Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“What?” Silvia said.

“Mediocrity.”

“I don’t find her so mediocre.”

“Me, neither.”

“People. People. Let’s all just take a deep breath…”

But by day three of the Cartwright hearings, it was clear that the air was going out of-not into-the members of the Senate Judiciary Committee. Senators who had dared to ask even mildly snarky questions of Judge Cartwright were receiving death threats-the kind that specify what caliber bullet will be used. It was abundantly, pellucidly clear that the people wanted Judge Pepper. Even President Vanderdamp’s approval ratings had shot up-by almost ten points.

“President Vanderdamp,” the Financial Times commented wryly, “finally appears to have done something politically astute-almost certainly by accident.”

After the unhappy caucus had huffed and stomped its way out of Senator Mitchell’s office, Dexter summoned his chief of staff, a man named Pickerill.

“What was that stuff the Russians used on the ex-KGB guy? The radioactive poison. Do we have any? A few drops in her water pitcher… What a catastrophe. Anything from the Riders?”

“There is something, but it’s-not much.”

Dexter had been praying for some eleventh-hour smoking gun, but the Wraith Riders had come back from their investigation, shrieking and neighing and wailing, with empty hands. Pepper Cartwright had not had an abortion; had not dated anyone named bin Laden; had not distributed pamphlets calling for the overthrow of the U.S. government; snorted cocaine; called anyone by a racial epithet. She’d sniffled through the final scenes of To Kill a Mockingbird. There had been a brief, giddy moment of hope when it was learned that Cartwright and Bixby’s housekeeper was Nicaraguan, but it had been cruelly dashed when it turned out they were legally sponsoring her for a green card and citizenship.

“Let’s have it,” Dexter said.

“Senior year at her boarding school, she and another girl put shaving cream on the headmistress’s toilet seat.”

Dexter stared at his chief of staff. “Well, that’ll drive a stake through her heart.”

“Sorry, Senator. We’ll keep trying.”

And so, on the brink of the final day of the Cartwright hearings, Senator Dexter Mitchell found himself standing on a diving board above a large pool full of-nothing.

“Good morning,” he said, giving the gavel handle the lightest little tippy-tap. “Senator Ramos y Gualtapo, your witness.”

Silvia dutifully asked Judge Cartwright a technical question about the applicability of the commerce clause.

“Well, Senator,” Pepper said, “as you know, in the nineteen eighties the Court was divided and reversed itself on Garcia v. San Antonio Transit Authority…” Silvia nodded, as though thoroughly versed in the case, shooting a venomous glance in Dexter’s direction. Dexter for his part was thinking, I’ve seen episodes of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood that were more contentious. Why don’t you just ask her for her recipe for upside-down pineapple cake?

Silvia finished. “Thank you, Judge Cartwright. I have no further questions.”

And so, finally, it was Senator Dexter Mitchell’s turn. There had been much speculation about this moment. All eyes were on him. Normally he reveled in the sensation. Not today.

Even Terry, his wife, high school sweetheart, life’s companion, sharer of his heart’s secrets, lover, best friend, mother of their attractive children, had said to him that morning over the shredded mini-wheat, “I hope you’re not planning to embarrass yourself with Judge Cartwright.”

Planning? Planning? To be rendered splutteringly speechless, with a mouthful of shredded mini-wheat, on this day of days, by his own… wife? Yes, honey, he felt like saying, funny you should mention it. I was up all night “planning” how to make myself look like a complete fool on national television. Do you have any tips for me? How about if I blew my nose on Senator Tronkmeyer’s necktie? Do you think that would bring about the desired level of embarrassment? Or should I simultaneously summon a thermonuclear fart right as I’m boring in on her interpretation of the equal protection clause?

“I think she’s terrific,” Terry continued, not looking up from her newspaper.

“Thank you, honey,” Dexter said, “for the input.”

“Anytime,” Terry said, still not looking up.

“Judge Cartwright,” Dexter Mitchell began, leaning forward as he faced Pepper. There behind her was Graydon Clenndennynn, looking like a public library stone lion. There was the grandfather, Sheriff JJ, droopy mustache and all. His arms had been folded tightly across his chest for three days now as he scowled at the Judiciary Committee. Mess with my little girl, and I’ll cut out your livers. Next to him the Mexican woman. And there’s the Reverend Roscoe. Nice going with Ruby, there, Reverend… No, Dexter warned himself, don’t go there.

Dexter cleared his throat. “Judge Cartwright, were you… You must have been pretty surprised when President Vanderdamp nominated you for this job.”

“Is that a question, Senator, or a statement of the screamingly obvious?”

[Laughter.]

“Ha-ha,” Dexter nodded, “quite right. Yes, yes, I suppose you must have been. Because someone in your… position, that is, in your line of work, wouldn’t normally… I guess what I’m trying to get at-”

“Let me throw you a lifeline, Senator,” Pepper said. “The President’s telephone call knocked me flatter than butterfly roadkill. I stipulate that, Senator. But didn’t we kind of establish that about five minutes into these hearings?”

[Laughter.]

“Yes. Yes… Right you are, Judge.”

“It would take someone with bigger cojones than I have,” Pepper continued, giving Dexter a foxy look that only the two of them-along with the President, Graydon Clenndennynn, and Hayden Cork-could fully appreciate, “to ask for this. It’s not the sort of job anyone would solicit outright. Is it?”

This moment in the Cartwright hearings has been much discussed. Many have wondered why Senator Mitchell never paused to ask for a clarification of the meaning of “cojones.” Instead, he seemed to recoil slightly and stammer, “Judge, you’ve done, in my view, a-a-a very thorough, indeed, excellent job of answering this Committee’s questions.”

Pepper, staring evenly, said, “Very generous of you, sir.”

“There were those on the Committee,” Dexter said tsk-tskily, “who wanted to ask-to raise certain issues, going back… well, a long way.”

Pepper’s eyes narrowed.

“But it was decided that the Committee would not, so to speak, go there.”

Dexter Mitchell’s face suddenly and weirdly turned exuberantly magnanimous, like that of someone who has just decided to give away his entire fortune at the stroke of a pen.

“Yes,” he beamed. “And if I may say so myself, that was the right decision.”

His fellow Committee members stared at their chairman, jaws agape.

“As chair of this distinguished Committee, I feel strongly that no decent purpose would be accomplished by going there. No, no. And so, Judge, I am pleased-indeed, very pleased-to say, to declare right here and now, without further delay, that it is the collective sense of this Committee that your nomination is…”

Dexter let it hang there a moment, a little bright origami kite wafting on lung-warmed thermals.

“… likely, indeed almost certain to be approved by this Committee.”

A shiver of pleasure went through the room, and, through the airwaves, beyond into the land. For a moment, the entire country exhaled together, as a vast, happy ahhh spread from sea to shining sea, rippling the amber waves of grain as it went.