Nino and Me

by Bryan A. Garner

  “Do you see that to your left?” I whispered to him.

  “Yep,” he said, turning to his right.

  The woman turned to Justice Scalia and said, “Sir . . . Sir . . . Sir.”

  “What is it you need?” I asked.

  She ignored me and kept trying to get Justice Scalia to respond to her. “Sir . . . Sir.” He didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes focused straight ahead, either on the food or on me.

  Squeaky Fromme came to mind—the Charles Manson family member who tried to assassinate President Gerald Ford in 1975. The woman looked about as I’d imagine Squeaky might look today. I knew that Squeaky had been released from prison and that she had served time in Fort Worth.

  Finally, she looked at me. “I just want to know what he’s having.”

  “Please talk to the waiter.” It goes against my instincts to cut someone off so abruptly, but nothing about this circumstance was normal. She kept reaching into her calico homemade purse on her lap, rummaging around, and I was watching her hands, ready to leap over the table if necessary. I nodded at the marshals, who looked on, but her back was to them and they couldn’t see her hands. She kept fooling around inside her purse for about 60 seconds, which seemed to me like an eternity. Then she put down her purse, having taken out nothing.

  She said something to her companion. Meanwhile, Justice Scalia and I were making small talk about German beer gardens and Bavarian cuisine. I was trying to avoid saying anything that might reveal the identity of my friend: nothing about law.

  The waitress came to take our main order, since we’d shared the appetizer. “You know,” said Justice Scalia, “I think we’ve had just the right amount before we get down to work.”

  “I agree. Just the check, please.”

  I summoned Ralph Tenorio with my hand and had him lean over to my left. “Watch this couple closely. We’re going to get up and leave. Please pay our bill with this.” I handed him a $50 bill. “We’ll walk out through the meat shop. Don’t let her close to him.”

  Adjoining the small restaurant is a butcher’s shop. I asked Justice Scalia to come around to my side of the table. Then I pointed the way, staying between him and the couple every step of the way. This was perhaps the first time that I truly felt as if I was somehow directly taking part in Justice Scalia’s security detail. The feeling would continue in Asia, where I’d essentially be his only bodyguard.

  The strange couple were doubtless just local eccentrics. But one never knows.

  In the old-fashioned meat shop, Justice Scalia was interested in their house-made offerings, such as freshly cut steaks, sauerkraut, and beef jerky. We walked through at a steady pace. About a third of the people did a double take.

  As we got in the car, I said, “Well, there have been lots of Justice Scalia sightings up and down Lovers Lane today. Maybe we’d better retire to the house for a low-key afternoon of work.” That’s what we did.

  An Awkward Visit

  At 4:30 I received a text message from a friend—a political-science professor who happened to be in town: “Where is your house?” Suddenly I remembered that I had agreed some weeks before to have this friend stop by at 4:30. He was having relationship troubles, and I had wanted to offer whatever help I could. Meanwhile, my doctor, who had once spoken on the phone to Justice Scalia about a sore knee when he and I were working in D.C., was to come by at the same time because he was a fan. The doctor had wanted to meet Justice Scalia in person, and I was also hoping that even though this was a casual visit, he might give Justice Scalia a once-over and help with any advice he might need before the Asia trip, especially regarding his back and knees.

  “Oh, no, Nino. I’m sorry, but I’d forgotten that I have the doctor coming over at the same time as a professor friend. You know that Chief Justice Hecht and Harriet Miers are coming over at 6 o’clock. Well, I didn’t plan this very well. But I agreed weeks ago that my old friend, a professor of political science, could stop by for a brief visit.”

  “When will he be here?”

  “Now, I’m afraid. It totally slipped my mind. I can either put you and the doctor in a separate room, and he can talk with you, or else we can open a bottle of wine and all sit down together.”

  “I guess let’s sit down together,” Justice Scalia said.

  The doorbell rang, and on the front step were both the professor and my doctor. I welcomed them in, introduced them to Justice Scalia, and rushed to the wine cellar to grab a bottle of Italian red. The conversation seemed to be going smoothly when I returned, although instinctively I knew this would be a strange mix of people. The professor was pretty clearly left-leaning; the doctor was right-leaning (and a Scalia fan).

  We sat down in the back of the library, and I thought I’d start things off with an icebreaker: “Tell us about your newest book,” I said to the professor. It was a biography of a Washington diplomat of Justice Scalia’s acquaintance. The professor went on at great length about the man’s life—in much more depth, and at much greater length, than I’d expected. He detailed the degree of access that he had to papers, the number of interviews he’d conducted, and the overall approach to the biography.

  Finally, after 15 long minutes or so on this one topic, Justice Scalia asked: “Is the biography positive or negative?”

  “Well, it’s mixed, I’d say,” responded the professor. “Everyone has a bad, dark side, and I try not to sugarcoat that. He has warts. But overall I’d say the reader gets a positive impression.”

  Justice Scalia seemed none too pleased. Perhaps sensing the tension, the doctor tried to change the subject: “I hear you’re about to go to Asia.” It was an awkward transition, but then all the transitions had been slightly uncomfortable in this exchange. I tried to steer things back to something that might interest Justice Scalia, but it wasn’t working. Still, he gamely listened and made a little conversation himself. We talked some about what we’d been working on that afternoon.

  Karolyne walked in and joined us, meeting the professor for the first time. She shook his hand.

  “Bryan says he admires your scholarship,” she said.

  “That’s very nice, but it’s nothing compared to all Bryan’s books. Right now I’m interested in gun rights and the havoc they’re wreaking on American families.”

  I chimed in: “You know, Justice Scalia wrote the groundbreaking Heller decision.”

  “That’s right,” he said with what seemed like hesitant realization. “Yes, I’m aware of that. But I’m interested not in the Founders’ vision, which is quite arguable as you know, but in the policy behind our current framework for gun rights and the way it’s affecting inner-city families especially—and how different this is from families elsewhere in the First World. Essentially, . . .” During the three-minute screed that followed, I watched Justice Scalia, arms crossed, looking up at the ceiling.

  I circled back to one of his earlier statements: “I for one don’t think the Founders’ vision is arguable. I’d be in favor of repealing the Second Amendment, but I think the Heller decision was correct about its meaning.”

  “You’d repeal the Second Amendment?” said the doctor. “I’m a hunter. I like the Second Amendment.”

  “Yes, I would,” I said.

  The professor again: “Well, Heller is shaky as a matter of history—as many scholars have said—but that’s not what I’m interested in.”

  “Lookit,” Justice Scalia interjected. Experience had taught me that “lookit” signaled his growing impatience. “The historical evidence was overwhelming,” he said. “The reference was to the right of the People. The right—not a right. The idea was that there was a preexisting right in English common law. And indeed there was. But my opinion speaks to that. There’s no reason to rehash it here.”

  “The Heller opinion gives an exhaustive history,” I said, “and it’s compelling.”

  “However that may be,” said the professor, “my focus is on the American family and the ravages of widespread gun ownership.�
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  The whole thing was odd, and I thought my professorial guest was being cavalierly disrespectful. As we’d begun, the oddity involved having a person of great eminence in our midst, yet we were either making small talk or focusing unduly on the academic interests of the professor. Many will read this and think that there’s nothing wrong with that. But I’d never been in quite this situation before. Most people would focus their curiosity on Justice Scalia, but that wasn’t happening here. Then the oddity intensified when we shifted from pretty much ignoring Justice Scalia to having the professor disparage one of his most important judicial opinions.

  In retrospect, I realized that I should have trusted my instincts, putting the doctor and Justice Scalia in one room to discuss medical issues while I joined the professor for a brief chat in another.

  The four of us had finished off our bottle of wine—Karolyne was abstaining—when the doctor shifted the conversation back to Justice Scalia’s work with me. It was 5:30 now, and we talked a little about Making Your Case. Justice Scalia seemed agreeable enough until I rose and suggested that he and I sign a book for our two guests. “I don’t think so, I’m tired,” Justice Scalia said, starting toward the staircase to go to his room.

  “Come on, Nino, let’s find a couple of copies and autograph them.”

  “No, I’m going to my room.” Then to the guests: “Nice meeting you.” He walked up the stairs to his room.

  It was an uncomfortable moment. Maybe I’d erred by suggesting the autographs when they hadn’t even been requested—but then I knew that the doctor would appreciate it. Doubtless Justice Scalia was annoyed by the Heller discussion. Unable to find a copy of Making Your Case, I signed two copies of Black’s Law Dictionary. Then Karolyne and I sent our visitors on their way.

  We walked to the kitchen, where Karolyne started prepping our salads for that evening. I’d be grilling steaks. She said she had enjoyed most of the conversation.

  “Gosh, did you hear what he said about Heller?” I asked.

  “Yes, that seemed unnecessary and disrespectful,” she said.

  “Bryan,” Justice Scalia called from the den. He’d come downstairs and was waiting for me, so I walked to the next room.

  “I’m not happy!” he said emphatically, with a big frown. At this point he was whisper-shouting: “You just wasted an hour of my life! I don’t appreciate it. You shouldn’t waste my time!”

  “I’m sorry, Nino.”

  “I could have been working on opinions!”

  I was speechless and flushed.

  “When are Harriet Miers and the chief justice getting here?” he asked, still angry.

  “Six o’clock.”

  “I’ll be in my room until they arrive.”

  “I’m really sorry, Nino.”

  He turned, walked back toward the library stair, and went up to his room. He didn’t exactly slam his door, but the firmness with which he shut it expressed his vexation with no less clarity. I sat glumly in the living room for a few minutes, looking out at the marshals’ car parked in the cross-drive of the front yard and pondering how I’d set in motion the convergence of events that culminated in this calamitous faux pas.

  Then I went into the kitchen, where I figured Karolyne had just overheard the exchange. She’d heard nothing. So I told her, adding: “I think he’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure he will,” she said. “It’s a shame that happened.”

  A More Cordial Visit

  At 6:00 p.m., I saw Chief Justice Hecht and Harriet Miers drive up. I knew from earlier conversations with Justice Scalia that he didn’t really know Harriet at all. This would be a good opportunity for them to talk—not necessarily about the Court, but about things in general. Once nominated by President George W. Bush for the Supreme Court, Harriet is a wise, kind, gentle, centered person with eminently sound judgment. I knew Justice Scalia would enjoy having a meal with her. And of course he’d known Chief Justice Hecht for many years, from the time in the late 1980s when Hecht first became a justice on the Supreme Court of Texas. Their friendship had grown over the years, especially when Justice Scalia came down to Texas in November 2013 to conduct Hecht’s swearing-in as chief justice.

  As Karolyne and I greeted our guests, Justice Scalia appeared atop the front staircase and silently started descending. Both our guests approached him warmly, and he was all smiles as he said hello. This apparent harbinger of his changed attitude proved correct: he was again charming, spirited, and characteristically witty. He stayed that way throughout the evening.

  During dessert, when the five of us had had our fill of steaks and baked potatoes, none of us wanted the conversation to end. I said as much, and we continued talking until about 9:30. About that time, our concern became finding a Catholic church where Justice Scalia could attend Mass the next morning. Harriet suggested Christ the King Catholic Church not far from the house. So we found a weekly Mass that would give us plenty of time to leave for the airport at 10:45.

  Sunday Morning

  The next morning, Karolyne made a hearty breakfast of Nueske’s bacon, snotty eggs, and coffee. Justice Scalia pronounced it excellent. Afterward, Ralph Tenorio rang the doorbell and told us he needed our passports and all the luggage we planned to check. We went upstairs to get them. I told Justice Scalia just to put his bags on the elevator, next to his room, so that we could send them down—so much easier than lugging them down the stairs. It took us just a minute or so to move the bags onto the elevator.

  Karolyne and I noticed that Justice Scalia was planning to carry a garment bag. “I have to do that,” he said. “Otherwise, my suits will get wrinkled.”

  Karolyne said, “Oh, that’s going to be hard for you, Justice Scalia.” (She still didn’t call him “Nino,” even though he signed notes to her that way.) “We can fold it up like Bryan’s garment bag and put it into my bag. I have room.”

  “Well, I have room,” he said, “but I just don’t want the suits getting wrinkled.”

  “Bryan’s are always fine. Let me show you.” She folded the garment bag over, opened her bag, and put it on top of her own clothes. Then she closed the bag.

  “You’re crushing the suit. It’ll get wrinkled.”

  “Trust me, with the garment bag, you’ll be okay. Bryan does it on every trip, and his suits look fine. If you were to carry your garment bag on a 16-hour trip to Hong Kong and then another 4 hours to Singapore, you might leave it on the plane. It’s easy to forget things like that. We’ll have everything pressed when we get to the hotel.”

  “Okay. If you say so.”

  Karolyne had convinced me of this technique, and I’d been using it ever since.

  The marshals loaded our bags and took our passports, saying they’d be back with our boarding passes. For our 11:30 flight, we’d leave the house at 10:45. They had timed everything perfectly. Although we had been all over North America with Justice Scalia, we’d never been on the same flight. This time we were traveling internationally together. Ralph explained that our security clearances would be taken care of in advance: the marshals would have our boarding passes at 10:20 or so. There would be no need for TSA screening: the marshals were taking care of that, with State Department clearance for me and Karolyne.

  We were preparing to attend Mass, and Justice Scalia had already dressed comfortably for our flights. For this long trip, he wore khakis, a light-brown short-sleeve shirt, untucked, and a navy zip-up sweater. He had a black travel pouch hanging from his neck and falling to his abdomen; it would hold important documents such as boarding passes and his passport. I was dressed in a suit, having figured (incorrectly) that Justice Scalia would be as well. “You’re going to travel wearing a tie?” he remarked.

  “No, I’ll change when we get back from church. It’s just that my grandmother taught me always to wear my Sunday best when going to church.”

  “How are you going to change? Aren’t we going straight to the airport?”

  “No. We’ll have 15 minutes at the house aft
er church to cool our heels.”

  At precisely 9:18, one marshal headed for the airport while three others loaded us in for the ride to church. The three of us were in an SUV, and there was a chaser car in front. The marshals had already figured out precisely which entrance we’d use for Christ the King, and access would be no problem: as hundreds of others hunted for parking spots, we drove straight into a portico that had a door to the nave of the church and went inside. (This wasn’t a matter of privilege, mind you, but of security.) We found a pew near the center, where during the entire Mass we remained unnoticed. Unfamiliar with the service ourselves, Karolyne and I followed Justice Scalia’s lead on standing and sitting. Afterward, he expressed surprise at how much he liked this Catholic service in Dallas. “Come on, Nino,” I said. “Dallas is quite a sophisticated city.”

  After we returned to the house, Karolyne and I changed into comfortable travel clothes. Justice Scalia spent a few minutes in the exercise room lifting weights. When I joined him, I had him try the doorsill exercise for his shoulder again. He lasted only 45 seconds at that.

  “Did you put on your compression socks? Did you take an aspirin?” I asked.

  “Compression socks . . . yes. Why an aspirin?”

  “It’s good before a long flight. Don’t you take a baby aspirin every day?”

  “Oh yeah, I do that at night. My doctor told me to.”

  “Good. Let’s take another baby aspirin now. You don’t take any other blood thinners that would cause a problem, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’ll be right back.” I got him a baby aspirin and some tonic water. I thought the quinine in the tonic might do him some good, since it’s supposed to help with muscle tone.

  Karolyne joined us at the breakfast table as he quaffed some tonic water and then said, “Ahhhh. This is really good. Hey, listen. My head gets cold sometimes on flights. Do you have a watch cap? Something like a knit cap?”