The First Counsel Page 24

  Unreal—Nora puts the word out, and suddenly, I’m at the top of Lamb’s dance card. It’s amazing what a dozen summers splashing around together can do.

  Flipping through the second document, I see that it’s a fifty-page computer printout. “Is this wish number three?”

  “That depends how you define ‘wish.’ What you hold in your hands is the official WAVES record on the day Caroline was killed. According to the record, Patrick Vaughn was cleared in at exactly 9:02 A.M.”

  “By me.”

  “By you. And he left at 10:05. You know how it works, Michael—once he had that Appointment ID around his neck, he could’ve wandered through the OEOB for a full hour. And according to the Secret Service, the request to let him in was placed from an internal phone right after you arrived at 8:04 that morning.”

  “But I never—”

  “I’m not saying you made the request—I’m just telling you what the records show.”

  Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I replay the facts in my head. “So as soon as I walked in that morning, Simon placed the call.”

  “They probably watched you walk in the front door. Do you remember anyone in the hallway?”

  I pause to think about it. “The only one I saw was Pam, who told me about the early meeting.”

  “Pam, eh? Well, I guess it is a lot for Simon to pull off by himself.”

  “Wait a minute—Pam would never—”

  “I’m not saying she’s involved—I’m just saying be careful. You’re dancing on dangerous ground.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He pauses a moment. There’s something he’s not saying.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “You tell me—ever heard of a Post reporter named Inez Cotigliano?”

  “The one who did the FOIA request.”

  Lamb shoots me a look. “How’d you know that?”

  “Pam had a copy.”

  Sitting up in his seat, he makes a quick note to himself.

  “Is something wrong with that?”

  He ignores the question.

  “Was she not supposed to have one?”

  “Michael, it took us four days to examine those WAVES records and realize you let Vaughn in the building. According to the Secret Service, Inez has been asking about those same records since the day after Caroline died. One day. It’s like she knew—or someone told her.”

  “So you think Pam—”

  “All I’m saying is pay attention. If Inez’s even half as ambitious as she seems to be, it’s not going to take her long to find Vaughn. Or you.”

  My stomach drops. I’m running out of time. “How long do I have?”

  “See, there’s the problem,” Lamb says, his calm voice for the first time sounding uneasy. “You keep forgetting that this isn’t just about you.” Pausing, he gives me that same anxious look from before.

  “Did something happen?” I ask.

  He runs his hand against the grain of his still-recent shave. “They called me, Michael. They called me twice.”

  “Who did? The reporter?”

  “The FBI,” he says coldly.

  I don’t say a word.

  “Your friend Adenauer wanted to know if she’s doing drugs.”

  “How’d they—?”

  “C’mon, son, they see you let Vaughn in the building; and then you’re dating Nora . . . All they want now is the last piece of the triangle.”

  “But she doesn’t know Vaughn.”

  “That’s not the question!” he says, raising his voice. Just as quickly, he clears his throat and calms himself down. Family always makes it emotional. “Tell me the truth, Michael. Is Nora doing drugs?”

  I stop.

  He stays perfectly still. I’ve seen him use this same tactic before—an old lawyer trick—let the silence drag it out of you.

  I sit back in my chair, trying to look unfazed. Is she doing drugs? “Not anymore,” I say without flinching.

  Across the desk, he nods to himself. It’s not the kind of answer you can argue with, and to be honest, I don’t think he wants anything more than that. There’s a reason no one takes notes in the White House. When it comes to subpoenas and FBI questions, the less you know, the better.

  “So what’re you going to tell the FBI?” I eventually ask.

  “Same thing I told them last time: That even though I know they’re hungry to catch the biggest fish in the pond, they damn well better be careful before they start making accusations at the principals.”

  The principals. The only ones around here worth saving. “I guess that takes care of her part of the problem.”

  “Her part of the . . . ? Michael, have you been paying attention? We’ve got an incumbent President who’s only nine points ahead in a reelection race where, as pathetic as it sounds, the most resounding issues are the escapades and adventures of his daughter—your girlfriend. On top of that, we’ve got the FBI closing in and dying to make the big kill. So if you get sucked down by this investigation, and you give even the slightest impression that Nora’s involved—let me put it this way—you don’t want to hand Bartlett that ammunition.”

  “I’d never say a thing.”

  “I’m not saying you would. I’m just making sure you understand the consequences.” He leans forward on his desk, staring straight at me. Then he looks away, unable to hold the pose. It’s not just unease in his voice. After two calls from the FBI, it’s fear.

  Feeling the two-ton weight he just dropped on my shoulders, I rephrase the original question. “So how long do you think we have?”

  “That depends on how persistent this reporter Inez is. If she’s got a source, I’d say you’ve got until the end of the week. If she doesn’t . . . well, we’re doing our best to stall.”

  End of the week? Oh, God.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod and climb to my feet.

  “Are you sure?” The tone in his voice catches me off guard. He’s actually worried about me.

  “I’ll be fine,” I tell him.

  He doesn’t believe it, but there’s nothing left to say. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from trying. “If it’s any consolation, Michael, she does care about you. If she didn’t, you wouldn’t be presenting the decision memo.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “For the roving wiretaps. Didn’t you see the list?”

  I open the file folder and check for myself. Sure enough, it’s in there—next to the word “Participants” are my initials: M.D.G. The wide grin that flushes my cheeks reminds me how long it’s been between smiles. I’m not just writing this memo. For the first time in my life, I’m briefing the President.

  • • •

  By the time I get back to my office, I’m in a full-fledged sweat. If Lamb’s right, it’s only a matter of days. The race is on. If I don’t beat Inez to Vaughn and the money . . . Instinctively, I look at the clock on my wall. Not much longer. Luckily, I’ve got something to pass the time.

  My ego keeps telling me it’s the single greatest thing that’s ever happened to me, but deep down, my brain knows I’m completely unprepared. Two days from now, I’m going to sit across the desk from the President. And the only thing I can think to say is, “Nice office.”

  I flip on my computer and grab the wiretap folder, but before I can even open it up, I’m interrupted by the ringing of my phone.

  “This is Michael,” I say.

  “Hey, Mr. Hot Shot. Just returning your call.”

  I immediately recognize the condescending tone. Officer Rayford from the D.C. police. “How’s everything going?” I ask, struggling to sound upbeat.

  “Don’t yank my chain, boy. I’m not in the mood. If you want your money, I’ve got a new phone number for you.”

  On the corner of the folder, I write down the number. “Is that Property Division?”

  “In your wet dreams. I transferred it over to Financial Investigations. Now you’re the pimple on the
ir ass.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “As long as it’s suspicious, we’ve got a right to hold it—and last I checked, driving late at night with ten grand in cash is still suspicious.”

  “So what do I have to do now?”

  “Just prove it’s yours. Bank account, cashed check, insurance policy—show ’em where it came from.”

  “But what if—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s someone else’s problem.” With that, he hangs up.

  Lowering the receiver, I’m once again back to Inez. If Simon wants to, he can point her to the money. That’s his trump card. Mine, God willing, is a drug dealer named Patrick Vaughn. Looking at my watch, I see it’s almost time.

  Pulling my jacket from the coat-rack, I head for the door. As I step into the anteroom, though, I’m surprised to see Pam still at the small desk outside my office. “Phone go out again?”

  “Don’t ask,” she says as I pass behind her. “Where you headed?”

  “Just over to Trey’s.”

  “Everything alright?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Just going to grab some coffee—maybe steal some Ho-Hos from the vending machines.”

  “Have fun,” she says as the door shuts behind me.

  • • •

  “Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask as I poke my head in Trey’s office.

  “Good timing,” he says as he hangs up his phone. “C’mon in.”

  I stay by the door and motion in the direction of his other two officemates. He knows the rest. “Want to take a lap?” he asks.

  “That’d be best.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation, Trey follows me out the door. We take the stairs to the second floor. It goes without saying—no one takes a lap on his home court.

  Heading up the hallway, I keep my eyes on the checkered black-and-white marble floor. In the OEOB, life is always a chess match.

  “What’s going on?” we both ask simultaneously.

  “You first,” he says.

  Trying to look unconcerned, I check over my shoulder. “I just wanted to make sure we were set with Vaughn.”

  “Don’t worry, I got everything we need: tube socks, Band-Aids, Ovaltine . . .”

  He’s trying to cheer me up, but it’s not working.

  “It’s okay to be nervous,” he adds as he puts an arm on my shoulder.

  “Nervous I can deal with—I’m just starting to wonder if it’s even a good idea to go through with this.”

  “So now you don’t want to meet him?”

  “It’s not that . . . it’s just . . . after Adenauer’s picture in the paper and the way they’re putting the pressure on Lamb . . . I think the FBI is getting ready to pounce.”

  “Even if they are, I don’t see much of a choice,” he points out. “You’re taking every precaution we can think of—as long as you’re careful, you should be okay.”

  “But don’t you see, it’s not that simple. Right now, when the FBI asks me about Vaughn, I can look them in the eye and say we don’t know each other. Hell, I can pass a lie detector if I need to. But once we get together . . . Trey, if the FBI is watching as close as I think—and they see me and Vaughn talking—every defense I ever had goes right down the toilet.”

  Reaching the end of the hallway, we both fall silent. During laps, you don’t talk until you see who’s around the corner. As we make the turn, there’re only a few people at the far end. Nobody close. “Obviously, it’s not the best situation,” Trey replies. “But let’s be honest, Michael, how else do you plan on getting answers? Right now, you’ve got about one third of the story. If you get two thirds, you can probably figure out what’s going on, but who you gonna get it from? Simon? All that leaves you is Vaughn.”

  “What if he’s setting me up?”

  “If all Vaughn wanted was to screw you over, he would’ve already gone to the police. I’m telling you, if he wants to meet, he’s got something to offer.”

  “Yeah, like copping a plea and serving me up to the FBI.”

  “I don’t think so, Michael—it doesn’t make sense. If Simon and Vaughn were working together, and they used your name to sneak Vaughn in, why—when he came in the building—would Vaughn link his own name to the one person he knows is about to look like a murderer?”

  Trey looks at me and lets the question sink in. “You think Vaughn got screwed over too?” I ask.

  “He may not be a saint, but there’s obviously something we’re missing.”

  As we walk, I run my fingertips against the hallway wall. “So the only way to save myself . . .”

  “. . . is to jump in with the lions,” Trey says with a nod. “Everything has a price.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about.”

  “Me too,” Trey says. “Me too—but as long as you’ve kept your mouth shut, you should be fine.”

  Slowly, we turn another corner of the hallway.

  “Please tell me you’ve kept your mouth shut,” he adds.

  “I have,” I insist.

  “So you didn’t tell Pam?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you didn’t tell Lamb?”

  “Correct.”

  “And you didn’t tell Nora?”

  I wait a millisecond too long.

  “I can’t believe you told Nora!” he says, giving me the rub. “Damn, boy, what’re you thinking?”

  “Don’t worry—she’s not going to say anything. It only makes things worse for her. Besides, she’s good at this stuff. She’s full of secrets.”

  “No crap, she’s full of secrets. That’s the whole point. Silence—good. Full of secrets—bad.”

  “Why’re you being so paranoid about her?”

  “Because while you’re up in the Residence drooling all over the First Nipples, I’m the only one who’s still planted in reality. And the more I dig, the less I like what I see.”

  “What do you mean, ‘dig’?”

  “Do you know who I was on the phone with when you walked in? Benny Steiger.”

  “Who’s he?”

  “He’s the guy who shines the mirror under your car when you come in the Southwest Gate. I snuck his sister onto the South Lawn for Fourth of July last year, and since he owes me a solid, I decided to call it in. Anyway, remember that first night when you and Nora were trailing Simon? I had Benny do a little check on the guardhouse records for us. According to him, Nora came home alone that night. On foot.”

  “I dropped her off. Big deal.”

  “Damn right it’s a big deal. Once you lost the Secret Service in your little car chase, you also lost your alibi.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the single easiest way for Nora to cover her ass. If she wanted to, there’s absolutely nothing preventing her from saying that after you lost the Service, she got out of your car and you went your separate ways.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “Think about it, Michael. If it comes down to your word against Simon’s, who’s gonna back up your story? Nora, right? Only problem is, that’s bad news for Daddy. This close to reelection—with our lead barely an eyelash above the margin of error—she’s not going to put him through that. But if she wasn’t there when Simon made the drop—no more problems. You and Simon can scratch each other’s eyes out. Of course, in a catfight, he’ll eat you like tuna.”

  “What about the cop who pulled us over? He saw us.”

  “C’mon, man, you said it yourself: He pretended not to know her. He’s the last person I’d count on.”

  “But for Nora to do all that on purpose . . .”

  “Riddle me this, Batman: When you got back to the Southeast Gate, why didn’t you drive her through?”

  “She figured the Service would be mad, so she said I should—”

  “Ding, ding, ding! I believe we have a winner! Nora’s suggestion. Nora’s plan. The moment you got busted with the money, her brain was churning
its way out of it.” As we turn another corner of the hallway, he lets the argument sink in. “I’m not saying she’s out to get you; I’m just saying she’s got her eye on number one. No offense to your love life, but maybe you should too.”

  “So even though they haven’t classified it as a murder, I should screw her over and turn myself in?”

  “It’s not such a terrible idea. When it comes to a crisis, it’s always better to get in front of it.”

  I stop where I am and think about what he’s saying. All I have to do is give up. On myself. On Nora. On everything. My mother taught me better than that. And so did my dad. “I can’t. It’s not right. She wouldn’t do that to me—I can’t do that to her.”

  “Can’t do that to . . . Aw, jeez, Michael, don’t tell me you’re in l—”

  “I’m not in love with her,” I insist. “It’s just not the right time. Like you said, the meeting’s this afternoon. I’m too close.”

  “Too close to what?” Trey calls out as I head back to the stairs. “Vaughn or Nora?”

  I let the question hang in the air. It’s not something I want to answer.

  • • •

  As I walk from the White House to the Holocaust Museum, the sun is shining, the humidity’s gone, and the sky is the brightest of blues. I hate the calm before the storm. Still, it’s the perfect day for a long lunch, which is exactly the message I worked into my conversation with Simon’s secretary.

  According to Judy, Simon’s got a luncheon up on the Hill in Senator McNider’s office. To be safe, I called and confirmed it myself. Then I did the same with Adenauer. When his secretary wouldn’t tell me where he was, I told her that I had some important information and that I’d call back at one-thirty. A half hour from now. I don’t know if it’ll work, but all it needs to do is slow him down. Keep him by the phone. And away from me.

  Yet despite all my planning, as I let the loose change in my pocket roll through my fingers, I can’t stop my hand from shaking. Every lingering glance is a reporter; every person I pass is the FBI. The ten-minute trip is a complete nightmare. Then I reach the Holocaust Museum.