Supreme Courtship by Christopher Buckley Read Free Book Online Page A

with a view. By the way, I was thinking, what would you say to raising the show’s metabolism a little?”
    Pepper said cautiously, “What did you have in mind?”
    “I was thinking, you know, instead of handing out these civil-type penalties, what if we could actually sentence people to jail?”
    “Buddy,” Pepper said, “we try civil-type cases. A, people don’t get sent to jail for those, and B, I’m not a real judge anymore. So I’m not getting how we could send them to jail.”
    “I thought of that,” Buddy said. “Instead of people signing these wimpy-ass agreements where they’re contractually bound to abide by your decisions—if they lose, they have to serve actual time.”
    “What time? I can’t send people to jail. I’m not a real judge. What am I supposed to do, call up the Metropolitan Detention Center and say, ‘Judge Cartwright here, do me a favor, would you, and put some folks in jail for me?’ ”
    “No—we build our
own
jail,” Buddy said, smiling triumphantly.
    “What are you talking about?”
    “With cameras in every cell. Say you lose your case—you get sent to the slammer. Our own slammer. For, like, a week or whatever. We create a prison. Build our own. Somewhere grim. Down south. With guard towers and—a
moat
. A shark-filled moat. Throw in some alligators. Do alligators and sharks mix?”
    “I’d have to get back to you on that,” Pepper said.
    “I hadn’t even thought of that until now. The guards would have uniforms. Darth Vader–type. Scary. And the prisoners—they’d have uniforms. They’d get points for good behavior, et cetera, so you could get out a day early or whatever. And—Jesus!—a cash prize if they
escape
.”
    Pepper tried to concentrate on chopping radishes for the salad. “And if they get eaten by the sharks and alligators?”
    “I’ll talk to Legal about it. Figure something out. But don’t you see it?
Oz
meets
Survivor
. * It could be incredible. What do you think?”
    “Well, darling, you sure are innovative on the weekends. Let me think about it,” Pepper said, continuing to chop.
    H AYDEN C ORK had been at his desk for only an hour on Monday morning and already he was having a bad day.
    “Sir, all I’m asking is that we postpone further discussion until Mr. Clenndennynn returns. His plane gets into Andrews at—”
    Dammit,
Hayden caught himself.
Bad slip.
    “Andrews?” the President said, looking up from his paperwork. “Since when do private jets land at U.S. Air Force bases?”
    “He’s coming in on a military plane, sir. I sent one to bring him back.”
    Hayden Cork braced for a stern lecture on wasteful government spending. Instead the President said, “Good work, Hayden.”
    “Sir?”
    “He’s going to shepherd her nomination through the Senate. That is,” the President chuckled, “if he can tear himself away long enough from helping overpaid CEOs negotiate debt relief with Chinese commies.” The President was of the old school. He still called it Red China, in private.
    “Sir,” Hayden said plunging deeper into gloom, “I’m not sure how he’s going to react to this . . . whole idea.”
    “I wouldn’t worry about that. Graydon’s an old pro. He’ll get it straightaway. And if it goes down in flames, he’ll put the word out,
What else could I do? The President asked me to do it as a personal favor.
Crafty old badger.”
    “Sir, would you consider just
meeting
with Runningwater?” Hayden said. “I really think you’ll be dazzled by him. His tribe was celebrated for—”
    “Hayden,” said the President, “get with the program.”
    “Yes, Mr. President.”
    I T IS A CLICHÉ in Washington that the most dangerous place to find yourself is between a politician and a TV camera or microphone, but in the case of Senator Dexter Mitchell the cliché had acquired a kind of Darwinian perfection. Dexter Mitchell loved—lived—to talk. He had uttered his first full sentence at the age of fourteen months and