Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“Baby, something’s sort of… come up.”

Pepper took a deep breath and explained the reason behind the visit to Camp David. Buddy listened in silence. He looked like a man being informed by his doctor that the MRI had found something.

“I guess he is a fan,” Buddy said.

“It would appear.”

“So,” Buddy said, “what did you tell him?”

“Well, I wasn’t about to tell him anything until you and I had a chance to talk it over.”

Buddy let out what sounded like a sigh of relief.

“What was that?” Pepper said.

“Jesus, you had me going there. I thought you’d accepted.”

“No. But I’d kinda come around to thinking that I might. I need to call him with an answer before five.”

“Well, better call him.”

“Oh, thanks, honey. I really-”

“And tell him you can’t.”

Pepper stared. “Why would I tell him that?”

Buddy gestured, as if the answer were self-evident. “Baby, we’re going into Sweeps Week.”

“Sweeps Week trumps… this?”

“Ah, look,” Buddy said, “Vanderdamp’s a total loser. They’re about to impeach him. Look what happened to his last two nominees-and they were serious guys.”

“If you’re trying to talk me out of this,” Pepper said somewhat coolly, “you’re not going about it the right way.”

“Hey, I think it’s great he asked you. Fantastic publicity for the show. Hadn’t thought of that.”

“Buddy,” Pepper said. “We are not having a satisfactory conversation here.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. You might try something like, ‘Congratulations, honey. Right proud of you.’ ”

“Congratulations. Proud of you.”

“You left out the ‘honey.’ And don’t choke yourself getting too excited.”

“Baby, this makes no sense.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“Did you also tell him you have two years to go on your contract?”

“No, we didn’t really get into that.”

“You can’t just walk away from everything we’ve created,” Buddy said.

“Baby, it’s the Supreme Court. My country’s calling.”

“Well, tell it to call back.”

“Sweetheart-”

“You have obligations, Pepper. And not just to me. What about your millions of devoted viewers? Are you just going to tell them ‘Fuck off’?”

“Actually,” Pepper said, “I wasn’t going to put it quite that way. And if they’re really fans, I don’t suppose they’re going to shoot themselves on account of I’m moving on from a TV show to the Supreme Court.”

“This ‘TV show,’ as you put it so condescendingly, is the only reason you’ve been asked to sit on the Court.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Pepper said, folding her arms across her chest.

“I get it. I’m the one you’re telling to fuck off.”

“No,” Pepper said, “but keep this up and you might just hear those very words before this conversation is concluded.”

“You can’t do this to me.”

“I’m not doing it to you. And by the way, who appointed you center of the universe?”

“You want to go to court? Fine, let’s go to court. For breach of contract!”

“Well, aren’t you the thorny rose.” Pepper sighed. “Thank you for being such a honeybee for me and making the moment so special. I’ve got to call the President. You want to stick around and tell him yourself to go fuck himself?”

Tuesday morning, Senator Dexter Mitchell was in his office on Capitol Hill when the phone rang. Graydon Clenndennynn calling, mandarin in chief.

The two men knew-and loathed-each other. Graydon referred to Mitchell (in private) as “a jumped-up mediocrity.” Dexter referred to Graydon (in public) as “an insufferable, overpaid egomaniac.” Both points of view had some merit.

The phone call was like a meeting on the plain of battle when representatives of the about-to-clash armies came forward to offer terms and bribes by which carnage might be averted.

“So,” Graydon Clenndennynn said, “habemus papam.” He enjoyed lording his knowledge of arcana over Mitchell.

Mitchell said, “I didn’t go to boarding school, Graydon. Try it in English.”

“It’s what they say at the Vatican when they’ve elected a new pope,” Graydon said, yawning from jet leg. “It appears we have a nominee. This is the obligatory courtesy call.”

“All right.” Dexter took a pencil and poised it above a legal pad, an old habit from his prosecuting days. “Shoot.”

“I’m going to say something to you, without prejudice,” Clenndennynn said. “Agreed?”

“All right,” Mitchell said, suddenly curious.

“You will most likely deduce that this name did not originate with me.”

You old fox, Dexter thought.

“That said,” Clenndennynn continued, “I have given the President my word that I will do everything I can to move the nomination forward. And that is my intention.”

“All right, Graydon. I get it. You’re behind it one thousand percent. Is it Runningwater?”

“No. Cartwright.”

Dexter Mitchell’s mind raced. Wasn’t there a Cartwright on the Sixth Circuit…?

“Judge Pepper Cartwright,” Graydon said.

“Did you say Pepper Cartwright?”

“Yes.”

“Pepper Cartwright.”

“Yes.”

“The TV judge?”

“The same.”

Dexter Mitchell leaned forward over his desk and massaged his forehead, still tender from that morning’s injection of live botulinum cells. “What the hell, Graydon? Is this your idea of a joke?”

“Far from it. It is the President’s view, and I must say I agree with him, that the last two nominations devolved into grotesque spectacles, thanks to you. So now he’s trying another tack. You have to give him credit. It’s out of the box, as they say. Are you familiar with the expression?”

“Those hearings were full and fair. It’s not my fault if-”

“Let’s dispense with the folderol, shall we? He sent you two men, two lions of the bar. Men of distinction, ability, probity. Reputations you could eat off. You turned it into a reprise of the Salem witch trials.”

In moments of stress, Dexter Mitchell had a tendency to laugh unpleasantly. It came out as a high-pitched staccato burst, a sort of cackle. One observer likened it to the sound geese make when being force-fed. He had done it once or twice during the presidential debates, causing some in the audience to wonder if they really wanted to hear four years of it in the White House.

“That’s just-aack!-absurd!”

“Please. It was unseemly.” Unseemliness was the worst sort of crime to Graydon Clenndennynn, worthy of the death penalty.

“I’m sorry you and the President feel that way. I happen to disagree. Let me point out that-”

Clenndennynn was not about submit to a marathon Dexter Mitchell harangue. “Have you seen her television show?” he said.

“What? No,” Dexter lied.

“Maybe you should. Everyone else in America seems to. She’s very popular, I gather. A tall, cool drink of tequila. Yes. From Texas, too. Her grandfather was a sheriff.”

“I don’t care if she’s descended from Sam Houston. This is unacceptable. It’s an insult. A travesty. This is-”

“Unacceptable?” said Clenndennynn in his woodiest voice. “Unacceptable? To whom?”

“To the United States Senate!”

“Well, before you go speaking for the entire United States Senate, you might spend five minutes thinking about how the country is going to react. We happen to think it will go for her in rather a big way. Look up her ratings if you don’t believe me. So, there we are. Courtesy call concluded. Good day, Senator. Always good talking with you.”