Supreme Courtship

Another way of putting it was: two women, one African-American, two Jews, one Hispanic, and-Hayden smiled. His i

Native American, Hayden corrected himself: the very first ever to be named to the high court. Yes, he was sure Vanderdamp would go for him. Vanderdamp was as American as a Jell-O mold. How more American could you get than someone named Russell Ru

Hayden’s phone rang. “The President, Mr. Cork, for you.”

Excellent, Hayden thought. He sat up straight in his chair, a habit even after two and a half years and how many thousands of presidential phone calls.

“Good morning, Hayden.”

“Good morning, sir.”

“And what are you doing in the office on a Saturday?” It was a little routine they had.

“Attending to the people’s business, sir.”

“Good, good. And how sails the ship of state?”

“Steadily, sir, steadily.”

He sounded relaxed. Camp David usually had that effect. The private bowling alley. The sandpaper grit in yesterday’s conversation was gone.

Hayden was not one to waste presidential weekend time on persiflage. “I’ve got those names for you. And the one at the top of the list is one I think you’re going to like. I guarantee it’ll give our friend Senator Mitchell a case of third-degree heartburn.”

“What do you know about a Judge Pepper Cartwright?” the President said.

Odd question. “The television personality?”

“She has a show called Courtroom Six.”

“I don’t watch TV. Other than the news shows. Would you like some information on her?”

“No, no. I want to see her.”

“Is there a particular episode that you’d like me to locate for you?”

“No, Hayden. I want to see her. Judge Cartwright. In the flesh. I want to meet with her. Right away.”

“Very well, sir,” Hayden said, mystified. “I’m sure she’ll be flattered.”

“Oh,” the President chuckled softly, “I expect she will be. Call her right away.”

“Yes, sir. And what should I tell her is the purpose of the meeting?”

“Well, I’d be a little coy about that over the phone.”

“Coy, sir? I’m not sure I follow.”

“You haven’t had your second cup of coffee, Hayden,” the President said. “I want to talk to her about the Bri

Hayden Cork’s universe stood still.

“I’m not trying to be obtuse, sir,” Hayden stammered. “But I’m not sure I’m… tracking here.”

“The Court, Hayden.”

Hayden Cork tried to speak. His tongue refused to obey the signals being transmitted from the brain. All he could say was, “Not the Bri

“Why? Is there another opening? Did a justice croak in the night?”

“Not to my… No, sir.”

“All right, then. Call her. Call her right now. Get her up to Camp David -today. Tomorrow at the latest. Be easier, a whole lot easier, to talk to her up here than back at the office with the whole darned press corps listening at the keyhole. Vultures.”

Say something, Hayden thought, like a man struggling against an enveloping coma. Do not let him terminate the conversation. Do not let him hang up.

“Sir… have you… discussed this with Mr. Cle

Graydon Cle

“Hayden,” the President said. “I know what I’m doing.”

Panic-panic of the pulse-pounding, skin-dampening, sphincter-tightening type-gripped Hayden Cork like a boa constrictor. How many times had those awful words-“I know what I’m doing”-been uttered throughout history as prelude to disaster? The night before Waterloo in Napoleon’s tent? In the Reichschancellery before invading Soviet Russia? Before the “cakewalk” known as Operation Iraqi Freedom?

“Mr. President,” Hayden croaked, “I really must-”

“Thank you, Hayden. Good-bye, Hayden.”

“But-”

“Thank you, Hayden.”

“Sir-Mr. President? Hello?”

Hayden Cork cradled the phone. Outside, the sun was shining, birds were chirping, bumblebees bumbled, but there was no springtime now in his heart; only winter, and a harsh wind shrieking through leaf-stripped trees.

His temples throbbed. He hesitated, then picked up the phone and gasped to the White House operator, “Get me Graydon Cle

Less than fifteen minutes later, Cork ’s phone rang. Graydon Cle

“Yes, Hayden,” he said without a

“Where are you?”

“ Beijing.”

“Damn,” Hayden said.

“At di

Graydon Cle

“You need to get back here,” Hayden said. “You need to get back here right away. I’ll send a plane.”

Cle

“No, no, no, he’s fine. No, he’s not fine. He’s gone off the deep end. He’s completely and totally lost it.”

“Hayden,” said Cle

Hayden summarized the situation.

There was a long pause at the other end, followed by a baritone “Hmm,” a preliminary note on a large organ signaling the key of the hymn about to be played.

“I’ll be back in Washington on Tuesday,” Cle

“He told me to get her up to Camp David -today.”

“Hayden. Short of nuclear warheads that have already been launched, there is no situation that ca

“What am I supposed do?” Hayden said.

“Tell him anything. That she’s realizing a lifelong ambition and climbing Mount Kilimanjaro. Temporize, Hayden. Temporize. I must go.”

Graydon Cle

AN HOUR LATER, having uncharacteristically not heard back from his chief of staff, President Vanderdamp decided to place the call to Judge Pepper Cartwright himself.

He was not a man who stood on formality. He still carried cash, unlike some presidents who went four or eight years with empty pockets. He got Judge Cartwright’s unlisted number in New York from the White House operator, and dialed it himself. He liked to do that. The truth was he got a kick out of saying, “Hello, it’s Donald Vanderdamp. The President. Am I calling at a bad time?”