Supreme Courtship

“My dear,” he said mellifluously, “you don’t make the whistle in this town by knowing things you don’t need to know. My warmest congratulations to you.” He hung up.

She called Buddy, who didn’t answer. She left a message.

“I made a few calls. No one’ll tell me anything, but I guess something happened. Whatever it was, I didn’t have anything to do with it. You’re going to have to believe that. Either way, I hope it isn’t going to end like this for us, leaving messages on each other’s phones.”

The next day after an uneasy sleep in the fetal position, she heard a knock on her hotel room door. Expecting maid service, Pepper opened it to find a man she instantly recognized as a process server, who with some embarrassment handed her two sets of documents, one a suit for divorce, another for breach of contract.

Pepper accepted the papers. She told the man, “Hold on.” She returned and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“What’s this?” he said.

“It’s a tip,” Pepper said.

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

Two days later, the New York Post reported that Judge Cartwright had tipped the process server. The item appeared under the headline CLASS ACTION.

Figuring that Buddy would leak it that he’d served her with papers, Pepper decided she might as well get in the last lick.

DEXTER MITCHELL was at his desk morosely contemplating his future, which, as Judiciary Committee Chairman, did not promise to be long-term. His secretary entered with the news that a Mr. Buddy Bixby was on the phone. His mind raced. What would he be calling about? If it was information that could torpedo his wife’s nomination, he was a day late and a dollar short. Cautiously but curiously, he took the call.

“Senator Mitchell, I’d like to discuss a proposition with you.”

“Proposition,” Dexter said. “Could you be a little more precise?”

“Not over the phone. Is there some way we could meet privately? It probably wouldn’t make sense for us both to be public, given the situation.”

Alarm bells rang in Dexter’s brain, but he was intrigued. He told Bixby that he would be on the Acela train from Washington to Stamford, Co

The next afternoon as the train stopped at Pe

“Feels like a spy movie, huh?” Buddy said.

“What can I do for you?” Dexter said.

“In addition to Courtroom Six,” Buddy said, “I produce a number of other TV shows.”

“Yes,” Dexter said. “People jumping off bridges and eating themselves to death.”

Buddy laughed, “Yeah, well, those are the ones that pay for the quality shows.”

“Mr. Bixby, I’ll be getting off in Stamford in about thirty-five minutes from now. Shall we get to the point?”

“You bet. Ever considered going on TV, Senator?”

Dexter stared. “I ‘go on TV’ all the time. Recently, in fact. You may have seen me. I was on with your wife.”

“Nah. Your own show.”

“What kind of show?” Dexter said, trying not to sound too interested. “I’m not leaping off any bridges. Or gaining five hundred pounds.”

“Nothing like that. Senator, how’d you like to be President of the United States?”

“I tried,” Dexter said drily. “Several times.”

“This time, you win. And you don’t have to enter the Iowa caucuses or the New Hampshire primary. You don’t have to kiss babies or anyone’s ass. You don’t have to pretend you give a shit about the Middle East -”

“Mr. Bixby. I do give a shit about the Middle East.”

“That’s great. Someone has to, right? Look, I’ve been watching you. You were born to play this part. You’ve got this incredible… authority. You really look like the real deal.”

“Thank you. I like to think that I am the real deal. You want me to play a president, is that the idea?”

“Exactly.”

“Like The West Wing?” [17]

“Yeah. But without all the hand-wringing. With balls. Gritty. And sexy. Hot. I’m casting Ramona Alvilar as the First Lady.”

“Really?” Dexter said. “I saw her in what-was-it-called. She’s quite…”

“Hot? Oh,” Buddy chuckled, “let me tell you. I came three times during the meeting.”

Senator Mitchell’s expression suggested to Buddy that this might not have been appropriate. Buddy shrugged. “Figure of speech. You know what sold her on the deal?”

“No,” Dexter said, “I don’t.”

“When I told her I was going to approach you to play the President.”

“Oh. Really.”

“She’s a huge fan.”

“Well. Please tell her that I’m a fan of hers. Look, Mr. Bixby-”

“Buddy. Please.”

“I already have a job. A good one.”

“I recognize that and appreciate that,” Buddy said. “And I respect that. I would say this: if at this moment in your life you’re completely fulfilled, if you feel that you have nothing left to prove, no heights left to scale, then… I’ll shake your hand, thank you for your time, and be out of here. I guess someone in your position, when they retire, they can make a few dollars working for some lobbying firm on K Street, right? On the other hand, if you’re up for taking on something that could be extremely exciting, very high profile, to say nothing of insanely lucrative, then… sleep on it.”

Dexter looked out the window, seeing his own face staring back at him. It was a handsome reflection, he reflected. He tilted his head just so. Yes. It did look presidential. Yes. Yes.

“Are you doing this to spite your wife?” Dexter said.

“Well,” Buddy shrugged, “sure. But there’s also the money.”

IN A VAST MARBLE BATHROOM of a vastly expensive hotel suite with a splendid view of the Washington Monument, Pepper Cartwright, associate justice-designate of the U.S. Supreme Court, was throwing up.

JJ and Juanita hovered on the other side of the door.

“Amor,” Juanita said, “por favor, abre la puerta.”

From Pepper’s side of the door came a hollow, bellowy sound of the kind heard in the sea mammal section of the zoo as feeding time approaches.

“You all right, honey?” JJ said somewhat pointlessly.

“Of course she’s not all right,” Juanita said.

JJ took out his gold pocket watch and said, “Maybe I oughta call the White House.”

“Sí. Call them.”

“What am I supposed to tell ’em?”

“That she’s sick.”

“I can’t tell the President of the United States she’s got her head in the toilet. It ain’t dignified.”

“Tell them that she ate something.”

Pepper, listening to it all from behind the door, said, “I’m all right. Just give me a…” This was followed by another aquatic sound.

She had, to be sure, been through rather a lot at this point and had run through a lifetime’s supply of adrenaline. A few hours earlier, as she lay awake, sweating into her 800-count hotel sheets, staring at the time display on the clock, it had dawned on her that there was now no going back. Her new office was in a marble building that looked like it belonged on the Acropolis. She’d had recurring dreams in which its great bronze doors clanged shut behind her. When she turned around, she saw hooded figures welding the doors shut, to the accompaniment of demonic cackling. She stared into the blue water in the toilet bowl. Even the toilet water looks expensive. The President of the United States and the world media were cooling their heels waiting for her in the Oval Office.

Oh, girl, she thought, struggling to her feet and looking at the ghastly reflection in the mirror. What in hell have you got yourself into?

“What about a nip of bourbon?” JJ suggested through the door.

“No seas tonto, JJ. She can’t have bourbon on her breath for the President,” Juanita said crossly.

“Wasn’t suggestin’ she drink the whole bottle.”

Pepper opened the door, pale, but upright. “All right,” she gasped. “Let’s do this thing.”

[17] Popular TV series about a hand-wringing liberal U.S. president and his hand-wringing liberal staff; based on the novel Let Freedom Wring.