Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“Love you, too, Pep.”

THE NEXT MORNING at six-fifteen on the set of Courtroom Six, Pepper was sitting in front of the mirror, eyes closed, as the makeup lady was doing her thing when Bob the director entered and, looking embarrassed, said that he had a “couple of notes” for her.

“They’re from Buddy,” he added. “Not me. So you know.”

Pepper opened one eye warily. She was tired from staying up late with Corky’s Gutenberg Bible-sized briefing book. Macadamia residue sat uneasily in her tummy.

“He wants a guilty verdict in the Robinson case. And in the Bofferding case. And in Nguyen v. Rite-Aid, not guilty.”

Pepper cocked her head to one side. Both eyes were open now. She liked Bob. He was an affable old pro in his midsixties, with nothing left to prove professionally, nicely devoid of ego. In six years she and he had had maybe three arguments, all of them forgotten within an hour.

“Bob,” Pepper said, “what in hell are you talking about?”

“Like I said, they’re from Buddy.” Bob shrugged. “I told him you’d probably want to hear it from him directly, but he said for me to tell you. So I have. You look terrific, by the way.”

“Who does he think he is… Hammurabi? Since when does he dictate verdicts?”

“I know. It’s…”

“Well, you tell our producer for me he can kiss my Texas…”

Bob smiled and gestured with open palms-universal sign language for Ireally, really do not want to get involved in this.

Throughout the taping of the Robinson case, which involved a leaf blower that had (allegedly) been used for indecent purposes, Buddy sat in his usual chair behind Bob. Instead of following the proceedings, he ostentatiously thumbed his BlackBerry. Pepper concentrated on the case. When it came time to pronounce the verdict, she said, a little more loudly than usual, “Not guilty,” adding, “and I ought to fine the plaintiff for costs for wasting this court’s time. Shame on you, sir. And you will apologize-right now-to Mr. Gomez here.”

Buddy looked up from his BlackBerry, tapped Jerry on the back, and drew his hand across his throat.

“Cut,” Bob said.

Buddy whispered something to him. Bob rose, walked over to Pepper, crouched down beside her behind the bench.

“Sorry about this, kiddo. Boss says you need to find the guy guilty.”

Pepper, blood pressure rising, said calmly, “He isn’t guilty. He was blowing leaves. He wasn’t aiming under Mrs. Robinson’s skirt on purpose. Look at him. Mr. Gomez hasn’t probably had a sexual thought since he left El Salvador thirty-five years ago.”

Bob nodded and winced. “That was my-right. Right. But he’s the producer. I’m just the schmuck director.”

“And I’m the judge in this courtroom.”

“Nolo contendere. But I’m still just the salaried schmuck.”

“In that case,” Pepper said, “just tell our producer what I said back in makeup. You can finish the sentence, too.”

Bob smiled. “I’m between the rock and the hard place here.”

“You tell the rock what I said he could do.”

“You want me to tell the rock to kiss the hard place’s ass.”

Pepper rose. “Okay,” she said, “stand aside.” She walked over toward Buddy, all eyes on the set and the audience on her. He’d gone back to his BlackBerry.

Pepper said to him in a lowered voice, “Am I interrupting?”

“Problem?” Buddy said, not looking up.

“Not if you let Bob and me get on with it, there isn’t.”

“You have my notes.”

“Since when do you dictate verdicts? Where do you think this is, North Korea?”

“No, I was under the impression it was New York City. Where actors abide by their contracts.”

“I see. So that’s what this is about. Well, stupid old me. Here I thought it was about whether Mr. Gomez was on a beaver hunt up Mrs. Robinson’s skirt.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Buddy said in a bored tone of voice. “Bob, let’s take it from ‘Mr. Gomez, it is the opinion of this court that you are guilty et cetera et cetera of using a leaf blower with indecent et cetera and sentences you to et cetera.’ ” Buddy turned to Pepper. “And can you put some oomph into it? You’ve been a little flat this morning.”

Bob looked at Pepper. Pepper stared at Buddy, said nothing, took her seat.

“Quiet on the set, please. Five seconds, Three, two, one, and… action.”

“Mr. Gomez,” Judge Cartwright said, “it is the opinion of this court that the producer of this TV show here is full of a substance I cannot name, on account of this being a family show; further, that he is hereby sentenced to have that leaf blower of yours inserted in a portion of his anatomy I also cannot name. Case dismissed. Sorry for your trouble.”

On her way off the set, she said to Buddy, “Enough oomph for you?”

That concluded the day’s taping of Courtroom Six.

Pepper rechecked into the hotel, having checked out of it that morning. The front desk clerk asked how long she would be stayng this time.

“Damn good question,” Pepper said.

Well, she thought on her way back up to the fifty-eighth floor, least I’ll get plenty of studying done.

The incident was all over the blogosphere and Internet within minutes and was well covered in the papers the next day. Page Six ran an item:

SEPARATE CHAMBERS

Supreme-to-be Judge Pepper Cartwright has moved into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, a few blocks from the $14 million penthouse duplex coop she shares with husband-producer Buddy Bixby. Producer and star nearly came to blows yesterday while taping a segment involving a leaf blower. A spokesman for Courtroom Six denied rumors of marital troubles and said the move was simply to provide Cartwright with “a little peace and quiet” so she can prep for next week’s grilling by Senator Dexter “Hang ’Em High” Mitchell’s Judiciary Committee. But a source tells Page Six that Supreme Hubby Buddy, whose other TV fare consists of reality shows about bridge suicides and human hippos, is in a reality lather over the prospect of losing the jewel in his crown. Yesterday, Her Honor stunned the studio audience by telling a puzzled Honduran gardener-defendant to insert the evidence-the leaf blower-in a unmentionable portion of her husband’s anatomy. Speaking of anatomical metaphors, our source says that the atmosphere between the two of them lately has been “chillier than a penguin’s ass.”

Pepper was boning up on Griswold v. Connecticut when her cell phone rang.

“What?” she said after glancing at the caller ID.

“ ‘Chillier than a penguin’s ass’?” Buddy shouted. “Are you trying to drive away our sponsors?”

“That’s not my quote,” Pepper said coolly.

“Bullshit. And I can’t believe you told that fucking illegal alien gardener to put a leaf blower up my ass. In front of everyone! Jesus Christ… But okay, okay. Will you just please come back to work? We’ve missed a whole day’s taping. I’m paying union wages-caterers-for nothing. I’m running a million-dollar soup kitchen here.”

“Baby,” Pepper said, “you got a genuine gift for prioritizing.”

“Okay,” Buddy said. “I’m a second-rate hustler. At least I know who I am.”

Pepper said, “What in the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means what it means. And it’s from the heart.”

“You are dis-missed,” Pepper said, reaching for the END button.

“Whoa. You can wield absolute power when-and if-you get to the Supreme Court. Until then, I’ll remind Your Honor that you have a legally binding contract. And don’t tell me to shove that up my anatomy.”

Pepper said, “I was going to suggest that you first fold it up like a nice origami giraffe. Well, darling, before I terminate this conversation, which I am on the brink of doing, I want to thank you for all your loving support at this critical point in my career. It’s meant so much to have you behind me.” With that, Pepper pressed END.