THE NEXT MORNING at breakfast he asked the steward, “ Jackson, have you ever seen a TV show called Courtroom Six?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you think of it?”

“Watch it every chance I get, sir.”

“What do you think of the judge-Judge Pepper?”

“Oh,” Jackson smiled, not servant to president, but man to man, “I like her a whole lot, sir. She’s a smart lady. She hands it out good. And she’s awful…”

“Go ahead, Jackson.”

Jackson grinned. “Awful easy on the eyes.”

“Thank you, Jackson.”

“Another waffle, sir? Griddle’s still hot.”

“Yes,” the President said. “I think I will. But Jackson -not a word to the First Lady.”

“Oh, no, sir.”

Good show,” said Buddy Bixby, creator and producer of Courtroom Six, and spouse to its star.

They were in Pepper’s dressing room, generally referred to jocularly as her “chambers,” following the taping.

“What was so awful about it?” Pepper said, removing her judicial robes, revealing a bra, pantyhose, and high heels. It was a sight to induce infarction in the most hardened of male arteries, but in a husband of six years, barely a glance.

“I said it was a good show,” Buddy said. “What am I supposed to say?”

“ ‘Good’ is what you say when you thought it was roadkill. When you really think it was good, you do that producer macho trash talk. ‘Great fucking show.’ ‘Outta the fucking ballpark.’ ”

“It was a great fucking show. It took my fucking breath away.”

“You’re the only person I know who can say that while sounding like you’re suppressing a yawn.” Pepper yanked a Baby Wipe from the box and began removing makeup. “What’s eating you, anyway?”

“We’re getting killed against Law & Order.”

Pepper sighed. “We’re not getting killed against Law & Order. We’re doing fine.”

“We’re down a half point.” Buddy treated any dip in Courtroom Six’s ratings as a state of emergency. “By what definition is that ‘fine’?”

“What’s got into you? You’re more nervous than a long-tailed cat on a porchful of rocking chairs.”

“These sentences you’re handing out…”

“What about them?”

“You’re letting the women off kind of easy, don’t you think?”

“No. What else did you want to talk about?”

“The bitch poured $150,000 worth of fine French wine down the drain! And you sentence her to six hours of anger management therapy?”

Pepper tossed a Baby Wipe into the wastebasket. “What did you have in mind? Lethal injection? Hanging?”

“What about making her drink the grape juice? That would have been something. Poetic justice. Instead of anger management therapy.” Buddy shook his head. “I’m glad you’re not in charge of the war on terror. The terrorists would be at spas having manicures.”

Pepper brushed her hair and tried to tune out her husband’s normal postshow hand-wringing and critiques. The better things went, the more he needed to worry that some calamity was imminent, a once-charming trait now a bit tedious. Buddy did care about Courtroom Six. It was his class act-“class” being a somewhat relative term, considering his other shows: Jumpers, a reality show based on security camera footage of people who jump off bridges; G.O. (the medical abbreviation for “grotesquely obese”); and now a show called Yeehad, a “comedy” about five patriotic Southerners who decide to travel to Mecca to blow up Islam’s most sacred shrine, the Q’aaba. Buddy had eight shows running. According to Forbes, they were earning him $74 million a year. But Courtroom Six was the jewel in the crown.

“I’m just saying that there would appear to be a noticeable feminist… thing going on with these sentences you’re handing down.”

“I thought we’d had that discussion.”

“Excuse me for pointing out something the entire world is talking about. I’m just saying-if it please the court-that you’ve been letting these women off easy. But if it’s a guy, you go at him like he’s a fucking piñata.”

“Buddy, honey,” Pepper said, “the ex-husband, whose Bordeaux wine you regard like it’s holy water, was tighter than bark on a tree with the alimony and the child support. I’m not going to cry me a river on account of his ’82 Petrus.” She sniffed. “Been me, I’d have busted the bottles over his head. One by one.”

“I rest my case,” Buddy said triumphantly.

“Well, you go rest your case. This girl is going to go rest her tail.”

She shimmied into her jeans and lizard-skin cowboy boots. Simple white blouse, raised collar, turquoise stud earrings, suede jacket, and over-the-shoulder handbag: she looked like a woman who knew her way on a New York City sidewalk. In the handbag was a.38 caliber Smith & Wesson LadySmith revolver, a gift from her grandfather. She was licensed to carry.

“Could I just say one thing?” Buddy said.

“No, darlin’. But I have a feeling you’re going to, anyway.”

“Do you know how many of our viewers are male?”

“No, sweetheart. I leave those details to you. I’m just a simple girl from Plano.”

“Yeah, yeah. Well, then, my little cactus bud, you might be interested to know that we’re down six percent among male viewers.”

Pepper said, “Well, damn. I guess there’s nothing left to do but throw myself off the Brooklyn Bridge. If nothing else, it’ll give you a season finale for Jumpers.”

Bill said pleadingly, “But-don’t you care?”

“I care that I’m going to be late for my mani-pedi.”

“Why have we had such success-historically speaking-among male viewers?”

“Presumably on account of my Solomonic dispensation of justice.”

“A major factor, no question. But another factor?”

Pepper was headed for the door.

“Excuse me,” Buddy said, “am I boring you?”

“Yes. Seriously so.”

“Then let me get right to the point.” Buddy lowered his voice, as if he were revealing a classified secret. “The sponsors are not happy.”

Pepper rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” Buddy said. “Shoot the messenger if it makes you feel better. As for Hummer and Budweiser? I would not describe them as happy campers.”

“Buddy. Buddy. We’re the number seven show on TV. I just do not see the problemo.”

“The problemo? I’ll tell you the problemo. The problemo is that I care-o.”

“All right,” said Pepper, slinging her bag back over her shoulder, “if it’ll get me out of here, I promise-I swear-next female defendant, no matter how innocent she is, that bitch is going to Guantánamo for some serious attitude adjustment.”

Buddy smiled. “Thank you, Your Honor.”

PEPPER CARTWRIGHT and Buddy Bixby, respectively of Plano, Texas, and New Rochelle, New York, were from very different worlds but had happened to find each other seven years before in a courtroom-an actual courtroom, that is-Courtroom 6 in Los Angeles Superior Court.

Buddy was at the time a midlevel (which is to say, not high level) local TV news producer, fast approaching fifty. His career had consisted of a series of almosts. He had almost gotten footage of Squeaky Fromme attempting to shoot President Gerald Ford; had almost gotten an on-camera interview with the reclusive billionaire Howard Hughes; had almost bought Microsoft at six dollars a share; almost gotten the big job back in New York.

He’d been asked to be the speaker at his twenty-fifth college reunion, a prospect that greatly pleased him, until the class secretary, whom Buddy had cordially detested for twenty-nine years, called back a few days later blithely to say never mind, he’d just heard back from the first person he’d asked, parenthethes, No offense, but sort of a bigger catch than you, ha-ha, so anyway, see you there, big guy.

Asshole.

Lying in bed that night, eating a giant bag of Cheetos while staring existentially at the ceiling, Buddy imagined the headstone on his grave: “Here Lies Buddy Bixby. Almost.”

One day at work, looking to fill a “soft” feature slot for the weekend program, one of the reporters mentioned there was this judge down at Superior Court: “H.O.T. Hot. Made me want to go out and commit a crime.”