One of Haro’s clerks, knowing of his justice’s zest for embarrassing firearms manufacturers, yanked the Swayle petition from the cert pool pile and brought it to his attention. Haro immediately signed on. Justice Galavanter, who liked a little mischief himself, added his signature. Though it went against her Yankee instincts, Swayle v. Rimski Firearms somehow appealed to Justice Plympton. She had written for the majority in Lestrepo v. Tompkins Compressed Air Injector. In that closely watched case, the Court ruled that Tompkins, based in upstate New York, was not responsible when one of its air compressors, used at a facility in Alabama, overinflated 10,000 beach balls manufactured in Oregon. Tompkins wasn’t liable, the Court found, because Mr. Lestrepo, a worker inflating the beach balls at the Alabama facility, was an illegally employed alien who couldn’t read the English instructions on the air injectors. It was a controversial ruling, to be sure, and emotionally fraught, since beach balls had been exploding all over the country, ruining picnics, making children cry, and inducing fourteen heart attacks. Plympton approved Swayle’s cert petition. Barry Jacoby, an ardent foe of gun manufacturers, added the fourth signature, and in due course Jimmy James Swayle got word that his case would be heard by the U.S. Supreme Court. This is a big moment in your day if your days-all 9,125 of them-tend to be quite similar: up bright and early, avoid being stabbed for your packet of breakfast jelly, work in the prison laundry, avoid being anally penetrated in the showers.
“Do I get to go to Washington, Warden?”
“No, Swayle. You aren’t going anywhere.”
“But what if I win?”
“Then I’m gonna beat the shit out of you. Now get out of my office.”
News that the Court had granted cert in Swayle v. Rimski caused an immediate stir. The Coalition Against a Runaway Judiciary, a Washington-based watchdog group, stridently denounced it.
“By agreeing to consider this case,” declared Fortinbras P. Fescue, executive director, “the Court sends a chilling signal up and down the spine of law enforcement officers throughout the country.” The Fraternal Order of Police also denounced it. On the other side, the American Foundation to Bankrupt Gun Manufacturers made approving noises.
IT HAD BEEN THE PRACTICE, in the previous court, for the justices to shake one another’s hand before hearing oral argument, but given the dissensions and strains in the Hardwether Court, this agreeable protocol had fallen into desuetude. Paige Plympton had made efforts to resuscitate it, without success.
Silvio Santamaria refused to speak to Mo Gotbaum, much less shake his hand. In conferences, he wouldn’t even look in his direction. Mike Haro couldn’t care less for pleasantries. To judge from his thousand-yard stare and attendant spearminty aroma, Chief Justice Hardwether was focused on other things. Pepper felt sorry for him. Watching him across the room as the justices prepared to file out in threes and take their places behind the long mahogany bench in the Great Hall, Pepper thought, He looks like he could use a hug. But she was nervous enough on this, her first day of oral argument. Somehow she didn’t feel it would be appropriate to go slap him on the back and say, Hang in there, pard.
She caught Ruthless staring at her. Pepper instructed herself mentally that she had to stop thinking of her that way, lest it pop out in conversation. Oh, hey, Ruthless, how’s it going? Ruthless-that is, Justice Richter-gave Pepper a sort of wincy smile. Justice Crispus Galavanter stood in front of Pepper, who, per her most junior status, was at the back of the judicial choo-choo train. Crispus gave her a companionable wink and smile as if to say, What have you got yourself into?
Precisely at ten o’clock the Marshal of the Court nodded to the justices, held back the red velvet curtain, and pronounced the thousand-year-old French words, “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! All persons having business before the Honorable, the Supreme Court of the United States, are admonished to draw near and give their attention, for the Court is now sitting. God save the United States and this Honorable Court!”
Pepper felt her stomach go tight. Don’t screw up, she said to herself.
Her chair was on the end. Your seat gets closer to the middle as you accrue seniority. The night before, she’d come into the Great Hall and rehearsed the simple act of sitting down in it so she wouldn’t roll off the edge or tip over backward on her first day.
She took a deep breath and looked out at the people gathered before the Court. On her right, she recognized various reporters. On her left was where the guests and various-
– Aw, hell. JJ and Juanita. They must have flown in to surprise her. JJ was beaming at her as if to say, You didn’t think I was gonna miss my little darlin’s first day on the Court, did you?
She wondered: did he know that this case was about whether a criminal who’d tried to shoot a sheriff’s deputy had grounds for grievance because his gun had misfired?
Justice Santamaria looked at Jimmy James Swayle’s attorneys. There were three of them, including one with a ponytail, a famous New York lawyer who took on cases just to annoy the law enforcement establishment. Santamaria regarded them as he might a three-course meal that he intended to devour whole.
“You cite Norbert v. Stigling Auto Parts,” Santamaria said. Oral arguments plunge right in without preamble. “Where’s the relevance. I don’t see it.”
The ponytailed lawyer said, “The South Dakota Supreme Court ruled that the carburetor made by Stigling-”
“Hold on. You’re comparing a carburetor to a firearm?”
“They are both-”
“Made of metal? I grant.”
“With respect, Justice Santamaria, I was only going to point out, sub specie aeternitatis…”
“Sub specie infernalitatis, I should think,” Santamaria shot back.
Pepper thought, What in the hell are these people talking about? Had she been teleported back to the rostrum in the Roman forum?
The lawyer pushed on. “… that a carburetor and a firearm, however distinct from a mechanical point of view, are both devices that come with implicit guarantees of functionality.”
“Like an electric chair, say?”
A susurrus of laughter rippled through the Court. Justice Santamaria was frisky today.
The lawyer smiled wanly. “If you will. The relevant aspect here is that Mr. Norbert forfeited victory in his NASCAR race because his carburetor malfunctioned on the next-to-last lap. Not only did he forfeit the prize money but considerable income from product endorsements. It was this aspect that the State Supreme Court found-”
“What if Norbert’s kidneys had failed on the next-to-last lap? Could he have sued his urologist for damages?”
Another ripple of laughter.
“Actually, I’m glad you brought that up,” the lawyer said. “Absent invasivity, of course, there would be no grounds there. However, as I’m sure you’re aware, in Bosco v. Worcester Stent, the Court held that Worcester Stent was in fact liable when one of its vascular stents implanted in Ms. Bosco’s left thigh become dislodged while she was singing ‘O mio babbino caro’ at the Pierre Opera-”
“Yes, yes, yes,” Justice Santamaria said peevishly. “But that was purely on sub tecto grounds.”
A tiny ripple of approval went through the spectators, the sound of a dozen bees coming upon a satisfactory rose.
“Yes,” said the lawyer unblinkingly, “but as you’ll recall, in Norbert the Court concluded that the contract between Norbert’s racing organization and Stigling provided that the governing law was Delaware ’s. Paragraph 7.23, I believe. It was in fact that clause that-”
“Are you saying,” said Santamaria, in tones that suggested his intelligence had been insulted, “that money earned from product endorsements is qua pecunia no different from money demanded at the point of a gun during a bank robbery?”
“Oblatively, no, Justice. However, from a pro tanto standpoint, I would say that-”
“Uh-uh. No way. Not in Delaware,” Justice Santamaria grunted. “And in case you were thinking of citing Minnesota, my advice to you, sir, would
be, don’t go there. The Eighth Circuit practically hired a skywriting plane to spell it out.”
Santamaria sat back heavily in his chair, which emitted an authoritative squeak.
“I wasn’t going to adduce Minnesota,” said the ponytailed lawyer, beginning to show signs of hyperventilation, “but you might agree that in Arkwright v. Gadmunster-”
Justice Plympton, who by now had had enough of Silvio’s theatrics, ventured into the turbid water. “I’m a little confused,” she said, “perhaps even a mite troubled by your invocation of Greenox v. Pesterson Hydraulics…”
Pepper’s cheeks flushed. She felt like a chickadee that had alighted on a branch with eight owls. Eight horned owls. While she could pretty much make out the references-her clerks had prepared a detailed bench memo for her-it was just all so darn… boring, really.
She thought, Here we got an idiot bank robber suing the maker of his gun. What I could do with this on Courtroom Six.
She looked over at JJ. It was clear he didn’t have the foggiest idea what they were all talking about. How could he? Should she say something? On her first day? Some justices waited weeks, months, years, before saying a word.
Justice Haro had jumped in.
“I don’t have any problem with Greenox,” he was saying to the lawyer. Justices rarely if ever address one another in oral argument. “From my review, I’m not satisfied Mr. Swayle was even aiming the gun at Deputy Fogarty. So absent mens rea, you’d have concommittant diminuendo of ballistico ad hominem. Unless,” Justice Haro shrugged with transparent insincerity, “I’m being obtuse.”
Justice Santamaria shot his fellow justice a sidelong glance of withering contempt.
Satisfied that his rhetorical question had carried the day, Justice Haro continued. “Not that that’s relevant in quem particularem insofar as the functionality of the firing pin is concerned. Which, really, is neither here nor there. But let me ask, was the firing pin manufactured by Rimski? Or was that outsourced to some… sweatshop?”
“No, Justice Haro,” the lawyer said, delighted, “the firing pin was manufactured at the New Haven facility. By nonunion labor. You’ll recall, per Sikorski v. United Strutfitters Local 12, that Rimksi was in judicare.”
“Um,” said Justice Haro, as though he had been reminded of a fact translucently well known to himself. “So clearly there’s no in remoto aspect here?”
“None whatsoever,” the lawyer said triumphantly.
Chief Justice Hardwether leaned forward into his microphone and said softly, “You seemed to go out of your way not to adduce Persimmon v. Aberdeen Wheelchair.”
There was a slight but perceptible intake of air in the hall.
The lawyer smiled demurely. “I had a feeling you were going to bring that up, Mr. Chief Justice. I reread Persimmon. But try as I might, I could find no iteration of quem protesto.”
Hardwether curled the side of his mouth, not unpleasantly, in a sort of Oh-come-on-now-do-I-really-look-like-I-just-fell-off-the-turnip-truck? look. “Did you read as far as page 653 before declaring moral victory?”
The lawyer froze. “I… believe… yes…”
“Then you’re well aware that quo warranto has no provenance here, absent guided direction.”
A sound went through the court like a hundred snakes slithering across the marble floor. Hardwether had just scored a palpable hit! You could hear the muttering: Declan may be hitting the sauce, but he hasn’t lost his edge.
“You have me there, Mr. Chief Justice,” the lawyer conceded, his face reddening, “but might I tempt you with Ordpurvis v. Sioux Falls Hydro-Electric.”
By now Mo Gotbaum was on the third verse of “Born to Be Wild.” Herself, Pepper felt like the Norwegian painting of the guy silently screaming.
Chief Justice Hardwether continued, “You could try. But I would stipulate, if I were you, that the South Dakota Circuit Court went out of its way in Ordpurvis to point out that in its view it was a clear-cut case of interrebus quod aspecto and that it had absolutely zero bearing per res sciatica. Now,” he said, the picture of a reasonable man, “if you want to go that way, I’d say take a look at Shrump v. Hartsdale Motorworks-”
“Could I just say something here?” Pepper blurted.
Everything froze in the Great Hall of the United States Supreme Court. Time stopped. At which point Pepper, with dawning horror, realized that all eyes were on her.
Oh. My. God, she thought. First time out-first time out-and she had just interrupted a fellow justice. And not any justice. The Chief Justice. Way to go, girl. In the hierarchy of no-nos, that was right up there with vomiting on the Pope during High Mass at St. Peter’s. She wanted to shrink inside her robe like a turtle.
Justice Hardwether, somewhat taken aback, nodded faintly and said, “Yes, Justice Cartwright. Of course.”
Whereupon Pepper’s mind suddenly went as blank as a crashed computer screen. She pressed every button, but all she could see on the screen was a blinking icon that said, YOUR HARD DRIVE IS EMPTY.
“I…” she tried, “with respect to”-she couldn’t even remember what case they were discussing-“… there is… it seems to me to boil down to quem… I mean, quasi… modo…”
A deep and terrible silence came over the Great Hall during which the sound of subatomic particles coming together would have been louder than clashing cymbals.
Justice Santamaria leaned forward into his microphone and said to the lawyer, “It’s an interesting point and one, to be honest, I hadn’t considered. So, Counselor, do you think Quasimodo v. Notre Dame Bellringers Guild has application here?”
The Great Hall erupted with laughter. It filled the marmoreal space like helium. Never in the memory of the eldest present Court watcher had there been such a spontaneous explosion of levity. Justice Hardwether, struggling himself not to join in, finally tapped his gavel to restore decorum.
PAIGE PLYMPTON came to Pepper’s chambers, where the newest justice had been having a good sob.
“My first oral argument,” Paige said, “I became so befuddled that I kept referring to Gideon v. Wheelwright.”
Pepper dabbed at her eyes and stared blearily.
Paige added, “And of course it’s Gideon v. Wainwright. Well, my dear, let me tell you, ‘mortified’ is no mere expression.”
“Thanks, Paige,” Pepper said, honking into her tissue, “that makes me feel a whole lot better.”
The next day’s Washington Post brought a predictable harvest of shame: a story in the Style section about the TV Justice’s first day of oral argument. It was illustrated with a still photograph from the movie The Hunchback of Notre Dame, with Pepper’s face superimposed over Maureen O’Hara’s offering a sip of water to Quasimodo.
There was a second serving of crow, this one in the form of a headline:
DEXTER MITCHELL (FINALLY) BECOMES PRESIDENT CONNECTICUT SENATOR TO STAR IN NEW TV SERIES
Pepper’s eyed widened as she caught a familiar name in the second paragraph.
Buddy Bixby, producer of TV’s “Courtroom Six” and other reality shows, today confirmed that he has offered Senator Dexter Mitchell (D-Conn) the lead role in a projected prime-time dramatic series tentatively named “POTUS.” The term is the White House abbreviation for “President of the United States.”
Bixby said that he became interested in casting Senator Mitchell during the Pepper Cartwright hearings.
“I’ve been in this business long enough to know talent when I see it,” Bixby said in a telephone interview from his Manhattan office. “He’s got it-intelligence, looks, and credibility. He’s been there and done that. He’ll make a completely believable president. Who knows where it could lead,” the producer said with a laugh, “look what happened to the last person I discovered.”
His wife, Pepper Cartwright, was recently confirmed to the Supreme Court. The couple are reportedly divorcing. Bixby is also suing Justice Cartwright for breach of contract for leaving “Courtroom Six.”
CHAPTER 16
Dexter was pleased by the turnout of reporters for his farewell press conference. Buddy had wanted him to hold it outdoors, on the West Front of the Capitol Building, where incoming U.S. presidents were now inaugurated. Dexter briefly mulled the notion before (wisely) vetoing it. He’d have his moment on the West Front someday. For now, the Strom Thurmond Memorial Room would do nicely enough. His press secretary made sure that the podium was within camera range of the bust of JFK, to remind the viewers subliminally of another New England senator who had gone on to bigger things.
“This is a bittersweet day for me,” Dexter began, casting his eyes downward while biting his lower lip, a gesture he had learned from a master politician. He gave Terry-“my life’s partner,” as he put it-a brave glance. Camera shutters clicked away like demonic crickets. Dexter’s face was momentarily bathed in so much flashlight that he feared he might never see again. Terry did her best to look wistful while inwardly doing cartwheels and jetés of unbridled joy. We’re in the mo-ney, we’re in the mo-ney! Dexter gave his life’s partner a little nod of encouragement as if to say, I know it’s hard, honey, but together, we’ll get through this. Terry looked back at him as if to say, Yes, dear, it is hard. It’s all I can do to keep from shouting “Free at last, free at last! Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last!” Terry tried not to think of the bigger house. Of the beach house. Of a house in the south of France. Of not having to spend another day on K Street wheedling railroad subsidies out of her husband’s colleagues.
She stirred from the delicious reverie and crashed back into reality and the sound of her husband’s voice. What was he talking about now? She heard the phrase “decades of public service.” Oh, no. God, no. Please, someone-interrupt him with a question or we’ll all be here until the polar ice caps melt.
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