Christopher Buckley - Supreme Courtship

“That would be… yes, sir. It is crossing my mind about now.”

The President smiled and said, “I want to nominate you to the Supreme Court.”

Pepper stared. “The Supreme Court of… what, sir?”

“The United States.”

The President picked up a bowling ball, lined up his shot with care, and rolled his ball down the lane. It knocked down all but the two pins on either side. “Heartbreaking sight, the split,” he said. “Happened to Michaels at the Bayer Classic last week. He just couldn’t seem to find the pocket. Don’t suppose you…”

“No, sir, I missed that.”

“Heck of a tournament. Seat of the pants stuff. Bob Reppert made six X’s in a row.”

“Must have been quite something.”

“Oh, it was.”

The President bowled again, knocking down the tenpin.

“Big difference between nine and a spare. And here I was hoping to impress you. Your lane, Judge.”

Pepper’s first ball went into the gutter. The second one rolled slowly down the lane off center and knocked down all the pins, so slowly they seemed to go down one by one.

“Oh, beautiful, Judge. Beautiful. Sit down for a moment. You saw what happened to my last two nominees to the Court?”

“Yes, sir. I mean, I saw some of the hearings on TV.”

“Disgraceful, what they did to those two men.”

“It did seem a hair… political.”

“Senator Mitchell. He doesn’t like me much. Well, no one up there does. But they shouldn’t have taken it out on those two fine men. But that’s all past. They’ve had their fun. Now it’s my turn.”

President Donald Vanderdamp suddenly looked less bland to Pepper. A Mephistophelian glint of mischief came into his eyes-incongruous in a man wearing bowling shoes and jacket. “I’m going to send them a nominee that’s going to give them a full-blown epileptic fit.” He was chortling again. “And the best part is, there’s not a darned thing they’re going to be able to do about it. Oh, this is going to be rich. Rich.”

“Sir,” Pepper said, “may I say something?”

“By all means,” he said jovially.

“I sure do appreciate your considering me, but I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh, no,” the President said, matter-of-factly. “It’s too late for that. It’s all been decided.”

“Decided?”

“By me, Judge,” he said, the smile disappearing. “Your country needs you. Sorry to sound like a recruiting poster. But that is the situation.”

It suddenly felt claustrophobic. “I understand if you want to make some kind of point to these senators, sir, but this is my life you’re using to make it. And I kind of like it the way it is.” She added, “Not to sound ungrateful.”

“You don’t want to be on the Supreme Court?”

“I didn’t say that, sir. I meant-”

“Meant what?”

“Mr. President,” Pepper said, “I’m a TV judge.”

“You were a real judge.”

“Well, yes, in Superior Court. But I wouldn’t presume to suppose I was qualified to sit on the Supreme Court.”

“Judge Cartwright,” the President said, trying to sound a bit huffy, “don’t you suppose that I’ve given this just a teensy bit of thought?”

“A teensy, maybe.”

“You’re perfectly qualified. Why, according to the Constitution, you don’t even have to be a lawyer to sit on the Supreme Court.”

“That might actually make for a better Court.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I wasn’t being serious, sir.”

“I Googled you,” the President said. “Sounds almost indecent, doesn’t it? Drives my staff cuckoo when I get on the Internet. They probably think I’m surfing porn sites and it’ll get out. Anyway, I know about you. Texas. Law review at Fordham-great school, that. Top notch but down-to-earth kind of place. Clerked for a federal judge out in California, stint as a prosecutor, Superior Court in LA, then Courtroom Six.”

Pepper shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You Google good, sir.”

The President nodded. “I sometimes think we don’t need the FBI and CIA, what with all the information that’s out there.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Now there’s a budget saving for you. Fold the FBI and CIA into the Department of Google. Hm. Might give that some thought. But they’ll do the routine investigation into you, not to mention the five zillion reporters looking to get a Pulitzer Prize for finding out you smoked pot when you were sixteen. Did you smoke pot when you were sixteen?”

“No, sir.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Waited until I was seventeen.”

The President stared. Then said, “Well, I suppose these days anyone who didn’t was the odd one. Did you-”

“Shoot heroin? No, sir.”

“Well, then.” The President brightened. “I don’t see a problem. However, as you know, the process is not for the faint of heart. Ask Judges Cooney and Burrows. But since you’re here and we’re on the subject, any major skeletons rattling around in the closet?”

“My closet’s so messy there isn’t room for skeletons.”

“Good answer,” the President said.

“They kind of hang around the rest of the house.”

“The Ruby business.”

“There is that ghost, yes, sir.”

“It wasn’t hardly your fault, for heaven’s sake. You weren’t even born in 1963.”

“No, but…” Pepper sighed. It wasn’t her favorite topic. “But under the general heading of Sins of the Fathers. Wasn’t really a sin, per se. Maybe not the best judgment. The Warren Commission did clear him. But it was a life-changing event, you might say.”

“Tell me. If you would.”

Pepper hesitated but, sensing that the President was inviting her to rehearse a story she would at some point most likely be compelled to relate, said:

“Daddy hadn’t been on the Dallas police force long, just a few months, really. The Sunday after the President was shot, they gave him the job of standing guard outside the garage entrance to the police headquarters while they were transferring Oswald. So he’s doing that and this man walks on by-the Warren Commission actually established that he did just happen to be walking by-sees the commotion, and says to Daddy, ‘What’s going on down there?’ Daddy says, ‘They’re moving Lee Harvey Oswald, the man who shot President Kennedy.’ The man says, ‘Gee, really? That sure would be something to tell my grandkids. Okay if I just take a look?’ Daddy being Daddy, a nice, friendly man, basically, says, ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm.’ And the man turned out to be Jack Ruby.”

The President nodded thoughtfully.

“Well, you can imagine the going-over he got. But it must have been pretty obvious to everyone-except to those who make a living off conspiracy theories-that he wasn’t a part of any plot. He was just Roscoe Cartwright. DPD. Patrolman. But that was the end of his career in law enforcement.”

The President nodded.

“He got religion. Lot of people do after something like that. Not that there’s anything quite ‘like that.’ Became a Bible salesman. He was better at that than standing guard. Made good money. Pretty soon had his own distributorship. I was born, and they bought a little house in Plano, outside Dallas. Momma, she taught high school English. I’m named for a character in Shakespeare. Perdita. Only Daddy thought said it sounded sort of Mexican so I ended up being Pepper. Do you want to hear about ghost number two?

The President nodded.

“Momma liked to play golf. They’d joined this little country club called-kind of ironic, if you think about it-Heavenly Valley Country Club. One Sunday afternoon-I wasn’t quite ten-she said, ‘Come on, honey pie, let’s go play a few holes.’ Daddy said, ‘Helen, it ain’t right to play golf on the Sabbath.’ They still call Sunday the Sabbath in that part of the world, least they did then. She said, ‘Roscoe Cartwright, I work like the dickens all week long, teaching, volunteering for every civic group in town, and I can’t see why the Good Lord would give two hoots and a holler if I play a little golf on my day off.’ Daddy went off to sulk in the garage with his power tools, like men do.”