The First Counsel (35 page)

"Michael, I asked you a question: Was Adenauer serious?"

"Huh?"

"Was he--"

"I-I think so," I finally say. "I mean, since when does the FBI make empty threats?"

Trey takes a second to answer. He knows what I'm going through, but that doesn't mean he's going to hold back. "This isn't just a bad hair day," he warns. "If even a hint of what happened gets out . . ."

"I know, Trey. Believe me, I know--you read me the polls every morning--but what am I supposed to do? Yesterday you're telling me to turn myself in so Nora doesn't bury me; today, you're crying that if anything gets out, I single-handedly wreck the presidency. The only thing that's consistent is that either way I'm screwed."

"I didn't mean to--"

"All I can do is go for the truth--find Vaughn and figure out if he's got some insight into what really happened. If that doesn't work . . ." I stop, unable to finish the sentence.

He gives me a few seconds to calm down. "What about Simon's financial disclosure forms?" he eventually asks, still determined to help. "I thought we were going to look through those to see where he got the money."

"According to Adenauer, there's nothing in his bank accounts."

"And you're going to take his word for it?"

"What else you want me to do? I put the request in over a week ago--it should be here any day."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, but any day's not gonna cut it. You've only got three days left. If I were you, I'd put on my nice-guy voice and have a long overdue talk with Nora."

Silently, I once again stare at the TV, rolling the option around my brain. He has a point. Still, if Vaughn comes through . . . if he's also been screwed by Simon . . . That's the door to a brand-new reality. Maybe Vaughn was the one Simon met in the bar. Simon could've been borrowing the cash. Maybe that's why there was nothing in his bank accounts.

"So whattya say?" Trey asks.

I shake my head even though he can't see it. "Tomorrow's my meeting with Vaughn," I say hesitantly. "After that, I can always talk to Nora."

By the long pause, I can tell Trey disagrees.

"What?" I ask. "I thought you wanted me to meet with Vaughn?"

"I do."

"So what's the problem?"

Again, there's a pause. "I know it's hard for you to accept this, Michael, but just remember that, sometimes, you should be looking out for yourself."

* * *

It takes me a good half hour to turn my attention back to the briefing, but once there, I'm consumed. The wiretap file is spread out in front of me, and my desk is buried in a pile of law review articles, op-ed pieces, scientific studies, and current opinion polls. I've spent the last two months learning everything I could about this issue. Now I have to figure out how to teach it. No, not just teach it--teach it to the leader of the free world.

Two hours later, I'm still working on my introduction. This isn't high school debate with Mr. Ulery. It's the Oval Office with Ted Hartson. President Hartson. With a dictionary at my side, I rewrite my opening sentence for the seventeenth time. Each word has to be just right. It's still not there.

Opening sentence. Take eighteen.

* * *

Working straight through lunch, I hit the heart of the argument. Sure, we're trained to present an unbiased view, but let's be honest. This is the White House. Everyone's got an opinion.

As a result, it doesn't take me long to make a list of reasons for the President to come out against roving wiretaps. That's the easy part. The hard part is convincing the President I'm right. Especially in an election year.

* * *

At five o'clock, I take my only break: a ten-minute round-trip dash to the West Wing for the first batch of fries that comes out of the Mess. Over the next four hours, I skim through hundreds of criminal cases, looking for the best ones to make my point. It's going to be a late night, but as long as things stay quiet, I should be able to get through it.

"Candy bars! Who wants candy bars?" Trey announces, striding through the door. "Guess what just got added to the vending machines?" Before I can answer, he adds, "Two words, Lucy: Hostess. Cupcakes. I saw 'em downstairs--our childhood trapped behind glass. For seventy-five cents, we get it back."

"Now's really a bad time . . ."

"I understand--you're knee-deep. Then let me at least tell you about--"

"I can't . . ."

"No such thing as can't. Besides, this is impor--"

"Dammit, Trey, can't you ever take a hint?"

He's not happy with that one. Without a word, he turns his back and heads for the exit.

"Trey . . ."

He opens the door.

"C'mon, Trey . . ."

At the last second, he stops. "Listen, hotshot, I don't need the apology--the only reason I came by was because your favorite Post reporter just called us about the WAVES records. Adenauer may be waiting until Friday, but Inez's cashing in every press favor she has. So no matter how badly you're trying to smudge elbows with the President, you should know the clock's ticking--and it may explode sooner than you think." He wheels around and slams the door shut.

I know he's right. By Adenauer's count, I'm almost down to two days. But with everything else going on, it's going to have to wait until tomorrow. After the President, and after Vaughn.

* * *

By eight o'clock, the howling in my stomach tells me I'm hungry, the searing pain in my lower back tells me I've been sitting too long, and the vibration of my pager tells me someone's calling.

I whip it out of the clip on my belt and look at the message. "Emergency. Meet me in the theater. Nora."

As I read the words, I feel my whole face go white. Whatever it is, it can't be good. I take off without even thinking.

Within three minutes, I'm on a mad dash through the Ground Floor Corridor of the mansion. At the far end of the hallway, I push through a final set of doors, cut through the small area where they sell books on the White House public tour, and see the oversized bust of Abraham Lincoln. During the day, the hallway is usually filled with tour groups checking out the architectural diagrams and famous White House photos that line the left-hand wall. For the most part, visitors and guests think that's pretty interesting. I wonder how they'd react if they knew that on the other side of that wall is the President's private movie theater.

I run my open palm against my forehead, hoping to hide the sweat. As I approach the guard who's stationed nearby, I motion to my destination. "I'm supposed to meet--"

"She's inside," he says.

I rip open the door, smell the slight remnants of popcorn, and dart into the theater.

Nora's sitting in the front row of the empty fifty-one-seat theater. She has her feet hiked up on the armrest of her chair, and a big bag of popcorn on her lap.

"Ready for a surprise?" she asks, turning my way.

I'm not sure whether I'm angry or relieved.

"For once, stop looking so depressed. Just sit," she says, patting the seat next to her.

Dumbfounded, I head over to the front row. There're nine rows of traditional movie theater seats, but the front row consists of four leather La-Z-Boy recliners. Best seats in the house. I take the one to Nora's left.

"Why'd you send that messa--?"

"Hit it, Frankie!" she shouts the moment I sit.

Slowly, the lights go down and the flickering stutter of the projector fills the air. The walls of the theater are draped with Soul Train-era burnt-orange-colored curtains with beige bird designs. Like the Music Room, Elvis would've loved it.

As the opening credits roll, I realize we're watching the new Terrance Landaw movie. It's not going to be out in theaters for another month, but the Motion Picture Association makes sure that the White House gets on the hottest new releases delivered every Tuesday. Subliminal lobbying.

"Is there a reason we're--"

"Shhhhh!" she hisses with a playful smirk.

For the rest of the opening credits, I stay silent, trying to figure it out. Nora shovels popcorn into her mouth. Then, when the opening shot hits, she reaches over and tickles the hair on my forearm.

I look over at her and she's gazing at the screen, a mesmerized movie zombie.

"Nora, do you have any idea what I'm working on right now?"

"Shhhh . . ."

"Don't shush me--you said it was an emergency."

"Of course I did," she says, again tickling my arm. "Would you've come down if I didn't?"

I shake my head and start to get up. Before I get anywhere, she wraps both arms around my biceps, holding on like a little girl. "C'mon, Michael, just the first half hour. A quick mental break. I'll pause it and we can finish tomorrow."

I'm tempted to tell her that you can't pause a movie theater, then I remember who I'm talking to.

"It'll be fun," she promises. "Ten more minutes."

It's hard to argue with ten minutes--and the way it's been going, it'd be good to recharge. "Ten," I threaten.

"Fifteen, max. Now shut up--I hate missing the beginning."

I gaze up at the screen, still thinking about the decision memo. For two years, I've been doing legal analysis on the President's hottest policies and most cutting-edge proposals--but not a single one of them thrills me as much as ten minutes in the dark with Nora Hartson. Sitting back in my seat, I lock my fingers between hers. With everything going on, this is exactly what we need. A nice, quiet moment alone where we can finally take a breath and rela--

"Nora . . . ?" someone whispers. Behind us, a blade of white light slices through the dark.

We both turn around, surprised to see Wesley Dodds, the President's Chief of Staff. With his pencil neck already leaning into the room, he lets the rest of his body follow.

"Get out!" Nora barks.

Like most bigshots, Wesley doesn't listen. He heads straight down to the front row. "I apologize for doing this, but I've got the head of IBM and a dozen CEOs standing in the lobby, waiting for their screening."

Nora doesn't even look at him. "Sorry."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Sorry," she repeats. "As in, Sorry you're gonna be disappointed. Or even better: I'm sorry, but you're interrupting me."

He's too hypersmart to pick a fight with the boss's daughter, so he just pulls rank. "Frankie, turn the lights on!"

The projector warps to a halt and the lights come on. Shading our eyes, Nora and I squint our way to adjustment. She's the first out of her seat, sending the bag of popcorn flying.

"What the hell're you doing?" she shouts.

"I already told you, we have a CEO event waiting outside. You know what time of year it is."

"Take 'em to the Lincoln Bedr--"

"I already did," he shoots back. "And if it makes you feel better, we reserved the room a month ago." Catching himself, he realizes it's getting too hot. "I'm not asking you to leave, Nora--in fact, if you stay, it'll actually be better. Then they can say they watched a movie with the First Dau--"

"Get out of here. It's my house."

"I'm sure it is--but if you want to live in it for another four years, you better move over and make some room. Understand what I'm saying?"

For the first time, Nora doesn't answer.

"Forget about it," I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. "It's not that big a--"

"Shut up," she barks, pulling away.

"Rewind it, Frankie!" Wesley calls out.

"Don't you--"

"It's over," he warns. "Don't make me call your dad."

Oh, shit.

Her eyes narrow. Wesley doesn't move. She reaches back, and I swear to God, I think she's about to clock him. Then, out of nowhere, a devilish grin takes her face. She lets out a whispered throaty cackle. We're definitely in trouble. Before I can even ask, she picks up her purse and races for the door.

In the hallway outside, a dozen fifty- to sixty-year-old men are milling around, staring at the black-and-white photographs along the hallway. She flies past them before they can even react. But they all know who they've seen. Even as they try to play cool, their eyes are wide with excitement as they elbow and wink the message through the small crowd. Didja see? That was you-know-who.

It's amazing. Even the most powerful . . . in here, they're just kids in a schoolyard. And from what I can tell, the first rule of the schoolyard still holds true: There's always someone bigger.

Weaving my way back to the Ground Floor Corridor, I'm only a few feet behind her. "Nora . . ." I call out. She doesn't answer. It's just like that first night with the Service. She's not stopping for anybody.

With her arms swinging forcefully at her side, she plows forward up the red-carpeted hallway. I assume she's heading up to the Residence, but she doesn't turn at the entrance to the stairs. She just keeps going--straight up the hall, through the Palm Room, and outside, up the West Colonnade. Just before she reaches the door that leads into the West Wing, she takes a sharp left and sidesteps a dark-suited agent. "Oh, no," I mutter, watching her plow along the concrete terrace outside the West Wing. There's only one place she's going. The back entrance of the Oval. Straight to the top.