Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“Well, thank you, Charley,” the President smiled. “In the unlikely event they ever give me a statue, I’ll have that put on it. A decent guy.”

An aide opened the door and said, “Ready, Mr. President.”

President Vanderdamp stood, buttoned his jacket, patted his necktie.

“Battle stations. I used to say that in the navy. Course, those were only exercises, but it always gave me goose bumps. Battle stations…”

“Oh, on that…”

“Um?”

“The Nimitz thing? Maybe best to avoid…”

“Yes, Charley,” the President said.

I KNEW THIS was going to lead to dessert,” Pepper said. “Man does not live by entrée alone.”

They were in a hotel. A nice one, in out-of-the-way Foggy Bottom. Pepper, having a net worth approximately twenty times Declan’s, had made the reservation on her credit card. They had arrived half an hour apart so as to avoid being spotted together. If it had a furtive aspect-and it did-it was for a reason: photographers, alerted by the item about their cozy dinner at Stare Decisis, had begun staking out Declan’s Kalorama apartment and Pepper’s on Connecticut Avenue near the zoo, in hopes of getting a shot of the two of them emerging together early in the morning; perhaps holding hands or sharing a foamy latte.

“Does this feel at all… dirty to you?” Pepper said.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” Declan said. “But it certainly feels strange.”

“Feels ‘strange’ to me, too. Well, shall we get out legal pads and analyze it?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to be here,” Declan said, staring out the window. “I mean I’m practically bursting with intent.”

“There’s just nothing sexier than making love to a lawyer. Makes me all over quivery.”

Declan blanched.

“What’s wrong?” Pepper said.

“Tony said something like that to me once. And I couldn’t”-his cheeks now filled with color: red-“perform.”

“Honey, she was gay. I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Maybe we should analyze it. Maybe a little discovery is in order.”

“Maybe a little getting under the covers is in order. Baby?”

“Yes?”

“Are you going to take off your overcoat? Feels like making it with a flasher.”

“Good point. Jesus, Pep,” he sighed soulfully.

“Keep taking off the coat. That’s it. Now how about the jacket? There you go…”

“Six months ago I was happily married.”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “Married, okay. Happily? Let’s look at it. But could we maybe be in the now instead of the then?”

“Sorry, I’m so damned awkward sometimes. Do you like the top or the bottom?”

Pepper stared. “This ain’t summer camp, and I ain’t a bunk bed. Now look here, Chiefy, we are two grown adults, we are colleagues, we have discovered a mutual attraction. We are neither of us cheating on anyone, inasmuch as our spouses filed for divorce. We are both heterosexual-”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a statement of fact intended to differentiate myself from your prior partner for the purpose of putting you at ease so as to… oh, c’mere… initiate foreplay… um… yes… so as to stimulate the… mmmm… stim… u… late… the senses in such a manner as… oh, yes… yes… see, you haven’t forgotten how to make a girl happy… oh… ohh… in such a… mmmm… lost my place… where was I… oh, yes… oh, yes… oyez…”

“Did you just say oyez?”

“Oh, yes.”

Ifelt good about that,” Dexter said to Bussie Scrump and a half-dozen campaign operatives aboard the Freedom Express, the Mitchell campaign’s official bus, on its way from Memphis to Little Rock.

“You should. You were great. But this is an unusual situation. Attacking a guy who who just stands there going, Fine, don’t vote for me. You were good on defense, good on energy. On the Colombian situation, if it comes up again, and it will, maybe not do send-in-the-Nimitz. It felt a little flat. On border mining, I’m a little nervous about it. Maybe ease back on the throttle there.”

Dexter shook his head. “No, no, no. No. The nums, Buss, the nums. Eighty percent. The vast majorities of the people in the border states want mines on the border. The federal government has failed them. A government that can’t do borders? The people are frustrated. They’re angry. They want to hear boom-boom! They want to see wetbacks flying into the air. Is it a perfect solution? No. Is democracy messy? Sure. But it’s time to end the highfalutin philosophical discussions and come down off the Acropolis and get real. Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, California. Tot it up. Ninety electoral votes. Out of the two-seventy needed to win. Who am I to say to the good, hardworking, decent-legal-residents of these states, ‘Uh-uh. Forget it. You’re just going to have to live with millions of foreigners swarming across the border, tromping across your lawns, crapping in the flower beds, having babies in your hospitals, sending their kids to your schools for free English lessons, smashing into your car without insurance.’ Oh, fuck it. Border-mining is never going to happen, so where’s the harm in being for it? It’s a freebie.”

An aide came back and handed Dexter a printout. “ Minnesota ratified the term limit amendment fifteen minutes ago!”

“Excellent. Excellent news. What are we up to now? Twenty- five?”

“Twenty-six. Eight to go.”

Dexter considered. He asked for privacy with Bussie.

“Call Billy Begley,” he said. “Tell him to call the senate majority leaders and the speakers of the house in Rhode Island, Delaware, Wyoming, Oregon. Hell with it-tell him to call all eight. Tell them: on day one of the Mitchell administration, the OPEN FOR BUSINESS sign is going back up on the White House. Whatever they want. Dams, eel farms, Institute for the Study of How Many Gerbils Fit Up a Hollywood Actor’s Ass, a Museum of Lint, whatever. But Buss-tell Billy: we need the amendment now. Not after the election. Now. Tomorrow. Yesterday would be even better.”

“I’m on it,” Bussie said, flipping open his cell phone.

“Buss,” Dexter said. “We’re not the von Trapp family. Let’s not yell this from the mountaintop. And this did not come from me. What’s the most beautiful word in the English language?”

“Pussy?”

“The second most, then. Discretion, Buss. How do we spell it? D-i-s-c-r-e-t-i-o-n.”

“Dex. It’s my middle name.”

“Your middle name is Ellrod, Buss. But make the call.”

SUPREME DISARRAY: COURT BESET BY LEAKS, FBI INVESTIGATION, AND NOW, INTERJUDICIAL ROMANCE

Intra, surely,” Declan said to Pepper. “Creeping illiteracy. And in the so-called ‘newspaper of record.’ ”

As front-page headlines go, it was not what a Chief Justice desires to wake up to in the morning. The third paragraph noted that public confidence in the Supreme Court as an institution was “sharply” on the decline. The story ended predictably with a reference to “quis custodiet.”

By noon, Justice Santamaria had dispatched to the Chief Justice’s chambers a memo as blistering as one of his legendary opinions.

Under the circumstances, I feel, nor am I alone in this dolorous excogitation, that the Court would best be served were you to resign as CJ, conceding frankly and straightforwardly and for the good of all, not least the country, that developments have overwhelmed your abilities to cope with them.

My feelings in this regard have nothing to do at all with-let me speak directly-the depravity that your recent rulings have condoned, nay embraced, from gay marriage (enough said) to the abominations inherent in Swayle and now Peester. But your insistence on calling in the FBI to deal with what should have been a family matter… this finally has shaken my confidence to the bone and cast a sickly-hued pall over this (once and pray, future) noble institution. And now this openly, flagrantly adulterous liaison with a colleague? What further degradations do you have planned for us? Orgies? Baccanales? Ecstasy raves in the Great Hall? Have you, Declan, finally, no shame?