The First Counsel Page 28

  “What’d you say?”

  I ignore the question. “One . . .”

  Her hands go to her hips. “Are you threatening me?”

  The guard’s got to be less than ten feet away. “No . . . I’d never threaten . . . C’mon, Nora . . . not now. Please put it back!”

  I spin around just as the guard turns the corner. Behind me, I hear Nora cough loud enough to cover the sound of the metal box slamming shut.

  “Everything okay?” the guard asks me.

  Turning around, I look at Nora. She’s standing right in front of the box, blocking it with her body. The guard’s too busy staring at her bra, which is still peeking through the rip in her shirt.

  “Sorry,” she laughs, pulling her sleeve up to cover her shoulder. She steps forward and coyly slides her arm around my waist. “That’s what happens when they kick you out of the face-sucking section of the theater.” Before I can object, she adds, “We’ll take it upstairs.”

  “Good idea,” the guard says dryly. Without a second glance, he returns to his post behind the desk.

  Walking back toward the Ground Floor Corridor, with her arm still around my waist, Nora slides her thumb through the hook on my belt. “So what’s more exciting—that or working on a decision memo?”

  Convinced we’re well out of earshot, I quickly pull away. “Why’d you have to do that?”

  “Do what?” she taunts.

  “Y’know, the . . .” No, don’t get into it with her. I take a deep breath. “Just tell me you put it back.”

  She looks up and laughs. Instinctively, I step back. After four years of eating with kings and royalty, the only thing that thrills her anymore is risk—take what you love and risk losing it. Light and dark in the same breath. But now . . . the mood swings are starting to flip too fast.

  “C’mon, Michael,” she teases. “Why would you think I—”

  “Nora, playtime’s over. Answer the question. Tell me you put it back.”

  We reach the entrance that’ll take her back up to the Residence, and she flicks me back with her wrist. “Why don’t you go do some work. You’re obviously stressed out.”

  “Nora . . .”

  “Relax,” she sings. She turns into the entryway and heads for the stairs. “What’m I gonna do? Hide it in my pants?”

  “You tell me,” I call out.

  She stops where she is and glances over her shoulder. The laugh, the smile—they’re gone. “I thought we were already past that one, Michael.” Our eyes connect and she drives it home. “I’d never hide anything from you.”

  I nod, knowing that she’s finally back in control. “Thank you—that’s all I wanted to hear.”

  • • •

  When I eventually finish at quarter to four in the morning, I’m a bleary-eyed mess. Except for a twenty-minute break for dinner and a ten-minute begging session to get an extension from the Staff Secretary, I’ve been sitting in my chair for almost eight hours straight. A new personal record. Yet as the laser printer hums with the fruits of my labor, I find that I’m oddly wide awake. Not sure of what to do, and in no mood to go home, I casually flip through my still unopened mail. Most of it’s standard: press clips, meeting announcements, going-away party invitations. But at the bottom of the pile is an interoffice envelope with a familiar handwriting in the address box. I’d recognize that bubble cursive anywhere.

  Opening the envelope, I find a handwritten note with a single key Scotch-taped to it: “For when you’re done—Room 11. Congrats!” At the bottom is a heart and the letter N. As I pull off the key, I can’t help but laugh. Room 11. It’s even better than parking inside the gate.

  • • •

  The sign on the door of Room 11 reads “Athletic Unit,” but everyone knows it’s far more than that. Built by Bob Haldeman during the Nixon administration and limited to only the biggest of the bigshots, the Senior Staff Exercise Room is easily the most exclusive private gym in the country. Indeed, fewer than fifty people have keys. On an average day, I’d be slaughtered if I set foot in here. But at four in the morning, in desperate need of a shower and on the eve of my most important professional moment, I’ll take my chances.

  With one last look around the deserted hallway, I slide the key in the door. It opens without a hitch. “Cleaning crew!” I shout, just to be safe. “Anyone here?” No one answers. Inside, it doesn’t take long to tour around. There’s a beat-up StairMaster, an outdated stationary bicycle, a broken treadmill, and an odd pile of rusty weights. The place is a shithole. I’d kill for a regular pass.

  After a quick workout on the bike and a fifteen-minute stop in the sauna, I’m standing in the shower, letting the hot water run over me. Every time I get accustomed to the temperature, I turn it up a little more. With my eyes closed and my palms pressed firmly against the tile, I’m lost in the steam and completely relaxed. Every day should start this way.

  • • •

  Back in my office, I lie on the couch, but there’s no way I’m falling asleep. I’ve got less than four hours to go, and the testosterone alone is like a twin-pack of Vivarin. All I can think about are my opening words.

  Mr. President, how are you?

  Sir, how are you?

  President Hartson, how are you?

  Dad! How ’bout a loan?

  At six-thirty, as the orange sun begins to slice through the morning sky, the newest version of the President’s schedule arrives via e-mail. I skim through it until I see what I’m looking for. There it is on the second page.

  10:30 to 10:45—Briefing—Oval Office. Staff Contact: Michael Garrick. My fifteen minutes of fame.

  Outside, groundskeepers are prepping the lawn and the morning-show reporters are arriving in the press room. On the other side of the iron gates, a family of four early-risers poses for an Instamatic moment. The flash of their camera catches my eye like a bolt of lightning. It’s going to be a big day.

  CHAPTER 24

  Nervous?” Lamb asks, watching me sit completely still across from his desk, my palms resting on my knees.

  “No, not at all,” I reply.

  He smirks at the lie, but he doesn’t call me on it.

  “I appreciate you seeing me like this,” I add as quickly as I can. It’s the understatement of the year. In the halls of the OEOB, there’re staffers who’d kill for private lessons with the White House’s best-dressed old pro.

  “The first one’s always the hardest. After that, it’ll come naturally.”

  I know I’m supposed to be listening, but my brain keeps practicing my opening line—Good morning, Mr. President. Good morning, Mr. President. Good morn—

  “Just remember one thing,” Lamb continues. “When you get in there, don’t say hello to the President. You walk in; he looks up; you start. Anything else is a waste of time, which we all know he doesn’t have.”

  I nod as if I knew it all along.

  “Also, don’t get thrown by his reactions. The first answer he gives is always going to be provocative—he’ll yell, he’ll shout, he’ll scream, ‘Why are we doing it this way?’”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  “It’s how he vents,” Lamb explains. “He knows it’s always going to be a compromise, but he needs to show everyone—including himself—that he’s still got his hand on the moral compass.”

  “Anything else?”

  He nods his standard nod. “Just don’t forget what you’re there for.”

  Once again, I’m lost.

  “Michael, when it comes to advice, there’re three types: legal advice, moral advice, and political advice. What you can do, what you want to do, and what you should do. You may be trained in the first, but he’s going to want all three. In other words, you can’t just go in there and say, ‘Kill the wiretaps—it’s the right thing to do.’”

  I’m still anxiously palming my knees. “But what if it is the right thing to do?”

  “All I’m saying is, don’t get married to a victory—my gut tells me this thing’s
a vote-getter.”

  I don’t like the sound of that. If Lamb says it, it’s truth. “Is there any chance I’m going to convince him otherwise?”

  “Time’ll tell,” Lamb says. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”

  With nothing left to say, I get up to leave the office.

  “By the way,” he adds, “I’ve been trading calls with Agent Adenauer’s second in command. I have a meeting with him later today, so I’m hoping to have the final list of suspects by this afternoon—tomorrow morning at the latest.”

  “That’s great,” I say, trying to stay focused. I’m about to switch back to the Oval, but I realize there’s something else I should tell him. “I had another meeting with the FBI.”

  “I know,” he says wearily. He rests both elbows on his desk. “Thanks for keeping me up-to-date.”

  It’s moments like this, with the even-more-pronounced-than-usual bags under his eyes, that Lawrence Lamb really starts to show his age.

  “It’s not good, is it?” I ask.

  “They’re starting to develop theories—I can tell by the way they’ve been asking their questions.”

  “They gave me a deadline of Friday.”

  Lamb looks up. That part he didn’t know. “I’ll make sure we have the list by tomorrow.” Before I can even say thank you, he adds, “Michael, are you sure she doesn’t know Vaughn?”

  “I think so—”

  “Don’t give me guesses!” he shouts, raising his voice. “You think so, or you know?”

  “I-I think so,” I repeat, well aware that I’ll have the real answer in a few hours. It’s a panicked question from a man who never panics. But even Lawrence Lamb can’t predict Nora.

  • • •

  I cross over to the West Wing with fifteen minutes to spare, and while I know it’s considered bad form to show up early, I really don’t care.

  Clutching an inch-thick file folder in my sweaty hand, I enter the small waiting room that connects to the Oval. “I’m Michael Garrick,” I say proudly as I approach Barbara Sandberg’s desk. “I’m here to see the President.”

  She rolls her eyes at the enthusiasm. As Hartson’s personal secretary, she hears it every day. “First time?” she asks.

  It’s a cheap shot, but it lets me know who’s boss. A short, no-nonsense New Yorker who enjoys chewing the stem of her reading glasses, Barbara’s been with the President since his Senate days in Florida. “Yeah,” I reply with a forced grin. “Is he running on time?”

  “Don’t sweat it,” she says, warming up. “You’ll survive. Take a seat; Ethan will call you when he’s ready. If you want, have some fudge. It’ll calm you down.”

  I’m not hungry, but I still take a toothpick and spear a small square of fudge from the glass bowl on Barbara’s desk. I’ve spent two years hearing about this stuff. Oh, you have to taste the fudge. You won’t believe Barbara’s fudge. For the bigshots, it’s braggart’s shorthand for a visit with the President. For those of us on the outside, it brings brownnosing jokes to a rude, crude low. As I take a seat in one of the wingback chairs, though, I finally have my answer. The fudge . . . is awesome.

  Five minutes later, I’m fighting massive fudge dry mouth and doing everything in my power not to look at my watch. The only thing keeping me calm is the enlarged photo over Barbara’s desk—a spectacular shot of the President the night he won the election. On a stage in Coconut Grove, Florida, he’s got the First Lady on his right and his son and Nora on his left. As the seconds tick down, that’s who I focus on. Nora. She’s frozen mid-scream with a wild smile on her face, one arm pumped in the air, and the other one wrapped around her brother’s neck. It’s a victory cheer—no pain, no sadness—just true, wide-eyed euphoria. She had no idea what she was in for. Neither do I.

  “Want some more fudge?” Barbara asks. With nothing else to do, I get up and head for her desk. Before I get there, though, she looks over my shoulder and smiles. Someone just walked in.

  I turn around just in time to see him step in front of me. He’s facing the other way, but I know that posture anywhere. Simon.

  “Hey, sweetie,” he says as he swipes a piece of fudge. “We running on time?”

  “Actually, pretty close,” Barbara replies. “Shouldn’t be long now.”

  “Morning, Michael,” he says, taking my seat in the wingback chair.

  I feel like someone just punched me in the chest. An octopus of rage is already crawling its way across the back of my shoulders.

  “Oh, c’mon,” he responds to the look on my face. “You didn’t really think you were going alone, did you?”

  Before I can answer, he throws a manila file folder into my chest. Inside is what already went to the President: a copy of my decision memo, with the Staff Secretary’s summary attached to the top. Below my memo, I notice something else. The original letter I wrote to the Office of Government Ethics about Simon. I don’t believe it—that’s why I never got any of Simon’s financial disclosure forms. The letter never even made it out of the building.

  “There’s a typo in the second paragraph,” Simon points out, eyeing me carefully. “I thought you might want it back.”

  How the hell did he—?

  Behind me, I hear the door to the Oval open. “He’s ready for you,” Barbara announces. “Go on in.”

  Shoving his way past me, Simon heads straight for the door. Feeling as if I’m about to vomit, I follow.

  • • •

  “How’d it go?” Pam asks as I stand in front of her desk.

  “I don’t know, it was kinda like—”

  The ringing of her phone interrupts my thought. “Hold on a second,” she says, picking it up. “This is Pam. Yeah. No, I know. You’ll have it by next week. Great. Thanks.” She hangs up and looks back up at me. “I’m sorry—you were saying . . .”

  “It’s hard to describe. When Simon got there, I thou—”

  Once again, her phone interrupts.

  “Don’t worry—let it ring,” she tells me.

  I’m about to continue when I see her glance at the caller ID. I know that panicked look on her face. This is an important call.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Pick it up.”

  “It’ll just take a minute,” she promises as she lifts the receiver. “This is Pam. Yeah, I . . . What? No—he won’t. I promise he won’t.” There’s a long pause as she listens. This is going to be longer than a minute.

  “Why don’t I come back later,” I whisper.

  “I’m really sorry,” she mouths, covering the receiver.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not a big deal.” Leaving Pam’s office, I try to tell myself that’s the truth.

  Crossing through the anteroom, I decide to call Trey, who’s probably still mad at me. As I head to my office, I see a pair of men’s white Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear hanging from the doorknob. Above it is a laser-printed sign:

  Welcome Home Brief(ing)Master!

  Butterfly kisses,

  All of Your Adoring Fan

  I pull off the underwear and open the door. Inside, it only gets worse. On my chair, covering my couch, hanging from my lamps and every picture frame—there’s men’s underwear everywhere. Boxers, briefs, even a little silk fruit-smuggler. To top it off, a dozen tighty-whities spell out the word “Mike” across my desk.

  “All hail Briefmaster!” Trey shouts from his hiding spot behind the door. He drops to his knees and bows at my feet. “What say you, Master of the Brief . . . ing?”

  “Unbelievable,” I tell him as I admire the effort.

  “I even stuffed them in your drawers,” he says proudly. “Get it? Drawers?”

  “I got it,” I say, picking three more pair off my chair. “Where’d you get all these anyway?”

  “They’re mine.”

  “Skanky!” I say, tossing them across the room.

  “What, you think I’m going to buy all new underwear for a one-time joke? Humor has a price, boy.” He sniffs the air twice. “And now you’re paying it.”


  I have to admit, it’s just what I needed. “Thanks, Trey.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, now tell me how it went. Were you in good positioning for the photo?”

  “What photo?”

  “Oh, please, Michael—it’s me. You know they take your picture on your virgin visit. I don’t care how scared you are, everyone here’s always got one eye on the camera. Always.”

  I let out the smallest of grins.

  “I knew it!” Trey laughs. “You’re more predictable than a bank calendar! What’d you do? Stiff jaw? Squinty eyes?”

  “Are you kidding? I pulled out the big guns—stiff jaw, pursed lips, and I pointed at the memo, just to solidify the student-teacher dynamic.”

  “Nice touch,” Trey nods. “Did that convince him about the wiretaps?”

  “Let me put it this way: Y’know that feeling right before you get a haircut? When you wake up one morning and suddenly you’ve got a bathroom mat for hair? And every day, it gets that much worse? But then, on the actual day you’re supposed to get the haircut, you wake up and magically, spontaneously, your hair looks great? Y’know what I’m talking about? It’s like all your fears were for nothing?” Trey nods as I pause for effect. “Well, not today!” I shout at the top of my lungs. “My hair looked crappy all day long!”

  “It couldn’t have been that bad,” Trey says, laughing.

  “No, it was worse than bad. It was awful. Tragic. So tragic it approached poetic.”

  “Poetic’s good. Everyone loves a good rhyming couplet.”

  “You weren’t there, Trey. I was nervous enough by myself—I didn’t need Simon showing up. And when he took my information request and crammed it down my throat—son of a bitch saved it up just to rattle me. That’s why we haven’t gotten his records; somehow, he knew what was going on. After that, I lost my center. Every time the President asked me a question I felt like all I could do was blink back at him.”

  “Trust me, that’s how everyone feels with the President.”

  “That’s not—”

  “It is true—the moment he enters the room—Bam!—instant bedwetter.”