Supreme Courtship (24 page)

“Sorry?” Declan said.

“Heads he wins, tails he loses?”

“That’s an enlightened way of interpreting the Constitution,” Justice Gotbaum muttered.

Justice Santamaria let out a sigh like a breaching humpback whale.

“All right,” Pepper said. “Let’s strike a blow for female Muslim-impersonating shoplifters. Vote to grant in favor of Peester.”

As the justices left, Pepper overheard Santamaria saying to Jacoby in a voice calculatedly audible, “Pray God nothing critical comes before us in the next, say, thirty years.” Haro, looking greatly peeved, followed Declan into his chambers.

That night over dinner at an Italian restaurant, Declan said to Pepper, “Haro’s as hot as a tamale over the FBI investigation. ‘Jackbooted thugs,’ ‘Storm troopers.’ He made it sound like I’ve ushered in the Fourth Reich. Me—the Court’s reliable liberal!”

“I always did suspect you were a closet fascist,” Pepper said, forking up a bit of linguine alla vongole. “Look, if it’s making everyone miserable, call it off. Let it go, Chiefy.”

“I can’t do that,” Declan said. “It’s beyond the pale. An impending Court ruling was leaked to the media. From within the Court. Incidentally, in no small part to embarrass you.”

“I’m not asking for special protection,” Pepper said. “I’m a big girl. I got a pistol. Know how to use it, too.”

“That’s certainly not the issue, either,” he said sternly.

Pepper sipped her Chianti. “As for embarrassment, I am way beyond that. On the other side of the wall of humiliation is liberation.”

Declan stared. “Kahlil Gibran or refrigerator magnet?”

Pepper got a good, close-up look at the Wall of Humiliation a few days later when an item appeared in the
Washington Post
’s Reliable Source column:

Sightings: Supreme Court Justice Pepper Cartwright and Chief Justice Declan Hardwether enjoying a cozy dinner-for-two at Stare Decisis. Our source reports that the Supremes appeared to be in close agreement over whatever weighty legal issues were being discussed, and at various points held hands. Oyez, oyez! Both are in the midst of divorces. If their cases end up before the high court, look for a
2–0
vote. . . .

Within hours, hundreds of Web sites and legal blogs were fizzing with speculation over the question of whether a romantically linked pair of Supreme Court justices could be relied upon to render independent decisions. Outrage, calls for impeachment, an affront to the dignity of the Court . . .

Late that afternoon, Crispus knocked on the door of Pepper’s chambers.

“I recall asking you to extend the CJ a friendly word,” he said. “But dear me. . . .”

“Oh, hush,” Pepper said.

“I
will
say,” Crispus said, taking a seat, “he seems much more relaxed of late. Less minty. I congratulate you. You have saved a soul in distress. Have you considered a career in personal counseling?”

“I’m better at that than constitutional law, apparently.”

Crispus pursed his lips. “Since you brought it up . . .”

“Go ahead,” Pepper said.

“Your vote on
Peester
? Honestly, Justice Cartwright. Have you taken leave of your senses? Or have the senses taken leave of you?”

“Four other justices voted with me.”

“Is that your rationale? Majority is the last refuge of scoundrels. Your poor sheriff grandfather must be spinning. And he not even
in
the grave.”

“Did you come in here just to bitch-slap me?”

“Such elegant language. Are you familiar with the works of Mr. William Shakespeare?”

“I’m named for one of his characters.”

“Pepper? I recall no Pepper in the bardic canon.”

“Perdita. Let’s see if you know your Shakespeare.”

“
Winter’s Tale
.”

“Two points. Very good.”

“I was thinking more of Polonius.”
^*

“Let me guess. ‘To thine own self be true.’ How original.”

“My, but we’re testy today. Did we sleep on a cactus last night? And here I thought love was an emollient.”

“Who said anything about love? We had dinner.”

“I was attempting, O Wicked Witch of the Wild West, to clarify something you yourself were on the verge of admitting, but, being a
lawyer
, couldn’t quite bring yourself to stipulate, namely that with these hyper-legalistic rulings you’re handing down, you’ve been trying to
act
like a Supreme Court Justice, instead of just rendering your own best judgment. You used to be a pretty good judge, back when you stood astride the vast wasteland like a giant. At least in
Courtroom Six
your rulings had some heart.”

A
S SHE WALKED
up the redbrick steps of the Georgetown mansion, Pepper felt as though she were approaching the bench. Reflecting on it, she realized it had been a long time since she’d done that. For the last six years or so, it had been others who’d done the approaching, to her.

She rang the bell. The door opened with almost suspicious celerity. The butler ushered her into a study painted in deep, rich red, where a fire was laid. She had time while waiting to study the photographs. Every Washington mansion worth its mortgage has a Wall of Ego, but this one was truly impressive. There he was with—she counted—eight presidents, going back to Eisenhower. Most of them were signed, and not with an autopen. Off to the side in a space of its own was another photograph, of a young man in a military uniform. He was smiling at the camera, holding a machine gun, a cigar clamped jauntily in his bared teeth. Was it . . . no, it wasn’t he. The uniform was of too recent vintage. On another wall, she found a picture, this one of him. He was in uniform, standing alongside a tall man with a large nose and a distinct kepi-style hat. Looking closer, she saw it was de Gaulle. The photo was signed. “
A G.C., avec les sentiments respectueux de son ami C de G.
” She remembered hearing at some point that he’d been in the OSS during the war; that he’d played a behind-the-lines role in advance of the Normandy invasion.

“Recognize anyone?” said Graydon Clenndennynn, standing in the open doorway.

“Impressive.”

The old man smiled. “It’s supposed to be. Sit, sit. What can we get you? You sounded distrait on the phone.”

“Did you learn that word from your pal General de Gaulle?”

“No, from my French nanny. Want a drink? I’m dying for one, so even if you don’t, be polite and keep an old man company. I’m not sure we have tequila.”

“Whatever you’re having.”

“Good. Two martinis, George. And perhaps something to nibble on.”

The butler returned with drinks and things made of hot cheese.

Graydon took a sip of his martini and emitted a soft purr of satisfaction. He was wearing a smoking jacket of the kind you see in old movies worn by Noël Coward or David Niven. As if reading Pepper’s thoughts, he said, “I’ve always been shamelessly Anglophile in the wardrobe department. So, Justice, to what do I owe the pleasure? And it is one. It’s good to see you again.”

Pepper opened her mouth and—burst into tears.

“Oh, dear,” Graydon said. He stood and came over and sat beside her on the couch. Held out his cocktail napkin. “Frette,” he said. “
Hugely
expensive.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to talk. We could drink ourselves into a stupor.”

Pepper laughed wetly. “Sorry, Mr. Clenndennynn. I didn’t . . . I don’t know what’s come over me. I’ll be fine.” Whereupon she burst into tears again.

“You really might as well call me Graydon. Although I must say, I actually do like it when young people call me Mr. Clenndennynn. My Anglophilia extends—strictly
entre nous
, now—to embarrassing lengths. I secretly yearn to be called
Sir
Graydon Clenndennynn. I was honorarily gartered by the Queen, for distinguished et ceteras. But you can’t call yourself ‘Sir’ back here. A mistake, if you ask me. I’ve got the Medal of Freedom.
Nixon
gave that to me.” He chuckled somewhat darkly. “Still, it’s not quite the same as Sir Graydon, is it? But enough of my honorifics. Wherefore this torrent, this cataract of dolor?”

“I’ve screwed everything up. Everything,” Pepper blubbered.

“It’s not every day we get candor of this quality in Washington. Go on.”

“Everyone hates me at the Court. There’s an FBI investigation because of me. And that’s made everyone hate the Chief Justice. Who’s got enough problems. There’s a
constitutional amendment
movement on account of me. And I’m voting on the side of criminals. . . .”

“Not to mention making goo-goo eyes with the Chief Justice over the pasta.”

“I . . . You read about that?”

“Oh, yes. You’ve been a big topic of conversation. I was at Binky Slocum’s last night and we talked of practically nothing else.”

Pepper groaned.

“Well,” he said, “remember what Oscar Wilde said. The only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about. Most justices go through a period of adjustment. That’s not so unusual. Though I will say, normally they aren’t quite so . . . what’s the word . . . ?”

“Tragic.”

“Tragicomical, perhaps. Shakespeare.”

“I
know
,” Pepper said sharply. “Why does everyone here think a Texas accent means you’re illiterate?”

“There are precedents. That’s right—you’re named for one of his characters, aren’t you? No, I wouldn’t say tragic. Though in this town, sometimes the tragedy can be comical, and vice versa. But did you come here for advice, or for my justly famous martinis? Or the cheese puffs? They are good, aren’t they?”

“You’re a wise man,” Pepper said, blowing her nose into the Frette napkin. “I could use some wisdom.”

“I’ve dispensed it all. I’m all out. But please don’t tell the clients of Graydon Clenndennynn Corporation. It would ruin our bottom line and make the board of directors very unhappy. One does run out, you know. You have to replenish. It’s been a long while since I’ve had the chance to do that. I’ve been . . . coasting for years. Lucrative years. Though I wonder to what end? No family to leave it to. Why does one work so hard at this age? To leave it to my foundation? I suppose it beats boredom and golf. Look now”—he patted her hand—“you’ll sort all this out. I wouldn’t have gone along with it, you know, if I hadn’t thought you’d make the whistle. I liked you from the start. But I did warn you that the bull was an arm-jerker.”

“You did, and it is.”

Pepper, eyes now dry as the martini, sipped and let the gin do its thing. They talked for a while of politics and elections. Feeling relaxed, she pointed at the photograph of the young man in uniform and said, “Who is that?”

“My son.”

“What does he do?”

“He was killed in Vietnam. Not long after that was taken.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .”

“No reason you should have known. His name was Everett. His mother wanted to name him Graydon, but I said, ‘No, let’s give
that
a rest for a generation.’ The other soldiers in his unit—he was with the Special Forces, the Green Berets—they teased him about it. Soldiers can be rather merciless. I don’t suppose Everett was a common name in the army.”

“His mother . . .”

“She died.
Not
in Vietnam,” he sipped the last of his martini, “though it played its part. So now you’ve seen the family album. It’s Sunday. Let’s have another.”

“I should go,” Pepper said. “I’ve got a ton of work.”

Graydon pressed a button, summoning the butler. “Oh, stay. Unless you and the Chief . . .”

“It’s
not
that,” Pepper said.

“Good. Anyway, if you went back to work, you’d only make another pig’s breakfast of things.”

“Well, kiss my . . .”

“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” he grinned. “Ah, George, another pair of these lovely see-throughs, if you would. And we’d better have some more of Annabelle’s cheese puffs. They seem to be rather a success with Justice Cartwright.”

Pepper, suddenly aware that she’d eaten the entire plate, blushed, and then laughed.

CHAPTER 25

D
onald Vanderdamp found himself in the one-thousandth— or was it the two-thousandth?—greenroom of his political career, reflecting on the strange vicissitudes that had brought him here while wishing, with every fiber in his Ohioan being, that he was back at the Wapakoneta Lanes. He imagined the feel of the kidskin soft leather glove as he pulled it on, the shoes that fit like ballet slippers, the ambient rumble of balls going down polished lanes, the rattle of the pins being struck, of the pin setting machines, jubilant cries of “Strike!” and groans of despair, of the buttery aroma of popcorn, the mouthwatering tang of broiling hot dogs and sizzling burgers, of ice-cold beer, the huggy cluster of grandchildren as you explained how to score. . . . If there was an afterlife paradise, surely it looked something like this. Keep your heavenly choir of archangels. Meanwhile, here he was, very much
this
side of paradise, preparing to go onstage to debate former Senator Dexter Mitchell, President Lovebucket, for a prize that he, Donald Vanderdamp, did not even want. How, he wondered, had it come to—this?

His campaign manager was talking to him. Perhaps he should listen? Though why, really? Well, one had to be polite.

“Right,” the President said. “Good point.”

“Sorry, sir?” the campaign manager said.

“What you were saying. I agree. I’ll hit that point hard.”

“Right,” the campaign manager said diffidently. “Probably best to stay off the
POTUS
thing. It could open us up to the, well, the Cartwright . . . you know. Now, on the border mining,” he said. “The numbers are pretty clear there.”

The President, suddenly alert, said, “Charley.”

“I know sir, but—”

“I don’t
care
what the numbers are.”

“I’m only pointing out that—”

“Charley. I don’t
care
if every citizen, man, woman, and child, of Texas, of New Mexico, Arizona, California, or Guam for that matter is in favor of mining the gosh-darn border with Mexico. The United States Constitution says, in blazing neon letters, that individual states may not engage in their own foreign policies. It’s just not up for discussion.”