door, to make sure that it was closed. “I don’t trust her judgment.”
Kerry raised his eyebrows. “If she had better ‘judgment,’ Clayton, she’d have supported Dick Mason for the nomination when he was thirty points up in the polls. Or maybe it’s just that we
both
have judgment that is better than you think.”
With a faint smile, Clayton considered his friend. “Sometimes.”
“So what is it you don’t like?”
“This woman’s life. You’re right about
that
part—it’s too sterile. I grant you it’s harder for a woman with a family to have gotten this far this young. But, whatever her reasons, she
is
single, and childless.”
“So am I.” Kerry’s voice was soft. “A liability, as you were kind enough to point out.”
Clayton met his gaze, unblinking—sustained, Kerry knew, by a friendship tested by time and circumstance. “So why compound it? The same folks who wonder if she’s gay will wonder if you’re fucking her.”
“Now
there’s
an option I hadn’t considered.” Propping his head in his palm, Kerry leaned against the armrest of his chair. “I got three hours sleep last night. So why don’t we cut to the merits.”
“She’s clearly qualified,” Clayton answered promptly. “Women’s groups like her—the defense in the Carelli case was self-defense against attempted rape, and Masters allowed it. And she could lead the Court away from the judicial graveyard where Bannon parked it.
“But that’s the long view. First we have to get her past Macdonald Gage, who’s looking for an opening, and maybe Palmer. It doesn’t matter how they voted before—the august duty of the Senate to approve your nominees is never more sacred than for a new Chief. Or more critical to the people who’ll help decide whether Gage or Palmer is their choice to run you out of here. That’s a lot riding on a woman you know almost nothing about.”
“Then find out about her. Soon.” Kerry stood. “I’d like to skip the usual vapid Kabuki theater, where we trot in all our interest groups to tell us who to pick, then leak a virtual rainbow coalition of prospective chiefs. We can just say
this
one’s the best, period. Whoever it is.”
“We’ll look naive. Like Jimmy Carter.”
“We’ll look principled. If people weren’t so sick of calculating pols, Dick Mason would be sitting here with his finger in the wind.” Smiling, Kerry added, “The more refined calculations appear not to be that at all. Besides, we’d take Mac Gage and his reactionary playmates completely by surprise. That
will
give them something to think about.”
Clayton considered Kerry across the desk.
No, he amended, Kerry was not naive. He was a rare combination of principle with an instinctive, but quite sophisticated, sense of how his principles played out in the world of politics. And a sometimes cold-eyed way of getting where he wanted to go.
“We’ll be all right,” Kerry said mildly. “Between the two of us, Clayton, we make at least one adequate human being. Maybe even a president.”
The comment was at once wry, affectionate, and, if Clayton needed it, a subtle reminder of who occupied this office. Smiling, he answered, “I’ll take this on myself, Mr. President.”
TWO
T HE HEAD of the firm’s pro bono committee gave Sarah a wide-eyed look which combined fascination, amusement, and incredulity.
“We’re talking angry clients,” Scott Votek said. “Pissed off parents. Picket lines full of Bible thumpers. Rotten publicity. Security problems. In a firm where too many partners still think that ‘dead white male’ means ‘role model.’”
Though disheartening, Votek’s list of consequences was not surprising, nor was his satiric tag line. Along with his bright shirts, wire-rim glasses, and ginger beard, Votek cultivated the image of an iconoclast, with a subversive devotion to liberal causes. In the culture of the firm, Sarah counted him a friend, professionally and personally; he was one
Kerry raised his eyebrows. “If she had better ‘judgment,’ Clayton, she’d have supported Dick Mason for the nomination when he was thirty points up in the polls. Or maybe it’s just that we
both
have judgment that is better than you think.”
With a faint smile, Clayton considered his friend. “Sometimes.”
“So what is it you don’t like?”
“This woman’s life. You’re right about
that
part—it’s too sterile. I grant you it’s harder for a woman with a family to have gotten this far this young. But, whatever her reasons, she
is
single, and childless.”
“So am I.” Kerry’s voice was soft. “A liability, as you were kind enough to point out.”
Clayton met his gaze, unblinking—sustained, Kerry knew, by a friendship tested by time and circumstance. “So why compound it? The same folks who wonder if she’s gay will wonder if you’re fucking her.”
“Now
there’s
an option I hadn’t considered.” Propping his head in his palm, Kerry leaned against the armrest of his chair. “I got three hours sleep last night. So why don’t we cut to the merits.”
“She’s clearly qualified,” Clayton answered promptly. “Women’s groups like her—the defense in the Carelli case was self-defense against attempted rape, and Masters allowed it. And she could lead the Court away from the judicial graveyard where Bannon parked it.
“But that’s the long view. First we have to get her past Macdonald Gage, who’s looking for an opening, and maybe Palmer. It doesn’t matter how they voted before—the august duty of the Senate to approve your nominees is never more sacred than for a new Chief. Or more critical to the people who’ll help decide whether Gage or Palmer is their choice to run you out of here. That’s a lot riding on a woman you know almost nothing about.”
“Then find out about her. Soon.” Kerry stood. “I’d like to skip the usual vapid Kabuki theater, where we trot in all our interest groups to tell us who to pick, then leak a virtual rainbow coalition of prospective chiefs. We can just say
this
one’s the best, period. Whoever it is.”
“We’ll look naive. Like Jimmy Carter.”
“We’ll look principled. If people weren’t so sick of calculating pols, Dick Mason would be sitting here with his finger in the wind.” Smiling, Kerry added, “The more refined calculations appear not to be that at all. Besides, we’d take Mac Gage and his reactionary playmates completely by surprise. That
will
give them something to think about.”
Clayton considered Kerry across the desk.
No, he amended, Kerry was not naive. He was a rare combination of principle with an instinctive, but quite sophisticated, sense of how his principles played out in the world of politics. And a sometimes cold-eyed way of getting where he wanted to go.
“We’ll be all right,” Kerry said mildly. “Between the two of us, Clayton, we make at least one adequate human being. Maybe even a president.”
The comment was at once wry, affectionate, and, if Clayton needed it, a subtle reminder of who occupied this office. Smiling, he answered, “I’ll take this on myself, Mr. President.”
TWO
T HE HEAD of the firm’s pro bono committee gave Sarah a wide-eyed look which combined fascination, amusement, and incredulity.
“We’re talking angry clients,” Scott Votek said. “Pissed off parents. Picket lines full of Bible thumpers. Rotten publicity. Security problems. In a firm where too many partners still think that ‘dead white male’ means ‘role model.’”
Though disheartening, Votek’s list of consequences was not surprising, nor was his satiric tag line. Along with his bright shirts, wire-rim glasses, and ginger beard, Votek cultivated the image of an iconoclast, with a subversive devotion to liberal causes. In the culture of the firm, Sarah counted him a friend, professionally and personally; he was one
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