It was an assault case. Felony assault. The defendant looked well dressed for a felonious assaulter. He had three lawyers at his table.
The assaultee was on the stand, being cross-examined by one of the defense lawyers.
“Mr. En-ri-quez,” the lawyer was saying, trying to make the surname sound criminal in itself, “you have testified that my client, Mr. Burson, quote-unquote threatened you. Would you define the verb ‘threaten’ for the court?”
“Objection,” said the DA wearily.
“Sustained,” said Judge Cartwright. “Cut it out, Counselor.”
“Your Honor, I’m merely trying to-”
“If you’re unsure of the meaning of the word ‘threaten’ I’ll have the court clerk provide you with a copy of Webster’s dictionary. You’ll find it under T, right before time-waster.”
“Your honor, I know what ‘threaten’ means. I’m merely trying to establish whether Mr. Enriquez knows what-”
“Come on, Counselor. Giddyup here. I’ve seen glaciers move quicker than you.”
Several jurors laughed. One of other defense attorneys smiled, until his client noticed, whereupon he reassumed an attitude of expensive consternation.
Mr. Enriquez, Buddy inferred, was a kiddie-league soccer referee. The defendant was evidently the father of an eight-year-old player. He had apparently disagreed with several of Mr. Enriquez’s calls against his daughter’s team and, after the game, had-allegedly-tried to run Mr. Enriquez over with his Mercedes in the parking lot.
A squabble broke out over whether the cost of the defendant’s Mercedes was admissible. The defense had kept objecting to the DA’s repeated references to the “hundred-thousand-dollar weapon.”
“Mr. Setrakian,” said Judge Cartwright to the DA, “are you trying to make a socioeconomic point here? If I may analogize, a ten-dollar Saturday Night Special handgun is just as lethal as a $100,000 engraved London-made shotgun. Or are you striving to make some other kind of point here?”
“Your Honor,” said the DA, who seemed to be enjoying himself immensely-everyone in court seemed to be, even the jurors-“I am merely trying to establish that a weapon, in this case a $100,000 Mercedes E Class-”
“Objection,” two of the defendant’s attorneys said simultaneously.
“One objection per client, if you don’t mind,” said the judge. “Now see here, Mr. Setrakian,” she returned to the DA, “you have majestically established that the defendant’s car cost a bucket of money. I very much doubt if this point you’ve been making as subtly as a sledgehammer has been lost on any juror who’s managed to say awake.”
“Your Honor,” the DA said, grinning, “you’re being very severe with me today.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Setrakian,” Judge Cartwright said, cheeks dimpling as she put her glasses back on. “ ‘I must be cruel only to be kind. Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.’ Proceed, please. Proceed. Let’s try to finish up before the next ice age.”
After adjournment, Buddy sought out Judge Pepper’s chambers. He presented his media credentials and was admitted. Judge Pepper was standing behind her desk. Buddy stood and stared.
“You here to see me about something,” she said, “or just browsin’?”
“No. Sorry,” Buddy said, still staring.
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“What you said back there to the DA. ‘I must be cruel in order to be nice…’ What was that about?”
Judge Cartwright stared back curiously. “That would be Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare?” Buddy said. “No shit?”
“Yes, shit.” Judge Cartwright cocked her head. “You all right, sir?”
“Oh, yeah,” Buddy said. “Great.”
CHAPTER 3
White House Chief of Staff Hayden Cork was as usual in his office early on a Saturday morning, while the rest of the world slept in, played tennis, and lingered over the papers and coffee. He was putting together the final touches on the file for President Vanderdamp in this, their (sigh) third effort to fill the (damn) Brinnin vacancy.
Though he was exhausted and enervated by the Cooney and Burrows debacles, the adrenaline was pulsing in Hayden Cork’s veins. His engine normally ran cool, but there’s no more heady kind of head-hunting than picking a nominee for the Supreme Court of the United States. For a president, nothing short of war, perhaps, is more consequential than putting a justice on the Court-a fact generally pointed out every four years by whoever is running second in the polls.
Before flying off yesterday to Camp David in a simmering rage, Vanderdamp had instructed Hayden to have a name ready for him first thing Monday morning.
“See if Mother Teresa is available,” he said acidulously.
“I believe she’s dead, sir.”
“Then try the Pope.”
“I have a thought,” Hayden said cautiously. “But I don’t think you’re going to like it.”
“Go on.”
“Dexter Mitchell.”
The President’s normally placid Ohioan face curdled.
“Mitchell?” he said. “After what he did to Cooney and Burrows? Never mind to us. Hayden, have you taken leave of your senses?”
“Walk with me, sir. As we know all too well,” Cork said, shifting in his chair, “he wants the job himself.”
“Yes,” said the President. “I recall. That visit he paid me. Not an experience I’d care to repeat.”
“No, sir.” It was a painful memory. “But if I may, it might earn us some points on the Hill. God knows we could use a little goodwill up there. And it would be a real, boy oh boy, stunneroo. Take everyone by surprise.”
“Hayden,” the President said. “Listen to me very closely. I’ll say this once more and never again. Write it down. Dexter Mitchell will not sit on the Supreme Court while I am President. Did you get all that down? Read it back to me.”
“I understand, sir.” It was now or never. “But it was Graydon’s idea.”
Hayden Cork knew that the mere mention of the august syllables would give the President pause. “His thinking is that since most of the senators on Mitchell’s own committee can’t stand him, they’d be grateful to you for getting rid of him.”
“By making him one of the nine most powerful people in the country? In the universe? That’s one heck of a way to get rid of someone.”
“Okay, there’s that, but our immediate problem, frankly, sir, is a Congress that… Sir, let’s face it, we’re not very popular up there.”
“I don’t care about that, Hayden. I am trying to accomplish things here.”
“I understand that, sir. I’m merely saying that Graydon thinks it would be the smart move. Those were in fact his exact words. That it would be the smart move.”
The President stared at his chief of staff. “Sounds as though you two had a good long chinwag about all this,” the President said.
“He is your most trusted senior adviser, sir. Or would you prefer I not discuss the welfare of your presidency with him?”
“I’d like a name from you by close of business Monday. I don’t mean to ruin another weekend, Hayden. I know you’ve been working full-out. But just get me a name. This circus has gone on long enough.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
THERE WERE SEVEN NAMES in Hayden’s dossier this sunny Saturday morning: two (venerable) state Supreme Court justices, a (more or less venerable) senator, three appellate judges (pretty venerable), a state attorney general (venerable enough), and the dean of the Yale Law School (predictably but by no means excitingly venerable).