THE PRESIDENTIAL TERM LIMIT AMENDMENT was proceeding toward ratification. Eight states, so far, had approved it-states whose legislatures were peeved at “Don Veto” Vanderdamp for having denied them federal spending monies for, variously: a dam, a highway “enhancement,” a wind farm, a Museum of Gluten, an underground storage facility for used fast-food restaurant cooking grease, an Institute for the Study of Gravel, a postoperative transgender counseling center, and an electric eel farm “alternate energy source initiative.” Eight states down, twenty-four to go.
“Your campaign manager called again,” Hayden Cork said to the President in the Oval Office. “He wondered if he might actually meet with you sometime before Election Day next year.”
“What else have you got for me?” the President said, barely looking up from his desk.
“You might at least call him,” Hayden said. “If only as a courtesy.”
“He knows what to do,” Vanderdamp said, scribbling. It was a personal letter to the Russian prime minister suggesting that the recent assassination of the prime minister of Ukraine, performed with in-your-face blatancy by the Russian secret services, might not have been in the best interests of international comity.
“Yes,” Hayden said, “still, it might be nice for him to hear from you some, I don’t know, message. ‘A steady hand on the helm’? ‘Putting people first’? Something…”
“He knows my message. ‘More of the same.’ ”
“Well, I’m sure they’ll find that invigorating at campaign headquarters. Mr. President, if I may-”
“No, Hayden, you may not.”
“Very well, sir,” Hayden said, a bit stiffly.
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes. I know how you hate foreign policy crises, but Elan Blutinger called and wants to brief you on developments in Colombia. At the earliest opportunity.”
“ Colombia? Crisis? Headache, maybe, crisis, I doubt. What is it?”
“Rather sensitive.”
“Hayden,” the President said, “we both know that he’s already told you what it is. So why don’t you just tell me and I’ll promise to sound surprised when he tells me.”
“President Urumbaga is going to announce that he’s pegging the Colombian peso to the price of cocaine in Miami.”
“And what am I supposed to do about that?” the President said.
“Essentially, the country is switching to what he calls an economía blanca. A white economy. He’s in effect legalizing cocaine.”
“He can’t do that. Can he?”
“Well, I’m sure the National Assembly has to be consulted. But you know how that goes down there. How it becomes our problem is that he’s declaring it legal export.”
“For God’s sake,” the President said. “We gave him a state visit last year. South Lawn ceremony, military band, testimonial speeches, dinner, entertainment by whatsername, Gloria Estefan and the Miami Noise Machine…”
“Sound Machine, I think.”
“I’d say that’s a matter of opinion. He swore-up, down, and sideways-he was committed to the drug war. ‘We stand with you against this scourge.’ His exact words. And now- this?”
“According to Elan’s people, he doesn’t really have much choice. The narcos kidnapped the last of his family last week. You’ll recall his wife and mother-in-law were taken hostage right after they returned from the state visit here. So he’s got the proverbial gun to the head.”
The President stared out the Rose Garden window. “All right,” he said, “send in the Nimitz. Maybe that’ll get their attention.”
Hayden pursed his lips. “Perhaps not the Nimitz, sir?”
“Why not? Is it in dry dock or something?”
“I know you don’t watch much television, sir, but Dexter Mitchell, he’s in a show now. It’s doing rather well. He plays a president.”
Vanderdamp snorted. “Finally. I know all about that. It’s called POTUS. President Lovebucket or some such. My grandchildren watch. They like it. They tease me about it. Little Ann Marie told me, ‘He’s more handsomer than you are, Grampy.’ Ha-ha. I said, ‘Well, if that’s the way you feel, I’m not going to name that new national park after you.’ Ha-ha-ha! Darling thing. Looks just like her mother when she was that age…”
“Yes, well, President Lovestorm, his solution to every crisis is to send in the Nimitz.”
“So?”
“I’m all for giving the Colombians the heebie-jeebies, sir, but why don’t we suggest to the Joint Chiefs they send in the George H. W. Bush or the Theodore Roosevelt or…”
“I don’t care what aircraft carrier we use,” President Vanderdamp said. “But for God’s sake, Hayden. What’s it come to when you can’t use an aircraft carrier because some TV president is using it.”
“Let me check with Admiral Stavridis, see what we have on station down there.”
“What’s happening, Hayden?” the President said philosophically. “You can’t tell anymore what’s real and what isn’t. Everything’s all jumbled. The world has been reduced to a wide-screen TV.”
“Yes, sir. With respect to that, it appears President Lovebucket has engaged Buss Scrump to form an exploratory committee.”
“For God’s sake.”
WOULD YOU KNOW ANYTHING about this?” Buddy said.
He was standing, florid faced, in Dexter’s dressing room, thrusting his BlackBerry at his star. Dexter, recoiling slightly, saw the headline on the little screen:
‘POTUS’ FOR PRESIDENT? DEXTER MITCHELL IN (REAL) PRESIDENTIAL BID
“Well, how about that,” Dexter said airily. “Great publicity for the show, huh?”
“Yeah. Wonderful. So. Is this true?”
“It’s true that there’s a groundswell out there. You saw that poll in USA Today. Some folks down in DC thought, well, let’s see how deep it is. It’s just in the, you know, exploratory phase at this point.”
Buddy stared. “Dexter, give it to me straight. Are you running for president?”
“It’s a complicated process, Buddy. My gosh. First you have to file a thousand forms. Then you have to get thousands of signatures just to quality for-”
“Yeah, yeah. Just tell me: did you hire this guy Shrump-”
“Scrump.”
“Whatever, to form this Mitchell for President Committee?”
“I wouldn’t say hire. It’s more of a-”
“This has your fingerprints all over it. O.J. Simpson left fewer fingerprints at the scene than you have here.”
Dexter thought, Goddamn Bussie. Asking a political consultant to keep his yap shut… might as well ask a nymphomaniac to keep her knees together.
“I was going to discuss it with you today after we finished shooting.”
Buddy was shaking his head and pacing and muttering. “What am I running here, a finishing school for Supreme Court justices and presidents?”
“I think you’re missing the big picture here. This could be a tremendous boost for the show.”
“Really? Is that what this is about? Funny. It’s what my last star said as she was blowing her nose on her contract. Well, let me tell you something, Mr. President, I’ve already got the top contracts law firm on retainer, and I’m sure they’ll cut me a discount for two lawsuits.”
Dexter laughed. “You’re going to sue me? For running for president?”
“In a word? You bet your ass.”
An assistant director put his head in and said, “We’re ready for you, Mr. President.”
“Let’s talk about this later, shall we?” Dexter said.
“Excuse me? I’m the fucking executive producer of this fucking charade.”
“And a fucking good one,” Dexter said. “Look, Buddy. Calm down. Don’t you see? All this, everything-is a testimonial to you. To your vision. You created President Lovestorm. Sure, I play him. But you created him. The writers… okay, they did their bit, I suppose. But he’s yours. I’m yours. You should be-my God-so proud of what you’ve done. Run with me,
Buddy. Together, we can accomplish so much for this country. We can do what others have only-”
“Save it for the deposition,” Buddy said, stomping out.
DEXTER’S ANNOUNCEMENT press conference three days later was heavily attended by the media, and somewhat unusual.
Normally the candidate’s family clusters around, lending moral and visual support. But since Terry Mitchell was not at present speaking to her husband, her place was taken by Ramona Alvilar, wearing a quite fetching pantsuit that looked as though it might have been painted onto her.
Off to the side stood Buddy Bixby, producer of POTUS, trying with somewhat mixed success to look enthusiastic about this grotesque development. He had spent most of the previous days with contract attorneys, election law attorneys, and public relations advisers. The contract attorneys thought he had a very good breach of contract suit; the election attorneys said that airing POTUS in the midst of a presidential campaign would violate campaign finance laws. The public relations advisers thought that suing Dexter was definitely not the way to proceed. (“What if he wins?”)
And so Buddy Bixby found himself once again betrayed by his own creation, grinding his back molars as Dexter Mitchell enunciated his Agenda for America, a lengthy manifesto the reader will be spared here, other than to note that it included a call for: a) change, b) a return to greatness, c) a brighter future for all, not just some, Americans, and d) a pledge to change the way Washington does business.
The sun did not stand still, nor did the earth tremble at these pronouncements, but the news that President Mitchell Love-storm was in the race did lead the evening news that day.
CHAPTER 24
Pepper found it strange, sitting at the justices’ conference table, thinking what had happened the last time she had been in this room-preventing the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court from hanging himself.
She and Declan exchanged brief knowing looks as they took their places along with the seven other justices. She caught the faint grin. Declan had been looking better than he had in a while. He no longer gave off a reek of mint.
His lightness of mood was not reciprocated by the other justices. He’d barely gotten off a cheery “Good morning” before Justice Haro bitterly complained that his clerks were being harassed by the FBI about the Swayle business.
“Could we discuss it after the conference, Mike?”
“No. I’d like to talk about it now. Calling in the gestapo is-”
Justice Santamaria groaned. “Gestapo? Did you actually say gestapo?”
“Call them whatever you want,” Haro snapped. “But having them in here prowling the halls… it’s infra dig.”
“I don’t like it any more than you do,” Santamaria scowled. “But your language is inappropriate. No. That’s not quite strong enough a word. Vile…”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Declan said. “Please. As to infra dig, let’s all agree that leaking Court decisions defines infra dignitatem. Meanwhile we can discuss it all after conference. But as we’re on the subject of the FBI, why don’t we begin with Peester? You were the first to grant cert, Mike, as I recall. So, shall we begin?”
Peester v. Spendo-Max Corp was a knotty case. Security personnel at a Spendo-Max megastore outside Reno, Nevada, had noticed a female customer dressed head to toe in a Muslim abaya acting in a “suspicious manner.” They called the Reno police, who discerned geometric-shaped bulges under her robes and deduced that she was a suicide bomber. They evacuated the store and called in the FBI, who arrived with a tactical unit, dogs, helicopters, and a robotic bomb disposal unit. They cornered her in the Bathroom Fixtures section. In due course the Muslim woman turned out to be one Dwight Robert Peester, neither female nor Muslim, but a career shoplifter. The suspicious bulges turned out to be CDs and DVDs secreted in pouches under the abaya. Mr. Peester was arrested and prosecuted but a jury acquitted him on the grounds that he had not yet exited the store and therefore had not yet technically shoplifted. A tsunami of lawyers rushed in. Mr. Peester sued Spendo-Max, the Reno Police Department, and the FBI agents on grounds of racial and religious profiling. He was asking for twenty million dollars for various psychic traumas, “plus dry cleaning costs.” The nub of the issue-so far as Pepper, scratching her head as she read the brief, could discern-was whether you in fact had to actually belong to the particular race or religion in order to be a victim of discrimination against it.
The justices went around the table in order of seniority, splitting 4-4. Once again, all eyes turned to the juniormost justice. Pepper inwardly groaned. She daydreamed that she was back on Courtroom Six. Dwight Robert Peester stood before her, wearing bright orange, in chains. Mr. Peester, it is the sentence of this court that you be taken from here to the place of execution…
“Justice Cartwright?” Declan said.
“Uh…” Pepper said.
“How do you vote?”
“I’m kind of… down the middle on this one,” she said. “He was obviously planning to boost the stuff-”
“That’s not the issue,” Haro said.
“Well, it oughta be,” Pepper said. “But there was prima facie evidence of profiling… Still…”
The ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner sounded to Pepper like Big Ben striking noon.
“Anyone got a quarter?” she said.
“Sorry?” Declan said.
“Heads he wins, tails he loses?”
“That’s an enlightened way of interpreting the Constitution,” Justice Gotbaum muttered.
Justice Santamaria let out a sigh like a breaching humpback whale.
“All right,” Pepper said. “Let’s strike a blow for female Muslim-impersonating shoplifters. Vote to grant in favor of Peester.”
As the justices left, Pepper overheard Santamaria saying to Jacoby in a voice calculatedly audible, “Pray God nothing critical comes before us in the next, say, thirty years.” Haro, looking greatly peeved, followed Declan into his chambers.
That night over dinner at an Italian restaurant, Declan said to Pepper, “Haro’s as hot as a tamale over the FBI investigation. ‘Jackbooted thugs,’ ‘Storm troopers.’ He made it sound like I’ve ushered in the Fourth Reich. Me-the Court’s reliable liberal!”
“I always did suspect you were a closet fascist,” Pepper said, forking up a bit of linguine alla vongole. “Look, if it’s making everyone miserable, call it off. Let it go, Chiefy.”
“I can’t do that,” Declan said. “It’s beyond the pale. An impending Court ruling was leaked to the media. From within the Court. Incidentally, in no small part to embarrass you.”
“I’m not asking for special protection,” Pepper said. “I’m a big girl. I got a pistol. Know how to use it, too.”
“That’s certainly not the issue, either,” he said sternly.
Pepper sipped her Chianti. “As for embarrassment, I am way beyond that. On the other side of the wall of humiliation is liberation.”
Declan stared. “Kahlil Gibran or refrigerator magnet?”
Pepper got a good, close-up look at the Wall of Humiliation a few days later when an item appeared in the Washington Post’s Reliable Source column:
Sightings: Supreme Court Justice Pepper Cartwright and Chief Justice Declan Hardwether enjoying a cozy dinner-for-two at Stare Decisis. Our source reports that the Supremes appeared to be in close agreement over whatever weighty legal issues were being discussed, and at various points held hands. Oyez, oyez! Both are in the midst of divorces. If their cases end up before the high court, look for a 2-0 vote…
Within hours, hundreds of Web sites and legal blogs were fizzing with speculation over the question of whether a romantically linked pair of Supreme Court justices could be relied upon to render independent decisions. Outrage, calls for impeachment, an affront to the dignity of the Court…
Late that afternoon, Crispus knocked on the door of Pepper’s chambers.
“I recall asking you to extend the CJ a friendly word,” he said. “But dear me…”
“Oh, hush,” Pepper said.
“I will say,” Crispus said, taking a seat, “he seems much more relaxed of late. Less minty. I congratulate you. You have saved a soul in distress. Have you considered a career in personal counseling?”
“I’m better at that than constitutional law, apparently.”
Crispus pursed his lips. “Since you brought it up…”
“Go ahead,” Pepper said.
“Your vote on Peester? Honestly, Justice Cartwright. Have you taken leave of your senses? Or have the senses taken leave of you?”
“Four other justices voted with me.”
“Is that your rationale? Majority is the last refuge of scoundrels. Your poor sheriff grandfather must be spinning. And he not even in the grave.”
“Did you come in here just to bitch-slap me?”
“Such elegant language. Are you familiar with the works of Mr. William Shakespeare?”
“I’m named for one of his characters.”
“Pepper? I recall no Pepper in the bardic canon.”
“Perdita. Let’s see if you know your Shakespeare.”
“Winter’s Tale.”
“Two points. Very good.”
“I was thinking more of Polonius.” [27]
“Let me guess. ‘To thine own self be true.’ How original.”
“My, but we’re testy today. Did we sleep on a cactus last night? And here I thought love was an emollient.”
“Who said anything about love? We had dinner.”
“I was attempting, O Wicked Witch of the Wild West, to clarify something you yourself were on the verge of admitting, but, being a lawyer, couldn’t quite bring yourself to stipulate, namely that with these hyper-legalistic rulings you’re handing down, you’ve been trying to act like a Supreme Court Justice, instead of just rendering your own best judgment. You used to be a pretty good judge, back when you stood astride the vast wasteland like a giant. At least in Courtroom Six your rulings had some heart.”
AS SHE WALKED up the redbrick steps of the Georgetown mansion, Pepper felt as though she were approaching the bench. Reflecting on it, she realized it had been a long time since she’d done that. For the last six years or so, it had been others who’d done the approaching, to her.
Supreme Courtship Page 18