Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

The President stared at his chief of staff. “Sounds as though you two had a good long chinwag about all this,” the President said.

“He is your most trusted senior adviser, sir. Or would you prefer I not discuss the welfare of your presidency with him?”

“I’d like a name from you by close of business Monday. I don’t mean to ruin another weekend, Hayden. I know you’ve been working full-out. But just get me a name. This circus has gone on long enough.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

THERE WERE SEVEN NAMES in Hayden’s dossier this sunny Saturday morning: two (venerable) state Supreme Court justices, a (more or less venerable) senator, three appellate judges (pretty venerable), a state attorney general (venerable enough), and the dean of the Yale Law School (predictably but by no means excitingly venerable).

Another way of putting it was: two women, one African-American, two Jews, one Hispanic, and-Hayden smiled. His inner chief of staff let out a little war whoop of joy-an Indian.

Native American, Hayden corrected himself: the very first ever to be named to the high court. Yes, he was sure Vanderdamp would go for him. Vanderdamp was as American as a Jell-O mold. How more American could you get than someone named Russell Runningwater? He could hardly wait to see Dexter Mitchell’s face when he learned the news. Let’s see you try to bury this heart at Wounded Knee, you son of a bitch. Hayden beamed. Outside, birds chirped. The sun shone on dewy emerald grass. Butterflies-nature’s own screen savers-flitted about.

Hayden’s phone rang. “The President, Mr. Cork, for you.”

Excellent, Hayden thought. He sat up straight in his chair, a habit even after two and a half years and how many thousands of presidential phone calls.

“Good morning, Hayden.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“And what are you doing in the office on a Saturday?” It was a little routine they had.

“Attending to the people’s business, sir.”

“Good, good. And how sails the ship of state?”

“Steadily, sir, steadily.”

He sounded relaxed. Camp David usually had that effect. The private bowling alley. The sandpaper grit in yesterday’s conversation was gone.

Hayden was not one to waste presidential weekend time on persiflage. “I’ve got those names for you. And the one at the top of the list is one I think you’re going to like. I guarantee it’ll give our friend Senator Mitchell a case of third-degree heartburn.”

“What do you know about a Judge Pepper Cartwright?” the President said.

Odd question. “The television personality?”

“She has a show called Courtroom Six.”

“I don’t watch TV. Other than the news shows. Would you like some information on her?”

“No, no. I want to see her.”

“Is there a particular episode that you’d like me to locate for you?”

“No, Hayden. I want to see her. Judge Cartwright. In the flesh. I want to meet with her. Right away.”

“Very well, sir,” Hayden said, mystified. “I’m sure she’ll be flattered.”

“Oh,” the President chuckled softly, “I expect she will be. Call her right away.”

“Yes, sir. And what should I tell her is the purpose of the meeting?”

“Well, I’d be a little coy about that over the phone.”

“Coy, sir? I’m not sure I follow.”

“You haven’t had your second cup of coffee, Hayden,” the President said. “I want to talk to her about the Brinnin seat.”

Hayden Cork’s universe stood still.

“I’m not trying to be obtuse, sir,” Hayden stammered. “But I’m not sure I’m… tracking here.”

“The Court, Hayden.”

Hayden Cork tried to speak. His tongue refused to obey the signals being transmitted from the brain. All he could say was, “Not the Brinnin seat, sir. Surely…”

“Why? Is there another opening? Did a justice croak in the night?”

“Not to my… No, sir.”

“All right, then. Call her. Call her right now. Get her up to Camp David -today. Tomorrow at the latest. Be easier, a whole lot easier, to talk to her up here than back at the office with the whole darned press corps listening at the keyhole. Vultures.”

Say something, Hayden thought, like a man struggling against an enveloping coma. Do not let him terminate the conversation. Do not let him hang up.

“Sir… have you… discussed this with Mr. Clenndennynn?”

Graydon Clenndennynn: wisest of the Washington wise men, grayest of its eminences, adviser to seven-or was it eight?-presidents. Former Attorney General. Former Secretary of State. Former Secretary of the Exterior. Former Ambassador to France. Former everything. First among equals in the Vanderdamp kitchen cabinet. The man, it was rumored, with more n’s in his name than anyone else in Washington.

“Hayden,” the President said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Panic-panic of the pulse-pounding, skin-dampening, sphincter-tightening type-gripped Hayden Cork like a boa constrictor. How many times had those awful words-“I know what I’m doing”-been uttered throughout history as prelude to disaster? The night before Waterloo in Napoleon’s tent? In the Reichschancellery before invading Soviet Russia? Before the “cakewalk” known as Operation Iraqi Freedom?

“Mr. President,” Hayden croaked, “I really must-”

“Thank you, Hayden. Good-bye, Hayden.”

“But-”

“Thank you, Hayden.”

“Sir-Mr. President? Hello?”

Hayden Cork cradled the phone. Outside, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, bumblebees bumbled, but there was no springtime now in his heart; only winter, and a harsh wind shrieking through leaf-stripped trees.

His temples throbbed. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and gasped to the White House operator, “Get me Graydon Clenndennynn.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, Cork ’s phone rang. Graydon Clenndennynn did not personally carry a cell phone; his minions did. He was in his eighties now, and of an eminence that scorned such modern devices.

“Yes, Hayden,” he said without annoyance, but with formality that signaled this was not the time for leisurely philosophical discussion.

“Where are you?”

“ Beijing.”

“Damn,” Hayden said.

“At dinner,” Clenndennynn continued, “with the deputy chairman. What’s the emergency?”

Graydon Clenndennynn did not object to being interrupted in the middle of meetings with world leaders, as long as it was the White House calling. Nor, to tell the truth, was he above certain self-enhancing acts of legerdemain. Once, to impress a Russian foreign minister, he arranged to have himself called in the middle of their meeting, so that he could tell the interrupting aide, “Tell the President I’ll just have to call him back.” The minister was duly impressed-until the Russian security services reported to him that the call had originated from Graydon Clenndennynn’s own Washington office.

“You need to get back here,” Hayden said. “You need to get back here right away. I’ll send a plane.”

Clenndennynn said, sounding alarmed, “Is there-has the President been-”

“No, no, no, he’s fine. No, he’s not fine. He’s gone off the deep end. He’s completely and totally lost it.”

“Hayden,” said Clenndennynn, “I’m keeping the second most powerful man in China waiting. Our Peking duck is mummifying. Tell me in a simple, English sentence: what is the precise nature of this emergency?”

Hayden summarized the situation.

There was a long pause at the other end, followed by a baritone “Hmm,” a preliminary note on a large organ signaling the key of the hymn about to be played.

“I’ll be back in Washington on Tuesday,” Clenndennynn said. “Stall.”