CHAPTER 28
VANDERDAMP NARROWLY WINS REELECTION; POTENTIAL CHAOS OVER TERM-LIMIT AMENDMENT; SUPREME COURT INTERVENTION SEEN AS ‘INEVITABLE’
President-unelect (as he was being rudely called in quarters of the blogosphere) Dexter Mitchell surveyed his options.
The important thing, he knew, was Do not concede defeat. As Winston Churchill had said, “Never, never, ever give in.” Now that he had a mantra, he needed a strategy. Bussie Scrump said it was vital to keep his face out there in public, so Dexter, flailing, was trotted out for a press conference the day after the election. Adamant though he might be that he was the legitimate heir to the presidency, he decided not to start naming his new cabinet quite yet. Anyway, the press was interested in other aspects.
“Senator, are you planning to sue?”
Good question. But-whom, exactly?
“No. I mean… we’re not… we’re examining all aspects of it. We’re all… Look, everyone’s doing their best… it’s a confusing situation. Yes. Yes. But I’ve-”
“Senator, is it true that you’ve hired Blyster Forkmorgan?”
“No, no. No. Well, we’ve… there have been discussions but no-”
“Reuters reported ten minutes ago that you’ve hired him to fight your case.”
“My case doesn’t need fighting. Look, it’s quite clear that President Vanderdamp is constitutionally prohibited from taking office next January. I don’t need Mr. Forkmorgan to make that point.”
“Then why have you hired him?”
“That’s as far as I’ll characterize it for the time being. Look, he’s an authority on this sort of… a distinguished legal mind. Yes. Very distinguished. Why wouldn’t I want to consult with him?”
Why not indeed? Blyster Forkmorgan, Esquire, was to the Washington legal establishment what the tiger shark is to the aquatic kingdom. The mere announcement by a corporation that it had hired (the ironically nicknamed) “Bliss” Forkmorgan was often enough to scare off a litigant, or even the Justice Department. He’d clerked at the Supreme Court (for Earl Warren), been state prosecutor, U.S. Attorney, U.S. Solicitor General, and Attorney General. In recent decades, he had been in hyper-lucrative private practice, occasionally lured forth to act as special prosecutor, an announcement generally made to the rumble of kettledrums. Over the years he had brought down: a vice president, twelve cabinet members, two governors, eighteen congressmen, four senators, fourteen Mafia dons, and twenty-eight CEOs. Federal penitentiaries teemed with his successes. He’d argued sixty-six cases before the Supreme Court and won fifty-four of them. He was the Man to See, if you could afford the $2,500 per hour fee.
If Dexter’s answers at the press conference were ambiguous, so, at this point, was everything. Even the Secret Service was at a loss whether to withdraw Dexter’s protection, now that he had, technically, lost the election. President Vanderdamp quietly and graciously gave orders for it to be continued until the situation clarified. To that end, Hayden Cork picked up the phone the moment Ohio put its favorite son over the top on Election Night and, his voice barely above a croak, whispered, “Mr. Clenndennynn, please.” Graydon, ensconced aboard the private 757 of the emir of Wasabia, had already heard the news and had instructed the pilot to turn around and fly back to the U.S.
His arrival at the White House was impossible to keep secret. It triggered a thousand camera shutters. A virtual computer game of questionable taste appeared on the Internet casting Clenndennynn (“White Knight”) and Blyster Forkmorgan (“Dark Knight”) in “Supreme Conflict.” The White House press secretary calmly noted that Mr. Clenndennynn was a “trusted adviser” and that it was “perfectly natural” that he should “provide counsel at this”-she groped for the blandest possible word-“juncture.” “Crisis” might have been more apt, technically. The country was in an uproar. The stock market had plunged nearly 2,000 points in three days, forcing a trading halt. When it reopened the next day, the bell was rung by the U.S. Vice President, a neutral enough entity, who gave a cheery little speech about “continuity,” whereupon the market plunged another 700 points. Alarmingly, military blogs hinted that “various elements in the Pentagon” were “unhappy” about the developments.
“Hell of a mess, Donald,” Graydon said, looking pale and hunched. He uncharacteristically waved away the offer of a martini. “Hell of a mess.” He slumped into the fauteuil, looking for the first time-old.
“I wasn’t trying to win,” the President said defensively, holding his untouched and warming beer. “But there’s no point wailing and gnashing our teeth and rending the garments. The question is where do we go from here?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Clenndennynn said. “We’re in uncharted waters. You have a predilection for steering us into them. How did you manage in the navy?”
“We had radar.”
“Well, it’s going to take more than radar. He’s hired Bliss Forkmorgan,” Clenndennynn said.
“Do we know that?”
“Bliss called me in the car ten minutes ago,” Clenndennynn said, wiping his brow.
“Oh. So it’s on.”
“Yes. It’s on. Battle stations, gentlemen.”
“I don’t want a battle,” the President moaned. “I just want to go home.”
“Well, you should have thought about that before, shouldn’t you have?” Graydon said irritably.
“Don’t hand me that. You were the one who kept pressing me to run.”
“And you did and now you’ve won. You did it for the principle of the thing. So now you can feel wonderful. Just don’t look out the window, because the country is on fire over your principle. Meanwhile, once again, it’s landed in my lap. Graydon Clenndennynn, presidential cleaner-upper. Every time you make a muck of things, I have to go forward to the cockpit and tell the pilot, ‘Never mind, turn around, back to Washington. President Vanderdamp has made another gigantic caca. For the principle.’ ”
“Oh? Oh? Well, at least I have principles. I apologize if I’m keeping the chairman of the Graydon Clenndennynn Influence Peddling Corporation-an offshore corporation, I might add-from making another squintillion dollars for-”
“Will you both, please, just… shut… up.”
The President of the United States and Graydon Clenndennynn fell instantly silent. They turned, stared at Hayden Cork, speaker of the harsh, imperative, unaccustomed syllables.
“I beg your pardon?” the President said.
“Sorry,” Hayden said. “But shall we move on, or are you two going to bellow at each like a pair of old water buffalo?”
“I think I will have that martini,” Clenndennynn said, mopping his forehead.
THE PROSPECT that Mitchell v. Vanderdamp or Vanderdamp v. Mitchell or The People v. The U.S. Constitution or whatever this judicial Frankenstein called itself was going to end up at the Court worked an eerie calm on the three hundred or so inhabitants of the marble palace.
A cloistral hush descended on the place. No one spoke in the corridors. The cafeteria was a funeral parlor. Even passersby on the sidewalk outside the building whispered, shot nervous sideways glances, and quickened their steps. Every hour brought another television satellite truck. Gradually, the building took on the look of an ancient, marmoreal Ground Zero-a temple in which furious gods were preparing to vie. Such was the atmosphere one afternoon when Pepper answered her cell phone, the very private one whose number was known only to a handful.
“Justice Cartwright?”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar, immediately annoying Pepper that it should be coming over this phone.
“Who is this?”
“Joe Lodato, ma’am. FBI. We met-that day, in your office? We spoke just as I was leaving?”
“How did you get this number?”
Soft chuckle. Was he laughing? Pepper felt her face reddening.
“No disrespect, ma’am. It’s just a funny question to ask the FBI.”