Supreme Courtship Page 3

  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. Clenndennynn?”

  Graydon Clenndennynn: wisest of the Washington wise men, grayest of its eminences, adviser to seven-or was it eight?-presidents. Former Attorney General. Former Secretary of State. Former Secretary of the Exterior. Former Ambassador to France. Former everything. First among equals in the Vanderdamp kitchen cabinet. The man, it was rumored, with more n’s in his name than anyone else in Washington.

  “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 Clenndennynn.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later, Cork ’s phone rang. Graydon Clenndennynn did not personally carry a cell phone; his minions did. He was in his eighties now, and of an eminence that scorned such modern devices.

  “Yes, Hayden,” he said without annoyance, but with formality that signaled this was not the time for leisurely philosophical discussion.

  “Where are you?”

  “ Beijing.”

  “Damn,” Hayden said.

  “At dinner,” Clenndennynn continued, “with the deputy chairman. What’s the emergency?”

  Graydon Clenndennynn did not object to being interrupted in the middle of meetings with world leaders, as long as it was the White House calling. Nor, to tell the truth, was he above certain self-enhancing acts of legerdemain. Once, to impress a Russian foreign minister, he arranged to have himself called in the middle of their meeting, so that he could tell the interrupting aide, “Tell the President I’ll just have to call him back.” The minister was duly impressed-until the Russian security services reported to him that the call had originated from Graydon Clenndennynn’s own Washington office.

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

  Clenndennynn said, sounding alarmed, “Is there-has the President been-”

  “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 Clenndennynn, “I’m keeping the second most powerful man in China waiting. Our Peking duck is mummifying. Tell me in a simple, English sentence: what is the precise nature of this emergency?”

  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,” Clenndennynn said. “Stall.”

  “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 cannot be met head-on with inaction.”

  “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 Clenndennynn handed the cell phone to his aide and rejoined the deputy chairman and duck. Six thousand miles away, Hayden Cork exhaled and leaned back in his black leather chair. His intestines were still in a knot but at least the kettledrum throbbing in his temples had subsided. Graydon would figure something out. The President would listen to him. All would be well.

  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?”

  IN NEW YORK, in a penthouse atop a building that looked out over Central Park, the phone rang.

  Pepper Cartwright opened her eyes, looked warily at the beside clock. 8:49. On a Saturday? She looked over at Buddy. Sound asleep. He’d come in after she’d gone to bed. As usual. This marriage needed to sit down and have a little talk about things.

  She looked at the caller ID display. NSF THURMONT. What in hell was NSF Thurmont? She closed her eyes and listened.

  “Hello. It’s Donald Vanderdamp-the President-calling for Judge Cartwright.” Pepper opened one eye and looked at the machine. “Would she be kind enough to call me back at 202-456-1414. Thanks very much. If it’s not inconvenient, perhaps she could call back at her earliest-”

  Pepper picked up. “Hello? Who is this?”

  “Judge Cartwright? Screening your calls. Can’t say as I blame you. I know it’s early, but I really would like to speak with you…”

  He talked on as Pepper thumbed a Google search on her BlackBerry with her other hand. NSF Thurmont…

  The first match came up: “ Camp David -Wikipedia, the free encylopedia.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Pepper said, sitting bolt upright.

  “Beg pardon?” said the President.

  FOUR HOURS LATER she was in a U.S. Army helicopter descending onto the helipad of Naval Support Facility Thurmont, better known as Camp David, in the Cactoctin Mountains of Maryland, sixty miles north of Washington.

  Through the window she saw aides waiting by a golf cart. She looked at her watch. Normally at about this time she might be meeting the girls for a Bloody Mary brunch, then squeezing in some Pilates. She wasn’t sure what she was doing here. The President wouldn’t say exactly what it was over the phone, only that it was “highly confidential.”

  “Welcome to Camp David, Judge,” one of the aides greeted her. “The President is expecting you.”

  The President is expecting you. She felt fluttery. She climbed into the golf cart, which made her feel somewhat ridiculous, like she was being given a VIP tour of Disney World. The aide, accustomed to nervousness in visitors, said, “My wife watches Courtroom Six every chance she gets.”

  Moments later she found herself in a room that she recognized from news photos. It was paneled in knotty pine. In the news photos it was usually filled with world leaders wearing forced smiles, knowing that they’d been invited here to have their arms twisted while being fed navy hamburgers. Versailles, Camp David was not.

  And there, suddenly, he was. The President of the United States. She’d never met one in person. He looked smaller than he did on TV. Bland-but-nice-looking. It was difficult to imagine him commanding huge armies and fleets, much less nuclear missiles. What was that he was wearing? Oh, my God. A silk bowling jacket embroidered: CAMP DAVID BOWLING LEAGUE.

  “Judge Cartwright,” he said, grinning, shaking her hand. “I am sincerely sorry for interrupting your weekend like this.”

  “No, that’s all right, sir,” Pepper said.

  “Coffee?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Well,” he said

  “Well,” Pepper said.
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br />   “Do you bowl?”

  The first moments of a presidential audience can be nerve-racking. Pepper froze. Had he just asked her if she wanted a bowl of something?

  “A bowl, sir? Of…?”

  “No,” he said, beaming, “bowling.”

  “Oh. Sure. It’s been a while, but… yeah. Great. Why not?”

  And so she found herself following the leader of the free world down a flight of steps. They were tailed by two silent men of football-player physique with earpieces. The President was saying something. Was he talking to himself, or her? He gave the impression of a man who might talk to himself. No, he was apparently talking to her.

  “I bring world leaders down here. You can just see them rolling their eyes and thinking, Oh, my gosh, what a rube this guy is!” He chuckled. “But then what happens is-they love it. Just love it. Turns them into kids. Bowling isn’t that big in other countries. Though I’m working on that. Sometimes you have to drag them away, they’re having such a good time. Even the French president. Bet you he went home and told everyone at the Elysée Palace that the President of the United States is a bumpkin. But I will tell you for a fact that he couldn’t get enough of it. Now, I like the French. My staff is always telling me I can’t say anything nice about them in public. But I don’t listen to that. I went to France last year. And when I got there, the very first thing I did was to go lay a wreath on Lafayette’s grave-just like Pershing did in 1917. Did you know he’s buried under earth from Bunker Hill? I get choked up just thinking about that. Some of the French papers got their noses out of joint and said I was just trying to rub it in that we pulled their bacon out of the fire in World War One. And Two, of course. But that’s not why I did it. Nosiree, Bob. Wanted to pay my respects-and the respects of this country-to a great man. My staff, well, let me tell you, they had conniptions. But you can’t let the staff rule your life. Oh, no,” he said, as if savoring some hard-earned private wisdom. “No, no, no.”

  She now found herself standing in complete blackness. He flicked on a switch and suddenly the room they were in was illuminated to reveal a single-lane bowling alley.

  “Ahh,” he said, as if being massaged. “This makes all the rest of it worthwhile. Now, what size are you?”

  “Size, sir?” What in hell was he talking about now?

  “Shoe.”

  The most powerful man in the world disappeared into a closet and reemerged, holding a pair of ladies bowling shoes, size eight. The shoes were red, white, and blue and had little eagles on the toes.

  “I designed them myself,” he said, adding, “if you don’t mind, please don’t share that particular detail. I’ve got enough problems these days without the press having a grand old snicker about me spending my spare time-not that I have any-designing patriotic bowling shoes.”

  “Not a word, sir.”

  “It’s so gosh darn nice and quiet down here,” he said. “You wouldn’t know if the whole world was blowing up. Of course, they’d tell me if it were. They wake me up eighteen times a night to tell me things I’d just as soon not know. But I guess that comes with the plane and the limousine and the free housing. Well, Judge, here we are. Now, would I be correct in thinking that you’re saying to yourself, ‘What in the name of heck am I doing here and what does he want?’ ”

  “That would be… yes, sir. It is crossing my mind about now.”

  The President smiled and said, “I want to nominate you to the Supreme Court.”

  Pepper stared. “The Supreme Court of… what, sir?”

  “The United States.”

  The President picked up a bowling ball, lined up his shot with care, and rolled his ball down the lane. It knocked down all but the two pins on either side. “Heartbreaking sight, the split,” he said. “Happened to Michaels at the Bayer Classic last week. He just couldn’t seem to find the pocket. Don’t suppose you…”

  “No, sir, I missed that.”

  “Heck of a tournament. Seat of the pants stuff. Bob Reppert made six X’s in a row.”

  “Must have been quite something.”

  “Oh, it was.”

  The President bowled again, knocking down the tenpin.

  “Big difference between nine and a spare. And here I was hoping to impress you. Your lane, Judge.”

  Pepper’s first ball went into the gutter. The second one rolled slowly down the lane off center and knocked down all the pins, so slowly they seemed to go down one by one.

  “Oh, beautiful, Judge. Beautiful. Sit down for a moment. You saw what happened to my last two nominees to the Court?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, I saw some of the hearings on TV.”

  “Disgraceful, what they did to those two men.”

  “It did seem a hair… political.”

  “Senator Mitchell. He doesn’t like me much. Well, no one up there does. But they shouldn’t have taken it out on those two fine men. But that’s all past. They’ve had their fun. Now it’s my turn.”

  President Donald Vanderdamp suddenly looked less bland to Pepper. A Mephistophelian glint of mischief came into his eyes-incongruous in a man wearing bowling shoes and jacket. “I’m going to send them a nominee that’s going to give them a full-blown epileptic fit.” He was chortling again. “And the best part is, there’s not a darned thing they’re going to be able to do about it. Oh, this is going to be rich. Rich.”

  “Sir,” Pepper said, “may I say something?”

  “By all means,” he said jovially.

  “I sure do appreciate your considering me, but I think I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”

  “Oh, no,” the President said, matter-of-factly. “It’s too late for that. It’s all been decided.”

  “Decided?”

  “By me, Judge,” he said, the smile disappearing. “Your country needs you. Sorry to sound like a recruiting poster. But that is the situation.”

  It suddenly felt claustrophobic. “I understand if you want to make some kind of point to these senators, sir, but this is my life you’re using to make it. And I kind of like it the way it is.” She added, “Not to sound ungrateful.”

  “You don’t want to be on the Supreme Court?”

  “I didn’t say that, sir. I meant-”

  “Meant what?”

  “Mr. President,” Pepper said, “I’m a TV judge.”

  “You were a real judge.”

  “Well, yes, in Superior Court. But I wouldn’t presume to suppose I was qualified to sit on the Supreme Court.”

  “Judge Cartwright,” the President said, trying to sound a bit huffy, “don’t you suppose that I’ve given this just a teensy bit of thought?”

  “A teensy, maybe.”

  “You’re perfectly qualified. Why, according to the Constitution, you don’t even have to be a lawyer to sit on the Supreme Court.”

  “That might actually make for a better Court.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “I wasn’t being serious, sir.”

  “I Googled you,” the President said. “Sounds almost indecent, doesn’t it? Drives my staff cuckoo when I get on the Internet. They probably think I’m surfing porn sites and it’ll get out. Anyway, I know about you. Texas. Law review at Fordham-great school, that. Top notch but down-to-earth kind of place. Clerked for a federal judge out in California, stint as a prosecutor, Superior Court in LA, then Courtroom Six.”

  Pepper shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “You Google good, sir.”

  The President nodded. “I sometimes think we don’t need the FBI and CIA, what with all the information that’s out there.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Now there’s a budget saving for you. Fold the FBI and CIA into the Department of Google. Hm. Might give that some thought. But they’ll do the routine investigation into you, not to mention the five zillion reporters looking to get a Pulitzer Prize for finding out you smoked pot when you were sixteen. Did you smoke pot when you were sixteen?”

  “No, sir.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Wai
ted until I was seventeen.”

  The President stared. Then said, “Well, I suppose these days anyone who didn’t was the odd one. Did you-”

  “Shoot heroin? No, sir.”

  “Well, then.” The President brightened. “I don’t see a problem. However, as you know, the process is not for the faint of heart. Ask Judges Cooney and Burrows. But since you’re here and we’re on the subject, any major skeletons rattling around in the closet?”

  “My closet’s so messy there isn’t room for skeletons.”

  “Good answer,” the President said.

  “They kind of hang around the rest of the house.”

  “The Ruby business.”

  “There is that ghost, yes, sir.”

  “It wasn’t hardly your fault, for heaven’s sake. You weren’t even born in 1963.”

  “No, but…” Pepper sighed. It wasn’t her favorite topic. “But under the general heading of Sins of the Fathers. Wasn’t really a sin, per se. Maybe not the best judgment. The Warren Commission did clear him. But it was a life-changing event, you might say.”

  “Tell me. If you would.”

  Pepper hesitated but, sensing that the President was inviting her to rehearse a story she would at some point most likely be compelled to relate, said:

  “Daddy hadn’t been on the Dallas police force long, just a few months, really. The Sunday after the President was shot, they gave him the job of standing guard outside the garage entrance to the police headquarters while they were transferring Oswald. So he’s doing that and this man walks on by-the Warren Commission actually established that he did just happen to be walking by-sees the commotion, and says to Daddy, ‘What’s going on down there?’ Daddy says, ‘They’re moving Lee Harvey Oswald, the man who shot President Kennedy.’ The man says, ‘Gee, really? That sure would be something to tell my grandkids. Okay if I just take a look?’ Daddy being Daddy, a nice, friendly man, basically, says, ‘Well, I guess there’s no harm.’ And the man turned out to be Jack Ruby.”

  The President nodded thoughtfully.