Nino and Me

by Bryan A. Garner

  “Nino,” I said. “What’s going to happen to your papers?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t made any plans. They’re a mess. Most of them are down in the basement of the Court. The Chief has said he’d pay to have someone get them in order for me.”

  “That’s a good idea. But what about placing them? They could have a lot of historical value—or even historic value.”

  “I suppose they’ll go to the Library of Congress.”

  “Hmm. You know there are great libraries that pay large sums of money for the papers of important writers and political figures. Lyne serves on the board of the Harry Ransom Center in Austin.”

  “I do,” she said, “and we acquire literary archives—like the David Foster Wallace papers. Those are much in demand among literary scholars. They’re used all the time.”

  “You mean I could sell my papers?”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said. “It depends on what you’ve kept. I’ve always had the sense that you throw a lot of stuff away.”

  “I do.”

  “That’s a shame. Even my letters to you?”

  He smiled. “Oh, I think I’ve kept some of those.”

  “I trust that you’ve kept the letter that George H. W. Bush wrote to Maureen about the flag-burning case.”

  “The one where he defended me because he’d heard that Maureen was unhappy with my vote?”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, we have that one at home.”

  “If I could time-travel and advise you at the outset of your career,” I said, rehearsing a familiar fantasy of mine, “I’d tell you to file everything meticulously.”

  “Well, you can’t, now, can you?” he said.

  “What about seeing whether a university library has any interest in paying to acquire your papers? Maybe Harvard will have an interest. Maybe Texas.”

  “Could you look into it?”

  “I will. Are you officially retaining me?”

  “I hereby retain you officially.”

  “Okay, I’ll be acting as your agent in seeing about placing your papers. I’ll start with some informal inquiries. Perhaps I’ll begin by calling some literary archivists I know.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Depending on what you have, we might place your papers in a way that would make them well maintained and at the same time bring in some money for your family.”

  “You mean my colleagues have been foolish to put their papers in the Library of Congress without compensation?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what the rules are about what you own and what the government owns.”

  “I think the papers are mine to dispose of as I please—just like a president’s papers. But I’d want a moratorium in place. No one should see my papers until after the death of the last colleague with whom I’ve served. I didn’t like what happened with Thurgood Marshall’s papers. That was atrocious.”

  He was referring to the upset caused to members of the Court when no provision had been made to seal Justice Marshall’s papers for any period after the Justice had died. So within six months of his death, all sorts of Court memos that might have been seen as confidential were immediately opened up to public access. In 1993, Chief Justice Rehnquist had written a stinging letter about it to the Library of Congress—to no avail.

  “Do you have a literary executor?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Don’t you think you need one?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You do have a will, don’t you?”

  “Of course. Maureen and I both do.”

  “There was a Texas Court of Criminal Appeals judge many years ago, a friend of my grandfather’s, who died intestate. It was a major problem for his widow, who was his second wife. Anyway, it sometimes happens that judges, of all people, die intestate. The British scholar Jarman, who wrote the big two-volume treatise Jarman on Wills, died intestate.”

  “He did?” Justice Scalia asked.

  “He did. Anyway, now that you have literary property—our two books—you probably need to name a literary executor.”

  “Hmm.” He was silent for 15 seconds or so, rubbing the cuticle of his thumb on his lower lip.

  “I’ll do something about it when I get back. It’s called a ‘literary executor’?”

  “Right. The point is that you need someone who can make good decisions about your literary property. Plus, you’ll have your published speeches soon, and all the interviews that we’ll soon be doing about your life—and the book that will come from that. This is all pretty important.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Well, of course there’s no rush. It won’t affect anything for another 22 years, since you’ll live past 100.”

  “I do hope. How’s the book on precedent coming—with the circuit judges?” He switched the subject abruptly.

  “It’s going to be excellent,” I said. “I’m just struggling right now with organization.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “It needs the benefit of your kind of architectural genius. I’m consolidating here and there, and reorganizing. I’m trying to do what you would do. I just don’t have your gift for structure.”

  “How long is it?” he asked.

  “It’ll be about 900 pages—a third longer than Reading Law.”

  “I could spend some time with it this summer. How long do you think it would take me?”

  “At least a week, Nino. Could you actually spare that time?”

  “For you, I’d be happy to. Of course.”

  “My goodness.” I got a lump in my throat knowing the commitment he was making in time and effort. “Are you sure?”

  “You say it needs my help. I’ll give it a week. I’ll see what I can do. It’s an important project. What’s a week between friends?”

  “Thank you, Nino. I’ll get it into the best shape I can before I send it to you.”

  Our State Department handler, Alissa, came in and told us we should move on to the van, to go to the terminal. She said our bags had already been loaded, so all we had to do was be driven to the terminal. She added that we were short on time.

  The Flight Home

  When we got to the terminal, I suggested to Justice Scalia that we should get some duty-free Scotch. “That sounds good. But we can get Scotch back in America.”

  “Yes, Nino, but sometimes they have Scotches not available domestically, and it’s usually at pretty good prices.”

  “Do we have time?” Justice Scalia asked.

  “Let’s make time,” I said, perhaps overconfidently. “Alissa, let’s find a duty-free shop.”

  “We’re boarding in 15 minutes,” said Justice Scalia.

  “We’ll be fine, Nino. Boarding starts in 15 minutes, at 12:50, but the gate won’t close until 1:20—that’s 45 minutes from now. We have time. The gate is just 50 yards that way.”

  We had to walk about 100 yards the other way to get to the duty-free shop. Karolyne was worried, but Justice Scalia was game. As we walked, I took his briefcase and put it on my rolling briefcase, leaning against the long handles, so he’d have both hands free. “Be careful with that,” he said.

  “Of course, Nino.”

  We strolled briskly down to the duty-free shop. Once there, we started looking together at some of the liquor they offered.

  “Bryan, we’re walking to the gate in five minutes,” said Karolyne.

  “Fine. I see what I want. We’ll have time to spare. Good thing you don’t smoke anymore, Nino. They sell lots of cigarettes here. I haven’t seen you smoke in a very long time.”

  I rolled my briefcase over to Alissa’s assistant and said, “Please watch this. Just keep it like this.” The handle was angled toward her so that Justice Scalia’s briefcase would remain securely on top. I picked out a single-malt whisky and a tawny port and then asked Justice Scalia whether he wanted anything. He said no. I pulled out my credit card to pay.

  Suddenly
there was a small thud a few feet away. Alissa’s assistant had let go of the handle on my rolling briefcase, and Justice Scalia’s briefcase had fallen to the ground.

  “I knew that was going to happen! Dammit!” Justice Scalia was furious.

  “It shouldn’t have happened. Here, please give that to me,” I said to the demure assistant as I reached for Justice Scalia’s briefcase. I’m sure she was mortified.

  “No, give it to me, dammit. Maureen’s bracelet is in there, and it’s surely broken!”

  “It’ll be fine. I’m sure it’s not broken.”

  He was fuming. I called off the transaction, and we started toward the gate.

  “They’re already boarding!” said Karolyne. “You and your Scotch! You had to get your Scotch.”

  “The bracelet’s broken,” Justice Scalia said. “I know it’s broken,” he said as the five of us marched toward the gate.

  “Well, let’s open the briefcase and check right now,” I said.

  “No. I’ll check after we board. It’s broken. I know it.”

  “I’m pretty sure it isn’t. We’ll know soon enough.”

  “What if it is?”

  “Then we’ll get an exact replacement. But again, I think it’s going to be fine.”

  He shook his head and grew quiet, his shoulders hunched. All his body language radiated anger as he stomped alongside me toward the gate. Alissa got us to the front of the business-class line. The gate agent scanned our boarding passes, and within seconds we were on the jet bridge.

  “What seats are we in?” I said.

  “Let’s see,” said Justice Scalia. Suddenly the anger seemed to have disappeared. “I’m in 14J.”

  “Bryan, we’re in 4E and 4H,” said Karolyne. “Why don’t you take my seat again, Justice Scalia?”

  “No,” he said jovially, “Bryan gives me too much work!”

  As we boarded, I accompanied him back to 14J. We opened up the briefcase together. “It had better be okay!” he said in a monitory tone. It was. Karolyne had wrapped it in tissue paper, and it was perfectly preserved.

  “Again, I’m sorry, Nino. I can’t believe she let it fall that way, but I shouldn’t have entrusted her with it. At least we’re in good shape, everything’s fine, and Maureen’s going to love that bracelet.”

  “You think she will?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  “I really hope it fits her. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “It’s beautiful, Nino. What will you need for the trip? Let’s get it out now, and then I’ll put up your briefcase.” By now we had been reminded many times how painful it was for him to try to reach up to the overhead bin.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said. “You know that stone ball you bought?”

  “Yes.”

  “If it really does glow in the dark, I think you got your money’s worth.”

  “Believe me, Nino, it does. Funny you should bring that up. It glows.”

  He was soon settled, so I went up to 4E to get myself situated for the flight. The three of us had identical lie-flat seats, television monitors, and headphone sets. Within a couple of minutes, he was up beside Karolyne, since they were on the same aisle. “Lyne, I need to get something else out of my briefcase. I forgot the knit cap. Can you help me?” She went back to his seat to get his briefcase down. She suggested keeping it in her own overhead bin, but he insisted that it be in his.

  I slept most of the flight. Twice I woke up and went back to check on Justice Scalia. Both times he was sitting upright, knit cap on his head, noise-canceling headphones on, mouth open, snoring just a bit. Karolyne would tell me later that while I was sleeping, he came up to check on us three or four times. One time she was sleeping with her monitor on, and he shook her arm. Here’s how she reported it to me:

  “What are you watching?” he asked, still wearing his headphones.

  “Oh, some trashy movie. I was just dozing. How are you?”

  “Good flight, isn’t it? Ooh, I watched a good movie,” he said. “The one with Tom Hanks in it.”

  “Bridge of Spies?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one. You ought to watch it. It’s great on attorney–client privilege. It’s just a great lawyer film. I love Tom Hanks.”

  “Me too,” she said. “I’ll watch it.”

  “He’s out like a light, isn’t he?” Justice Scalia said, nodding at me. “I’ll check on you later. I’m going to see what other movies they have.”

  Finally, after 15 hours in the air, we landed at Dallas–Fort Worth International Airport. Everyone scrambled to get things out of the overhead bins and get off the plane. The crowded aisles made it impossible for me to get back to Justice Scalia. Karolyne handed me his suit bag. “Let’s meet him on the jet bridge,” I said. But I would have to meet her there as well because even though we had been seated beside each other, we were on separate aisles.

  Being among the first two or three off the plane, I waited a few feet away in the little bulge in the jet bridge. Karolyne soon came off and said she’d go out to the gate to meet the marshals—doubtless the same ones who had dropped us off 12 days before. She took the suit bag outside with her. It took about three minutes for Justice Scalia to come into view from the door. He came off and said, “Did Lyne get my suit bag?”

  “Yes, she took it on out. Safe and sound.”

  “I need to get into my briefcase,” he said, handing it to me. We propped it on my knee as he opened it. He said, “Oh no! I’ve forgotten something.”

  “Nino, the bracelet is right here. You’ve got both your iPods. Is it a document?”

  “No, it’s not that.” People were flooding past us. “I’ve got to go back to my seat.”

  “What is it, Nino? Let’s get out to the marshals. They can get whatever it is.”

  “No. I have to go back and get it.”

  “There are still 200 people trying to get off. What is it? I’ll go get it.”

  “Never mind. I’ve got to go back.”

  He wouldn’t tell me what it was he’d left behind, and now he was fighting the crowd to get back to his seat, some six seats back from the plane’s entrance, on the far aisle. I wondered what this mysterious thing was. It took 60 seconds for him to get back to the far aisle, turn right, and disappear from my view. Two flight attendants were telling everyone, “Thank you for flying American.” Again and again.

  I knew the marshals must be wondering what was going on. If I was worried with what little information I had, they must have been really worried. I texted Karolyne that Justice Scalia had gone back onto the plane to retrieve something. After three minutes with no sign of him, I urgently told one of the flight attendants: “I need your help. There’s a United States Supreme Court Justice on board. Actually, he needs your help. He’s trying to get something from his seat: 14J. Please go back and help him. I don’t know what’s wrong. It’s Justice Scalia.”

  Seeing my distress, and concerned herself, she went back down the far aisle, going against the onslaught of exiting passengers. No one getting off seemed concerned about having seen something troubling, so I felt comforted by that. “Where is he?” Karolyne texted me.

  “Back at his seat,” I replied. “Flight attendant helping.”

  After what was probably another 90 seconds but felt like an eternity, he came into view again, smiling. “I’ve got it!”

  “What in the world was it?”

  “Your knit cap!” He pulled it from behind his back with a flourish.

  “Oh, goodness, Nino. You had me really worried.”

  “I said I’d borrow it, and I had to return it!”

  We walked off the jet bridge, where Karolyne was standing with four U.S. marshals, including Ralph Tenorio. Justice Scalia handed the cap back to her. “Your cap, madam!”

  Last Embraces

  We strode toward the nearby exit. “You really had me worried, Nino. We didn’t need that cap back.”

  “I couldn’t not return it to you. I wasn’t raise
d that way. It would have disappointed my mother.”

  “Well, thank you.” I paused. “Nino, we’ve gotten you safely back to U.S. soil. The whole way, none of us got sick—not even a cold.”

  “You know, that’s right,” he said.

  “We’re all healthy,” I said, “and you’ve made a little progress on that frozen shoulder.”

  “Not much on the shoulder. But it has been a great trip. This has been wonderful.”

  Ralph explained that we’d have to go retrieve our bags with two marshals, who would recheck Justice Scalia’s bags to Washington, D.C. But Justice Scalia would be going to a holding room near his gate.

  “This is as far as we go,” Ralph said.

  “So it’s time to say goodbye?” I asked.

  “It’s so quick, isn’t it?” Karolyne said to Justice Scalia.

  “It really is,” he said.

  “Goodbye, Nino,” I said, with my arms outstretched for a hug. I don’t think I’d ever hugged him before. It was a little awkward for him, but we embraced. Then he gave Karolyne a big hug and said goodbye.

  “Thank you both for everything,” he said to us. “And say thanks again to your family, Lyne.”

  “We love you, Nino,” I said. He paused but said nothing. He seemed a little choked up.

  “We love you,” Karolyne said.

  “It’s been a great trip,” Justice Scalia said. “I’ll see you both again soon.”

  He turned in the direction that one of the marshals motioned toward. Karolyne and I waited as he walked some 100 feet down the hall, rounded the corner, and disappeared from our sight.

  Telephone Volleys

  He called us the next day, on Friday, February 5, to report that Mrs. Scalia’s bracelet didn’t fit. He was crushed. Karolyne joined me on the speakerphone and said she had another jade bracelet more oval in shape. We sent it by FedEx that afternoon for Saturday delivery.

  He called again on Saturday and left a voicemail. The oval one didn’t fit, either. He suggested exchanging the bracelet for a jade necklace. He asked us to assure the jade dealer that he would pay any difference in cost. Karolyne called her aunt in Hong Kong to arrange the exchange.