The First Counsel (2 page)
Authors: Brad Meltzer
Tags: #Fiction, #Large Type Books, #Suspense, #Legal, #Psychological, #Political, #Dating (Social Customs), #Washington (D.C.), #Political Fiction, #Children of Presidents
The agent in the passenger seat rolls down his window. He's young, maybe even younger than me. "C'mon, Shadow," he yells, rubbing it in by using her Secret Service code name. "You know what he said last time. Don't make us call this one in."
She doesn't take well to the threat. Under her breath, she mutters, "Cocky jock asshole." With that, she punches the gas. The wheels spin until they find traction.
I can't let her do this. "Nora, don't . . ."
"Shut up."
"Don't tell me to--"
"I said, shut up." Her response is a measured, low snarl. She doesn't sound like herself. We're barreling toward the stop sign and I count seven cars crossing in front of us. Eight. Nine. Ten. This isn't like the side streets. These cars are flying. I notice a tiny bead of sweat rolling down the side of Nora's forehead. She's holding the wheel as tight as she can. We're not going to make this one.
As we hit the threshold, I do the only thing I can think of. I lean over, punch the horn, and hold it down. We shoot out of the side street like a fifty-mile-an-hour banshee. Two cars swerve. Another hits his brakes. A fourth driver, in a black Acura, tries to slow down, but there's not enough time. His tires screech against the pavement, but he's still moving. Although Nora does her best to swerve out of his way, he nicks us right on the back tip of our bumper. It's just enough to make us veer out of control. And to put the Acura directly in front of the Secret Service Suburban. The Suburban pulls a sharp right and comes to a dead halt. We keep moving.
"It's okay!" Nora screams as she fights the steering wheel. "It's okay!" And in a two-second interval, I realize it's true. Everyone's safe and we're free to go. Nora lights up the car with a smile. As we motor up the block, I'm still remembering how to breathe.
Her chest is heaving as she catches her own breath. "Not bad, huh?" she finally asks.
"Not bad?" I ask, wiping my forehead. "You could've killed us--not to mention the other drivers and the--"
"But did you have fun?"
"It's not a question of fun. It was one of the stupidest stunts I've ever--"
"But did you have fun?" As she repeats the question, her voice grows warm. In the moonlight, her wild eyes shine. After seeing so many two-dimensional photos of her at public events in the papers, it's odd to see her just sitting there. I thought I knew how she smiled and how she moved. I wasn't even close. In person, her whole face changes--the way her cheeks pitch and slightly redden at the excitement--there's no way to describe it. It's not that I'm starstruck, it's just . . . I don't know how else to say it . . . she's looking at me. Just me. She slaps my leg. "No one was hurt, the Acura barely tapped us. At the very worst, we both scraped our bumpers. I mean, how many nights do you get to outrun the Secret Service and live to tell about it?"
"I do it every other Thursday. It's not that big a deal."
"Laugh all you want, but you have to admit it was a thrill."
I look over my shoulder. We're completely alone. And I have to admit, she's right.
* * *
It takes about ten minutes before I realize we're lost. In the span of a few blocks, the immaculate brownstones of Dupont Circle have faded into the run-down tenements on the outskirts of Adams Morgan. "We should've turned on 16th," I say.
"You have no idea what you're talking about."
"You're absolutely right; I'm two hundred percent clueless. And you want to know how I know that?" I pause for effect. "Because I trusted you to drive! I mean, what the hell was I thinking? You barely live here; you're never in a car; and when you are, it's usually in the backseat."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Just as she asks the question, I realize what I've said. Three years ago, right after her father got elected, during Nora's sophomore year at Princeton, Rolling Stone ran a scathing profile of what they called her college "Drug and Love Life." According to the article, two different guys claimed that Nora went down on them in the backseats of their cars while she was on Special K. Another source said she was doing coke; a third said it was heroin. Either way, based on the article, some horny little Internet-freak used Nora's full name--Eleanor--and wrote a haiku poem entitled "Knee-Sore Eleanor." A few million forwarded e-mails later, Nora gained her most notorious sobriquet--and her father saw his favorability numbers fall. When the story ran, President Hartson called up the editor of Rolling Stone and asked him to leave his daughter alone. From then on, they did. Hartson's numbers went back up. All was well. But the joke was already out there. And obviously, from the look on Nora's face, the damage had already been done.
"I didn't mean anything," I insist, backing away from my unintended insult. "I just meant that your family gets the limo treatment. Motorcades. You know, other people drive you."
Suddenly, Nora laughs. She has a sexy, hearty voice, but her laugh is all little girl.
"What'd I say?"
"You're embarrassed," she answers, amused. "Your whole face is red."
I turn away. "I'm sorry . . ."
"No, it's okay. That's really sweet of you. And it's even sweeter that you blushed. For once, I know it's real. Thank you, Michael."
She said my name. For the first time tonight, she said my name. I turn back to her. "You're welcome. Now let's get out of here."
Turning around on 14th Street and still searching for the small strip of land known as Adams Morgan, home to Washington's most overrated bars and best ethnic restaurants, we find ourselves weaving our way back from the direction we came. Surrounded by nothing but deserted buildings and dark streets, I start worrying. No matter how tough she is, the First Daughter of the United States shouldn't be in a neighborhood like this.
When we reach the end of the block, though, we see our first indication of civilized life: Around the corner is a small crowd of people coming out of the only storefront in sight. It's a large brick building that looks like it's been converted into a two-story bar. In thick black letters, the word "Pendulum" is painted on a filthy white sign. A hip, midnight blue light surrounds the edges of the sign. Not at all my kind of place.
Nora pulls into a nearby parking spot and turns off the ignition.
"Here?" I ask. "The place is a rathole."
"No, it's not. People are well dressed." She points to a man wearing camel-colored slacks and a tight black T-shirt. Before I can protest, she adds, "Let's go--for once, we're anonymous." She pulls a black baseball hat from the shoulder strap of her purse and lowers the brim over her eyes. It's a terrible disguise, but she says it works. Never been stopped yet.
We pay ten bucks at the door, step inside, and take a quick look around. The place is packed with the typical D.C. Thursday night crowd--most still in their suits, ties undone; some already in their Calvin Klein V-necks. In the corner, two men are playing pool. By the bar, two men are ordering drinks. Next to them, two men are holding hands. That's when I realize where we are: Besides Nora, there's not a woman in this place. We're standing in the middle of a gay bar.
Behind me, I feel someone grab my ass. I don't even bother to turn around. "Oh, Nora, how I wish you were a man."
"I'm impressed," she says, stepping forward. "You don't even look uncomfortable."
"Why should I be uncomfortable?"
From the gleam in her eye, I can tell she's setting up another test. She needs to know if I can hang with the cool kids. "So it's okay if we stay?"
"Absolutely," I say with a grin. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
She stares me down with that sexy look. For the moment, I pass.
We squeeze up to the bar and order drinks. I get a beer; she gets a Jack and Ginger. Following her lead, we head to the far end of the L-shaped bar, where it runs perpendicular to the wall. In a move that's been honed by years of being hounded and gawked at, Nora motions me into the last seat and puts her back to the crowd. For her, it's pure instinct. With her baseball cap covering her hair, there isn't a chance she's going to be recognized. The way she's set us up, the only one who can even see her is me. She takes one last overview of the room, then, satisfied, goes for her drink. "So have you always hugged your serious side?"
"What do you mean? I'm not--"
"Don't apologize for it," she interrupts. "It's who you are. I just want to know where it comes from. Family issues? Bitter divorce? Dad abandoned you and your m--?"
"Nobody did anything," I say. "What you see is me." By the tone of my answer, she thinks it's an issue. She's right. And it's not something she's getting on a first date. Searching for a smooth segue, I try to steer us back to safer subjects. "So tell me what you thought of Princeton. Enjoyable or Muffyville snob factory?"
"I didn't know you wanted to do an interview."
"Don't give me that. College tells you a lot about a person."
"College tells you jack squat--it's a rationalized decision based on nothing more than a vacuous campus visit and a prefigured range of SAT scores. Besides, you're almost thirty," she says with a lick-it-up grin, "that's ancient history for you. What've you done in between?"
"After law school? A quick clerkship, then off to a local law firm. To be honest, though, it was just a way to fill time between campaigns. Barth in the Senate, a few local council guys--then three months as the Hartson Campaign's Get-Out-the-Vote Chairman, Great State of Michigan." She doesn't respond and I get the sense she's judging me. Quickly, I add, "You know what a zoo it is to do it nationally--if I wanted any real responsibility, it was better for me to stay in-state."
"Better for you or better for your ego?"
"All of us. The headquarters was only twenty minutes from my house."
She sees something in my answer. "So you wanted to be in Michigan?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I don't know . . . smart guy like you . . . working in the Counsel's Office. Usually you guys run away from the hometowns."
"As a volunteer, it was a financial decision. Nothing more."
"And what about college and law school? Michigan for both, right?"
It's really incredible--when it comes to weaknesses, she knows exactly where to look. "School was a different story."
"Something with your parents?"
Once again, we've reached my limit. "Something personal. But it wasn't their fault."
"You always so forgiving?"
"You always so pushy?"
She rests an elbow on the bar, leans in close, and forces me back against the wall. "What you see is me," she says with a dark smile.
"Exactly," I tease back. "That's exactly my point." I hop off my stool and head toward her. In the Counsel's Office, it's the first rule they teach you: Never let them pin you down.
"Where you going?" she asks, blocking my way.
"Just to the restroom." I squeeze past her and everything between my chest and my thighs brushes against her. She grins. And doesn't give up an inch.
"Don't be too long," she purrs.
"Do I look that stupid?"
I return from the restroom just in time to see Nora taking a sip of my beer. I put a hand on the back of her shoulder. "You can order your own--they have plenty for everyone."
"I just needed it to take some aspirin," she explains, placing a small brown prescription vial back into her purse.
"Everything okay?"
"Just a headache." Pointing to the vial, she adds, "Want some?"
I shake my head.
"Suit yourself," she says with a grin. "But when you see this one, I think you're going to need it."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
As I take my seat against the wall, Nora leans in close. "When you were on your way to the restroom, did you happen to see any familiar faces walk in?"
I look over her shoulder and scan the bar. "I don't think so. Why?"
Her grin goes wide. Whatever's going on, she's enjoying herself. "Far left corner of the room. By the video screen. White button-down. Saggy khakis."
My eyes follow her instructions. There's the video screen. There's the . . . I don't believe it. Across the room, running his hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, is Edgar Simon. White House Counsel. Lawyer to the President himself. My boss.
"Guess who just got the best office gossip?" Nora sings.
"This isn't funny."
"What's the big deal? So he's gay."
"That's not the point, Nora. He's married. To a woman. At his level, if this gets out, the press'll . . ."
Nora's smile falls away. "He's married? Are you sure?"
"For something like thirty years," I say nervously. "He's getting ready to send his first kid off to college." I lower my head to make sure he doesn't see me. "I just met his wife at that reception for AmeriCorps. Her name's Ellen. Or Elena. Something with an E."
"Dumb-ass, that's where you met me."
"Before you got there. Right when it started. Simon introduced me to her. They seemed really happy."
"And now he's here hoping for some extra tricks on the side. Man, when it comes to adulterers, my dad can pick 'em."