by Joseph Flynn
“These interpretations inevitably are arrived at through the filters of personal experience, education and thinking. The decisions that flow from the interpretations of the Supreme Court are not subject to further review — except by future courts with new justices. A court with new justices may choose to reverse completely what had been thought of as settled law. Such reversals necessarily cast doubt upon the original decision and by implication the wisdom of the justices who rendered it.
“Such reversals might also make a new court susceptible to suspicions that maybe they got things wrong and their predecessors had it right. Right and wrong, of course, are often subjective judgments. Here again, individual differences come into play, including the nature of the politics one favors.
“Many of my predecessors have hewed close to their own politics when nominating justices to the Supreme Court. Conservative presidents want to stack the court with justices who reflect their own thinking. Liberals take the same tack from their point of view. As I see things, this endangers the public perception of a court that will be impartial in its decisions.
“It also engenders the idea that one side might have the upper hand for now, but don’t you worry, we’ll have our guy — or gal — in the White House again and then we’ll put our people on the Supreme Court and reverse the decisions the other party’s justices made.
“I think politicizing the Court, any more than it already is, would be a terrible mistake. The Constitution, as it is interpreted for us, should not veer back and forth like a shuttlecock. To the greatest extent possible, the core truths of the laws that govern us should remain clear. The only way I see to do this is by balancing the makeup of the court, not by stacking it with justices whose views neatly align with one party or the other.
“Of course, the Founders in their wisdom dictated that the number of justices on the court be odd not even to allow for majority decisions. But I suspect the Founders also thought presidents would nominate and Congress would advise and consent to nominees with open minds, and not have to deal with ideologues who think they know every answer to every question that might ever confront them because it is right there in their political catechism.
“I have chosen two nominees, one conservative, one liberal, both open minded and both critical legal thinkers of the first order. For the position of associate justice, I nominate Senator Daniel Crockett of Tennessee and for chief justice of the United States I nominate the chief judge of the Ninth United States Circuit Court of Appeals, Craig MacLaren.”
The two men joined the president at the front of the room.
They nodded and smiled politely for the cameras.
The president said, “Senator Crockett and Judge MacLaren will not be taking any questions today. They will save their answers for the questions they will hear from the Senate. Majority Leader Wexford assures me the Senate will take up these nominations quickly and concurrently and votes on confirming the nominations will take place on the same day.”
Turning to her nominees, the president said, “Thank you, gentlemen.”
Crockett and MacLaren left the room, with every reporter present dying to shout out questions to them. But the president had spoken. And Aggie Wu’s glare was even fiercer than ever.
To reinforce Aggie’s terrible power, the president said, “I will take just a few questions now. Aggie will point out who she’d like to hear from.”
A reporter from The Christian Science Monitor got the first opportunity.
“Madam President, in light of the extraordinary confirmation of Vice President Morrissey, would you say you are now ramming your choices for the Supreme Court through the Senate?”
Of course, I am, Patti thought.
What she said was, “I’m asking the Senate, a body that never thinks of itself as anybody’s doormat, to expedite its consideration of two nominees whose records of public service are both extraordinary and well known. I’m asking the Senate to proceed in a deliberate but not dilatory manner. This is a time for public servants to serve the public, not distract themselves with any political shenanigans.”
A wise guy from the San Jose Mercury News, who had bought Apple Computers at six dollars a share and was about to retire, piped up without Aggie’s permission. “Madam President, is there ever a time for public servants not to serve the public?”
Patti Grant didn’t miss a beat. “Only when they’ve been granted eternal rest and are busy listening to their eulogies.”
The newsies laughed, all the more so when Patti added, “I’ll be here all week, be sure to tip the wait staff well.”
Aggie gave the president a look. Was she done?
She was and waved farewell to the press corps.
Café Lulu — San Diego, California
Todd, Crosby and Anderson sat at an outdoor table, shortly before the three a.m. closing time with their check paid and no one nearby. Todd, the designated driver, contented himself with a club soda. Crosby and Anderson were drinking Scotch and sharing a hookah burning what was supposed to be a blend of exotic tobaccos but smelled to Todd as if his companions had added at least a pinch of hashish.
“Fucking Mexicans,” Anderson said, “bastards will steal the shine off your shoes.”
He was still angry about losing the Buick to a car thief. They’d had to ask Jaime Martinez for a lift back to Tijuana and walked across the border to the U.S. In San Diego, Crosby bought a new car for them, a black BMW 550i sedan with a 400 horsepower engine.
They were close to going operational now. It was time to have muscle under the hood.
Crosby replied. “Some Mexicans are crooked, but you can say the same about any nationality, even Swedes.”
Anderson grinned. “Yeah, that’s true, the berserker Viking lives on in a lot of us.”
Todd watched his companions with clinical detachment. He could almost see them shift gears mentally and emotionally. They were preparing to do battle. In the months they’d spent together, he’d never seen either of them have more than an occasional beer. They’d never been drunk in his presence.
The only time they’d taken any drugs was when he’d injected them with Special K.
The ketamine hydrochloride he used in hypnotizing his subjects.
Now, though, they were indulging themselves with alcohol and hash.
One last good time before they risked their lives. Well, before Anderson did. He was going to take the first shot at McGill. Crosby was indulging to be sociable with an old comrade. Todd wondered if Crosby hoped for Anderson to succeed or fail. If he had to guess, he’d say Crosby wanted Anderson to succeed, spare him from having to face McGill himself.
Anderson was younger, bigger, stronger.
If McGill dispatched him, Crosby would have to wonder what chance he stood.
Of course, Todd wondered, if McGill overcame both of them … what chance would he have?
Well, without his two new friends around to keep him honest, maybe doing a vanishing act would be the wiser course. Todd saw their waitress looking at them. They were the only customers left, and a glance at his watch showed Todd it was closing time.
They didn’t want to leave an unfavorable memory of their presence at the café.
Certainly didn’t want anyone calling the cops on them.
Todd stood up and smiled at the waitress. She gave him a nod. After he held up three twenties as a tip and put them on the table, she smiled back.
Anderson said to Crosby, “Doc’s telling us it’s time to go.”
Crosby helped his friend to his feet.
“You know how I’d like to finish up the night?” Anderson asked.
“With a hooker,” Crosby said.
Anderson grinned and asked Todd, “You think he’s right, Doc?”
“I’d have said two hookers,” Todd told him.
Anderson pointed a finger at him and said, “Bingo.”
“Of course, one or the other of you knows where to indulge.”
Crosby said, “This is a Navy to
wn. There’s no shortage of places.”
“I believe they mention that in Fodor’s,” Todd said.
Crosby and Anderson both laughed, but they were stoned and easily amused.
“Tell me one thing before I drop the two of you off wherever it is you wish to go,” Todd said. “Have you figured out how and where Anderson will take McGill’s life?”
Anderson smiled broadly and said, “You tell him, Arn.”
Crosby nodded. “Olin is going to use that big blonde of McGill’s as his bird-dog.”
“Margaret Sweeney?”
“Right. McGill’s got Secret Service protection. She doesn’t. Our bet is there are times those two get together without any federal company.”
“You think they’re lovers?”
“Don’t know about that, but we have a strong feeling the two of them, just like Olin and me, have secrets they share.”
Anderson said with a leer, “What I’m hoping is I can have a little time with her before he drops by.”
“And you’ll kill them both without drawing the attention of the Secret Service?”
“Doc, I can be oh so quiet when I want to, and my favorite weapon is a knife.”
Crosby added, “You clamp a hand over their mouths as the blade goes in and nobody hears a thing.”
Todd had no doubt they’d both done just that.
He dropped them off at a chain motel where they assured Todd they’d be able to find all the nookie a man could want. Todd drove on to a higher end hostelry, quiet at that hour of the morning. He went to his room, showered and slipped into bed.
Should have gone straight to sleep, but checked his iPad to see if there was any new photo of Chana. There wasn’t, but there was video from the house in Ottawa, Illinois. The FBI had found it. They were getting closer and thus encouraged wouldn’t give up the chase anytime soon.
Crosby and Anderson were right, it was time to strike while they still could.
Manouch Hot Dog Stand — Washington, D.C.
Speaker of the House Peter Profitt, like most politicians, wanted things both ways. He was a man of high principle, who’d stop at nothing to be on the winning side. He was a tireless servant of the people, who kept a year ‘round golf tan. He insisted on transparency in government, except when he was eating lunch from a hot dog stand with a private eye on a bench near George Washington University.
His dining companion, Maxwell Kern, twice spilled toppings from his own hot dog down the front of his shirt.
Each time, Kern said, “Excuse me.”
And ate from his fingers what he’d spilled on himself.
“Hate to waste food,” he explained.
The speaker wore both a hat and sunglasses to his lunch meeting.
He hadn’t fobbed off the meeting on a staffer for two reasons. Kern had said to him on the phone, “Bobby Beckley told me to call.” Name dropping mattered in Washington. And, “Bobby thinks we’ve got a way for you to screw James J. McGill.”
If McGill’s fate was in play, the president’s own political fortunes might take a turn for the worse. Then again, the last speaker who’d tried his luck against McGill — Derek Geiger — wound up getting his neck broken and went home to Florida in an urn. Profitt, however, would never be so foolish as to wave a gun around in McGill’s presence. He also wouldn’t trust the judgment of an underling if there was a real opportunity to damage the president’s chances of being reelected.
“What happens now?” Profitt asked.
For all he knew Kern was wearing a wire for the FBI, but after the man had made a Jackson Pollock knockoff of his shirt, the speaker wasn’t about to pat him down. He also wasn’t going to say anything that might incriminate himself. His syntax would be as content free as light beer.
Kern said, “Now, I tell you I have pictures of a guy named Putnam Shady going to see the president’s old man. Shady’s a lawyer, used to hustle votes in Congress for his clients. Now, he runs something called ShareAmerica and is partners with that billionaire, Darren Drucker, in what you people call a Super-PAC by the name of Americans for Equity.”
Profitt knew about ShareAmerica, a pool of lobbying funds created by small donations from mobs of ordinary people. He thought the idea was subversive. Was ShareAmerica going to offer him a multi-million-dollar sinecure when he left office, the way Wall Street bankers would? No way in hell. Horseshit ideas like ShareAmerica had to be stopped.
Americans for Equity sounded like more of the same.
“Go on,” Profitt said.
“The way it was explained to me,” Kern said, “you run a Super-PAC, you’re not supposed to talk back and forth with the pol you’re backing. You’re supposed to figure things out for yourself or some shit like that.”
Kern gave Profitt the chance to say something. Like, “Yeah, that’s right.” He didn’t. Guy just stayed clammed up. Told Kern the prick thought he couldn’t be trusted.
He was right about that. Kern would have sold him out in a heartbeat if he had to.
But he didn’t have to.
“Anyway, I shot pictures of Shady going into the building where McGill works. I uploaded them to the Internet right away. Shady was in there at least twenty minutes before I got pinched.”
That got a response. Guy wouldn’t have been human he didn’t say something.
“What?” Profitt asked.
“Yeah, the Secret Service grabbed me. I was trying to shoot some pictures through the window of McGill’s car. There were these papers on the back seat. Thought they might be something interesting. Never found out what they were. The feds deleted all my shots before they gave my camera back. They couldn’t hold me because there aren’t any laws against what I’d done. I was just taking pictures in public places of things anybody might walk by and see. My lawyer sprung me inside of two hours.”
Kern waited to see if Profitt had any comment at that point. He didn’t.
“Anyway, Bobby Beckley thought McGill and Shady weren’t just talking sports when they met, and this broad name of Margaret Sweeney works with McGill is also Shady’s girlfriend. She could pass tidbits back and forth, get around the rules, you know. If you want, you can see my pictures of Shady going to meet McGill.”
The private investigator gave the speaker an URL where the images might be viewed.
“You can have the pictures for free,” Kern said. “You want me to come see you at the Capitol, take an oath and all that, my time goes for five bills a day.”
Profitt stood and fought off a smile.
Congress didn’t pay lost wages when a witness testified.
Kern got to his feet and asked, “You want another dog? I’m still hungry.”
The speaker turned and left without a word.
It would be a long time before he ate another hot dog.
Reserve Drive — Dublin, Ohio
Mather Wyman couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought a television, wasn’t sure he ever had. Now, he sat in the den of his home with his niece, Kira, looking at the large, flat screen, Internet compatible model his niece had ordered. Two pleasant young men from the store had spent fifteen minutes setting it up for him. The days of simply plugging a set into an electrical outlet apparently had departed with the rabbit-ear antenna.
Kira had offered the young men a tip. They’d politely declined and wished her luck with the birth of her children. Good manners were still in vogue.
Then Wyman and Kira sat down and watched the streaming video of the most recent debate between Patti Grant’s celebrity surrogates and those representing … not Wyman, possibly Howard Hurlbert but mainly the radical right views of the most volatile members of Congress. Two of the three members of the conservative side of the dialogue were Senator Darrin Neff of South Carolina and Representative Doak Langdon of Georgia. The third was preeminent conservative radio personality Bus Milbaugh.
The president’s views were given voice by beloved veteran television actor Alan Alden, three-time Oscar-winner Beryl Green and New York T
imes columnist and Nobel laureate, Tad Klugman.
The moderator was Edward Cabot. He said he would introduce three topics. Each topic would be given twenty minutes of discussion time. An extra ten minutes could be added, at Cabot’s discretion, if there were more points to be made.
Assertions of facts would be checked in real time by support staff, and if anyone got his or her facts wrong, Cabot would bring that to everyone’s attention.
Likewise, any panelist quoting an outside person to buttress an argument would have that quote checked for accuracy and context. Misquotations and distortions would also be corrected by Cabot.
Profanity was discouraged unless accurately quoting a third party.
Everyone would be given time to speak. Talking over another panelist was to be avoided. Cabot would name the person who had the floor. Lengthy on-point responses were welcome. Speechifying was not.
Insults directed at other panel members or the moderator would not be tolerated.
Violators of this rule would be asked to leave.
Cabot’s first topic was national defense: “The United States has a defense budget more than four times larger than that of China. China ran a $300 billion trade surplus with the United States last year. How do these two facts correlate and which side has the bigger strategic advantage?”
“Guns or butter?” Wyman said, watching from home. “Always a heated topic.”
There was passion but no uproar and no invective. Both sides took Cabot’s guidelines to heart. Even Milbaugh played by the rules, something that couldn’t have been easy for him after Klugman shredded his argument for more defense spending with data showing that, historically, military overreach was the most common cause of decline for great powers.
The Times columnist also said putting the U.S. deeply in hock to its biggest economic competitor was a losing strategy.
The conservative side looked to the fact checkers, who were shown at work.