No Way To Treat a First Lady

by Christopher Buckley

  Perri smiled. Let him play her for the dumb blonde. The freckled dweeb would eat his words. Indeed, she felt confident enough to challenge him, right there and then, to a $1,000 bet. Crudman fell for it.

  Next morning, while watching the day’s proceedings on TV, Perri felt a warm wave of satisfaction wash through her when she saw on the screen a distinctly weary-looking Boyce—had he cut himself shaving?—approach the bench, along with an amazed, eager Deputy Attorney General Clintick. Judge Dutch leaned forward, then seemed to recoil into his black leather throne like an astronaut pinned by the G-force of blastoff. He recovered, leaned forward again, in an attitude, Perri thought, of barely controlled amazement. His face said, “Counsel, are you quite sure?” Boyce nodded, as if accepting reluctantly the terms of a plea bargain he had just resoundingly lost. Judge Dutch stroked his chin, waved the lawyers away from his bench like so many flies, and instructed the clerk to remove the jury. Even on television you could hear the excitement rippling through the courtroom. Clerks who had not moved in so long that some viewers were surprised to find they were actually alive and not wax effigies were suddenly all attention, heads flicking this way and that like aroused cobras.

  So began the fierce deliberations by a sleepless, frustrated Boyce to try to render his client’s entire prior life history inadmissible. His one consolation was that no tape recording existed of a 911 emergency call to the police from the late President, with him saying, “Help! It’s my wife! She’s attacking me with a spittoon!” So far as he knew.

  President Harold Farkley was in the middle of a meeting with various princes of a Middle Eastern kingdom. He hoped to persuade them to increase their oil production in time to lower prices at the gas pump before the upcoming presidential election. He knew that in return they would ask him to sell them advanced U.S. fighter jets, ostensibly to protect their oil but really to annoy the Israelis. Thus the intractable American position in the Middle East: pleading with Arabs for more oil while providing their enemy with the latest weapons. Another day at the White House.

  The chief of staff approached the President’s chair from behind and whispered the news into his ear. President Harold Farkley’s eyes went vacant in surprise.

  “News about the trial?” Prince Blandar inquired.

  The President wondered if he should pretend it was something else. “Just a minor development. Nothing, I assure you, as important as meeting with you and Their Royal Highnesses.”

  One of the other princes asked his cousin to translate.

  “His Royal Highness Wazir says that he thinks it was the FBI man, not the Secret Service man, who impressioned the President’s forehead.”

  President Farkley smiled thinly and thanked His Royal Highness for this valuable insight, then tried to steer the conversation back to fossil fuels. One of the other princes began remonstrating heatedly in his native tongue with Prince Wazir. Prince Blandar translated: “His other Royal Highness is expressing to his cousin his belief that the President fell onto the silver expectoration receptacle.”

  He leaned in closer to the President. “What is your own belief, Mr. President?”

  Harold Farkley had not been designed by nature for such critical moments. He knew this. He also knew that the right answer might open those lovely oil faucets a crack and float him to victory in November on a soft black cushion.

  “Your Highness,” he said, “there are times when I think that the United States could learn a thing or two about justice from some of her allies, such as your own kingdom. You certainly don’t let lawyers bring your fine country to its knees! Ha ha.”

  Prince Blandar nodded appreciatively. “It is true. A matter such as this would have been taken care of very differently. Several years ago, one of the princesses threatened her husband. It was taken care of the next day. A simple death notice was published the week following. On page seven. End of matter.”

  “Yes, well, it’s certainly been a distraction. I’ll be sure to pass along what you said to our attorney general and the secretary of state, who I know is very much looking forward to his upcoming visit with the King. Now about the oil …”

  Alan Crudman was in a foul temper the next night on Hard Gavel at having been aced out of $1,000 by Perri. He told the viewers Perri had obviously gotten her information from inside sources, whereas he had based his judgment on “legal scholarship.” She made him write out a check right then and there, to her favorite charity: a home for the emotionally troubled children of divorce lawyers.

  Perri glowed that night on TV. Immediately after the show, she got a call from the head of one of the big three networks—who as it happened was himself recently separated from his second wife—telling her how impressed he was, not just by Perri’s uncanny acuity, but by her show in general, and how he very much wanted to meet with her at her earliest convenience to discuss a possible relationship. With the network, of course. Was she by any chance free for dinner that night? … She was? Why, good, good … La Grenouille? Excellent. Everything was so good there. The soufflés!

  He’d done his homework.

  Faced with potential disaster, Boyce determined to get it all out on the table in his direct examination. He wouldn’t leave anything for DAG Clintick, who was salivating to get her turn at Beth.

  “Mrs. MacMann,” he said, trying to look thrilled that his client was now finally getting the chance to tell her side of the story, “did you kill your husband?”

  “No.”

  There. See? She’s innocent. No further questions.

  “Did you and your husband ever fight?”

  “Yes. Often.”

  “Did you ever throw things at your husband?”

  “Yes. On at least eight occasions that I can recall. We had a pretty spirited marriage.”

  “What did you throw at him?”

  “Anything I could lay my hands on.”

  People laughed.

  “Such as?”

  Beth considered. “I recall … a book, a paperweight, a stapler … a carton of milk, a shoe—high-heeled—and, oh, the lamp.” It sounded like a shopping list.

  “Lamp?”

  “A desk lamp. It was not a valuable antique, but it did make an impression on him.”

  More laughter. Judge Dutch glared owlishly.

  “Did it require stitches by the White House physician?”

  “Yes, it did. Four, I believe. Possibly more. I got him pretty good.”

  Judge Dutch said that if he heard one more titter, he would order the TV cameras out of the courtroom and clear it of spectators. A billion spectators trembled at the thought.

  “Was this incident covered up, for the press?”

  “Yes, it was. The press secretary said that Ken—my husband—had swallowed a pretzel and passed out and hit his chin on the way down, nearly killing the dog.”

  “You say you threw things at the President eight times?”

  “While we were living in the White House. I threw things at him on other occasions, before.”

  “I see. Were these incidents the result of what you might call normal marital stress?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Did you throw things at your husband because he made you angry for a particular reason?”

  “Of course. It wasn’t just target practice, Mr. Baylor.”

  Judge Dutch almost laughed himself.

  “Did you throw things at him for a good reason?”

  “Objection.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Did you throw these things at him because you felt he had betrayed you?”

  Beth paused. “My husband is dead, Mr. Baylor. He’s not here to account for himself, so I would just as soon not go into that.”

  “Objection.”

  Judge Umin directed the witness to answer the question that had been put to her by her own defense counsel.

  “I respectfully decline to answer that, Your Honor.”

  “I withdraw the question.” />
  “Objection.”

  Judge Dutch drummed his fingers on the bench. He waved the lawyers up. Boyce was instructed to instruct his client to answer the question.

  “Because,” Beth said, “I was upset with him.”

  “Mrs. MacMann, are you a bitch?”

  Murmurmurmur.

  “I hope not. I’ve tried not to be. But in politics some people inevitably are not satisfied.”

  “Are you familiar with the nickname Lady Bethmac?”

  “Yes. It’s a pun on the awful wife of a king in Shakespeare’s play Macbeth. She was a bitch.”

  “How did the name Lady Bethmac get attached to you?”

  “Let’s see. One, I caused a number of people at the White House to be dismissed. Two, the people who were dismissed were not happy about this. Three, newspaper headline writers find it hard to resist a good pun.”

  “Did you cry at your husband’s funeral at Arlington National Cemetery?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Why?”

  “I did my crying that day in private. I have tried, to the extent possible, not to express personal emotions publicly.”

  “Is that why you never threw anything at your husband in public?”

  “I suppose.”

  “The night he died, did you hear anything unusual?”

  “I heard a noise, yes.”

  “Did you investigate it?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “My husband was often up in the middle of the night. He was the President of the United States. It’s a 24/7 job.”

  “The antique silver spittoon made by Paul Revere, why was that in your room?”

  “It’s handsome, quintessentially American. And my husband liked it. He liked to crumple pieces of paper at night and try to get them in, like a basketball hoop.”

  “Why were your fingerprints on it?”

  “It was in my bedroom, Mr. Baylor. I moved it all the time. People do that with objects in their own bedrooms.”

  “Just a few more questions, Mrs. MacMann. Why didn’t you and the President have children?”

  Beth looked at her lap. “It was not for want of trying. I miscarried twice, earlier in our marriage.”

  “Did you continue to try to have children?”

  “Yes. I very much wanted children. I tried very hard.”

  “After the President’s death, you were questioned four separate times by the FBI. According to the 302 forms—that is, the FBI reports of those discussions—you did not once request to have an attorney present. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you also aware that you were under no legal obligation or compulsion even to speak with the FBI?”

  “I was aware of that. I’m a lawyer myself.”

  “Why did you speak to the FBI?”

  “I wanted to tell them what I knew.”

  “Why didn’t you have a lawyer present when you did?”

  “I had nothing to hide.”

  “Even when you became aware that you were a suspect?”

  “I still had nothing to hide. Nor do I now. That’s why I am testifying.”

  “Thank you. Your witness, Ms. Clintick.”

  Chapter 22

  Beth was in a jubilant mood. They were on their way back to the Jefferson after her testimony. The last time Boyce had seen her this happy was in the 1970s. When they’d walked out of the courthouse minutes ago, the spectators had done something they hadn’t before. They’d applauded. Now she was hugging Boyce’s arm in the car, nuzzling him, saying, “See?”

  He smiled gamely, but his mood didn’t match hers. He felt like the Japanese admiral on December 7, 1941, pacing the bridge of the Akagi, thinking, They are going to be so-oo pissed.

  When they reached the war room on Boyce’s floor, everyone there applauded. Beth gave a little stage bow and a victory sign.

  Boyce wasn’t about to ream them out in front of her, but it made him boil. It was a violation of his most sacred rule: Do not tempt the gods. And most sacred rule (b): It’s not over until the jury foreman says, “Not guilty.”

  But now here Vlonko came up to them, saying that Jeeter was “off the charts.” During Beth’s testimony, he reported, most of the jurors had sat there “nodding up and down like those fucking rear dashboard puppies.” He reported that Judge Dutch had had his clerk go back to the jury room before the lunch break and tell them to cut it out with the nodding.

  “Maybe he’ll have to put fucking hoods over them!” Vlonko chortled.

  It was good news. Still, this postvictory atmosphere in his war room was making Boyce very nervous. He could hear the gods murmuring, could hear the clanky sound of Vulcan’s smithy as he pounded out lightning bolts.

  The associate in charge of media monitoring came up, beaming like a July sunflower, to tell Beth breathlessly that the National Association of Former First Ladies had issued a statement supporting her. This was significant. The NAFFL was one of the most powerful lobbies in Washington.

  There was more: The television commentators were beside themselves over her performance. The associate paused in mideffusion to tell Boyce that he, too, was getting good reviews. Beth went off to watch for herself, leaving Boyce alone in the crowded room with his darkling presentiments.

  Phone call for you, Boyce, line five. Judge Dutch’s clerk.

  The prosecution had just requested—and had been granted—a three-day recess. They needed time to serve subpoenas on several new witnesses.

  A string of four-letter words went through Boyce’s head.

  Who were the witnesses?

  The list is being faxed to you right now.

  Boyce hung up. Beth emerged from the media room, all excitement. Like Marilyn Monroe returning from her world tour to tell Joe DiMaggio, “You never heard such cheering!” Someone on TV had proposed that as soon as the trial was over, Beth should announce her candidacy—for president!

  Boyce, fax for you. Just came in.

  He read the names. There were three. Lonetta Sue Scutt. Who was this?

  He led Beth into his study and closed the door and showed her the list. She read it. Remarkable how quickly facial muscles could rearrange themselves.

  Beth explained about Lonetta Sue Scutt. “Is she going to be a problem?” she asked.

  “By the time I’m through with her she’ll be so radioactive they won’t allow her in tunnels. But tell me about Damon Blowwell. And about Dr. Mark Klatz.” He sat down. “Tell me all about them.”

  “Damon was Ken’s political director. Before that, he was his campaign mana—”

  “I read the papers, Beth. I know who he is. Tell me why he’s suddenly a prosecution witness.”

  Beth considered. “I’m not sure.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  “I don’t know. Damon and I got along all right. I mean, he wasn’t … well, he didn’t really like me. But I don’t know why he’d be out to get me.”

  “Why didn’t he like you?”

  “He and Ken were very close. I was the pain-in-the-ass wife. You know how tribal men can be.”

  “Did he have any specific reason not to like you?”

  “He thinks I killed Ken. That would be his main reason, I’d guess.”

  “Any other reasons?”

  “During the primaries—this was before he stopped drinking and got religion—he was putting out word that one of the wives of the other candidates was a lesbian who was having a hot-and-heavy with her trainer. I told him to cut it out. Came down on him sort of hard. But I mean, it was no big thing.”

  “He’s coming to testify against you. That is a big thing.”

  Beth considered. “He was in Vietnam.”

  “Not another war hero.”

  “Green Berets. I only heard him talk about it once. It was late, we were all stuffed into this little plane. It had been a long day. And he talked about what he did in the war. It was … kinda out there. If I’d been the Viet Cong, I wouldn’
t have wanted to have Damon with his knife crawling into my hootch in the middle of the night.”

  “Wonderful. We have a hostile Green Beret on our hands. But why is he hostile? We’ve got three days to find out. I can put my people on it, but it would be helpful if you could give us some direction.”

  “It’s funny.”

  “What, possibly, could be funny?”

  “I’m on trial for assassination. And Damon was an assassin. I mean, that was his job. They had a name for it, even. Wet work. He and Ken used to joke about how it was perfect training for politics. But I don’t know why he’d be testifying. Sorry.”

  “Well, when you’re not glued to the TV listening to people talk about how you should run for president, try to come up with something.”

  “Are we feeling hostile?”

  “We are feeling that everyone is being way too overconfident. Who is Dr. Mark Klatz? Did he advise you which spot on Ken’s head to aim for with the spittoon?”

  “He’s my gynecologist.”

  “Jesus. And why would your gynecologist be testifying against you?”

  “It’s just none of their damn business.”

  “What is ‘none of their damn business’? … Be-th?”

  Deputy Attorney General Clintick put Dr. J. Mark Klatz on the stand first. To Boyce this meant that he was the government’s weakest witness. Damon Blowwell she’d scheduled third. That meant his testimony was the most devastating. He had six investigators poring over Damon Blowwell’s military records, tax records, credit records, school records. With any luck, it would turn out that he massacred innocent civilians and was an alcoholic wife beater. Beth still swore she had no idea what he had against her.

  The deputy AG spent an hour going over Dr. Klatz’s impeccable credentials. Boyce already knew how impeccable they were.

  He was low-key, in his early sixties, with glasses. His first name was Julius, apparently in honor of the eponymous Roman emperor whose birth gave us the term C-section. He had headed up the OB-GYN department at Mount Sinai Hospital. He’d advised the United Nations committee that was trying to get African countries of fundamentalist Islamic bent to outlaw the practice of cutting off the clitorises of young girls to discourage them from having sex. He wrote newspaper op-ed articles deploring this barbaric form of chastity enforcement. In short—and he was that, too, which somehow enhanced his professional aura—he was the sort of person you would want peering between your legs, going, “Hmm …”