Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“I demur,” Crispus said. “Demur most strenuously. Jell-O will not again pass these lips.”

“You got enough saturated fats on that plate to kill a marathon runner.”

“For your information, Miss Pritikin, that odious substance on your plate-intending no collateral disrespect to the cottage cheese-was about all I could afford to eat back in law school. That and those repellent Japanese noodles.” He shuddered. “No, neither Jell-O nor ramen shall frequent these digestive organs in this lifetime. But,” he said, “I do worry about Declan. I try to avoid the water-cooler style of discourse, but I confide to you here and now that I am alarmed for him. So is Paige, dear, kind woman that she is. But she can’t get anywhere with him. Shuts her out. And when you’re shutting out Paige Plympton, you are denying yourself the very quintessence of humanity. I saw him yesterday and he had a look on him… like a character out of Edgar Allan Poe. It gave me pause, I tell you. I said to him, in the most fraternal way, I said, ‘Dec, remember that on the other side of the wall of humiliation lies liberation.’ ”

“What did he say?” Pepper said.

“He said, ‘Did you find that in Pilgrim’s Progress or in a fortune cookie in a not very good Chinese restaurant?’ I laughed. He did not. Not even at his own bon mot. When you derive no joy from your own felicity, well, it’s like dying of thirst in your own wine cellar.”

“I feel like a fried green tomato about all this,” Pepper said. “I…”

Crispus shrugged. “It’s not your fault someone leaked Swayle. But I will say that your matriculation here has been”-he smiled companionably-“not uneventful.”

Pepper stared forlornly at the remains of her fruit-dappled Jell-O. “Do you think I should…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

“Eat any more of that ghastly substance? No. You need meat and potatoes, woman. So tell me, Justice Cartwright, what is it you like to do?

“Do?”

“Come on, this isn’t oral argument. It’s not a complicated question. Do you listen to music? Do you go to movies? Do you dance? Solve Sudoku puzzles in the bathtub while listening to Chopin’s nocturnes? Maurizio Pollini is my preferred version. That man is touched by God. All due respect to Horowitz and Rubinstein, but next to him they sound like they’re playing chopsticks. Do you climb mountains wearing lederhosen? Do you shoot elk with high-powered rifles and mount their horns? Do you keep tropical fish? Do you speak to your houseplants? Do you knit?”

“The only thing I’ve been doing,” Pepper said, “is working my Texas butt off.” She leaned forward and whispered across the table, “I’m drowning here, Crispus. I don’t think I’m gonna make this whistle.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Bull-riding.”

“Steady on,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “steady on. For your information, everyone feels like they’re drowning the first year. Except maybe Silvio.” Crispus chuckled. “Silvio, you understand, was not appointed by the President, but from on high.”

Pepper felt tears welling. “I’m a catty whompus.”

Crispus stared. “What is a catty whompus? Something out of Lewis Carroll? It sounds… unpleasant.”

“Something that’s out of place. Something that doesn’t fit. Something like me.”

Crispus leaned back in his chair and patted his round belly pensively, as if posing for a nineteenth-century caricature. “Justice Cartwright, you disappoint me. I had not marked you for the self-pitying kind. You say you don’t fit? You’re here, aren’t you? You’re a Justice of the United States Supreme Court, aren’t you? Suck it up, girl.”

“Yeah,” Pepper said, suddenly dry-eyed, “you’re right.”

Crispus stood and bussed his tray, a habit left over from working his way through college. “Meantime,” he smiled, “I suppose the CJ could use a friendly word. Some bucking up. You’re not to blame for the Swayle leak, but it squirted all over onto his lap and he’s having a bad time with the mopping up. So, if you’re not otherwise occupied writing landmark opinions legitimizing the grievances of bank robbers, drop him a note or something, tell him you appreciate his… oh, whatever. Now I must leave you. I’ve got to go see a man about a horse.”

THAT NIGHT, a little after nine o’clock as Pepper was getting ready to leave, she thought of what Crispus had said and thought to stick her head in Hardwether’s office on the way out and say… whatever.

His outer office was empty, the clerks and secretaries gone. But she saw light under the door to his inner office. She knocked softly. No answer. Knocked again. No answer. Opened the door. The lights were on, but no CJ. The door leading from his inner office to the justices’ conference room was ajar. She walked over, opened it, and saw an arresting sight: the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court standing on the conference table, a rope around his neck, in the process of fastening the other end to an overhead light fixture. He turned and saw Pepper. The two Supreme Court justices stared at each other.

“Uh,” Pepper said. “Am I interrupting?”

“As it happens,” Hardwether said, “yes.”

“I could come back. But…”

“Thank you. If you’d please close the door behind you?”

Pepper said, “Could I ask you a question?”

“If it’s brief.”

“Is this a cry for help or are you actually fixing to hang yourself?”

“Justice Cartwright,” he said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but if I could have the room? Thank you. As you can see, I’m occupied.”

“I can see that,” Pepper said. She turned and walked a few steps to the door, stopped. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“Then don’t.”

“Thing is, if I were to leave, I’d be guilty of aiding and abetting a felony. Suicide’s a crime in DC. I’m already paying one lawyer to handle my divorce and another to handle a breach of contract suit. I can’t afford a third one. Not on what this place pays.”

“No,” the Chief Justice replied. “You’re perfectly in the clear. You’ve committed no act in support of the sui… of the deed. Absent said support, you would be guilty only if there were a relational obligation. Absent relational obligation-there being none here-you’re quite blameless. I would remind you that there is no ‘duty to rescue.’ ”

“There’s a moral duty, surely,” Pepper said.

“We’re not talking about moral duty, Justice. We’re talking about law.”

“Right,” Pepper said. “Sorry.”

“It’s well established under case law that, for instance, even if you were an expert swimmer you would be blameless for failing to save a drowning person. While I am not aware of any case where the drowning person was attempting to commit su… was attempting to sink, the larger principle, developed in cases of accidental drownings, is equally applicable. So, you see. No problem. Good night, Justice.”

Pepper said thoughtfully, “I disagree.”

Chief Justice Hardwether said with annoyance, “On what grounds?”

“I believe,” Pepper said, “that because of our employment relationship, that is as coworkers-if you will-that there is clear duty to care and that I am thus obligated to… well, do something.”

“No, no, no.” The Chief Justice shook his head. “Duty to care extends only to employer-employee relationships. As Chief Justice, I am your superior-if you will. The hierarchically subordinate individual is under no obligation to rescue the person in the hierarchically superior position. Zerbo v. Fantelli. The Court made it perfectly clear that it is only the hierarchically superior person who has the obligation to rescue the hierarchical inferior. So, if you would shut the door behind you?”