Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

May God save the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States of America.

Yours sincerely,

Silvio Santamaria, Associate Justice

“I think Silvio missed his true calling,” Declan said to Pepper. “Grand Inquisitor.”

“My takeaway,” she said, “aside from you and me being hell-bound adulterers, is that he’s the one who must’ve leaked Swayle. Think about it. Silvio’s idea of Utopia is the FBI banging down the door if they hear someone opening a pack of condoms on the other side. Why would he be so hot up about a legit FBI investigation? He’s had it in for me from the git-go. Hated me for coming on the Court. Hated me for Swayle. Hated me for dissing him in the conference. Hadda be him.”

“No,” Declan said, “there’s some undistributed middle here. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Silvio’s not the only one who’s up in arms over the fact that I called in the ‘gestapo.’ The only one who hasn’t harangued me is Paige, and that’s only because Paige doesn’t get upset about anything. It’s that New England Yankee sangfroid. The end of the world could be at hand and they’d just look up at the sky and mutter, ‘Looks like rain…’ ” He stared at Silvio’s letter. “I wonder how long before this ends up on the front page?”

“If it does,” Pepper said, “that would seem to cinch it that he was behind the Swayle leak. Well, Chiefy, what’s the next step here?”

“Well,” the Chief Justice said, “my inclination is to sock him in his big fat Jesuit nose. But seeing as he worked his way through law school boxing professionally and has fifty pounds on me, I’m not certain that’s the way to go. This term is going to be hard enough without having to wear a neck brace. Well, to work. Industry is the enemy of melancholy.”

“Rochefoucauld or refrigerator magnet?”

“William F. Buckley Jr.”

FOUR MONTHS BEFORE the November general election, and President Vanderdamp was in a funk because his poll numbers had been improving. He now trailed front-runner Dexter Mitchell by only eight points.

“Charley,” the President said, “what in the name of heck is going on with these darn numbers?”

“Well, sir,” Charley said, by now inured to these syllogistic conversations with his client, “apparently the people are responding to your clear signal that you don’t want to be reelected. They understand that you’re in it for the principle of the thing. They find it refreshing. Unusual.”

“All right, but what do you suggest?” the President said with a touch of asperity.

“How do you mean, sir?”

“The numbers. How do we-there must be some way of… tamping them down. Surely.”

Charley stared. “You want your poll numbers to go… down?”

“Well, I sure as heck don’t want them going up. At this rate I’m going to be neck and neck with Lovebucket on Election Day.”

It was a dilemma that had been keeping the normally sound-sleeping President awake nights. On the one hand, the thought of Dexter Mitchell ascending to an actual U.S. presidency was more than he could bear to contemplate. On the other hand, the thought of another four years… made him want to take the mother of all sleeping pills, but the National Security people had told him if he did, he was honor-bound to alert them so that they could summon the Vice President in the event they couldn’t wake the President to cope with a critical situation.

Charley nodded sadly. The far-off look came into his eyes. “I don’t know, sir. Maybe if you started sounding like you wanted to win? We could do a massive media buy on the theme of experience and steady hand on the tiller. Make it look like you actually-no.” Charley brightened. “No. I’ve got it. Yes. Announce a shake-up of the campaign. Fire me. Fire all the top people.”

“Why would I do that? You’re doing a perfectly good job, especially considering what I’ve given you to deal with.”

“It would send a signal of desperation!” Charley said, more animated than he had been in months. “A signal that you want to win. That you think the campaign isn’t going the way it-”

“Forget it, Charley. Nice try, though.”

Charley sighed. “We could always roll out a list of second-term initiatives. The usual hit-the-ground-running-on-day-one stuff. It might make them think you’d actually given some thought to a second term.”

“Everyone already knows my second-term agenda.”

“Yes. ‘More of the Same.’ It’s on the bumper stickers. Stirring.” Charley held up his palms. “Honestly, sir, I don’t know what to tell you at this point. If you really want to lose this thing, well, I guess you’re just going to have to stop being a leader and start being a politician.”

President Vanderdamp looked out the window. “How many more states needed for ratification at this point?”

“Three. Tennessee, Nebraska, Texas.”

The President nodded. “It does seem to have moved along briskly, this amendment.”

“It’s the professional pols, sir, on account of the pork. The people like you, at least according to these numbers. Maybe you won’t have to worry after all. If it’s ratified by Election Day, then you couldn’t take office even if you did win. I’m not a constitutional scholar, but an amendment to the Constitution is an amendment to the Constitution. If you can’t have a second term, then you can’t have a second term.”

President Vanderdamp sighed. “Yes. But it’s not a very elegant solution.”

DEXTER MITCHELL, TOO, was finding himself in an unusual situation.

His wife, Terry, had not gotten past her disappointment over the forfeited Park Avenue maisonette. Nor, at this point, was she oblivious to the fact that her husband now stood to become the next President of the United States. The Mitchell ménage was on the rocks, but through intermediaries, Terry had signaled her willingness to rejoin the campaign. The official reason for her absence up to now had been obscure “health reasons.” She had not, in truth, been much missed: Ramona Alvilar had been campaigning at Dexter’s side from day one as her surrogate and the people seemed quite happy to have this fetching bit of eye candy up onstage with the candidate. There had been some campaigning offstage as well; the Nimitz, as it were, had seen quite a bit of action. These things happen. The immediate problem for Dexter was how to explain to his life’s companion, his childhood sweetheart, the mother of his children, that her presence was not especially desired on the hustings. It was, to be sure, a matter of some delicacy.

“What are you telling me, Dexter?” Terry said over the phone. “You don’t want me with you?”

“No, honey. No, no. No. It’s not that at all. Look it’s-if it were up to me? But Buss and his people, they feel this is the way to go. Ramona’s popular on account of the show. She’s bringing in the Hispanics right and left. Our numbers there are way-”

“Dexter. I’m your wife.”

“Valid point. Valid point. But Buss and his people, they say-the audiences have gotten used to seeing me with Ramona. And, honey, let’s remember-it wasn’t my idea for you not to show up for my announcement speech. But let’s not go back. Point is, it’s all going great, so let’s not do anything to screw it up. It’s all about ratings. And Ramona is helping us get ratings.”

“Ramona is your TV wife. I’m your wife-wife.”

“Again, valid point. Valid point. Stipulated. Look, baby, it’s only until the election.” He added in a stridently upbeat tone: “Honey, you hate campaigning. The last one I practically had to throw grappling hooks around you to get you out there with me. Think of it as a gift. How many political wives would kill to have a surrogate like Ramona to do all the heavy lifting? Listen, baby, I gotta go. I’m speaking to the NRA convention. You don’t want to keep them waiting. No, no. Armed to the teeth! Ha-ha. Call you first chance I get. Oh, hey, by the way, use the Secret Service guys for whatever, picking up the dry cleaning, shopping. Nice benny, huh? Bye, honey. Love ya. Kiss the grandkids for me.”