The First Counsel (7 page)

Just as I open the door to Room 170, I see Pam running straight at me. "Turn around--we're going early," she shouts, her thin blond hair wisping behind her.

"When did they--"

"Just now." She grabs me by the arm and spins me around. "Senior Staff went early, so Simon bumped us up. Apparently, he's got somewhere to be." Before I can get a word out, she adds, "Now what happened to your forehead?"

"Nothing," I say, looking at my watch. "What time's it called for?"

"Three minutes ago," she answers.

Simultaneously, we both race up the hallway. Lucky for us, we have first-floor offices--which means we also have the shortest walk to the West Wing. And the Oval. To an outsider, it might not seem like much of a perk, but to those of us in the OEOB, it matters. Proximity is all.

As the heels of our shoes slam against the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, I see the West Exec exit straight ahead. Pulling open one of the double doors, we step outside and cross the closed-off street between the OEOB and the White House. On the other side of the narrow road, we head for the awning that leads to the West Wing and make our way through two more sets of doors. Ahead of us, a uniformed Secret Service officer with buzzed black hair sits at a table and checks the IDs that hang around our necks. If our IDs had an orange background, he'd know we only have access to the OEOB and he'd have to stop us. A blue background means we can go almost anywhere, including the West Wing.

"Hey, Phil," I say, instinctively slowing down. This is the real test--if word's out, I'm not getting in.

Phil takes one look at my blue background and smiles. "What's the rush?"

"Big meetings, big meetings," I reply calmly. If he knew, he wouldn't be smiling.

"Someone's got to save the world," he says with a nod. "Have a good one now." At this point, his job is done. Once we're past him, he's supposed to let us go. Instead, he pays us the highest compliment. As we turn toward the elevator, he hits a button below his desk and the elevator door on my left opens. When we step inside, he pushes something else and the button for the second floor lights up. He doesn't do that for just anyone--only for the people he likes. Which means he finally knows who I am. "Thanks!" I shout as the doors close. As I collapse against the back of the elevator, I have to smile. Whatever Simon saw, it's clear he's kept his mouth shut. Or better yet, maybe he never knew we were there.

Reading the joy on my face, Pam says, "You love it when Phil does that, don't you?"

"Who wouldn't?" I play along.

"I don't know . . . people with well-adjusted priorities?"

"You're just jealous because he doesn't open it for you."

"Jealous?" Pam laughs. "He's a doorman with a gun--you think he has any bearing on your place in the food chain?"

"If he does, I know where I'm going: onward and upward, honey." I throw in the "honey" just to push Pam's buttons. She's too smart to fall for it.

"Speaking of fruitless pandering to the top, how'd your date go last night?"

That's the true beauty of Pam. Guerrilla honesty. Glancing at the tiny video camera in the corner, I reply, "I'll tell you later."

She looks up and falls silent. A second later, the elevator doors open.

The second floor of the West Wing houses some of the best high-powered offices, including the First Lady's personal office and the one immediately on my right--the last place I want to be right now: our destination--the office of Edgar Simon, Counsel to the President.

Chapter
4

Racing through the already-open double doors and the waiting area where Simon's assistant sits, Pam and I make a sharp right into Simon's office. Hoping to sneak in quietly, I check to see if . . . Damn--the gang's already waiting. Crowded around a walnut conference table that looks more like an antique dining room set, six associates sit with their pens and legal pads primed. At one end of the table, in his favorite wingback chair, is Lawrence Lamb, Simon's Deputy Counsel. At the other end is an empty seat. Neither of us takes it. That's Simon's.

As Counsel, Simon advises the President on all legal matters arising in the White House. Can we require blood tests to nail deadbeat dads? Is it okay to limit cigarette companies' right to advertise in youth-oriented magazines? Does the President have to pay for his seat on Air Force One if he's using it to fly to a fund-raiser? From inspecting new legislation to researching new judicial nominees, the Counsel and the seventeen associates who work for him, including Pam and myself, are the law firm for the presidency. Sure, most of our work's reactive: In the West Wing, the Senior Staff decides what ideas the President should pursue, then we get called in to do the how and if. But as any lawyer knows, there's plenty of power in hows and ifs.

In the corner of the dark-wood-paneled room, hunkered down on the all-powerful couch, the Vice President's Counsel is whispering to the Counsel for the Office of Administration, and the Legal Advisor for the National Security Counsel is whispering to the Deputy Legal Counsel for OMB. Bigshots talking to bigshots. In the White House, some things never change. Squeezing our way toward the back of the room, Pam and I stand with the rest of the seatless associates and wait for Simon to arrive. Within a few minutes, he walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table.

My eyes shoot to the floor as fast as they can.

"What's wrong?" Pam asks me.

"Nothing." My head's still down, but I steal a quick peek at Simon. All I want to know is whether he saw us last night. I assume it'll show on his face. To my surprise, it doesn't. If he's hiding something, you wouldn't know it. His salt-and-pepper hair is as perfectly combed as it was on Rock Creek Parkway. He doesn't look tired; his shoulders stand wide. As far as I can tell, he hasn't even glanced at me.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Pam persists.

"Yeah," I answer. I slowly pick my head up. That's when he does the most incredible thing of all. He looks right at me and smiles.

"Is everything okay, Michael?" he asks.

The entire room turns and waits for my answer. "Y-Yeah," I stammer. "Just waiting to get started."

"Good, then let's get right to it." As Simon makes a few general announcements, I try my best to wipe the bewilderment from my face. If I hadn't looked him straight in the eyes, I wouldn't believe it. He didn't even take a second glance at the cut on my forehead. Whatever happened last night, Simon doesn't know I was there.

"There's one last thing I want to comment on and then we can get to new business," Simon explains. "In this morning's Herald, an article made reference to a birthday party we threw for our favorite assistant to the President." All eyes shoot to Lawrence Lamb, who refuses to acknowledge even the slightest bit of attention. "The article went on to mention that the Vice President was noticeably absent from the invite list, and that the crowd was buzzing with rumors of why he wasn't there. Now, in case you've already forgotten, besides the President and the First Family, the only other people in that room were a handful of senior staffers and approximately fourteen representatives from this office." He rests his hands flat on the desk and lets the silence drive home his point.

Without question, he has us. I may never look at him the same way again, but when he turns it on, Edgar Simon is an incredible lawyer. A master of saying it without saying it, he takes a quick scan of everyone in the room. "Whoever it was--it has to stop. They're not asking those questions to make us look good, and this close to reelection, you should all be smarter than that. Am I making myself clear?"

Slowly, a grumble of acquiescence runs through the room. No one likes to be blamed for leaks. I stare at Simon knowing it's the least of his problems.

"Great, then let's put it behind us and move on. Time for some new business. Around the room, starting with Zane."

Looking up from his legal pad, Julian Zane smirks wide. It's the third meeting in a row that he's been called on first. Pathetic. As if any of us is even counting.

"Still haggling with SEC reform," Julian says in a self-important tone that slaps us all across the face. "I'm meeting with the Speaker's counsel today to hit a few of the issues--he wants it so bad, he's skipping recess. After that, I think I'll be ready to present the decision memo."

I cringe as Julian blurts his last few syllables. The decision memo is our office's official policy recommendation on an issue. And while we do the research and writing for it, the finished product is usually presented to the President by Simon. Every once in a while, we get to do the presentation too. "Mr. President, here's what we're looking at . . ." It's the ultimate White House carrot--and something I've been waiting two years for.

Last week, Simon announced that Julian was presenting. It's no longer news. Still, Julian can't help but mention it.

Shading his eyes as he checks his schedule, Simon reveals the same silhouette I saw in his car. I try to bury it, but I can't. All I see is that forty grand--ten of which is now linked to me.

Simon shoots me a look, and a hiccup of bile stabs up from my stomach. If he does know, he's playing games. And if he doesn't . . . I don't care if he doesn't. As soon as we're out of here, I'm calling in some favors.

With a quick nod, we move to the person on Julian's right. Daniel L. Serota. A shared smile engulfs the rest of the room. Here comes Danny L.

Everyone hired by the Counsel's Office brings their own personal strength to the office. Some of us are smart, some are politically connected, some are good at dealing with the press, and some are good at dealing with pressure.

Danny L? He's good at dealing with large documents.

He scratches the front of his glasses with his fingernails, trying to remove a smudge. As always, his dark hair is out of control. "The Israelis had it right. I went through every MEMCON we have on file," he explains, referring to the memoranda of conversations, which are taken by aides when the President talks to a head of state. "The President and the Prime Minister never even speculated about how the hardware got there. And they certainly never mentioned U.N. interference."

"And you got through every MEMCON that was in Records Management?" Simon asks.

"Yeah. Why?"

"There were over fifteen thousand pages in there."

Danny L. doesn't skip a beat. "So?"

Simon shakes his head, while Pam leans over to pat Danny L. on the back. "You're my hero," she tells him. "You really are."

As the laughter dies down, I continue to fight my panic. Simon's enjoying himself too much. That doesn't bode well for what he was doing in the woods. At first, I liked to think he was a victim. Now I'm not so sure.

My mind churns through the possibilities as Pam takes her turn. The associate in charge of background checks for judicial appointments, Pam knows all the dirt about our country's future judges. "We have about three that should be ready for announcement by the end of the week," she explains, "including Stone for the Ninth Circuit."

"What about Gimbel?" Simon asks.

"On the D.C. Circuit? He's one of the three. I'm waiting for some final paperw--"

"So everything checks out with him? No problems?" Simon interrupts in a skeptical tone.

Something's wrong. He's setting Pam up.

"As far as I know, there're no problems," Pam says hesitantly. "Why?"

"Because at the Senior Staff meeting this morning, someone told me there are rumors floating around that Gimbel had an illegitimate child with one of his old secretaries. Apparently, he's been sending them hush money for years."

The consequences quickly sink in. As the room falls silent, all eyes turn toward Pam. Simon's going to hammer her on this one. "We've got an election that's two months away," he begins, his tone unnervingly composed, "and a President who just signed major legislation against deadbeat dads. So what do we do for an encore? We tell the world that Hartson's current judicial candidate has intimate knowledge of our newest law." Across the room, I see Julian and a few others laugh. "Don't even snicker," Simon warns. "In all the time I've been here, I can't remember the last time I've seen all three branches of government collide so embarrassingly."

"I'm sorry," Pam says. "He never mentioned anything abou--"

"Of course he didn't mention it--that's why it's called a background check." Simon's voice remains calm, but he's losing his patience. He must've taken plenty of heat in Senior Staff to be this worked up--and with Bartlett's campaign slowly closing in, all the bigshots are on edge. "Isn't that your job, Ms. Cooper? Isn't that the point?"

"Take it easy, Edgar," a female voice interrupts. I turn to my right and see Caroline Penzler wagging a finger from the couch. Dressed in a cheap wool blazer despite the warm weather, the heavyset Caroline is Pam's supervisor on nominations. She's also one of the few people in the room who's not afraid of Simon. "If Gimbel kept it quiet and there's no paper trail, it's almost impossible for us to know."

Appreciating the save, Pam nods a silent thank-you to her mentor.

Still, Simon's unimpressed. "She didn't ask the right questions," he blasts at Caroline. "That's the only reason it went through your legs."

Caroline shoots an angry look at Simon. There's a long history between these two. When Hartson first got elected, they were both up for the Counsel top spot. Caroline was a friend of the First Lady. She lobbied hard, but Simon won. And the white boys ruled. "Maybe you're not appreciating the process," Caroline says. "There's a difference between asking the hard questions and asking every question under the sun."