No Way to Treat a First Lady by Christopher Buckley

problem of the Middle—
    Ms. Van Anka, were you and the President intimate physically? Did you have a sexual relationship?
    What kind of question is that?
    A direct question, Ms. Van Anka.
    Who do you think you are, the National Perspirer? That's a grossly invasive question. And you, a woman, asking it. Because I enjoyed a warm relationship with the President, you assume he was interested in my body. It's an insult. Talk to my lawyers. Take your pick, I have three. And I can get more. We have nothing but lawyers in L.A. Next time I'll charter a 747 and fill it with lawyers. Don't think I wouldn't. Money is not an issue with us.
    Ms. Van Anka, we have to ask these questions. If you testify at this trial, you will be cross-examined. You'll be cross-examined about the statement you gave to the FBI agents that morning. Moreover, you will be cross-examined by Boyce Baylor, Mrs. MacMann's attorney. You've heard of him? He will ask you these questions and many other questions. Your lawyers here know that.
    So, why do I have to testify, anyway? I didn't see her clop him on the head with the spittoon. I'm not a witness. Why do you even need to involve me in this?
    Because, Ms. Van Anka, you were a guest in the White House the night the President died. You were one of the last people to see him alive. If we don't put you on the stand, it would be tantamount to saying that we don't believe the testimony that you gave to the agents. And Mr. Baylor will call you as a witness. And if there are inconsistencies, any little holes in your original statement, he will drive trucks through them, Ms. Van Anka. Eighteen-wheelers.
    I do not understand. You've got the murder weapon, the Secret Service man heard the shouting, you've got her fingerprints and the dent in his skull from the spittoon. Why do you need me? Do you have any idea what my life has become? I doubt it. Do you know what stress this has caused? This could affect my career. Let me tell you all something: This could affect the peace process in the Middle East.
    Upon Babette's return from Washington, the city she had once ruled and now loathed, she played the part she had scripted for herself and took to her bed. She'd stormed out of the Justice Department not knowing what they were going to do with her. Another minute there, she couldn't take. Morris, Howard, Ben, we are leaving, now. There was this consolation to being a superstar—you knew how to make an exit.
    The lawyers discussed among themselves all the way to Los Angeles on Morris's jet while Babette watched her old movies on DVD with the sound down so she could listen to them. None of them came right out and said she was schtupping him, but it was obvious from how they talked that there was little doubt in their minds. So humiliating. Yet it was only a taste, a soupçon, of what lay ahead if she was put on the stand.
    The next day came the call from Morris, who'd just gotten off the phone with some deputy prosecutor—how many did they have, for God's sake?—to tell her that yes, they were going to call her to testify. It would look too awkward if they didn't. Don't leave the country. Make yourself available. Don't worry, everything will be fine, just tell the truth.
    The truth! In the next hour, Babette ate three pints of Ben & Jerry's Celebrity Ripple ice cream. A week in bed, not answering the phone, watching her movies, pints, quarts, gallons of ice cream. Even her silk pajama pants felt tight in the waist.
    She watched opening day. Of the billions of human beings who glued their eyeballs to television sets, few watched more intently than Babette Van Anka. Even in extremis to use the bathroom, she held on, bursting, until Judge Dutch called fifteen-minute recesses. The Clintick woman had, thank God, mentioned her only in passing. And Boyce Baylor—oo, a sharp one and no mistaking, and not so bad looking, either, no wonder Lady Bethmac had a jones for him back in law school—didn't even mention her in his tirade