“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 gonna eat a thousand dollars’ worth of nuts and memorize another forty pages of this horseshit. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Pep.”
T
HE 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
I
really,
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.”
Bob looked at Pepper. Pepper stared at Buddy, said nothing, took her seat.
“Quiet on the set, please. Five seconds, Three, two, one, and . . .
action
.”
“Mr. Gomez,” Judge Cartwright said, “it is the opinion of this court that the producer of this TV show here is full of a substance I cannot name, on account of this being a family show; further, that he is hereby sentenced to have that leaf blower of yours inserted in a portion of his anatomy I also cannot name. Case dismissed. Sorry for your trouble.”
On her way off the set, she said to Buddy, “Enough oomph for you?”
That concluded the day’s taping of
Courtroom Six.
Pepper rechecked into the hotel, having checked out of it that morning. The front desk clerk asked how long she would be stayng this time.
“Damn good question,” Pepper said.
Well,
she thought on her way back up to the fifty-eighth floor,
least I’ll get plenty of studying done.
The incident was all over the blogosphere and Internet within minutes and was well covered in the papers the next day. Page Six ran an item:
SEPARATE CHAMBERS
Supreme-to-be Judge Pepper Cartwright has moved into a suite at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, a few blocks from the $
14
million penthouse duplex coop she shares with husband-producer Buddy Bixby. Producer and star nearly came to blows yesterday while taping a segment involving a leaf blower. A spokesman for
Courtroom Six
denied rumors of marital troubles and said the move was simply to provide Cartwright with “a little peace and quiet” so she can prep for next week’s grilling by Senator Dexter “Hang ’Em High” Mitchell’s Judiciary Committee. But a source tells Page Six that Supreme Hubby Buddy, whose other TV fare consists of reality shows about bridge suicides and human hippos, is in a reality lather over the prospect of losing the jewel in his crown. Yesterday, Her Honor stunned the studio audience by telling a puzzled Honduran gardener-defendant to insert the evidence—the leaf blower—in a unmentionable portion of her husband’s anatomy. Speaking of anatomical metaphors, our source says that the atmosphere between the two of them lately has been “chillier than a penguin’s ass.”
Pepper was boning up on
Griswold v. Connecticut
when her cell phone rang.
“What?” she said after glancing at the caller ID.
“ ‘Chillier than a penguin’s ass’?” Buddy shouted. “Are you
trying
to drive away our sponsors?”
“That’s not my quote,” Pepper said coolly.
“Bullshit. And I can’t believe you told that fucking illegal alien
gardener
to put a leaf blower up my ass. In front of everyone! Jesus Christ . . . But okay, okay. Will you just please come back to work? We’ve missed a whole day’s taping. I’m paying union wages—caterers—for nothing. I’m running a million-dollar soup kitchen here.”
“Baby,” Pepper said, “you got a genuine gift for prioritizing.”
“Okay,” Buddy said. “I’m a second-rate hustler. At least I know who I am.”
Pepper said, “What in the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what it means. And it’s from the heart.”
“You are dis-missed,” Pepper said, reaching for the
END
button.
“Whoa. You can wield absolute power when—and
if
—you get to the Supreme Court. Until then, I’ll remind Your
Honor
that you have a legally binding contract. And don’t tell me to shove that up my anatomy.”
Pepper said, “I was going to suggest that you first fold it up like a nice origami giraffe. Well, darling, before I terminate this conversation, which I am on the brink of doing, I want to thank you for all your loving support at this critical point in my career. It’s meant so much to have you behind me.” With that, Pepper pressed
END.
The phone rang again.
“What?”
she said.
Buddy said calmly, “If you’re not on the set tomorrow, I will sue you for breach of contract.”
“Okay then, guess I’ll see you in court.” She said, “Funny . . .”
“What?”
“Always wanted to say that.”
T
here’s been a development—I suppose you could call it—in the Cartwright matter,” Graydon Clenndennynn said to the President over the phone.
“Go ahead,” the President said warily. He had been president long enough to know that the word “development” was synonymous with
something truly dreadful has just happened
.
“Her husband—the producer of the television program—has informed her that he intends to sue her for breach of contract in the event she leaves the show.”
President Vanderdamp absorbed this bizarre piece of information. He stared at the polished surface of his wooden desk, made from planks of a eighteenth-century U.S. warship. He’d served on an aircraft carrier in the navy. At times, he imagined that his desk was a flight deck onto which a never-ending succession of wounded, flaming aircraft crash-landed.
Boom, boom, boom.
The trick was repairing and relaunching them.
“Well,” he said at length, “for heaven’s sake.”
“Yes,” Graydon said.
“He should be strewing rose petals in her path. Giving her neck massages. Telling her sweet nothings and
I’m so proud of you, sweetie pie
. What’s his beef, anyway?”
“Who can say? Remember what Tolstoy said about unhappy families.”
“Graydon,” the President said, “cut it out.”
“I believe Tolstoy’s basic point was that they’re all unique. I don’t know the gentleman—if that’s the right word in Mr. Bixby’s case—but it would seem he’s reluctant to part with his star. I gather she lends his operation a touch of class. His other programs feature somewhat less high-minded fare. Fatsos and suicides. But who’s to say what’s art and what isn’t.”
“Is Hayden aware of this development?” the President said, simultaneously pressing a buzzer to summon his chief of staff.
“I wanted to give you the news first directly. To be honest, I was concerned that it might cause him to insert his head in the nearest oven. As you know, Hayden has not been overly enthusiastic about this appointment.”
The door to the Oval Office opened. Hayden Cork entered. “Sir?”
The President pressed the speaker button on his phone and said, “Graydon, why don’t you tell Hayden what you just told me?”
When Graydon was finished, Hayden Cork emitted a long, exquisitely soulful sigh, like the last gasp of a dying, landed salmon.
“So,” the President said to his men, “where does this leave us?”
“She’s offered to withdraw,” Graydon said.
“Oh? Well, fine. Fine,” Hayden said, suddenly as full of life as a salmon returned to the water. “In that case, I’ll give her a call and tell her we’re deeply appreciative of her—”
“Hold on,” the President said. “Steady. Let’s stay on course here. What did you tell her, Graydon?”
“It’s not my decision. I said I’d relay her offer.”
“Mr. President,” Hayden said, “I really think it would be best for everyone if we just accepted her wonderfully gracious offer—before this—”
“Sit down, Hayden.”
“Sir—”
“Sit. Down. How did she sound to you, Graydon?”
“I sensed that she was putting up a brave front. I think she’s a bit busted up inside. Can’t say as I blame her. But the offer sounded sincere.”
“I like that. Shows character. Judgment. Not enough people these days offer to resign. Not nearly. Lost art, modesty.”
“Mr. President,” Hayden said. “I’m sure all this isn’t pleasant for her. But these hearings are going to be brutal enough as it is. I mean, she threatened Senator Mitchell—during her courtesy call.”
“Good for her. Wish
I’d
stuffed a microphone down Dexter Mitchell’s yap long ago. Graydon?”
“Well, sir, it is a bit of a mess. Hayden’s perfectly right. The media will feast. But all that said, I’ve grown rather fond of the lady. She is a pistol.”
Graydon heard a soft moan from Hayden in the background.
“I don’t see,” the President said, “why we should punish her because her husband is a complete j-e-r-k. No. Call her. Call her right now. Tell her I’m behind her all the way. Tell her,” the President said, with a meaningful look at his chief of staff, “that the entire White House is behind her. You tell her that. You tell her that for me.”