Free Supreme Courtship by Christopher Buckley Page A

flavor?”
    “Darned tasty. Maybe we ought to get him up here for the hearings.”
    “God, please, no. He’ll start speaking in tongues. And it would only remind everyone of the Ruby business. She seems fond of the grandfather. Former sheriff. His name is JJ, wouldn’t you know? Droopy mustache, big shiny belt buckle, soulful eyes. He’ll do. Your wise American people love that sort of thing.”

CHAPTER 8
    D eclan Hardwether, at forty-nine years old the second youngest Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the most powerful man in the country—at least so it was often put—was stuck in traffic.
    The situation did not improve his mood, which had been sour anyway since his wife had announced several months ago that she was leaving him for a retired army colonel named Doreen, Doreen being the major’s first name.
    One week prior to that breakfast table bombshell, Chief Justice Hardwether had cast the deciding vote to legalize gay marriage in the United States. After telling him that she was leaving, his wife, Tony (née Antoinette), told him that once their divorce was final, she and Doreen would marry.
    “And I want to say, from the bottom of my heart, thank you for that, Dec,” she said, without a trace of irony.
    By noon she was gone, taking with her (so to speak) the large house in McLean outside Washington, two of the three expensive German cars, the very expensive vacation home in Maine, and the bank account, all of those being hers, anyway, benisons of inherited wealth. Tony’s maternal grandfather had poured most of the concrete between Chicago and Milwaukee.
    As he boxed up his personal effects, Chief Justice Hardwether pondered in his study over a depleting bottle of Scotch whether he should go after her for half her dough. He was entitled to it, according to his reading of the law. He entertained pleasant fantasies: freezing her assets, having secret police throw her in jail.
    But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that a messy divorce would only keep the (goddamn) spotlight on him. He no longer dared turn on the TV late at night for fear of hearing himself made the butt of another monologue joke by some half-wit talk show host.
    Declan Hardwether looked out the car window at the Potomac River. The turbid water was flowing faster than his car was moving. His head hurt. He chided himself.
Got to lay off the late-night snorts. For that matter, the midday snorts.
    It was, he knew, not a good sign that he had started to carry little bottles of mouthwash. Had he really fooled Justice Plympton, Court den mother, when he explained that his sudden minty freshness of breath was the result of “a gum thing” that required frequent rinsings? To judge from the look on her face, no, he had not fooled Paige. Would she have given him a warm hug and said, “You know we love you, Dec,” because she was concerned about his gums?
    The car continued its crawl across the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. With any luck, he’d miss his flight.
    He was on his way to give a speech at Lutheran Law in St. Paul. It had been arranged months before Tony’s disastrous announcement. Canceling it was out of the question. Worse—he rubbed his forehead—he had agreed to do a Q&A after his speech. Meaning he had no choice but to face reporters. He had managed to limit his contacts with the press to smiling at the bastards and giving them a quick wave as he walked briskly from his front door to the car—
Hi, hello, good morning, wonderful to see you, wonderful . . .
—as they screeched at him, “Any second thoughts on gay marriage, Chief?”
Har, har, har.
The reporters weren’t the only ones camped on his front lawn. It had turned into a shantytown of protesters who, to judge from the signs they shook at him, had way too much free time on their hands:
    HARDWETHER—REAP AS YE SOW!
    CHIEF INJUSTICE HARDWETHER!
    HARDWETHER: ROT IN HOMO HELL!
    His cell phone vibrated. Tony. A text message.
Can u be out of house by end of