Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

The Court was in this regard perhaps reflective of the country as a whole. The last presidential election had been decided by four electoral votes and a popular plurality of 14,000. The majorities in the House and Senate were thinner than slices of deli-cut salami. Even the Board of Governors of the Federal Reserve, normally not a hotbed of intramural dissent and backbiting, was now the scene of ad hominem remarks, leaks, and even shoving matches. The Yeats line about things falling apart and the center not holding was being quoted so often it had started to turn up on refrigerator magnets in airport gift shops. One pundit had suggested that the Treasury ought to stop printing the words E pluribus unum on the nation’s coinage and substitute Every man for himself. Even the occasional terrorist attack didn’t seem to bring the country together these days. Within a day or two, everyone was back to squabbling about whose fault it was and who should pay for it.

Scarlet, huh? You fat pompous Sicilian gasbag, Hardwether fumed.

Every court has its diva. Silvio Santamaria, 250 pounds, gel-slicked-back jet-black hair, former boxer, Jesuit seminarian, father of thirteen children, Knight of Malta, adviser to the Vatican on international law and even occasional guest advocatus diaboli in canonization cases. [7]What relish he brought to that task! A reproduction of Holbein’s Sir Thomas More hung in his chambers. Indeed, his written opinions often quoted from the movie A Man for All Seasons. He was brilliant, with a wit as caustic as drain cleaner; good company if you were in his camp and look out if you weren’t. Silvio Santamaria didn’t take yes for an answer. He didn’t disagree-he violently opposed. Didn’t demur-he went for your throat. Didn’t nitpick-disemboweled you and flossed his teeth with your intestines. First-timers appearing before the Court for oral argument had been known to wet their pants and even faint under his withering questions and commentary. His written dissents were of the type described by the press as “blistering” or “stinging.” He loved to write, and when he was not procreating more Santamarias or inveighing against the modern world, he wrote books. Scathing books. He’d published five while a justice. Their titles included The Road to Sodom and Supreme Arrogance: How the Court Is Ruining America-And What You Can Do to Stop It. He gave fiery-and rather good-speeches that had his audiences stomping on the floor and standing up on their chairs calling for-demanding!-a new Inquisition. On balance, Hardwether wasn’t surprised by the scarlet robe quote; it was a miracle Silvio hadn’t called for the Chief Justice to be impeached or-better-hanged, drawn, and quartered, his head impaled on a pike.

Hardwether’s chauffeur, an ex-Secret Service agent adept at aggressive driving, suddenly drove up onto the median strip and got the CJ to Dulles in time for his flight. Alas.

Airport security whisked him through a separate entrance where he was not required to remove his shoes and surrender his gels or his bottle of Listerine-there were at least some advantages to being “the most powerful man in the country,” even if you couldn’t seize your wife’s assets and have her submitted to peine forte et dure. [8]But Declan noticed that the airport staff avoided eye contact. Everyone seemed faintly embarrassed around him these days.

AFTER SOME PRIVATE CUSSING out loud and kicking of walls, Senator Dexter Mitchell had resolved to play it cool.

He would not denounce the President’s nominee. On the contrary. He would appear to be entirely open to having a-God save us-TV judge sit on the Supreme Court of the United States of America. He would appear to be even-what was the right word?-“intrigued” by the idea.

It’s an interesting notion the President has proposed, and I and the committee look forward to hearing Judge Cartwright’s views on the substantive issues. Yes. It’s an intriguing idea. Intriguing. Yes.

He would be the soul of noblesse and politesse. He would not condescend. He would invite her to lunch with him in his private dining room. Yes.

Dexter Mitchell had decided on this bold course of action for the simple reason that his pollsters [9]had brought him the disturbing news that the voters back in Connecticut-and, indeed, most of the other forty-nine states-were thrilled with the idea of having Judge Pepper Cartwright of Courtroom Six on the Court.

That imbecile Vanderdamp had finally done something popular. It would have to be handled carefully. Very carefully. Yes.

He had given strict instructions to the Wraith Riders to find something. Anything. If necessary, pin the JFK assassination on the demented preacher father. But he would have to be a little careful about that: one of the senators on the Judiciary was from Texas, and he spent a lot of time flying around the country on the Reverend Roscoe’s private jet. Yes.

THE DAY OF HIS COURTESY LUNCH with Pepper, Dexter came up with the superb idea of greeting her not in his office, as was usual, but on the front steps of the ceremonial entrance door of the Senate. Oh, the magnanimity. Yes.

His staff alerted the media to the impending grace note. It would lead off the coverage: the President’s bitter enemy welcoming a completely unworthy nominee-at the front door. Dexter self-scripted the crawl at the bottom of the TV screen: GOOD-LOOKING, SUAVE, GRACIOUS, MAGNANIMOUS SENATOR MITCHELL OF CONNECTICUT DISPLAYS EXTRAORDINARY COURTESY AS HE GREETS IMBECILIC PRESIDENT VANDERDAMP’S TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE SUPREME COURT NOMINEE…

Standing on the steps beneath the portico as he waited for Cartwright’s car to arrive, Senator Dexter Mitchell pursed his lips (slightly sore from yesterday’s collagen injection) and did a few labial calisthenics, practicing his thousand-dollar smile for the cameras.

“Arriving now, Senator,” an aide whispered into his ear.

“Good,” he said exuberantly. “I’m looking forward to this. Very much looking for-ward to it. Yes. Yes.”

Moments later a vehicle hove up inside the archway. But it was not the expected dark Lincoln town car. Instead… what’s this?… Dexter’s brow strained against the Botox-a bright, cherry-red pickup truck?

He was digesting this incongruity when the driver’s side door opened and out stepped-bounded-not a chauffeur but Supreme Court nominee Pepper Cartwright. Herself, in the flesh. And what flesh.

Claxons sounded in Dexter’s ears as he realized that he had just been one-upped on his own front steps.

She was coming around the car-the pickup.Smile! She was wearing a figure-hugging pantsuit-whoa, nice figure there, cookie-a pearl necklace, turquoise stud earrings, and cowboy boots, expensive looking: ostrich, silver-toed. She was smiling for the cameras and the cameras were grinning back. She had her hand out. She was saying something.

“Senator Mitchell. Pepper Cartwright. Honor to meet you, sir.”

Say something! Smile, dammit!

“No, no. The honor is mine. Your Honor. Aack!” Dexter grinned maniacally. “Great pleasure. Great pleasure. Yes. Yes.”

He took her hand but as he tried to maneuver her to his left side for the cameras, she pivoted backward and, still gripping his hand, positioned herself to his right.

Dammit!

Dexter’s smile tightened. In the photographs and TV shots, she’d be on the left-the dominant position. It would look like her meeting. Like she was welcoming him.

Keep smiling!

Dexter’s mind raced: had she done this accidentally, or had she managed to one-up him twice, in less than thirty seconds?

Say something!

“That’s a… dandy-looking truck you’ve got there, Judge,” he said, looking straight ahead at the horde of photographers and cameramen.

Pepper paid him no attention. She smiled her lovely smile as the shutters snapped away like electric crickets.