Supreme Courtship (15 page)
“Mr. Bixby. I
do
give a shit about the Middle East.”
“That’s great. Someone has to, right? Look, I’ve been watching you. You were born to play this part. You’ve got this incredible . . .
authority
. You really look like the real deal.”
“Thank you. I like to think that I am the real deal. You want me to play a president, is that the idea?”
“Exactly.”
“Like
The West Wing
?”
*
“Yeah. But without all the hand-wringing. With balls. Gritty. And
sexy
. Hot. I’m casting Ramona Alvilar as the First Lady.”
“Really?” Dexter said. “I saw her in what-was-it-called. She’s quite . . .”
“Hot? Oh,” Buddy chuckled, “let me tell you. I came three times during the meeting.”
Senator Mitchell’s expression suggested to Buddy that this might not have been appropriate. Buddy shrugged. “Figure of speech. You know what sold her on the deal?”
“No,” Dexter said, “I don’t.”
“When I told her I was going to approach
you
to play the President.”
“Oh. Really.”
“She’s a
huge
fan.”
“Well. Please tell her that I’m a fan of
hers
. Look, Mr. Bixby—”
“Buddy. Please.”
“I already have a job. A good one.”
“I recognize that and appreciate that,” Buddy said. “And I respect that. I would say this: if at this moment in your life you’re completely fulfilled, if you feel that you have nothing left to prove, no heights left to scale, then . . . I’ll shake your hand, thank you for your time, and be out of here. I guess someone in your position, when they retire, they can make a few dollars working for some lobbying firm on K Street, right? On the other hand, if you’re up for taking on something that could be extremely exciting, very high profile, to say nothing of insanely lucrative, then . . . sleep on it.”
Dexter looked out the window, seeing his own face staring back at him. It was a handsome reflection, he reflected. He tilted his head just so. Yes. It did look presidential. Yes. Yes.
“Are you doing this to spite your wife?” Dexter said.
“Well,” Buddy shrugged, “sure. But there’s also the money.”
I
N A VAST MARBLE BATHROOM
of a vastly expensive hotel suite with a splendid view of the Washington Monument, Pepper Cartwright, associate justice–designate of the U.S. Supreme Court, was throwing up.
JJ and Juanita hovered on the other side of the door.
“
Amor
,” Juanita said, “
por favor
,
abre la puerta.
”
From Pepper’s side of the door came a hollow, bellowy sound of the kind heard in the sea mammal section of the zoo as feeding time approaches.
“You all right, honey?” JJ said somewhat pointlessly.
“Of course she’s not all right,” Juanita said.
JJ took out his gold pocket watch and said, “Maybe I oughta call the White House.”
“
Sí
. Call them.”
“What am I supposed to tell ’em?”
“That she’s sick.”
“I can’t tell the President of the United States she’s got her head in the toilet. It ain’t dignified.”
“Tell them that she ate something.”
Pepper, listening to it all from behind the door, said, “I’m all right. Just give me a . . .” This was followed by another aquatic sound.
She had, to be sure, been through rather a lot at this point and had run through a lifetime’s supply of adrenaline. A few hours earlier, as she lay awake, sweating into her
800
-count hotel sheets, staring at the time display on the clock, it had dawned on her that there was now no going back. Her new office was in a marble building that looked like it belonged on the Acropolis. She’d had recurring dreams in which its great bronze doors clanged shut behind her. When she turned around, she saw hooded figures welding the doors shut, to the accompaniment of demonic cackling. She stared into the blue water in the toilet bowl.
Even the toilet water looks expensive.
The President of the United States and the world media were cooling their heels waiting for her in the Oval Office.
Oh, girl,
she thought, struggling to her feet and looking at the ghastly reflection in the mirror.
What in hell have you got yourself into?
“What about a nip of bourbon?” JJ suggested through the door.
“
No seas tonto, JJ
. She can’t have
bourbon
on her breath for the President,” Juanita said crossly.
“Wasn’t suggestin’ she drink the whole bottle.”
Pepper opened the door, pale, but upright. “All right,” she gasped. “Let’s do this thing.”
Juanita marched her back into the bathroom to attend to hair and lipstick and other necessaries. JJ shrugged and drank the bourbon himself. The swearing-in went without incident, with Chief Justice Hardwether doing the honors. Pepper had gargled beforehand with about a quart of mouthwash and smelled like a spearmint forest. The Chief Justice smelled kind of minty himself. There was a nice small lunch, and President Vanderdamp autographed his place card for Juanita.
O
n Capitol Hill, Senator Dexter Mitchell was having an officially unofficial meeting with his old friend Senator Clement Cranch of the great state of Mississippi. Cranch was Chairman of the Senate Ethics Committee, almost never referred to as “the powerful Senate Ethics Committee.”
The meeting was not going to Dexter’s satisfaction. Cranch kept shifting in his chair and doing things with his mouth as if he were a recent recipient of oral surgery.
“I just honestly don’t see the problem, Clem,” Dexter said. “It’s not like I’m trying to hide income.”
“Dexter, you’d need a mine shaft to hide that kinda income.”
Dexter made a dismissive gesture. “Now that’s only a best-case scenario, like if the series goes into syndication. For starters I’d only be pulling down, you know, fifty grand,” he lowered his voice, “per episode. Tops.”
Cranch snorted. “That’s one-third of a Senate salary, Dex. How’s that gonna look on the front page of the
Washington Post
? How’s it gonna look back in Hartford? You think of that?”
“Yes, Clem, I have, and I think the people of Connecticut would be proud to see their senator on TV.”
“You’re already on TV.”
“I’m not talking about C-SPAN, for God’s sake. We’re talking network, prime time. Look, Clem, there’s all sorts of dimensions to this thing.”
“Whenever people tell me ‘There’s all sorts of dimensions to’ something, it always boils down to one—money.”
“Listen, Clem—and this is strictly between us. Can I trust you on this?”
“Dex, I’m the Senate Ethics chair. I guess you can trust me.”
“Okay. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the money. You think I’m getting into this so I can move to McLean and build myself some forty-thousand-square-foot McMansion? This money—all of it—is going into my war chest.”
“What war chest?”
“For when I run again, Clem. For the big job.”
Cranch shook his head. “Dex, I don’t care if it goes for a McMuffin in McLean, for Vegas hookers, or for cleft palate surgery for kids in the damn Congo. The rules are the rules.”
“Fuck the rules.”
“That’s a fine thing to say to the Ethics chair.”
“That’s right, Clem. It’s a chair. Not a throne.”
“Well, whatever it is, it ain’t a toilet, and you ain’t about to take a crap in it.”
“Write new rules,” Dexter said. “For God’s sake. No one expects ethics in the Congress, anyway. Try Googling ‘ethics’ and ‘Congress,’ see how many matches you get.”
“Be that as it may. It’s my
job,
Dexter.”
“With all the dire things going on in the world right now . . . the economic situation, Texas about to mine its border with Mexico, these Russian submarines snooping off our shores like great white sharks,
TV judges
on the Supreme Court . . . and you’re all bent out of shape because a U.S. senator wants to lift the image of the entire government and maybe make a little walking-around money on the side. . . .”
“I’m tired of this conversation, Dex. The rules say no outside regular salary. And that’s that. Over and out.”
“It’s not a salary.”
Cranch slammed his fist on his desk. “Then what in tar hell is it? And don’t you tell me it’s an
honorarium
. We get into more pissin’ matches over that goddamned word
honorarium.
”
Dexter stood before a window, looking at his presidential—yes—reflection. He sighed philosophically.
“It’s sad,” he said. “You devote your entire life to public service . . . your whole life . . . and an opportunity comes along to do something good for your family, a little money—”
“I thought the money was going to your war chest.”
“I consider my family part of my war chest, Clem. And the next thing you know you’re being trampled into the ground by the Four Horseman of the Ethicalypse. No wonder young people don’t want to go into politics these days.”
“That was a fine oration. Up there with Cicero. You done?”
“Will you walk with me, Clem? Will you take a few steps with me?”
Senator Cranch sighed. “Dammit, Dex, it ain’t
up
to just me.”
“This could be good for all of us. A sitting senator on a popular prime-time TV show, dynamically playing President of the United States.”
“Hold on. Hold on. How did you wantin’ to play Mr. Hollywood President become a mission of mercy on behalf of the U.S. Senate?”
“Have you seen the latest polls? Do you know what percent of the American people have quote-unquote high confidence in the Senate?”
Cranch groaned.
“Twelve percent,” Dexter said. “Twelve percent. Donald Vanderdamp—who has brought incompetence and dishonor to the office of the President—
he
has better numbers than us.”
“If it comes to that,” Clem said, “I don’t have a whole lot of quote-unquote confidence in the American people. But we’re stuck with each other. As for Don Veto, I wouldn’t worry none about his popularity ratings. Maybe he got a little temporary uptick from the Cartwright thing, but he’s a long way from winning any beauty contests. Hell, the Presidential Term Limit Amendment just got voted out of committee. Bussy Filbrick says it’s gonna sail through the House faster than shit through a goose. According to my whip count, it’s got over sixty-eight votes in the Senate.
*
Personally, I wish I could vote for it twice. That self-righteous cocksucker just vetoed my shrimp boat building initiative in Pascagoula.”
Dexter said, “What good is denying him a second term? From what I hear, he doesn’t even
want
a second term.”
“How’d you like to go down in history as the president who caused a constititutional amendment keeping presidents from having more than one term? I’d call that a serious humiliation, far as a legacy goes.”
“Wouldn’t it be simpler just to impeach him?” Dexter said.
“Be
simpler
,” Cranch said, “to shoot the sumbitch. But they got laws, so they tell me.” The two men stared at each other.
“I didn’t say that,” Cranch said. “Looky here, Dex, I’d like to help. I sure would. I love you like my brother.”
“You don’t have a brother, Clem.”
“Well, if I did, I’d try to love him like I do you. But I can’t just go creating a loophole the size of the Grand Canyon for you. They’d run me outta here faster than a nukular particle accelerator. Sorry, old buddy, but you’re gonna have to choose between the U.S. Senate and this TV show.”
J
UST A FEW BLOCKS AWAY
at the marble palace, everyone was being very nice. Pepper had been bracing for wrinkled brows and sneers of cold command from her fellow justices. They practically greeted her with sugar donuts and hot chocolate. Paige Plympton, apparently a fan of
Courtroom Six
, gave her a little hug. Paige was an unflinty Maine Yankee; former Chief Judge of the State Supreme Court. Her ancestors had come over on the second boat to land after the
Mayflower.
“We sent the servants on ahead.”
Only two handshakes from her new peers were on the cool side: Justices Santamaria’s and Richter’s.
Pepper suspected that Silvio might feel a little awkward inasmuch as he’d given an interview after her nomination was announced calling it “another installment in the Great Dumbing-Down.” She’d been tempted to bring along a thirty-six-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew and a bag of pork rinds. Paige had advised against it.
Ruth “Ruthless” Richter wasn’t outright hostile, but her vibes were of the what-are-you-doing-here kind. But then she, like CJ Hardwether, was going through a rough patch as a result of a vote. Ruth had written for the majority in
al-Muktar v. United States
, the ruling that freed “suspected terrorist”—as he was then called by the media—Sheik Mohammed al-Muktar from the U.S. military prison in Guantánamo. Two months later, Sheik al-Muktar graduated to “confirmed terrorist” after blowing himself up on a parking lot shuttle bus at Disney World along with twenty-three visitors to the Magic Kingdom.
Justice Richter stood by her opinion on constitutional grounds, but her approval ratings were now such that she had to be moved about town in an armored personnel carrier with helicopter gunships patrolling overhead. So she was understandably a bit on edge these days. One morning while the justices were in conference, a law clerk passing outside dropped a volume of
U.S. Reports
onto the floor of the marble corridor, causing a bang. Ruth dove under the table.
Ishiguro “Mike” Haro was the first Japanese-American Supreme Court justice, and persuasive evidence that Asians really are intellectually superior to the other races. His hobby was doing the
Times
of London crossword while blindfolded. He’d graduated from Stanford Law School at age twenty. By twenty-four he was a Silicon Valley billionaire start-up lawyer; at twenty-eight, the youngest judge on the federal bench (Ninth Circuit). He was, like many of advanced intelligence, impatient with those of more modest brilliance. He was not shy of expressing deeply held opinions, such as that President Truman was—as he put it, perhaps unwisely within view of someone’s cell-phone video camera—“a runty genocidal haberdasher” for having dropped the A-bomb on some of his relatives. He was not overly popular with the law clerks—even his own—who made puns on his surname’s similarity to an Asian mispronunciation of “hello.”
