerce clause.

“Well, Senator,” Pepper said, “as you know, in the nineteen eighties the Court was divided and reversed itself on
Garcia v. San Antonio Transit Authority. . . .
” Silvia nodded, as though thoroughly versed in the case, shooting a venomous glance in Dexter’s direction. Dexter for his part was thinking,
I’ve seen episodes of
Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
that were more contentious. Why don’t you just ask her for her recipe for upside-down pineapple cake?

Silvia finished. “Thank you, Judge Cartwright. I have no further questions.”

And so, finally, it was Senator Dexter Mitchell’s turn. There had been much speculation about this moment. All eyes were on him. Normally he reveled in the sensation. Not today.

Even Terry, his wife, high school sweetheart, life’s companion, sharer of his heart’s secrets, lover, best friend, mother of their attractive children, had said to him that morning over the shredded mini-wheat, “I hope you’re not planning to embarrass yourself with Judge Cartwright.”

Planning?
Planning?
To be rendered splutteringly speechless, with a mouthful of shredded mini-wheat, on this day of days, by his own . . . wife?
Yes, honey,
he felt like saying,
funny you should mention it. I was up all night “planning” how to make myself look like a complete fool on national television. Do you have any tips for me? How about if I blew my nose on Senator Tronkmeyer’s necktie? Do you think that would bring about the desired level of embarrassment? Or should I simultaneously summon a thermonuclear fart right as I’m boring in on her interpretation of the equal protection clause?

“
I
think she’s terrific,” Terry continued, not looking up from her newspaper.

“Thank you, honey,” Dexter said, “for the input.”

“Anytime,” Terry said, still not looking up.

“Judge Cartwright,” Dexter Mitchell began, leaning forward as he faced Pepper. There behind her was Graydon Clenndennynn, looking like a public library stone lion. There was the grandfather, Sheriff JJ, droopy mustache and all. His arms had been folded tightly across his chest for three days now as he scowled at the Judiciary Committee.
Mess with my little girl, and I’ll cut out your livers.
Next to him the Mexican woman. And there’s the Reverend Roscoe.
Nice going with Ruby, there, Reverend. . . . No,
Dexter warned himself,
don’t go there.

Dexter cleared his throat. “Judge Cartwright, were you . . . You must have been pretty surprised when President Vanderdamp nominated you for this job.”

“Is that a question, Senator, or a statement of the screamingly obvious?”

[Laughter.]

“Ha-ha,” Dexter nodded, “quite right. Yes, yes, I suppose you must have been. Because someone in your . . . position, that is, in your line of work, wouldn’t normally . . . I guess what I’m trying to get at—”

“Let me throw you a lifeline, Senator,” Pepper said. “The President’s telephone call knocked me flatter than butterfly roadkill. I stipulate that, Senator. But didn’t we kind of establish that about five minutes into these hearings?”

[Laughter.]

“Yes. Yes. . . . Right you are, Judge.”

“It would take someone with bigger cojones than I have,” Pepper continued, giving Dexter a foxy look that only the two of them—along with the President, Graydon Clenndennynn, and Hayden Cork—could fully appreciate, “to
ask
for this. It’s not the sort of job anyone would solicit outright. Is it?”

This moment in the Cartwright hearings has been much discussed. Many have wondered why Senator Mitchell never paused to ask for a clarification of the meaning of “cojones
.”
Instead, he seemed to recoil slightly and stammer, “Judge, you’ve done, in my view, a-a-a very thorough, indeed, excellent job of answering this Committee’s questions.”

Pepper, staring evenly, said, “Very generous of you, sir.”

“There were those on the Committee,” Dexter said tsk-tskily, “who wanted to ask—to raise certain issues, going back . . . well, a long way.”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed.

“But it was decided that the Committee would not, so to speak, go there.”

Dexter Mitchell’s face suddenly and weirdly turned exuberantly magnanimous, like that of someone who has just decided to give away his entire fortune at the stroke of a pen.

“Yes,” he beamed. “And if I may say so myself, that was the right decision.”

His fellow Committee members stared at their chairman, jaws agape.

“As chair of this distinguished Committee, I feel strongly that no
decent
purpose would be accomplished by going there. No, no. And so, Judge, I am pleased—indeed, very pleased—to say, to declare right here and now, without further delay, that it is the collective sense of this Committee that your nomination is . . .”

Dexter let it hang there a moment, a little bright origami kite wafting on lung-warmed thermals.

“. . . likely, indeed almost certain to be approved by this Committee.”

A shiver of pleasure went through the room, and, through the airwaves, beyond into the land. For a moment, the entire country exhaled together, as a vast, happy
ahhh
spread from sea to shining sea, rippling the amber waves of grain as it went.

“Now,” Dexter said, looking abruptly serious, “this is not to say that I did not entertain certain . . .”

The
ahhh
paused, hovered tremulously over the Great Plains.

“. . . call them . . . if you might . . . well, misgivings. . . .”

Amber waves of grain trembled.

Dexter spoke gravely, as if trying to look like a Daniel Chester French statue of himself. “I have, of course, certain responsibilities, transient and historical . . . but there are times—and this, surely, is one of them—when a leader, in order
to
lead, must follow. And so, let me be the first to say, as leader, that I will vote to approve your nomination.”

The room erupted into applause. The Committee members, most of whom were by now casting withering looks at their sure-to-be transient “leader,” began one by one to join in the applause.

CHAPTER 13

P
epper’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.

D
EXTER
M
ITCHELL
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—”