When she came to the centerpiece of her argument citing Mortimer v. Great Lakes Suction, she found that every line- indeed, the entire page-had been struck out. In the margin was a note: “Mortimer is a rotting branch-see attachment. IH.” [19] The attachment consisted of twelve pages in which Justice Haro essentially took over and rewrote her opinion from top to bottom. It hinged on a case called Kozinko v. Mixmaster, in which, as Justice Haro eloquently explained, “the South Dakota Supreme Court rightly held that liability was not in quem pro tanto automatically waived simply because the blender was being used to manufacture methamphetamine, a federally prohibited controlled substance. Indeed, the very absence of legality in that case, pari passu, argues convincingly on behalf of Swayle’s assertion of denial of equal protection.”
Pepper read it several times, each time getting madder, but in the end conceded that it was, alas, a better argument than hers. Nonetheless, she typed KISS MY ASS on the top of the attachment, closed the file, and went to the gym to cool down. When she got back from the gym, she reopened the file, deleted KISS MY ASS, and typed, yes, right-thank you, and closed the file and e-mailed it back to the Clerk of the Court and went home to have a good cry, only to find a court summons in her mailbox relating to Buddy’s breach of contract suit. It sure was great, being on the Supreme Court. But there was better yet to come.
The Court was due to render its Swayle decision from the bench on Friday. On Tuesday morning, Washington awoke to a riveting story in the Washington Times:
The Supreme Court is expected to rule Friday in favor of a bank robber who is suing the manufacturer of the gun he used in the commission of the crime because it failed to fire when he tried to shoot the arresting officer.
According to a source within the Court, the justices have voted 5-4 in favor of the plaintiff, one Jimmy James Swayle, a career criminal currently serving 25 years in federal prison. The deciding vote was cast by the newest justice on the high bench, former TV personality Pepper Cartwright. Justice Cartwright, the source noted, has made “an already polarized court even more antipodal.”
The word means “diametrically opposite.”
It was a breathtaking leak, even by the standards of Washington, DC, where everything short of actual nuclear launch code sequences routinely turns up on the front page of the paper. Pepper’s clerk, Sandoval, reached her at home just before seven a.m. to alert her to it. An hour later, two Court marshals knocked on her door to announce that they had instructions “to provide for your security, ma’am. Orders of the Chief Justice.”
By the time she had arrived at the marble palace, Chief Justice Hardwether had already sent a SupremeNet e-mail to all the justices deploring the leak, apologizing to Justice Cartwright “on behalf of the entire Court,” announcing that he would initiate an internal investigation, and hinting that he might even bring in the FBI. This last part did not sit well with various justices, unleashing a torrent of furious postings on J-Blog, the justices’ Intranet chat room.
Emphatically resent implication my chambers might have had anything to do with this tawdry affair and shall in no way cooperate. Strong letter follows. SS [Silvio Santamaria]
Dismaying as the episode may be, I find even more outrageous the imputation that suspicion should be so casually and widely applied here. What happened to Equal Protection? RR [Ruth Richter]
Why don’t you just install a polygraph machine in the Great Hall? IH [Ishiguro Haro]
Quis custodiet… sigh. [20]MG [Mo Gotbaum]
Come on, everyone-let’s all take a deep breath and calm down. PP [Paige Plympton]
Reading them, Pepper was struck by the fact that most of them seemed most outraged about being subjected to an investigation, not the leak.
Outside, the world at large was howling not for the head of the leaker but for-hers. The article had managed to focus all the rage over the decision on Pepper, not on the other four justices who had joined her. The blogosphere and airwaves were in meltdown. By noon, the first calls to IMPEACH CARTWRIGHT had been posted and a crowd had gathered in front of the Court. A candlelight vigil was duly announced.
In the midst of the storm of outrage, Pepper’s secretary announced that her grandfather was on the phone. This was the moment she had been dreading above all. She had even sent him and Juanita round-trip business-class tickets to Cancún, Mexico, and paid for a suite at a fancy hotel (with casino-JJ loved to gamble) for the express purpose of getting him out of the country when Swayle hit the news. With any luck he’d be in the casino when CNN reported the decision. Now this.
“Hello, JJ,” she said.
“Is this true?” he said.
She sighed. “Yep.”
There was a long silence, not even a pwwttt.
“Did you call just to not say anything?” Pepper said. “Why don’t you just cuss me out and get it over with?”
“I just don’t see how you coulda…” JJ said. “That coulda been me that son of a bitch was aiming at.”
“I know. But there was this case called Kozinko v. Mixmaster where…” Her heart wasn’t quite in it.
“Is that why you sent us those tickets?”
She drew in a breath to lie, but couldn’t. The air came back out, unpolluted by mendacity. “Yep,” she said.
Another long silence. “I know most everyone who goes to Washington loses their way sooner or later. But I didn’t think it happened this fast.”
“It’s a complicated case, JJ. The Second Circuit found that-”
Pwwttt. “No, Pepper. It ain’t complicated.” Silence. Pepper couldn’t think what to say. JJ said, “Guess I’m gonna hang up now,” and he did.
A GRIM-LOOKING HAYDEN CORK had brought in the news yesterday morning, having just gotten a whip count from the White House Congressional Liaison. The Senate was about to pass the Presidential Term Limit Amendment, 77-23.
“Apparently the Swayle vote was the final nail,” he reported.
Graydon Clenndennynn had been yanked back from another remunerative negotiation, persuading Russia to equip its domestic security forces with U.S.-made Taser guns, there being increasing need in Moscow these days to deal with a restive citizenry.
Hayden said to the President, “We’re going to kill him if we keep putting him through this kind of jet lag.” But Clenndennynn showed up in the Oval Office looking crisp and ready to lend wisdom and eminence to yet another presidential emergency.
“I’m not sure I see what the crisis is,” Graydon said, setting down his china coffee cup. “I was under the impression you didn’t want to run again.”
“I don’t,” the President said gloomily.
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Because now I’ll have to run. To show them what I think of their ridiculous amendment.”
“Why don’t you just denounce them and be done with it?”
“I denounce the Congress all the time. Now, if I don’t run, everyone will think it’s because I was intimidated or scared off. I won’t have that. Because it’s not the truth.”
“All right. Then in that case, run.”
“Graydon,” the President said, “stop pretending to be obtuse. I don’t want to run. Everything I’ve tried to do has been predicated on being in office for only one term. There’s a principle at stake here.”
How many times had Graydon heard that hoary asseveration. “Then don’t run,” he said with a fleck of petulance.
“Hayden,” the President said, “would you please call Andrews and have a jet fueled to take Mr. Clenndennynn back to Moscow?”
“Donald,” Graydon said, “there are times when a leader has to choose-”
“If this is one of your what-would-Winston-do lectures,” the President said, “I don’t want to hear it. I’m not in the mood for Churchillian wisdom today, thank you.”
“-between the between the unpalatable and the poisonous. All right. The amendment is an insult, a slap across the face administered by a bunch of self-dealing scoundrels. So what else is
new? You’ve been warring with the Congress since day one. All I’m saying is, you’re perfectly right. If you don’t run now, it’ll look like… cowardice. That you’re throwing in the towel.”
“So I’m damned either way. Is that it?”
“Sorry. Look,” Graydon said, “if it’s the prospect of serving another term that’s got you tied up in knots, I wouldn’t worry too much on that score. You certainly have my vote. But I didn’t pass huge crowds here on my way in from Andrews chanting, ‘Four more years.’ Where are we in the polls, Hayden?”
“Low thirties,” Hayden said. “We had some bounce from Cartwright, but Swayle eliminated that.”
“How could the Court have ruled for that… Oh, well.” Graydon sighed. “Supreme Court justices almost always disappoint. Remember what Truman said when they asked him if he had any disappointments. ‘Yes, and they’re both sitting on the Supreme Court.’ Well. There we are. Point is, sir, I think you can safely run for reelection and expect to be back on your front porch in Wapa-however it’s pronounced-by the following January 21.” [21]
“It’s too cold in Wapakoneta in January to sit on the porch,” the President said, “but I appreciate the sentiment. Well, this is going to be one heck of a queer campaign.”
THE SENATE VOTED the next day, 78-22, in favor of the Presidential Term Limit Amendment. Having cleared both the House and the Senate, the measure would now go to the states to be ratified. Getting three-quarters of state legislatures to agree on something can take a long time. It took four years (1947 to 1951) to ratify the amendment limiting presidents to two terms; but lowering the voting age to eighteen took a mere one hundred days to pass (during the Vietnam War). The punditariat [22] predicted that given President Vanderdamp’s unpopularity, the amendment stood a good chance of being briskly ratified. They confidently predicted that Vanderdamp would not seek reelection. He might be politically inept, they said, but he was not a fool, nor one to seek further humiliation. He would finish out his term and slink back to Wapawhatever with his tail between his legs.
A solemn-faced Hayden Cork, making a rare personal appearance in the White House pressroom, announced that the President would shortly address the nation from the Oval Office.
CHAPTER 19
The President looked as though all the cares of the world rested upon his shoulders alone.
“It’s not going to happen,” he said to the somber faces around the table. “They will not become a nuclear power on my watch.” No one spoke. “Is that clear?” he said, his voice grave. “Are we all on the same page here?”
Heads nodded reluctantly. The Secretary of State had gone ashen, slumped in his chair.
“All right then,” the President said. “Let’s quit dicking around. Send in the Nimitz.”
“Cut.”
“What was wrong with that?” Dexter said.
“The line is, ‘Let’s quit messing around,’” the director said. “We can’t say ‘dicking.’ We’ll get fined by the FCC.”
“Don’t worry about it. I know the chairman of the FCC. He’s been to dinner at my house. We’re pals.”
“That’s great. Always nice to have friends in important places. But for now, let’s stay with the script. By the way, Senator, the energy in that scene-great. Amazing. I was blown away. Weren’t you blown away?”
The assistant director nodded. “Totally.”
President Mitchell Lovestorm grumbled assent. They reshot the scene. Lunch was called.
He remained at the table while the other actors dispersed in the direction of the craft services table, adrift in reverie. He was finding it harder and harder to turn his character on and off. One day, discussing it with the makeup lady, she’d told him about something called Method Acting, where you stayed in the character you were playing. He’d decided to try it. It worked. His wife, Terry, didn’t quite get it and seemed to resent it when he told her not to “tie up the hotline,” but generally it worked.
Dexter looked up at the screens about the Situation Room table. They depicted the paths of incoming missiles. But also outgoing missiles. Oh, yes. Yes. After lunch, they would shoot the scene where the Chief of Naval Operations informs him that cruise missiles launched from the Nimitz carrier group were on their way to destroy the presidential palace of Mumduk bin Shamirz-“Mad Ali” as he was known-the America- despising ruler of Badganistan. Our friend Mad Ali has a nice warm surprise headed his way. Oh, yes. Yes. Yes. Dexter visualized the two cruise missiles, hurtling in tandem toward their target, contour-hugging Badganistan’s wild and rugged terrain, zooming past a minaret, their rocket engines torching the muzzein in the tower as he called the people to prayer. The muzzein falling to the ground, a human torch, screaming. Nice touch. Clever, those writers. Overpaid, but clever. Well, it had to be done, didn’t it? Mad Ali had given him no choice. He’d tried to reason with him-again and again and again. He’d gone to the UN. He’d offered concessions. Trade agreements. Medicine for oil. An exchange of ambassadors. All rebuffed. Okay, then, Ali, my friend. Have it your way. But for this President, no more dicking- messing… whatever-around. Mitchell Lovestorm was not going to sit around and cool his jets while this towelhead went nuclear. Hell’s bells, even the French are with us this time. Allons, enfants de la Patrie…
And yet… how lonely it felt. At such a moment, only a president, on whose shoulders these matters ultimately rest, could truly know the terrible loneliness of command, the terrible isol-
“Dex.”
“Um? Oh. Yes, Buddy. What is it?”
“You looked like you were heading past Pluto there. You okay?”
“Yes. Yes. Just… reviewing the situation. Going over my lines.”
“The loneliness of command, huh? It’s a bitch, isn’t it?”
Dexter stared at Buddy. You have no idea. But then, how could you?
“You going to eat something?”
“Not hungry,” Dexter said.
“We got a lot of scenes this afternoon. Don’t let your blood sugar drop. We need you in the zone, baby.”
Baby? This was no way to talk to the President.
“I’ll get something,” he said. “Buddy-a word?”
“Sure.”
“It’s about the First Lady.”
“What’s up?” Buddy said cautiously. Ramona Alvilar was on fire as the ironically named Constance Lovestorm. Her steamy flirting scenes with National Security Director Milton Swan had even the crew breaking out in sweats and adjusting their trousers. “She’s doing a hell of a job, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Dexter said. “She’s a fine actress. It’s not that.”
Buddy nodded. “So?”
“I just feel… she’s my wife, Buddy. She’s the First Lady of the United States of America. Why is she rubbing the thigh of my National Security adviser?”
Buddy stared. “That’s the story line, Dex.”
“Well, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it.”
“Ramona is helping to make this show hotter than one of those cruise missiles you just launched. Nothing’s broken. Let’s not fix it.”
“But where’s the dignity? Mitchell Lovestorm is a good and decent man. President of the United States. He’s fighting off the Islamic hordes and the Russians and the-”
“Little yellow bastards. Don’t forget them. They’re still shitting themselves in Shanghai over the Nimitz’s little visit there. Ha-ha.”
“Yes, meanwhile, my wife is reaching for the zipper of my right-hand aide. And he a former Navy SEAL commander. A decorated war hero…” Dexter shook his head distastefully. “To me it just feels… demeaning. To everyone.”
“Look,” Buddy said, “ Milton hasn’t boinked her. We haven’t even decided if he’s going to boink her.”
“I for one would greatly prefer that he not boink her.”
“We’re having a script meeting on that very point this afternoon. I’ll definitely-we’ll take a good hard look at it.”
“I just don’t think that t
he President of the United States ought to be made out to be a-cuckold.”
“I respectfully disagree. To me, it enhances your humanity.”
“How?”
“Didn’t Abraham Lincoln have some problems along those lines? And look at how well he’s regarded.”
“No, no. No. His wife was a nutcase, but she wasn’t diddling the help. Look, according to all these amazing reviews we’re getting, the viewers like President Mitchell Lovestorm. They admire him. Shouldn’t we respect their feelings?”
Buddy resisted the impulse to swat Dexter with the rolled-up script in his hand.
“Dex,” he said, “to me, to them, all this personal stuff makes you an even greater president. Look at the situation. The whole world is on fire, the economy’s crashing-through no fault of your own, remember, it was your predecessor’s reckless fiscal policies that screwed everything up. Meanwhile, your wife is trying to give the National Security adviser a hand job under the cabinet table. This is precisely where your dignity comes in. Do you let it get to you? No. No, sir. Mitchell Lovestorm rises above it. I see tremendous dignity in that. I see greatness in that.”
“From where I’m sitting,” Dexter said, “it’s the NSC Director who’s doing the rising.”
“Your wife is a beautiful, highly sexualized being-from the barrios of Puerto Rico. So, okay, she’s a bit frisky.”
“Frisky?” Dexter snorted. “She’s a complete slut.”
“Hey, that’s the First Lady you’re talking about. No. I think that’s a tad harsh. Passionate. Latina. En fuego! And any guy whose crotch she was stroking would rise. Lazarus would rise from the dead again if Ramona were reaching for his wiener. But you’re forgetting about episode fourteen.”
“What about it?”
“The reconciliation scene? On Air Force One? Talk about hot. I got blisters on my fingers just from holding the script when I read it the first time. You’ve won the war. Mad Ali’s on his way to a month of serious CIA waterboarding. Connie’s come to her senses and realizes that it’s you she loves, not Milton Swan. You tumble into the bed on the plane. Through the window while you’re ripping each other’s clothes off, we see F-16 fighter escorts framed in the setting sun. Jesus, I get a hard-on just thinking about it. I want to put a warning after the opening credits, like the ones they have for the pills? In the event this episode causes an erection that lasts more than four hours, seek immediate medical help. Then, in episode fifteen, what happens to NSC Director Swan? Hel-lo? The Russians put that radioactive shit in his borscht at the state banquet at the Kremlin and the next thing you know, he’s glowing like a lava lamp. And you and the First Lady-going at it like rabbits. I need a cold shower just from thinking about it.”
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