“It was a great fucking show. It took my fucking breath away.”
“You’re the only person I know who can say that while sounding like you’re suppressing a yawn.” Pepper yanked a Baby Wipe from the box and began removing makeup. “What’s eating you, anyway?”
“We’re getting killed against Law & Order.”
Pepper sighed. “We’re not getting killed against Law & Order. We’re doing fine.”
“We’re down a half point.” Buddy treated any dip in Courtroom Six’s ratings as a state of emergency. “By what definition is that ‘fine’?”
“What’s got into you? You’re more nervous than a long-tailed cat on a porchful of rocking chairs.”
“These sentences you’re handing out…”
“What about them?”
“You’re letting the women off kind of easy, don’t you think?”
“No. What else did you want to talk about?”
“The bitch poured $150,000 worth of fine French wine down the drain! And you sentence her to six hours of anger management therapy?”
Pepper tossed a Baby Wipe into the wastebasket. “What did you have in mind? Lethal injection? Hanging?”
“What about making her drink the grape juice? That would have been something. Poetic justice. Instead of anger management therapy.” Buddy shook his head. “I’m glad you’re not in charge of the war on terror. The terrorists would be at spas having manicures.”
Pepper brushed her hair and tried to tune out her husband’s normal postshow hand-wringing and critiques. The better things went, the more he needed to worry that some calamity was imminent, a once-charming trait now a bit tedious. Buddy did care about Courtroom Six. It was his class act-“class” being a somewhat relative term, considering his other shows: Jumpers, a reality show based on security camera footage of people who jump off bridges; G.O. (the medical abbreviation for “grotesquely obese”); and now a show called Yeehad, a “comedy” about five patriotic Southerners who decide to travel to Mecca to blow up Islam’s most sacred shrine, the Q’aaba. Buddy had eight shows running. According to Forbes, they were earning him $74 million a year. But Courtroom Six was the jewel in the crown.
“I’m just saying that there would appear to be a noticeable feminist… thing going on with these sentences you’re handing down.”
“I thought we’d had that discussion.”
“Excuse me for pointing out something the entire world is talking about. I’m just saying-if it please the court-that you’ve been letting these women off easy. But if it’s a guy, you go at him like he’s a fucking piñata.”
“Buddy, honey,” Pepper said, “the ex-husband, whose Bordeaux wine you regard like it’s holy water, was tighter than bark on a tree with the alimony and the child support. I’m not going to cry me a river on account of his ’82 Petrus.” She sniffed. “Been me, I’d have busted the bottles over his head. One by one.”
“I rest my case,” Buddy said triumphantly.
“Well, you go rest your case. This girl is going to go rest her tail.”
She shimmied into her jeans and lizard-skin cowboy boots. Simple white blouse, raised collar, turquoise stud earrings, suede jacket, and over-the-shoulder handbag: she looked like a woman who knew her way on a New York City sidewalk. In the handbag was a.38 caliber Smith & Wesson LadySmith revolver, a gift from her grandfather. She was licensed to carry.
“Could I just say one thing?” Buddy said.
“No, darlin’. But I have a feeling you’re going to, anyway.”
“Do you know how many of our viewers are male?”
“No, sweetheart. I leave those details to you. I’m just a simple girl from Plano.”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, then, my little cactus bud, you might be interested to know that we’re down six percent among male viewers.”
Pepper said, “Well, damn. I guess there’s nothing left to do but throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. If nothing else, it’ll give you a season finale for Jumpers.”
Bill said pleadingly, “But-don’t you care?”
“I care that I’m going to be late for my mani-pedi.”
“Why have we had such success-historically speaking-among male viewers?”
“Presumably on account of my Solomonic dispensation of justice.”
“A major factor, no question. But another factor?”
Pepper was headed for the door.
“Excuse me,” Buddy said, “am I boring you?”
“Yes. Seriously so.”
“Then let me get right to the point.” Buddy lowered his voice, as if he were revealing a classified secret. “The sponsors are not happy.”
Pepper rolled her eyes.
“Fine,” Buddy said. “Shoot the messenger if it makes you feel better. As for Hummer and Budweiser? I would not describe them as happy campers.”
“Buddy. Buddy. We’re the number seven show on TV. I just do not see the problemo.”
“The problemo? I’ll tell you the problemo. The problemo is that I care-o.”
“All right,” said Pepper, slinging her bag back over her shoulder, “if it’ll get me out of here, I promise-I swear-next female defendant, no matter how innocent she is, that bitch is going to Guantánamo for some serious attitude adjustment.”
Buddy smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
PEPPER CARTWRIGHT and Buddy Bixby, respectively of Plano, Texas, and New Rochelle, New York, were from very different worlds but had happened to find each other seven years before in a courtroom-an actual courtroom, that is-Courtroom 6 in Los Angeles Superior Court.
Buddy was at the time a midlevel (which is to say, not high level) local TV news producer, fast approaching fifty. His career had consisted of a series of almosts. He had almost gotten footage of Squeaky Fromme attempting to shoot President Gerald Ford; had almost gotten an on-camera interview with the reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes; had almost bought Microsoft at six dollars a share; almost gotten the big job back in New York.
He’d been asked to be the speaker at his twenty-fifth college reunion, a prospect that greatly pleased him, until the class secretary, whom Buddy had cordially detested for twenty-nine years, called back a few days later blithely to say never mind, he’d just heard back from the first person he’d asked, parenthethes, No offense, but sort of a bigger catch than you, ha-ha, so anyway, see you there, big guy.
Asshole.
Lying in bed that night, eating a giant bag of Cheetos while staring existentially at the ceiling, Buddy imagined the headstone on his grave: “Here Lies Buddy Bixby. Almost.”
One day at work, looking to fill a “soft” feature slot for the weekend program, one of the reporters mentioned there was this judge down at Superior Court: “H.O.T. Hot. Made me want to go out and commit a crime.”
Buddy went down to court to check out the judicial dish. The sign on door of Courtroom 6 announced: JUDGE PEPPER CARTWRIGHT, PRESIDING. He thought, Pepper Cartwright-what the hell kind of name is that? Walking in, he saw a woman in her midthirties, tall, lush brown hair, cool blue eyes, high cheekbones, and deep dimples. She smiled but had a nononsense look to her. She wore glasses, which she kept taking off and putting back on. She’d chew on the stem in a pensive gesture. She had an accent which at first he thought Southern but quickly nailed as Texan. Sassy, flippant, sexy. All that was missing was a cowboy hat.
It was an assault case. Felony assault. The defendant looked well dressed for a felonious assaulter. He had three lawyers at his table.
The assaultee was on the stand, being cross-examined by one of the defense lawyers.
“Mr. En-ri-quez,” the lawyer was saying, trying to make the surname sound criminal in itself, “you have testified that my client, Mr. Burson, quote-unquote threatened you. Would you define the verb ‘threaten’ for the court?”
“Objection,” said the DA wearily.
“Sustained,” said Judge Cartwright. “Cut it out, Counselor.”
“Your Honor, I’m merely trying to-”
“Your honor, I know what ‘threaten’ means. I’m merely trying to establish whether Mr. Enriquez knows what-”
“Come on, Counselor. Giddyup here. I’ve seen glaciers move quicker than you.”
Several jurors laughed. One of other defense attorneys smiled, until his client noticed, whereupon he reassumed an attitude of expensive consternation.
Mr. Enriquez, Buddy inferred, was a kiddie-league soccer referee. The defendant was evidently the father of an eight-year-old player. He had apparently disagreed with several of Mr. Enriquez’s calls against his daughter’s team and, after the game, had-allegedly-tried to run Mr. Enriquez over with his Mercedes in the parking lot.
A squabble broke out over whether the cost of the defendant’s Mercedes was admissible. The defense had kept objecting to the DA’s repeated references to the “hundred-thousand-dollar weapon.”
“Mr. Setrakian,” said Judge Cartwright to the DA, “are you trying to make a socioeconomic point here? If I may analogize, a ten-dollar Saturday Night Special handgun is just as lethal as a $100,000 engraved London-made shotgun. Or are you striving to make some other kind of point here?”
“Your Honor,” said the DA, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely-everyone in court seemed to be, even the jurors-“I am merely trying to establish that a weapon, in this case a $100,000 Mercedes E Class-”
“Objection,” two of the defendant’s attorneys said simultaneously.
“One objection per client, if you don’t mind,” said the judge. “Now see here, Mr. Setrakian,” she returned to the DA, “you have majestically established that the defendant’s car cost a bucket of money. I very much doubt if this point you’ve been making as subtly as a sledgehammer has been lost on any juror who’s managed to say awake.”
“Your Honor,” the DA said, grinning, “you’re being very severe with me today.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Setrakian,” Judge Cartwright said, cheeks dimpling as she put her glasses back on. “ ‘I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.’ Proceed, please. Proceed. Let’s try to finish up before the next ice age.”
After adjournment, Buddy sought out Judge Pepper’s chambers. He presented his media credentials and was admitted. Judge Pepper was standing behind her desk. Buddy stood and stared.
“You here to see me about something,” she said, “or just browsin’?”
“No. Sorry,” Buddy said, still staring.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“What you said back there to the DA. ‘I must be cruel in order to be nice…’ What was that about?”
Judge Cartwright stared back curiously. “That would be Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare?” Buddy said. “No shit?”
“Yes, shit.” Judge Cartwright cocked her head. “You all right, sir?”
“Oh, yeah,” Buddy said. “Great.”
CHAPTER 3
White House Chief of Staff Hayden Cork was as usual in his office early on a Saturday morning, while the rest of the world slept in, played tennis, and lingered over the papers and coffee. He was putting together the final touches on the file for President Vanderdamp in this, their (sigh) third effort to fill the (damn) Brinnin vacancy.
Though he was exhausted and enervated by the Cooney and Burrows debacles, the adrenaline was pulsing in Hayden Cork’s veins. His engine normally ran cool, but there’s no more heady kind of head-hunting than picking a nominee for the Supreme Court of the United States. For a president, nothing short of war, perhaps, is more consequential than putting a justice on the Court-a fact generally pointed out every four years by whoever is running second in the polls.
Before flying off yesterday to Camp David in a simmering rage, Vanderdamp had instructed Hayden to have a name ready for him first thing Monday morning.
“See if Mother Teresa is available,” he said acidulously.
“I believe she’s dead, sir.”
“Then try the Pope.”
“I have a thought,” Hayden said cautiously. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Go on.”
“Dexter Mitchell.”
The President’s normally placid Ohioan face curdled.
“Mitchell?” he said. “After what he did to Cooney and Burrows? Never mind to us. Hayden, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Walk with me, sir. As we know all too well,” Cork said, shifting in his chair, “he wants the job himself.”
“Yes,” said the President. “I recall. That visit he paid me. Not an experience I’d care to repeat.”
“No, sir.” It was a painful memory. “But if I may, it might earn us some points on the Hill. God knows we could use a little goodwill up there. And it would be a real, boy oh boy, stunneroo. Take everyone by surprise.”
“Hayden,” the President said. “Listen to me very closely. I’ll say this once more and never again. Write it down. Dexter Mitchell will not sit on the Supreme Court while I am President. Did you get all that down? Read it back to me.”
“I understand, sir.” It was now or never. “But it was Graydon’s idea.”
Hayden Cork knew that the mere mention of the august syllables would give the President pause. “His thinking is that since most of the senators on Mitchell’s own committee can’t stand him, they’d be grateful to you for getting rid of him.”
“By making him one of the nine most powerful people in the country? In the universe? That’s one heck of a way to get rid of someone.”
“Okay, there’s that, but our immediate problem, frankly, sir, is a Congress that… Sir, let’s face it, we’re not very popular up there.”
“I don’t care about that, Hayden. I am trying to accomplish things here.”
“I understand that, sir. I’m merely saying that Graydon thinks it would be the smart move. Those were in fact his exact words. That it would be the smart move.”
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 ha
d.
“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.”
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