The investigation into the Swayle leak, now in its fourth week, had so far failed to produce any result other than a deepening of the already sour mood within the marble palace.
A defiant and continuingly minty-breathed Chief Justice Hardwether had, true to his threat, called in the FBI, causing almost unanimous ill will. (For once the justices agreed on something.) Clerks asked to submit to polygraph examinations appealed to their various justices, who in turn registered Olympian proxy umbrage and fired off furious, copiously footnoted letters to the Attorney General, with ostentatious cc’s to their own Chief Justice. One such letter had been reprinted in full on the front page of the Washington Post.
The skies over Capitol Hill darkened with writs and subpoenas, but the Supreme Court being supreme, there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot the Justice Department could do other than to stamp its feet and put out grumbly leaks on the theme of “supreme arrogance.” Juvenal’s quis custodiet was quoted so often on TV that three-year-olds became conversant in Latin. Court observers shook their heads in dismay. Not since Bush v. Gore [23] had the Supreme Court been held in such contempt by the country. Had Chief Justice Hardwether lost his grip? This never would have happened under Rehnquist. And these rumors that he was drinking. It was all so very sad.
At the epicenter of this fury and unpleasantness stood Justice Pepper Cartwright, the aggrieved party insofar as the leak went, yet increasingly perceived in the public eye to be the epicentric cause of all the problems. Editorials had begun to appear calling for her impeachment. Every now and then, as the saying goes, Washington needs to burn a witch.
Meanwhile, the President who had elevated her to the high court was mounting the most quixotic reelection campaign in history. He had announced his firm intention not to spend one dime on television advertising, nor a single day campaigning in Iowa or New Hampshire or any of the early primary states. His campaign slogan was almost defiantly prosaic: “Vanderdamp: More of the Same.”
“As a rallying cry,” one pundit put it, “it’s not quite up there with ‘Once more into the breach.’ ”
The Presidential Term Limit Amendment, meanwhile, was busily ratifying its way through various state legislatures. State senators were furious with Vanderdamp for years of having denied them pork. The people, on the other hand, seemed to find the President’s breathtaking honesty refreshing, if not downright unique. According to the polls, many were rethinking their quondam odium. He was up by twelve points-or as they put it in Washington, “double digits.”
In the midst of this howling gale, Pepper blew her nose, dried her tears, and tried to go about the business of interpreting the U.S. Constitution as best she could. But it wasn’t much fun and she missed the view of Central Park. She missed lying in bed and looking out over it and eating hot bagels. Buddy had been wrong about there being no good restaurants in Washington, but she had yet to find New York-quality carbohydrates. Given other developments, this was a minor disappointment.
ONE LUNCH HOUR in the Court cafeteria, she found herself standing in line behind Crispus Galavanter.
“Why is it,” he said in his plummy cello voice, “that you and I are always taking up the rear of the procession? When will we take our rightful places in the pageant of greatness? The world wonders.”
Crispus bantered in these mock-heroic tones. His nickname among the clerks was “the Licorice Caesar.” He quite liked it, even occasionally signed his memos “LC.”
Pepper smiled, gathered up her Jell-O with embedded fruit, cottage cheese, and iced tea. Crispus’s tray held a trencherman’s portion of meat loaf, mashed potatoes, lima beans, onion rings, and two Dr Peppers.
“May I… join?” Crispus said. It was a mild breach of protocol, as Pepper had papers tucked under her arm, a signal she’d intended a reading lunch. But you couldn’t say no to Crispus.
“How you making out,” he said, “in the midst of all this Sturm und Drang?”
“Okay. No one’s asked me to take a polygraph, anyway,” Pepper said, forking up some cottage cheese.
“Disgraceful business. You shouldn’t have been put through it. Makes us all look bad. I don’t blame the CJ for being furious. But neither do I think that unleashing the FBI has enhanced the spirit of communality.”
“I begged him not to do it on my account,” Pepper said. “But he’s running hot about it. Went on and on about what a disgrace, etc, etc. I think he’s… he’s not in a good way.”
Crispus chewed his food pensively. “I am concerned for him. Either he is facing a periodontal crisis-he’s awful minty of late-or he is partaking of John Barleycorn in a voluminous manner. Well,” he said, “the man has been through a crucible. I like Declan. I don’t agree with him nine out of ten times. I didn’t agree with him on gay marriage. But that cat is well out of the bag and it ain’t going back in. No, it can’t have been easy. And now this Swayle business. Unfortunate. Say, how is that Jell-O? Would you like some of this meat loaf? It is… I have no words to describe its Platonic ideality. Do you know whose recipe it is? Mrs. Frankfurter’s. It lives on after her. Now, there’s a legacy. I would be well pleased to have such a one myself. Perhaps my nachos con everything in el pantry? Nachos Galavanter. Nachos Crispus. I will have the recipe entered into the record. And to think that you were present at the creation. Do you sense the historicity of the moment?”
“Try the Jell-O.” Pepper smiled.
“I demur,” Crispus said. “Demur most strenuously. Jell-O will not again pass these lips.”
“You got enough saturated fats on that plate to kill a marathon runner.”
“For your information, Miss Pritikin, that odious substance on your plate-intending no collateral disrespect to the cottage cheese-was about all I could afford to eat back in law school. That and those repellent Japanese noodles.” He shuddered. “No, neither Jell-O nor ramen shall frequent these digestive organs in this lifetime. But,” he said, “I do worry about Declan. I try to avoid the water-cooler style of discourse, but I confide to you here and now that I am alarmed for him. So is Paige, dear, kind woman that she is. But she can’t get anywhere with him. Shuts her out. And when you’re shutting out Paige Plympton, you are denying yourself the very quintessence of humanity. I saw him yesterday and he had a look on him… like a character out of Edgar Allan Poe. It gave me pause, I tell you. I said to him, in the most fraternal way, I said, ‘Dec, remember that on the other side of the wall of humiliation lies liberation.’ ”
“What did he say?” Pepper said.
“He said, ‘Did you find that in Pilgrim’s Progress or in a fortune cookie in a not very good Chinese restaurant?’ I laughed. He did not. Not even at his own bon mot. When you derive no joy from your own felicity, well, it’s like dying of thirst in your own wine cellar.”
“I feel like a fried green tomato about all this,” Pepper said. “I…”
Crispus shrugged. “It’s not your fault someone leaked Swayle. But I will say that your matriculation here has been”-he smiled companionably-“not uneventful.”
Pepper stared forlornly at the remains of her fruit-dappled Jell-O. “Do you think I should…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence.
“Eat any more of that ghastly substance? No. You need meat and potatoes, woman. So tell me, Justice Cartwright, what is it you like to do?
“Do?”
“Come on, this isn’t oral argument. It’s not a complicated question. Do you listen to music? Do you go to movies? Do you dance? Solve Sudoku puzzles in the bathtub while listening to Chopin’s nocturnes? Maurizio Pollini is my preferred version. That man is touched by God. All due respect to Horowitz and Rubinstein, but next to him they sound like they’re playing chopsticks. Do you climb mountains wearing lederhosen? Do you shoot elk with high-powered rifles and mount their horns? Do you keep tropical fish? Do you speak to your houseplants? Do you knit?”
“The only thing I’ve been doing,” Pepper said, “is working my Texas butt off.” She leaned forward and whispered across the table, “I’m drowning here, Crispus. I don’t think I’m gonna make this whistle.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Nothing. Bull-riding.”
“Steady on,” he said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, “steady on. For your information, everyone feels like they’re drowning the first year. Except maybe Silvio.” Crispus chuckled. “Silvio, you understand, was not appointed by the President, but from on high.”
Pepper felt tears welling. “I’m a catty whompus.”
Crispus stared. “What is a catty whompus? Something out of Lewis Carroll? It sounds… unpleasant.”
“Something that’s out of place. Something that doesn’t fit. Something like me.”
Crispus leaned back in his chair and patted his round belly pensively, as if posing for a nineteenth-century caricature. “Justice Cartwright, you disappoint me. I had not marked you for the self-pitying kind. You say you don’t fit? You’re here, aren’t you? You’re a Justice of the United States Supreme Court, aren’t you? Suck it up, girl.”
“Yeah,” Pepper said, suddenly dry-eyed, “you’re right.”
Crispus stood and bussed his tray, a habit left over from working his way through college. “Meantime,” he smiled, “I suppose the CJ could use a friendly word. Some bucking up. You’re not to blame for the Swayle leak, but it squirted all over onto his lap and he’s having a bad time with the mopping up. So, if you’re not otherwise occupied writing landmark opinions legitimizing the grievances of bank robbers, drop him a note or something, tell him you appreciate his… oh, whatever. Now I must leave you. I’ve got to go see a man about a horse.”
THAT NIGHT, a little after nine o’clock as Pepper was getting ready to leave, she thought of what Crispus had said and thought to stick her head in Hardwether’s office on the way out and say… whatever.
His outer office was empty, the clerks and secretaries gone. But she saw light under the door to his inner office. She knocked softly. No answer. Knocked again. No answer. Opened the door. The lights were on, but no CJ. The door leading from his inner office to the justices’ conference room was ajar. She walked over, opened it, and saw an arresting sight: the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court standing on the conference table, a rope around his neck, in the process of fastening the other end to an overhead light fixture. He turned and saw Pepper. The two Supreme Court justices stared at each other.
“Uh,” Pepper said. “Am I interrupting?”
“As it happens,” Hardwether said, “yes.”
“I could come back. But…”
“Thank you. If you’d please close the door behind you?”
Pepper said, “Could I ask you a question?”
“If it’s brief.”
“Is this a cry for help or are you actually fixing to hang yourself?”
“Justice Cartwright,” he said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but if I could have the room? Thank you. As you can see, I’m occupied.”
“I can see that,” Pepper said. She turned and walked a few steps to the door, stopped. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“Then don’t.”
“Thing is, if I were to leave, I’d be guilty of aiding and abetting a felony. Suicide’s a crime in DC. I’m already paying one lawyer to handle my divorce and another to handle a breach of contract suit. I can’t afford a third one. Not on what this place pays.”
“No,” the Chief Justice replied. “You’re perfectly in the clear. You’ve committed no act in support of the sui… of the deed. Absent said support, you would be guilty only if there were a relational obligation. Absent relational obligation-there being none here-you’re quite blameless. I would remind you that there is no ‘duty to rescue.’ ”
“There’s a moral duty, surely,” Pepper said.
“We’re not talking about moral duty, Justice. We’re talking about law.”
“Right,” Pepper said. “Sorry.”
“It’s well established under case law that, for instance, even if you were an expert swimmer you would be blameless for failing to save a drowning person. While I am not aware of any case where the drowning person was attempting to commit su… was attempting to sink, the larger principle, developed in cases of accidental drownings, is equally applicable. So, you see. No problem. Good night, Justice.”
Pepper said thoughtfully, “I disagree.”
Chief Justice Hardwether said with annoyance, “On what grounds?”
“I believe,” Pepper said, “that because of our employment relationship, that is as coworkers-if you will-that there is clear duty to care and that I am thus obligated to… well, do something.”
“No, no, no.” The Chief Justice shook his head. “Duty to care extends only to employer-employee relationships. As Chief Justice, I am your superior-if you will. The hierarchically subordinate individual is under no obligation to rescue the person in the hierarchically superior position. Zerbo v. Fantelli. The Court made it perfectly clear that it is only the hierarchically superior person who has the obligation to rescue the hierarchical inferior. So, if you would shut the door behind you?”
“There’s a problem,” Pepper said.
“For God’s sake, Justice. What problem?”
“You’re construing too narrowly.”
“Pepper-I’m the Chief Justice of the U.S. Supreme Court!”
“Be that as it may, sir, duty to care runs both ways. See Farquar v. Simpson. And anyway, as a simple matter of constitutional law, the Chief Justice is most appropriately regarded as primus inter pares. [24] So,” Pepper said brightly, “duty to care clearly obtains here. We’re coworkers.”
The Chief Justice’s head sagged. “Could you just please… go?”
“All right,” Pepper said, “okay. But you’re going about this all wrong.”
“We’ve been through all that, Justice.”
“I’m talking about the knot. You call that a hangman’s knot?”
“I… Pepper…”
“I know how to tie one, if you want. I was taught how when I was eight. By an actual hangman. Friend of my granddaddy’s.”
Hardwether stared. “All right,” he grumbled. “Jesus. Whatever.”
Pepper went over and took off her shoes.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Trying not to scuff the table. Not that you cared. Look at those marks.”
“Would you just proceed, please?”
“No need to get aggervated,” Pepper said. She took the rope off his neck. “Where’d you get this? Looks like clothesline…”
Chief Justice Hardwether groaned. “If you’d please just tie the knot.”
“All right. See, you take a length so, make your loop, then double it back-”
“I don’t need to learn how. I’m not going to be doing this a second time.”
“Didn’t they teach this in Boy Scouts? Or were you getting your merit badge in library science or some wimpy thing? There…” She handed it to him, a perfect hangman’s knot. “You better put it on yourself,” she said. “Legal-wise.”
He put it around his neck.
“You’d think a judge would know how to make a hangman’s knot,” she said.
“I’m against capital punishment,” he said. “Perhaps you read any of my eight opinions?”
“I read ’em,” Pepper said. “Now, you want the knot against the side, there, not the back. How much you weigh?”
“What?”
“Do you want to do this right, or you want to strangle to death slowly with your tongue sticking out black and blue and-”
“One seventy-five,” Hardwether snapped.
“All right then,” Pepper said. “Hm.”
“What now?”
“We’d need at least a four-foot drop for a good clean snap.”
“I’ll work with what we have. Thank you, Justice.”
“It’s your funeral,” Pepper shrugged, climbing down off the polished table. “Only now,” she added pensively, “we got a definite problem.”
“What?” the CJ said.
“Now I am an accessory. You die, I go to jail. That’s not a satisfactory outcome from my point of view.”
“For God’s sake,” the Chief Justice moaned.
“Tell you what,” Pepper said. “Why don’t you come down off there. We’ll go over to the library, rustle us up a couple of real sharp clerks, see if maybe we can’t find a loophole. If there is, then off you go and we’re done.”
Chief Justice Hardwether stepped forward as he raised his finger to gesture. As he did, his shoe slipped on the polished surface of the conference table. He pitched forward, the rope pulling taut against his throat. Pepper lunged forward as he crashed to the floor in a heap. He looked up at Pepper with a mixture of surprise, confusion, and betrayal, holding his abraded neck where the rope had been.
“Slipknot,” she said half apologetically. “Escape clause. Hangman taught me that, too.”
Hardwether made a hoarse sound.
“You want to go get some coffee or something? Valium? Crisis counseling? I believe it’s covered under our health plan.”
“A drink,” the Chief Justice croaked.
THEY WALKED TO THE PORK BARREL, a bar on Capitol Hill frequented by congressional staffers, low-end lobbyists, and Vietnam veteran bikers. Hardwether ordered a double Scotch; Pepper tequila.
“So,” she said when the drink came. “Seen any good movies lately?”
He stared glumly at the table.
“What was that all about?” she said.
“I apologize,” Hardwether said hoarsely. “Can we just leave it at that? I haven’t been thinking very clearly.”
“Sure. But the conference room?”
“The ceiling in my office was too high.”
“Oh. Would have made for one heck of a headline.”
“Undoubtedly.”
They sat in silence.
“Is it that bad?” Pepper said.
“I just tried to kill myself,” he said. “Res ipsa loquitur.” [25]
“The wife thing?”
He stared into his drink. “The life thing. You won’t mention this to anyone, will you?”
“I’m not the Court leaker.”
“No, that’s right. Oh, what a… mess.”
Pepper said, “Reason I went to see you in the first place was Crispus gave me a whuppin’ today in the cafeteria about feeling sorry for myself. I could recycle his lecture if you want.”
“It’s not self-pity. It’s an admission of failure. Two different things entirely.”
“We back on oral argument?”
“No.” He rubbed the livid red line around his neck.
“You might consider a turtleneck tomorrow,” Pepper said. “Or one of them high Edwardian collars. You’d look good in those. You’ve already got that stuffy owl sort of look.”
“All I ever wanted to be was this,” he said. “And now I’m in a bar, with abrasions around my neck. There’s a Yiddish proverb. Want to make God laugh? Tell him your plans. ’Nother round?”
“Do you really need more depressants? Come on,” she said. “I’ll drive you home.”
The Chief Justice was now living not in a multimillion- dollar mansion in McLean but in a nice-but-nothing-fancy apartment building in Kalorama, which means “beautiful view” in Greek, a name dreamt up by a nineteenth-century Washington developer.
Pepper pulled up in front of his apartment building. The Chief Justice stared vacantly through the windshield, making no move for the door handle. They sat in silence.
Pepper said, “You don’t want to be alone tonight. Do you?”
“No. I suppose not.”
“You got a couch?”
“I think so. Yes. I have a couch.”
“Okay then,” she said, “I’ll take the bed.”
“Fair enough,” he said.
<a l:href="#_ftnref23">[23]</a> Untidy, still controversial case involving somewhat confused, largely Jewish, Democratic retirees in Palm Beach who in 2000 voted by mistake for Patrick Buchanan, an anti-Israel Republican, instead of pro- Israel Democrat Al Gore, eventually resulting in the presidency of George (not H.) W. Bush, 9/11, the Iraq War, a 40 percent decline of the U.S. dollar, the subprime mortgage crisis of 2007-2008, a fatal tiger attack at the San Francisco Zoo, and a Nobel Prize for Gore.
<a l:href="#_ftnref24">[24]</a> First among equals. Not Juvenal.
<a l:href="#_ftnref25">[25]</a> The thing speaks for itself.