Supreme Courtship (3 page)

It was an assault case. Felony assault. The defendant looked well dressed for a felonious assaulter. He had three lawyers at his table.

The assaultee was on the stand, being cross-examined by one of the defense lawyers.

“Mr.
En-ri-quez
,” the lawyer was saying, trying to make the surname sound criminal in itself, “you have testified that my client, Mr. Burson, quote-unquote threatened you. Would you define the verb ‘threaten’ for the court?”

“Objection,” said the DA wearily.

“Sustained,” said Judge Cartwright. “Cut it out, Counselor.”

“Your Honor, I’m merely trying to—”

“If you’re unsure of the meaning of the word ‘threaten’ I’ll have the court clerk provide you with a copy of Webster’s dictionary. You’ll find it under
T
, right before
time
-waster.”

“Your honor, I know what ‘threaten’ means. I’m merely trying to establish whether Mr. Enriquez knows what—”

“Come on, Counselor. Giddyup here. I’ve seen glaciers move quicker than you.”

Several jurors laughed. One of other defense attorneys smiled, until his client noticed, whereupon he reassumed an attitude of expensive consternation.

Mr. Enriquez, Buddy inferred, was a kiddie-league soccer referee. The defendant was evidently the father of an eight-year-old player. He had apparently disagreed with several of Mr. Enriquez’s calls against his daughter’s team and, after the game, had—allegedly—tried to run Mr. Enriquez over with his Mercedes in the parking lot.

A squabble broke out over whether the cost of the defendant’s Mercedes was admissible. The defense had kept objecting to the DA’s repeated references to the “hundred-thousand-dollar weapon.”

“Mr. Setrakian,” said Judge Cartwright to the DA, “are you trying to make a socioeconomic point here? If I may analogize, a ten-dollar Saturday Night Special handgun is just as lethal as a $
100
,
000
engraved London-made shotgun. Or are you striving to make some other kind of point here?”

“Your Honor,” said the DA, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely—everyone in court seemed to be, even the jurors—“I am merely trying to establish that a weapon, in this case a $
100
,
000
Mercedes E Class—”

“Objection,” two of the defendant’s attorneys said simultaneously.

“One objection per client, if you don’t mind,” said the judge. “Now see here, Mr. Setrakian,” she returned to the DA, “you have majestically established that the defendant’s car cost a bucket of money. I very much doubt if this point you’ve been making as subtly as a sledgehammer has been lost on any juror who’s managed to say awake.”

“Your Honor,” the DA said, grinning, “you’re being very severe with me today.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Setrakian,” Judge Cartwright said, cheeks dimpling as she put her glasses back on. “ ‘I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.’ Proceed, please. Proceed. Let’s try to finish up before the next ice age.”

After adjournment, Buddy sought out Judge Pepper’s chambers. He presented his media credentials and was admitted. Judge Pepper was standing behind her desk. Buddy stood and stared.

“You here to see me about something,” she said, “or just browsin’?”

“No. Sorry,” Buddy said, still staring.

“What can I do for you, sir?”

“What you said back there to the DA. ‘I must be cruel in order to be nice . . .’ What was that about?”

Judge Cartwright stared back curiously. “That would be Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare?” Buddy said. “No shit?”

“Yes, shit.” Judge Cartwright cocked her head. “You all right, sir?”

“Oh, yeah,” Buddy said. “Great.”

CHAPTER 3

W
hite 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.”

T
HERE 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?”