I did the best I could.
In the passenger seat, Margot is reading evidentiary briefs on a bank robbery case. In Flatbush not too long ago, a man made a startling discovery. Anything written in the juice of a lemon is invisible to the naked eye. If this so-called invisible ink could make words disappear, the defendant thought, what else could it vanish? Three days later the man walked into a bank with lemon juice smeared all over his face. He smiled at the security cameras. He felt so confident his face was invisible that he drove across town and robbed a second bank. Later, when the police arrested him using CCTV footage of his face, he cried out in confusion and misery, “But I wore the juice!”
Oh, people, thinks Margot. We know so little and talk so much. Cooks and Drinkers alike. We animals called human beings, who move through life with such conviction, such sureness. So many opinions. Such confidence that our beliefs and ideas are right. So certain are we that the decisions we are making are clear and reasoned that we reject all evidence to the contrary. The Lemon Juice Bandit was the victim of his brain. We are all victims of our brains. They tell us to do things and we do them. They tell us to believe things and we believe them. They hide our blind spots from us. All the while we believe we are making choices. This is the best trick our brains play on us. They tell us we are rational, decision-making machines, when really we are obeying machines, hardwired by DNA.
Margot’s phone rings. She checks the number. Unlisted. Normally she wouldn’t answer, but it could be Story.
“Judge Nadir.”
Remy doesn’t hear what’s said on the other line, but suddenly Margot goes pale.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
She doesn’t respond, just chews her bottom lip, mind racing. Because what the voice on the other end of the phone said was— “Please hold for the President of the United States.”
Outside, the landscape wears its summer coat. Spanish moss on the trees, rain-green grass. They pass new subdivisions on Riverside, the city growing like a weed, sprawling farther and farther from its center. Margot sits speechless in the passenger seat.
“Judge Nadir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is this a bad time?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
“You sound like you’re on the move.”
“I’m in Texas, sir.”
“From Texas?”
“No, sir. I’m from Michigan originally. My daughter’s in law school here.”
“Okay, good. Good. Well, I’ll make it quick. Hasn’t been announced yet, but Judge Baker’s gonna retire.”
What Margot hears is the blood roaring in her ears. She didn’t vote for this president. He is a Cook and she is a Drinker, so how can he be calling her right now with this news? With the offer the call implies?
“He says he’s done,” says the president, “and I believe him. And so that means I got a seat on the Supreme Court opening up.”
Margot turns and looks at her husband. He is trying to keep his eyes on the road, but it’s so clear there’s something happening, he keeps turning to look at her.
What? he mouths.
She shakes her head, unable to speak.
“You there, Marjorie?”
“It’s Margot, sir.”
“Ah, shit. I’m an asshole. But they wrote it down wrong.”
“That’s okay, sir. I can be Marjorie if it gets me on the court.”
He laughs, and she feels a thrill of triumph. Sometimes it’s just that simple. You can have all the qualifications in the world, be a paper-lock, but at the end of the day organizations still run on human connection, the feeling of I like this guy.
“Touché,” he says. “And look, I know you’re not the obvious choice for a president of my persuasion, but I’m pushing for unity here, trying to reach across the damn aisle, build a bridge, and all that, so, look. The first step is you come in and meet. When can you get here?”
“Here?”
“To DC. That’s where I live. It’s a white house on Pennsylvania Avenue. Can’t miss it.”
“Yes, sir. I deserve that.”
“Thing is, time is of the essence, as they say. Nobody in this town can keep a secret worth a damn, and when the news breaks I want to be ready with a solution.”
“Is tomorrow okay?” Margot asks. “I flew all this way. I feel like I should at least see my daughter’s face.”
There’s a pause. Margot worries she’s blown it.
“I got seven people shaking their heads at me here,” says the president. “But that’s fine with me. I got daughters myself, younger, but still—if they lived in a different state, well, I’d wanna visit all the time. Go ahead and grab a bite and then catch a flight later tonight. We can meet in the morning. Chuck here’ll reach out in a few minutes to work out the details.”
“Thank you, sir. And should I go ahead and assume I’m not the only judge you’re meeting on this?”
“Yeah, that’s a fair assumption. But it’s a short list, and you’re at the top. So wear your good shoes.”
“I will. Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Impress me.”
She swallows. The world racing toward her is in Technicolor.
“I’ll try.”
She pushes end. The silence that follows lasts a thousand years.
“Babe?” says Remy.
Margot keeps her eyes forward. There is a pickup truck with a bumper sticker. She focuses on that, because if she turns and looks at her husband or her son, she’s going to start to cry.
“I’m going to be on the Supreme Court,” she says.
*
Remy has his own theory of politics. In his mind the two parties can be broken down into Swimmers and Surfers. The Swimmers are the party of FDR and Obama. The Surfers are the party of Reagan. The Swimmers move in packs through the ocean of history, pulled along by the current. They feel connected to the water, buoyed by their progress, but also vulnerable to the undertow and crushing waves. The Surfers ride on top of the water, choosing their own path. In their minds they are birds, not fish, creatures of the wind. Their progress is not driven by the ocean but by their own muscles and will.