“Thank you, old friend.”
“Not at all. Not at all. It’s been an honor to clean up after your messes. If you do get another term, promise you won’t call me.”
IT HAD NOT BEEN A GOOD WEEK, PR-wise, for Team Mitchell. Ramona, despite silky handling by Blyster Forkmorgan, had correctly smelled a raton [31] and, making good on her threat, had ventilated her grievance on national television.
“Ramona,” said the interviewer, “is it true Dexter Mitchell asked you to marry him?”
“Many times,” Ramona said, looking suspiciously chaste in a Marc Jacobs that looked like it might have been designed as a convent school graduation dress. “Many times. The first time, after he win the Iowa cow-kus…”
“ Iowa caucus?”
“That. Then after the New Hampshire primary. And the South Carolina primary. Every time he wins a primary, he says to me, ‘Ramona, I am divorcing my wife to make you Primera Dama.’ ”
“First Lady. The role you played so memorably on POTUS?”
Ramona dabbed at her eyes with a tissue-a beautiful television moment.
“Ramona, I have to ask you-why are you telling us this now?”
“Because Dexter Mitchell is a horrible person and he should never be President of the United States. I love this country too much. You know?”
DEXTER WATCHED the grotesque spectacle with his eyes closed, in the company of a somewhat somber Team Mitchell at the Hay-Adams suite which, though on the eighth floor, had of late taken on the feel of a subterranean war-bunker.
Ramona’s lurid revelations did nothing to enhance Dexter’s postelection ratings, which had been in free fall following President Vanderdamp’s public offer to resign-his Finest Hour, it was being called, to Dexter’s great vexation. But Mitchell v. Vanderdamp having been granted cert, Dexter went before the cameras and manfully announced his intention to see it through, that being, as he put it somewhat opaquely, “the only honorable course.” Blyster Forkmorgan, his warrior instincts aroused, and Ms. Alvilar’s claims of affection-or alienation-being extraneous to his client’s arguments, nodded, strapped on buckler and sword, mounted, and rode to battle.
O YEZ! OYEZ! OYEZ!…”
“It just came to me,” Crispus whispered to Pepper as they filed in, “it’s Old French for oy vey.”
Any other day, Pepper might have giggled. Not today. She was too nervous.
Taking her seat at the bench, Pepper, trying to appear calm and collected, briefly let her eyes wander over the assembled. She and Graydon’s eyes instantly locked. It was the first time she had ever viewed him from above. He looked small but formidable; peregrine-nosed, impeccable in three-piece suit and gold watch chain. He gave her the briefest smile and nod. Pepper glanced over and got her first live look at the famous Blyster Forkmorgan: grave, knife-lean, eyes like beads of mercury.
Mitchell v. Vanderdamp boiled down to two arguments, the first technical, the second more philosophical. The first was that President Vanderdamp’s election was invalid because the term limit amendment took legal effect the moment it was ratified by Texas, two days before the election. Mitchell’s second argument centered on the larger issue of governance, that is, whether the Court should recognize a validly adopted amendment, or the People’s decision in the election. Forkmorgan’s brief asserted that the validly adopted amendment took precedence over “metaphysical, however admirably intentioned, considerations,” i.e., the will of the people as expressed in the popular vote.
Chief Justice Hardwether managed to make the preliminaries sound so mundane it might have been another routine day in traffic court. (Which was, indeed, his intention.) And began.
“Mr. Forkmorgan, in your brief, you make two separate arguments.” He smiled. “Does that signify that one argument is stronger than the other? Or are you just piling on?”
“Either argument should be sufficient to carry the day, Mr. Chief Justice,” Forkmorgan said. “As to ‘piling on,’ perhaps I am attempting to overwhelm the Court with a veritable feast of reason.”
A ripple of laughter went through the Great Halclass="underline" the sound of hundreds of buttock cheeks unclenching.
“Which argument do you find more compelling?” the Chief Justice asked.
“Ah, you lay an elegant trap for me,” Forkmorgan replied. “Both arguments are equally compelling, albeit admittedly distinct in terms of texture. Call it juridical dimity.”
Dimity? Pepper thought. What in hell is dimity? [32]
“It seems clear enough to me,” Justice Santamaria said in a gruff, enough-already tone, “that you’re putting most of your eggs in the Dillon v. Gloss basket. Or am I missing something here?”
“I doubt very much that you’ve ever missed anything, Justice Santamaria,” Forkmorgan said.
“I was being sardonic.”
Laughter.
“We cite Dillon for a very straightforward reason. There, the Court, construing the Eighteenth Amendment-Prohibition-found that the critical date was the date of ratification, not the date of certification by the Secretary of State. It goes without saying that certification takes place after any election. At the time, of course, the statute vested certification authority in the Secretary of State, rather than-as now-in the National Archivist.”
“Isn’t that a somewhat narrow interpretation?”
“Even if certification-and not ratification-were the key determinative moment,” Forkmorgan said, “the amendment was in effect prior to certification by the Vice President of the vote of the Electoral College. Thus the term limit amendment clearly prevented the President from being chosen by the Electoral College.”
“ ‘Clearly’ is the issue here. But nice try, Counselor.”
“You clearly see through me, Mr. Justice.” Forkmorgan smiled.
As the elegant swordplay proceeded, Pepper found her eyes wandering again, toward the back of the hall. A recognizable visage came into view: walrus mustache, a beef-jerky face beneath a pale forehead. Well, who let you in? The leathery face creased into a wink. Pepper turned back to the proceedings. Forkmorgan and Silvio were still going at it. She wanted to get a word in. The clock was ticking. Each side got twenty minutes to present its case. Then there would be five minutes each for rebuttal.
No one, perhaps, had grasped better than she the CJ’s admonition that the whole world would be watching.
Yards, furlongs, miles of print, on paper and online, had been expended on feverish speculation as to which way Justice Cartwright would swing in Mitchell v. Vanderdamp. Editorials and TV commentators demanded she recuse herself. How could she possibly be unbiased? She owed Vanderdamp her seat! Dexter Mitchell’s loathing of her was a universally known fact, despite his shameless tactical pretense of enthusiasm for her at the hearings. (His fellow committee members had amply ventilated their anger at him to the media.)
Listening to these demands that she walk away from the case, Pepper’s reaction was a (silent) reiteration of the comment in Swayle that had created so much bother: kiss my ass. This time, she would be careful not to hit the SEND button. After some three a.m. tossing and turning she had come to the conclusion that she was perfectly capable of rendering judgment. And that was that. It was one advantage to being a Supreme Justice: they could beller and holler as long as they wanted, but you didn’t have to explain or account for yourself. Meanwhile, the boys were still going at it.
“The operative words, Justice Gotbaum, are ‘when ratified by the Legislatures of three fourths of the several states,’ which indicates that ratification is the critical moment. Post-election certification by the Archivist is a ministerial act that has no legal significance.”
“I’m well aware of that, Mr. Forkmorgan. But under 18 USC 106b-to which you yourself allude on page twelve-the Congress has entrusted the Archivist with the final step necessary to complete enactment of the amendment. He or she must determine that the states have officially adopted the amendment. So it would seem to me that until he or she does so, the amendment is not effective.”