waded through the enormous briefing book Adam Shaw sent over. It was very impressive—including your opinion on limiting campaign contributions. I wouldn’t mind a short tutorial on
that
, to help me assess whoever I do appoint.”
That she would not become Chief Justice, Caroline decided, left her freer to speak. “I
know your
position,” she answered. “You propose to bar interest groups or the wealthy from buying influence through giving either political party these enormous contributions. But legally, you encounter a formidable argument: that the First Amendment makes those contributions a form of ‘speech’ that you can’t touch.
“We don’t regulate speech lightly. But one can argue that special access for interest groups drowns out the voices and cheapens the votes of ordinary citizens: How many people can give the Democrats a million dollars to ensure that
you
listen when they exercise ‘free speech’?” Caroline flashed a smile. “Not that you’d be influenced, of course.”
“That’s only the Republicans,” Kilcannon said with irony. “I’m above it all. The teachers’ unions and trial lawyers have no claim on
me
.”
“Naturally. But some people may have missed that. No matter who they vote for, they believe, neither party cares about them. And so they’ve just stopped voting. Which is how democracy—in the real sense—begins to flicker out.
“That’s the cost of treating interest groups as the torch-bearers of First Amendment liberties.” Pausing, Caroline said emphatically, “Still, it’s not a simple question. No judge with any integrity would promise you a result. You shouldn’t choose anyone who does.”
“It’s tempting.” Abruptly, the President stood, hands in his pockets, as though he had forgotten all concerns but his own. “For the country to change, the Court has to change. I mean to root out this system of legalized bribery where all of us sell pieces of the government like shares of stock. But I can’t do it by myself.” Suddenly he stopped, giving Caroline a look of wry self-deprecation. “I sometimes give soliloquies. Like Hamlet.”
As she was meant to, Caroline smiled at this. But there was no escaping the scope of his ambitions, or that, like Theodore or Franklin Roosevelt, he tended to see the institutions of government—even the Supreme Court—as extensions of himself. It was fascinating, and a little unsettling.
“I enjoy soliloquies,” she responded gently. “But the justices don’t work for you, and the role of a Chief Justice is not to dictate change.
“If you simply find a Chief who’ll help keep the other justices
open
to change, you’ll have done well. Even if the result isn’t always what you want.”
For a moment, Kilcannon looked surprised. Then he grinned in rueful self-knowledge. “Oh, I know, I know. Sometimes.”
This did not require an answer. All at once, their meeting was at an end.
Caroline stood, extending her hand. “Thank you, Mr. President. You were generous to see me.”
“Thank you, Judge Masters.” Kilcannon hesitated, then added softly, “I regret our current political climate more than you know, and all the more for meeting you. But what you’ve said is very helpful.”
Outside, an aide was waiting. Caroline left, confident she would never see him again.
EIGHT
T HE SECOND TIME Sarah Dash met Mary Ann Tierney was in a cramped, windowless office at San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a Saturday, but the urban tragedies who washed up at a public hospital—the AIDS-afflicted, the drug-ridden, the homeless, the maimed—did not receive days off. Mary Ann’s frightened eyes registered what she had seen: to Sarah, she looked like a sheltered girl who had taken a detour through purgatory, and now wondered where she was.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I know this isn’t easy. But we’ll need witnesses if we’re going to court. And I wanted you to see a counselor from the clinic.”
Mary Ann
that
, to help me assess whoever I do appoint.”
That she would not become Chief Justice, Caroline decided, left her freer to speak. “I
know your
position,” she answered. “You propose to bar interest groups or the wealthy from buying influence through giving either political party these enormous contributions. But legally, you encounter a formidable argument: that the First Amendment makes those contributions a form of ‘speech’ that you can’t touch.
“We don’t regulate speech lightly. But one can argue that special access for interest groups drowns out the voices and cheapens the votes of ordinary citizens: How many people can give the Democrats a million dollars to ensure that
you
listen when they exercise ‘free speech’?” Caroline flashed a smile. “Not that you’d be influenced, of course.”
“That’s only the Republicans,” Kilcannon said with irony. “I’m above it all. The teachers’ unions and trial lawyers have no claim on
me
.”
“Naturally. But some people may have missed that. No matter who they vote for, they believe, neither party cares about them. And so they’ve just stopped voting. Which is how democracy—in the real sense—begins to flicker out.
“That’s the cost of treating interest groups as the torch-bearers of First Amendment liberties.” Pausing, Caroline said emphatically, “Still, it’s not a simple question. No judge with any integrity would promise you a result. You shouldn’t choose anyone who does.”
“It’s tempting.” Abruptly, the President stood, hands in his pockets, as though he had forgotten all concerns but his own. “For the country to change, the Court has to change. I mean to root out this system of legalized bribery where all of us sell pieces of the government like shares of stock. But I can’t do it by myself.” Suddenly he stopped, giving Caroline a look of wry self-deprecation. “I sometimes give soliloquies. Like Hamlet.”
As she was meant to, Caroline smiled at this. But there was no escaping the scope of his ambitions, or that, like Theodore or Franklin Roosevelt, he tended to see the institutions of government—even the Supreme Court—as extensions of himself. It was fascinating, and a little unsettling.
“I enjoy soliloquies,” she responded gently. “But the justices don’t work for you, and the role of a Chief Justice is not to dictate change.
“If you simply find a Chief who’ll help keep the other justices
open
to change, you’ll have done well. Even if the result isn’t always what you want.”
For a moment, Kilcannon looked surprised. Then he grinned in rueful self-knowledge. “Oh, I know, I know. Sometimes.”
This did not require an answer. All at once, their meeting was at an end.
Caroline stood, extending her hand. “Thank you, Mr. President. You were generous to see me.”
“Thank you, Judge Masters.” Kilcannon hesitated, then added softly, “I regret our current political climate more than you know, and all the more for meeting you. But what you’ve said is very helpful.”
Outside, an aide was waiting. Caroline left, confident she would never see him again.
EIGHT
T HE SECOND TIME Sarah Dash met Mary Ann Tierney was in a cramped, windowless office at San Francisco General Hospital.
It was a Saturday, but the urban tragedies who washed up at a public hospital—the AIDS-afflicted, the drug-ridden, the homeless, the maimed—did not receive days off. Mary Ann’s frightened eyes registered what she had seen: to Sarah, she looked like a sheltered girl who had taken a detour through purgatory, and now wondered where she was.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “I know this isn’t easy. But we’ll need witnesses if we’re going to court. And I wanted you to see a counselor from the clinic.”
Mary Ann
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