Pepper said to him in a lowered voice, “Am I interrupting?”
“Problem?” Buddy said, not looking up.
“Not if you let Bob and me get on with it, there isn’t.”
“You have my notes.”
“Since when do you dictate verdicts? Where do you think this is, North Korea?”
“No, I was under the impression it was New York City. Where actors abide by their contracts.”
“I see. So that’s what this is about. Well, stupid old me. Here I thought it was about whether Mr. Gomez was on a beaver hunt up Mrs. Robinson’s skirt.”
“We’ll discuss this later,” Buddy said in a bored tone of voice. “Bob, let’s take it from ‘Mr. Gomez, it is the opinion of this court that you are guilty et cetera et cetera of using a leaf blower with indecent et cetera and sentences you to et cetera.’ ” Buddy turned to Pepper. “And can you put some oomph into it? You’ve been a little flat this morning.”
Bob looked at Pepper. Pepper stared at Buddy, said nothing, took her seat.
“Quiet on the set, please. Five seconds, Three, two, one, and… action.”
“Mr. Gomez,” Judge Cartwright said, “it is the opinion of this court that the producer of this TV show here is full of a substance I cannot name, on account of this being a family show; further, that he is hereby sentenced to have that leaf blower of yours inserted in a portion of his anatomy I also cannot name. Case dismissed. Sorry for your trouble.”
On her way off the set, she said to Buddy, “Enough oomph for you?”
That concluded the day’s taping of Courtroom Six.
Pepper rechecked into the hotel, having checked out of it that morning. The front desk clerk asked how long she would be stayng this time.
“Damn good question,” Pepper said.
Well, she thought on her way back up to the fifty-eighth floor, least I’ll get plenty of studying done.
The incident was all over the blogosphere and Internet within minutes and was well covered in the papers the next day. Page Six ran an item:
SEPARATE CHAMBERS
Supreme-to-be Judge Pepper Cartwright has moved into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, a few blocks from the $14 million penthouse duplex coop she shares with husband-producer Buddy Bixby. Producer and star nearly came to blows yesterday while taping a segment involving a leaf blower. A spokesman for Courtroom Six denied rumors of marital troubles and said the move was simply to provide Cartwright with “a little peace and quiet” so she can prep for next week’s grilling by Senator Dexter “Hang ’Em High” Mitchell’s Judiciary Committee. But a source tells Page Six that Supreme Hubby Buddy, whose other TV fare consists of reality shows about bridge suicides and human hippos, is in a reality lather over the prospect of losing the jewel in his crown. Yesterday, Her Honor stunned the studio audience by telling a puzzled Honduran gardener-defendant to insert the evidence-the leaf blower-in a unmentionable portion of her husband’s anatomy. Speaking of anatomical metaphors, our source says that the atmosphere between the two of them lately has been “chillier than a penguin’s ass.”
Pepper was boning up on Griswold v. Connecticut when her cell phone rang.
“What?” she said after glancing at the caller ID.
“ ‘Chillier than a penguin’s ass’?” Buddy shouted. “Are you trying to drive away our sponsors?”
“That’s not my quote,” Pepper said coolly.
“Bullshit. And I can’t believe you told that fucking illegal alien gardener to put a leaf blower up my ass. In front of everyone! Jesus Christ… But okay, okay. Will you just please come back to work? We’ve missed a whole day’s taping. I’m paying union wages-caterers-for nothing. I’m running a million-dollar soup kitchen here.”
“Baby,” Pepper said, “you got a genuine gift for prioritizing.”
“Okay,” Buddy said. “I’m a second-rate hustler. At least I know who I am.”
Pepper said, “What in the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. And it’s from the heart.”
“You are dis-missed,” Pepper said, reaching for the END button.
“Whoa. You can wield absolute power when-and if-you get to the Supreme Court. Until then, I’ll remind Your Honor that you have a legally binding contract. And don’t tell me to shove that up my anatomy.”
Pepper said, “I was going to suggest that you first fold it up like a nice origami giraffe. Well, darling, before I terminate this conversation, which I am on the brink of doing, I want to thank you for all your loving support at this critical point in my career. It’s meant so much to have you behind me.” With that, Pepper pressed END.
The phone rang again.
“What?” she said.
Buddy said calmly, “If you’re not on the set tomorrow, I will sue you for breach of contract.”
“Okay then, guess I’ll see you in court.” She said, “Funny…”
“What?”
“Always wanted to say that.”
CHAPTER 10
There’s been a development-I suppose you could call it-in the Cartwright matter,” Graydon Clenndennynn said to the President over the phone.
“Go ahead,” the President said warily. He had been president long enough to know that the word “development” was synonymous with something truly dreadful has just happened.
“Her husband-the producer of the television program-has informed her that he intends to sue her for breach of contract in the event she leaves the show.”
President Vanderdamp absorbed this bizarre piece of information. He stared at the polished surface of his wooden desk, made from planks of a eighteenth-century U.S. warship. He’d served on an aircraft carrier in the navy. At times, he imagined that his desk was a flight deck onto which a never-ending succession of wounded, flaming aircraft crash-landed. Boom, boom, boom. The trick was repairing and relaunching them.
“Well,” he said at length, “for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes,” Graydon said.
“He should be strewing rose petals in her path. Giving her neck massages. Telling her sweet nothings and I’m so proud of you, sweetie pie. What’s his beef, anyway?”
“Who can say? Remember what Tolstoy said about unhappy families.”
“Graydon,” the President said, “cut it out.”
“I believe Tolstoy’s basic point was that they’re all unique. I don’t know the gentleman-if that’s the right word in Mr. Bixby’s case-but it would seem he’s reluctant to part with his star. I gather she lends his operation a touch of class. His other programs feature somewhat less high-minded fare. Fatsos and suicides. But who’s to say what’s art and what isn’t.”
“Is Hayden aware of this development?” the President said, simultaneously pressing a buzzer to summon his chief of staff.
“I wanted to give you the news first directly. To be honest, I was concerned that it might cause him to insert his head in the nearest oven. As you know, Hayden has not been overly enthusiastic about this appointment.”
The door to the Oval Office opened. Hayden Cork entered. “Sir?”
The President pressed the speaker button on his phone and said, “Graydon, why don’t you tell Hayden what you just told me?”
When Graydon was finished, Hayden Cork emitted a long, exquisitely soulful sigh, like the last gasp of a dying, landed salmon.
“So,” the President said to his men, “where does this leave us?”
“She’s offered to withdraw,” Graydon said.
“Oh? Well, fine. Fine,” Hayden said, suddenly as full of life as a salmon returned to the water. “In that case, I’ll give her a call and tell her we’re deeply appreciative of her-”
“Hold on,” the President said. “Steady. Let’s stay on course here. What did you tell her, Graydon?”
“It’s not my decision. I said I’d relay her offer.”
“Mr. President,” Hayden said, “I really think it would be best for everyone if we just accepted her wonderfully graciou
s offer-before this-”
“Sit down, Hayden.”
“Sir-”
“Sit. Down. How did she sound to you, Graydon?”
“I sensed that she was putting up a brave front. I think she’s a bit busted up inside. Can’t say as I blame her. But the offer sounded sincere.”
“I like that. Shows character. Judgment. Not enough people these days offer to resign. Not nearly. Lost art, modesty.”
“Mr. President,” Hayden said. “I’m sure all this isn’t pleasant for her. But these hearings are going to be brutal enough as it is. I mean, she threatened Senator Mitchell-during her courtesy call.”
“Good for her. Wish I’d stuffed a microphone down Dexter Mitchell’s yap long ago. Graydon?”
“Well, sir, it is a bit of a mess. Hayden’s perfectly right. The media will feast. But all that said, I’ve grown rather fond of the lady. She is a pistol.”
Graydon heard a soft moan from Hayden in the background.
“I don’t see,” the President said, “why we should punish her because her husband is a complete j-e-r-k. No. Call her. Call her right now. Tell her I’m behind her all the way. Tell her,” the President said, with a meaningful look at his chief of staff, “that the entire White House is behind her. You tell her that. You tell her that for me.”
“Very good, sir,” Graydon said, and hung up.
“Now,” the President said, “Hayden.”
“Yes, sir,” the chief of staff said glumly.
“I think I’d like to know a little more about this… husband.”
“Oh, sir,” Hayden said, “we’re not going to… no, sir. Please.”
“The FBI is already conducting a full and vigorous background check, aren’t they?”
“Yes, sir, but-”
“Hayden,” the President smiled. “This is no time to go wobbly.” [11]
GRAYDON AND HAYDEN met late that afternoon at the Retropolitan Club for a last murder board with Pepper, who was flying in from New York. Hayden greeted Graydon with a sarcastic, “Thank you. You were a big help this morning with the Chief.”
“What can I say?” Graydon shrugged. “I’ve grown accustomed to her face.”
“This is going to end in tears,” Hayden said. “Or blood. Mitchell’s hotter than lava.”
“Dexter Mitchell is a horse’s ass,” Graydon said, “but he’s not stupid. He’s seen her numbers. The people want her on the Court.”
“I didn’t realize,” Hayden said, “you were such a populist.”
“I’m not. But it doesn’t hurt to give the mob what it wants every now and then. Keeps it quiet.”
“I take it back. You know what the Chief is asking for, don’t you?”
“I’d rather be able to look the grand jury in the eye with a trace of sincerity and say, ‘I really don’t know what the special prosecutor is going on about.’ ”
“Thanks. And what do I tell the special prosecutor?”
“Oh,” Graydon said with a Cheshire cat grin, “you’ll think of something. And if you don’t, I’ll come visit you on Sundays. Bring you croissants and a file.”
The stand-in senators filtered in and took their places behind the committee table. Pepper arrived shortly, only fifteen minutes late, looking as though she’d had a tough day. Graydon greeted her warmly; Hayden with a perfunctory handshake and nod.
“Nice to see you, too,” Pepper muttered under her breath.
“I’m sorry about this brouhaha with your husband,” Graydon said. “But as I told you this morning over the phone, the President is behind you all the way.” He added pointedly, “As is Mr. Cork.”
Hayden pursed his lips.
“You look a bit tired,” Graydon said to her. “Are you up for this?”
“Yeah,” Pepper said without enthusiasm.
Hayden and the others fired questions at her for several hours-on privacy, interstate commerce, immigration, on whether the Eighth Amendment had been properly applied in Miskimin v. Incontinental Airlines. [12] He cleared his throat and said, “Now, Judge Cartwright, would you stipulate that a person’s private life is relevant when determining his-or her-suitability to serve in a high public office?”
Pepper stared at him a moment and said, “Well, Senator, I guess that would depend on the office, wouldn’t it?”
“How do you mean?”
“Let’s say this hypothetical person turned out to be a member of al Qaeda or an arms dealer or hooker. I suppose that would be relevant if they were up for the Supreme Court or Secretary of State or some big job like that. But if they were just running for, say, the Senate, I’d say a reprobate background would be a qualification.”
The senators burst out laughing.
Hayden shook his head. “Is that really how you’re going to play it at the hearings?”
“I don’t know, Corky,” Pepper said, yawning. “Just trying to get through the day, you know?”
“Would you kindly not call me that?” Hayden said, flushing.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect. My shrink says it’s a way I have of processing feelings of insecurity.”
Hayden stared. “Your… did you say ‘shrink’?”
“Psychiatrist. You know, someone who helps you sort things out upstairs, like.”
“Are you saying that you are under the care of a psychiatrist?”
“Well, sure. Everyone in New York is. Aren’t they down here, what with all the stress and such?”
Hayden was flipping anxiously through his briefing book. “I don’t… recall that on the questionnaire. Did you include it on your…”
Pepper smiled demurely. “Well, no, sir. It’s kinda personal.”
“God Almighty,” Hayden said. “This is…”
“I didn’t mean to cause you any trouble. As far as the shrink goes, I didn’t really have a whole lot of choice in the matter.”
“What do you mean?” Hayden said, his voice a squeak.
“Well,” Pepper shrugged, “they more or less told me I had to see one.”
Hayden stared. “ ‘They’?”
“The folks at the rehab place. It was a condition for letting me out after just a month. Instead of the full six.”
“Full six?” Hayden spluttered.
“You can’t hardly see the scars,” Pepper said, holding up her wrists. “Least not when I’m wearing these bracelets. Say, any of you folks got any Valium? I left in such a rush I forgot to bring mine.”
Graydon rose. He said, “Shall we break there? Judge, if I may?”
He and Pepper left the others staring at each other in horrified stupefaction. Graydon led the way to a book-lined corner of a parlor where they sat in facing leather armchairs.
“Young lady,” he said, “you ought to spanked.”
“I was,” Pepper said. “Many times. Just trying to lighten things up. Corky’s wound so tight his bow tie’s gonna start spinning any minute now.”
A waiter appeared.
“A double martini, Hector, thank you,” Graydon said. “For the lady?”
“Tequila, straight up. Beer back. Bottle, lime.”
Hector seemed amused by the order.
“That’s probably the first time anyone has ordered that here since the Johnson administration,” Graydon said. “So, Pepper. Think you’ll make the whistle?” [13]
Pepper smiled at the question. “Been to a rodeo, have we?”
“Yes. About a century before you were born.”
“You do surprise me, Graydon. You don’t seem the type.”
“We used to summer in Wyoming when I was a boy. Why do you laugh?”
“Wasn’t until I got East to school I realized ‘summer’ was a verb. So you been out west.”
“My grandfather built the railroad to it,” Graydon said, stirring his martini idly with his forefinger.
“Oh,” Pepper said. “Well, beats flying coach.”
“As to rodeos,” he said, “I have made the whistle. You, you’re only just mounting up.”
“I’m wearing different colored socks.” [14]
The old man smiled. “All right, then. But hold on. This bull’s an arm-jerker.”
CHAPTER 11
Senator Dexter Mitchell looked radiantly senatorial on the first morning of the Cartwright hearings: dapper, smiling, with the air of a man upon whom the great issues of the day heavily weigh. He looked… historic. How often had it been said of Dexter Mitchell that he was every inch the part?
The TV cameras followed him as he mounted the dais and moved from colleague to colleague, shaking hands, sharing a greeting or quip, nodding thoughtfully, here and there offering a furrowed brow or blinding grin. Whatever your feelings, you had to admit-the man had poise. The cameras did love him.
This was not lost on Buddy Bixby, who was watching the proceedings on television.
Normally, the spouse of the nominee sits directly behind the nominee at the hearings. Normally, too, the spouse is warmly introduced to the nineteen senators, who couldn’t really care less, but who generally offer pleasant brief smiles of acknowledgment. Not today.
Buddy’s New York office had quietly put out the word that Mr. Bixby would not be joining his wife in Washington “owing to an inner ear infection.” Buddy’s ears-inner, outer and middle-were in fact fine. The truth was that Buddy had been keeping a low profile since the weird, unsettling visit late Friday afternoon. Buddy Bixby was freaked.
He’d been in the apartment, innocently preparing to drive out to the house in Connecticut for the weekend-alone, since Pepper was still at her goddamn hotel with her panties all in a twist, probably racking up a monster bill on his Amex card-when the doorman called and said there were “two gentlemen from the FBI.”
Gentlemen? Jesus, they looked like something out of The Sopranos. Polite-very polite-too polite. There’s something inherently nervous-making about overly considerate armed men.
Was this an inconvenient time? They didn’t want to intrude. From your bag there, Mr. Bixby, it would appear that you’re leaving on a trip. Are you leaving town? Leaving the country? Now Mr. Bixby, in the course of conducting the background investigation into your wife, Judge Cartwright-by the way, everyone at the Bureau is a major, major fan of the show. Uh, thank you. One or two items have turned up that we’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on. By the way, sir, this is not an investigation of you per se. But should you at any point in this conversation feel the need to have an attorney present, you are certainly within your rights to have one. Attorney? No, that’s fine, but could you just tell me what this is-about? Sir, during a routine search of your Internet records- Internet records? Whoa. Internet records? Hold on. Who the fuck-I mean, sorry, who gave you the right to go poking around my Internet records? Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable having an attorney be part of this conversation, sir? Yes. I mean no. I mean… just… tell me what this is about, would you? Well, sir, it appears that you have been ordering Cuban cigars on line. Jesus fucking Christ, guys, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack. Well, sir, these records appear to go back over a period of eight years. Cigars! I thought you were going to tell me I’d been sending money to al Qaeda, for Chrissake! Hah! I’m joking. But “the guys” were not laughing. They were staring, doing that G-man thing. Mr. Bixby, ordering contraband items online and receiving them is not a humorous matter. Technically, it’s a felony. Felony? Guys, fellas, what are we talking about here? Cigars- That’s correct, sir. Cuban cigars. Prohibited under The Trading with the Enemy Act, USC Title 50-106. And by virtue of being a repeated and consistent violation of federal law, you may have exposed yourself to charges of participating in an ongoing criminal conspiracy. Conspiracy? Guys… But that’s for the U.S. Attorney to decide, not us. But-cigars… Additionally, by virtue of your paying for the cigars over the Internet with your… I see you used your personal American Express card for most of these transactions… you could be susceptible to charges of wire fraud. But- Nothing needs to be done at this point in time. This is just to advise you, semiofficially, as it were, that-depending on how the U.S. Attorney decides to proceed-we are opening a file. Opening a what? A file? What does “opening a file” mean? Well, sir, that’s just standard procedure when the Justice Department initiates a criminal investigation. Criminal? This is nuts, guys. Completely- Thank you for your time, sir. By the way, do you have a number where we can reach you? Would this number be good night and day?
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