Supreme Courtship

“What in the hell is that?” JJ said. “I didn’t understand one damn word.”

“It’s my homework,” Pepper said. “I got to memorize that, along with a thousand other pages just like it.”

“Julius Caesar. You sure you want this job?”

“Suppose.”

“Suppose? That don’t sound like ‘whuppee’ to me.”

“I don’t know, JJ,” Pepper said, suddenly feeling like she was going to cry. “It’s the Supreme Court, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I ought to want it?”

“Wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to me, either way. We’re already proud of you just for being asked. Juanita’s bought a new dress for the hearings. Oh, I’m supposed to ask you-she supposed to curtsy when we meet the President?”

“No, JJ. It’s America. Nobody’s got to curtsy to nobody. We fought a war over that.”

“That’s what I told her.” Pwwttt. “But you know how she is. Hell, she’s about the first person in her family ever to own a pair of shoes.”

“Well, you tell her not to. Tell her I said. You talk to the bishop?”

“Bishop” was the word Pepper and JJ used privately for the Reverend Roscoe.

“I called him on Monday.” Pwwttt. “He called me back on Thursday. I said, ‘Been so long since I called I can’t remember what I was callin’ you about.’ That boy’s got the ma

“Now, JJ,” Pepper said. “You go easy on him. You know Daddy ain’t dealin’ off a full deck.”

Pwwtttt. “I know that. I think he’s got a case of the guiltys. He offered me and Juanita a ride up there to Washington on that plane of his.” JJ chuckled darkly. “Preachers with their own planes. I said to him, ‘So what kind of private plane did the twelve apostles have?’ He didn’t laugh none.”

JJ and his son, Roscoe, had a somewhat textured relationship. Though JJ had never admitted as much, Pepper suspected that he’d taken a major amount of ribbing from his fellow lawmen about his son being the one who told Jack Ruby where he could go shoot Lee Harvey Oswald. JJ was as down-to-earth as asphalt. His idea of a religious experience was a pretty sunset; of religious service, doffing his hat when a hearse went by. He tended toward skepticism in the matter of his son’s ministry, with its rhinestone sermons and televised Sunday services, $20 million private jet and all-female choir that looked like the Dallas Cowgirls got up in angel costumes.

“Now, JJ,” Pepper said, “you don’t mind that plane none when he lets you use it to go trout fishing with your buddies up in Montana.”

“That’s different,” JJ said.

Pepper laughed. “How is that different?”

“It’s putting the plane to some decent use. I don’t mind if he’s flying some kid with cancer to a hospital or whatnot, but most of the time, he’s lendin’ it to politicians so they’ll give his church another tax break. What’s he need another tax break for, I want to know. Hell, he’s already got enough money to burn a wet dog.”

Pepper said, “President’s folks asked me to try to keep him from coming up to the hearings.”

“Can’t say’s I blame ’em.”

“They’re just worried it’ll give the media the excuse to drag up the whole damn Ruby business. I told them under no circumstances. And I told them they ought to be ashamed for asking me. Maybe he’s a little unusual, okay, but he’s my daddy and he’s going to be there.”

JJ snorted. “ ‘Unusual.’ You got that right.”

“Now, JJ Cartwright, you look here,” Pepper said. “It would be nice if while the senators are peeling the bark off me, the two of you weren’t sitting behind me pecking at each other like a pair of snake-bit roosters.”

“Don’t you worry none about that. We’ll be quiet as the Tetons. As for those senators,” JJ pronounced the word with disdain, “if there’s one thing they can do, it’s read polls. You’re about the one thing this country agrees on right now.”

“Well,” Pepper yawned, “we’ll see about that. All right. I’m go

“Love you, too, Pep.”

THE NEXT MORNING at six-fifteen on the set of Courtroom Six, Pepper was sitting in front of the mirror, eyes closed, as the makeup lady was doing her thing when Bob the director entered and, looking embarrassed, said that he had a “couple of notes” for her.

“They’re from Buddy,” he added. “Not me. So you know.”

Pepper opened one eye warily. She was tired from staying up late with Corky’s Gutenberg Bible-sized briefing book. Macadamia residue sat uneasily in her tummy.

“He wants a guilty verdict in the Robinson case. And in the Bofferding case. And in Nguyen v. Rite-Aid, not guilty.”

Pepper cocked her head to one side. Both eyes were open now. She liked Bob. He was an affable old pro in his midsixties, with nothing left to prove professionally, nicely devoid of ego. In six years she and he had had maybe three arguments, all of them forgotten within an hour.

“Bob,” Pepper said, “what in hell are you talking about?”

“Like I said, they’re from Buddy.” Bob shrugged. “I told him you’d probably want to hear it from him directly, but he said for me to tell you. So I have. You look terrific, by the way.”

“Who does he think he is… Hammurabi? Since when does he dictate verdicts?”

“I know. It’s…”

“Well, you tell our producer for me he can kiss my Texas…”

Bob smiled and gestured with open palms-universal sign language for Ireally, really do not want to get involved in this.

Throughout the taping of the Robinson case, which involved a leaf blower that had (allegedly) been used for indecent purposes, Buddy sat in his usual chair behind Bob. Instead of following the proceedings, he ostentatiously thumbed his BlackBerry. Pepper concentrated on the case. When it came time to pronounce the verdict, she said, a little more loudly than usual, “Not guilty,” adding, “and I ought to fine the plaintiff for costs for wasting this court’s time. Shame on you, sir. And you will apologize-right now-to Mr. Gomez here.”

Buddy looked up from his BlackBerry, tapped Jerry on the back, and drew his hand across his throat.

“Cut,” Bob said.

Buddy whispered something to him. Bob rose, walked over to Pepper, crouched down beside her behind the bench.

“Sorry about this, kiddo. Boss says you need to find the guy guilty.”

Pepper, blood pressure rising, said calmly, “He isn’t guilty. He was blowing leaves. He wasn’t aiming under Mrs. Robinson’s skirt on purpose. Look at him. Mr. Gomez hasn’t probably had a sexual thought since he left El Salvador thirty-five years ago.”

Bob nodded and winced. “That was my-right. Right. But he’s the producer. I’m just the schmuck director.”

“And I’m the judge in this courtroom.”

“Nolo contendere. But I’m still just the salaried schmuck.”

“In that case,” Pepper said, “just tell our producer what I said back in makeup. You can finish the sentence, too.”

Bob smiled. “I’m between the rock and the hard place here.”

“You tell the rock what I said he could do.”

“You want me to tell the rock to kiss the hard place’s ass.”

Pepper rose. “Okay,” she said, “stand aside.” She walked over toward Buddy, all eyes on the set and the audience on her. He’d gone back to his BlackBerry.

Pepper said to him in a lowered voice, “Am I interrupting?”

“Problem?” Buddy said, not looking up.

“Not if you let Bob and me get on with it, there isn’t.”

“You have my notes.”

“Since when do you dictate verdicts? Where do you think this is, North Korea?”

“No, I was under the impression it was New York City. Where actors abide by their contracts.”

“I see. So that’s what this is about. Well, stupid old me. Here I thought it was about whether Mr. Gomez was on a beaver hunt up Mrs. Robinson’s skirt.”

“We’ll discuss this later,” Buddy said in a bored tone of voice. “Bob, let’s take it from ‘Mr. Gomez, it is the opinion of this court that you are guilty et cetera et cetera of using a leaf blower with indecent et cetera and sentences you to et cetera.’ ” Buddy turned to Pepper. “And can you put some oomph into it? You’ve been a little flat this morning.”