A waiter appeared.
“A double martini, Hector, thank you,” Graydon said. “For the lady?”
“Tequila, straight up. Beer back. Bottle, lime.”
Hector seemed amused by the order.
“That’s probably the first time anyone has ordered that here since the Johnson administration,” Graydon said. “So, Pepper. Think you’ll make the whistle?” [13]
Pepper smiled at the question. “Been to a rodeo, have we?”
“Yes. About a century before you were born.”
“You do surprise me, Graydon. You don’t seem the type.”
“We used to summer in Wyoming when I was a boy. Why do you laugh?”
“Wasn’t until I got East to school I realized ‘summer’ was a verb. So you been out west.”
“My grandfather built the railroad to it,” Graydon said, stirring his martini idly with his forefinger.
“Oh,” Pepper said. “Well, beats flying coach.”
“As to rodeos,” he said, “I have made the whistle. You, you’re only just mounting up.”
“I’m wearing different colored socks.” [14]
The old man smiled. “All right, then. But hold on. This bull’s an arm-jerker.”
CHAPTER 11
Senator Dexter Mitchell looked radiantly senatorial on the first morning of the Cartwright hearings: dapper, smiling, with the air of a man upon whom the great issues of the day heavily weigh. He looked… historic. How often had it been said of Dexter Mitchell that he was every inch the part?
The TV cameras followed him as he mounted the dais and moved from colleague to colleague, shaking hands, sharing a greeting or quip, nodding thoughtfully, here and there offering a furrowed brow or blinding grin. Whatever your feelings, you had to admit-the man had poise. The cameras did love him.
This was not lost on Buddy Bixby, who was watching the proceedings on television.
Normally, the spouse of the nominee sits directly behind the nominee at the hearings. Normally, too, the spouse is warmly introduced to the nineteen senators, who couldn’t really care less, but who generally offer pleasant brief smiles of acknowledgment. Not today.
Buddy’s New York office had quietly put out the word that Mr. Bixby would not be joining his wife in Washington “owing to an inner ear infection.” Buddy’s ears-inner, outer and middle-were in fact fine. The truth was that Buddy had been keeping a low profile since the weird, unsettling visit late Friday afternoon. Buddy Bixby was freaked.
He’d been in the apartment, innocently preparing to drive out to the house in Connecticut for the weekend-alone, since Pepper was still at her goddamn hotel with her panties all in a twist, probably racking up a monster bill on his Amex card-when the doorman called and said there were “two gentlemen from the FBI.”
Gentlemen? Jesus, they looked like something out of The Sopranos. Polite-very polite-too polite. There’s something inherently nervous-making about overly considerate armed men.
Was this an inconvenient time? They didn’t want to intrude. From your bag there, Mr. Bixby, it would appear that you’re leaving on a trip. Are you leaving town? Leaving the country? Now Mr. Bixby, in the course of conducting the background investigation into your wife, Judge Cartwright-by the way, everyone at the Bureau is a major, major fan of the show. Uh, thank you. One or two items have turned up that we’re hoping you might be able to shed some light on. By the way, sir, this is not an investigation of you per se. But should you at any point in this conversation feel the need to have an attorney present, you are certainly within your rights to have one. Attorney? No, that’s fine, but could you just tell me what this is-about? Sir, during a routine search of your Internet records- Internet records? Whoa. Internet records? Hold on. Who the fuck-I mean, sorry, who gave you the right to go poking around my Internet records? Sir, are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable having an attorney be part of this conversation, sir? Yes. I mean no. I mean… just… tell me what this is about, would you? Well, sir, it appears that you have been ordering Cuban cigars on line. Jesus fucking Christ, guys, you almost gave me a fucking heart attack. Well, sir, these records appear to go back over a period of eight years. Cigars! I thought you were going to tell me I’d been sending money to al Qaeda, for Chrissake! Hah! I’m joking. But “the guys” were not laughing. They were staring, doing that G-man thing. Mr. Bixby, ordering contraband items online and receiving them is not a humorous matter. Technically, it’s a felony. Felony? Guys, fellas, what are we talking about here? Cigars- That’s correct, sir. Cuban cigars. Prohibited under The Trading with the Enemy Act, USC Title 50-106. And by virtue of being a repeated and consistent violation of federal law, you may have exposed yourself to charges of participating in an ongoing criminal conspiracy. Conspiracy? Guys… But that’s for the U.S. Attorney to decide, not us. But-cigars… Additionally, by virtue of your paying for the cigars over the Internet with your… I see you used your personal American Express card for most of these transactions… you could be susceptible to charges of wire fraud. But- Nothing needs to be done at this point in time. This is just to advise you, semiofficially, as it were, that-depending on how the U.S. Attorney decides to proceed-we are opening a file. Opening a what? A file? What does “opening a file” mean? Well, sir, that’s just standard procedure when the Justice Department initiates a criminal investigation. Criminal? This is nuts, guys. Completely- Thank you for your time, sir. By the way, do you have a number where we can reach you? Would this number be good night and day?
By the time they left, Buddy was covered in sweat, his heart was going like a jackhammer, and his hands were shaking. He dialed Pepper’s cell phone. She didn’t pick up, since she wasn’t speaking to him. He left a one-word message. [15]
When Pepper retrieved the call some hours later, she was somewhat startled but put it down to Buddy’s general hysteria-a bit too much bourbon, perhaps?-and went back to prepping for the hearings. She was pleasantly surprised when, over the course of the following days, no process server knocked on her hotel door to notify her that her husband was suing her for breach of contract. Maybe he’d just gotten it off his chest with that little phone outburst and come to his senses. Meanwhile…
… Buddy, watching from New York, found himself fascinated by Senator Dexter Mitchell. He knew of course from Pepper that he was Public Enemy Numer One, the main obstacle standing between her and a seat on the Court. He’d seen photos and clips of Mitchell over the years. But up to now he’d never realized just how… perfect-looking the guy was.
Senator Mitchell finished shaking hands and patting shoulders as he made his way to the far end of the dais, where the most junior senator sat. Having come to the end, instead of turning back to his seat at the center, he walked the few steps down onto the committee room floor and made a beeline toward Pepper, who was just then taking her seat at the green baize table facing her inquisitors.
Behind her sat Graydon Clenndennynn, leonine, pin-striped, exuding calm, confidence, serenity; JJ in bolo tie and the white forehead of a man who has lived his life under a burning sun and hat; beside him Juanita, handsomely multicultural; next to her, the Reverend Roscoe, in his trademark white patent leather boots with crucifixes, trying to look relaxed but fidgeting, a purple morocco-bound Bible on his lap.
“Don’t you worry none, Daddy,” Pepper had gently reassured Roscoe going in, “they ain’t gonna get into the Ruby thing. I won’t let them.”
Senator Dexter Mitchell strode toward Pepper, his eyes beaming like halogen headlamps.
“Judge Cartwright,” he said, full of bonhomie, “on behalf of the Committee, let me say, welcome. Welcome. This must be your lovely family here.”