Pepper perused these words while simultaneously watching the voting in Austin. She was suddenly seized with a stomachache, for she understood, more acutely perhaps than anyone else in the entire country, that this dilemma, this about-to-be-dead mouse on the national living room floor, was going to end up right here in the marble palace on her lap.
It was at this moment, as she sat clutching her cramped tummy and watching C-SPAN (FOR: 43, AGAINST: 21) that her secretary buzzed to say that her three o’clock appointment was here.
Presently the door opened, admitting two agents, the director of the Washington field office and-my, my-the assistant deputy director of the FBI. His presence, Pepper surmised, was a gesture of respect. This was after all, the Honorable, the Supreme Court.
The pleasantries made, coffee offered and politely declined, Pepper said, “With all respect, asking the FBI to become involved in all this-it wasn’t my idea. I’d just as soon soak it up and move on.”
The ADD nodded. “Understood and appreciated, Justice. But Chief Justice Hardwether officially requested that we become involved, so the train has left the station.”
“Okay, then,” Pepper said with a side-glance at the TV (FOR: 51, AGAINST: 25). “So, what can I do for you?”
One of the agents said, “Is there anyone here at the Court who might have some motive to embarrass you?”
Pepper smiled. “Yes. Everyone, more or less.”
The agent nodded blankly.
“You read the papers,” Pepper said. “It’s no secret I’m a bit of a”-she almost said catty whompus-“kind of a polarizing figure here. In a divided Court, I might just be the only thing everyone agrees on.”
“Have you had difficult relations with anyone in particular?”
Pepper said, “Not to sound rude, but that’s really none of your business.”
The agentry exchanged glances. “We’re only trying to-”
“Boys,” Pepper smiled, “I’ve been hanging around lawmen since I was in diapers. I know exactly what you’re ‘only trying to do.’ And you can cut it out. I’m not going there with you. Now, was there anything else? I’ve got a heap of work to do.”
The agents stared at her TV screen. “It’s the Texas vote,” she said. “Not Oprah.”
The ADD said, “I appreciate what you’re saying. Could I ask a direct question?”
“You can ask.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that this leak might have originated within Justice Santamaria’s chambers?”
“None whatsoever,” Pepper said evenly. “Justice Santamaria is a man of integrity, honor, and reputation.”
The ADD stared. “But you and he have had, I understand, a difficult relationship?”
“We’re colleagues. Colleagues agree on things and disagree on things. We have had good, frank, vigorous exchanges on matters of law that sound, why, right out of Plato’s Republic. Now come on, gents. This is a fishing trip. You’re throwing out chum and it’s smellin’ up my chambers. Look-I don’t know who leaked the damn thing and I don’t give a damn. I got enough things on my desk to give me ulcers into the next millennium. I know you’re doing your job, and I’ve got nothing but appreciation for that and nothing but respect for the FBI. But now, shoo. That’s all I got to say other than good day to you.”
The FBI rose. “Thank you for your time, Justice Cartwright.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for your time, sir.”
One of the agents hung back as the other left, and said, “Ma’am?”
“Yes?” Pepper said warily, this being when the detective typically says, I was just wondering about that bloodstain on the carpet and this dented silver candlestick on your mantel…
“Just wanted to say, Courtroom Six was my all-time favorite show. Aces. Just aces.”
Pepper said, “Well, thank you, Agent…”
“Lodato. Joe.”
“Thank you, Agent Lodato.”
He closed the door. Pepper looked over at the TV. FOR: 66, AGAINST32. MEASURE APPROVED.
Well, she thought, Vanderdamp was still almost ten points behind Dexter. Maybe the situation would… self-clean. But the thought didn’t do anything to help her stomachache.
PRESIDENT VANDERDAMP had insisted on spending election night at his home in Wapakoneta, where, indeed, he hoped to be spending the next four years and the four after that, verily unto the end of time.
Charley had informed him, “It’s going to be a long night.” The election was “too close to call.” Pollsters, having called the last three presidential elections erroneously, were being uncharacteristically demure and refusing to predict the night’s outcome other than to say it was going to be “a real nail-biter.”
The President had told his doleful campaign manager, “I go to bed at ten most nights, Charley. Tonight will be no different.” He had written out his concession speech, congratulating “President-elect Mitchell” on his victory and promising “the best transition in history.” It had fallen to the speechwriter to draft an acceptance speech that someone would have to read if victory came after ten p.m. The speechwriter, morose over his principal’s defiant hopes of losing, had typed the words, “Free at last. Free at last. Thank God Almighty, I am free at last,” then deleted them in favor of some boilerplate about “a new beginning.”
THE LAST WEEKS of the campaign had been peculiar even by American political standards. The ratification of the Twenty-eighth Amendment, limiting U.S. presidents to a single four-year term, had had the perverse-or inverse-effect of creating sympathy for President Vanderdamp. The day following the vote in Texas, Vanderdamp’s poll numbers spiked to within two points of Dexter’s.
This put the Mitchell campaign in the awkward position of having to say that even if President Vanderdamp did win, he would not be able legally to take office. The implicit message being: So you might as well vote for us. The trouble was, So you might as well vote for us is not the clarion cry the American political ear craves.
And so, that first Tuesday in November, an anxious nation took a deep breath, went to the polls, stared at the levers, check boxes, and chads, scratched its head and went, Gee whiz…
FORMER SENATOR MITCHELL spent election night on the set of POTUS, with-as it were-both his First Ladies, Ramona and Terry. The two ladies had effected a temporary truce but looked as though they might, at any moment, go for each other’s jugular with drawn nail files. This improbable yet iconic trio made for irresistible photo-opera. One TV commentator said it took President Clinton’s 1992 quip -elect one, get one free-to “the next level.”
President Vanderdamp, true to his word and athwart the implorings and protestations of his campaign staff, thanked everyone and went to bed shortly after ten o’clock. It was a testament to the man’s peace of mind and strength of character that he actually fell asleep by eleven; as well as testament to the sleeping pill he took. He did not bother to notify his military aide to alert the Joint Chiefs of Staff to the commander in chief’s somnambulance.
Shortly after one a.m., the President was awakened by the First Lady, gently nudging his shoulder.
“Um?”
“Donald?”
He knew-knew right away from the look on Matilda’s face.
“I’m so sorry, honey,” she said.
Donald Vanderdamp took another sleeping pill. Let the enemy attack. At this point, Armageddon would be a mercy.