The First Counsel (8 page)

"In an election year, there's no difference. You know how opinions run--every little detail gets magnified. Which means every question's an important question!"

"I know how to do my job!" Caroline explodes.

"That's clearly up for debate," Simon growls back.

Refusing to let Caroline take the fall, Pam jumps back in. "Sir, I appreciate what you're saying, but I've been calling him for days. He keeps saying he's--"

"I don't want to hear it. If Gimbel doesn't have the time, he doesn't have the nomination. Besides, he's a friend of the President. For that reason alone, he'll sit for the questions."

"I tried, but he--"

"He's a friend of the President. He understands."

Before Pam can respond, someone else says, "That's not true." At the other end of the table, Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb continues, "He's not a friend of the President." A tall, thick man with crystal blue eyes and a long neck that cranes slightly lower from years of hunching over to talk to people, Lawrence Lamb has known President Hartson since their high school days in Florida. As a result, Lamb is one of the President's closest friends and most trusted advisors. Which means he has what every one of us wants: the President's ear. And if you have the ear, you have power. So when Lamb tells us that Gimbel isn't a friend of the President, we know the argument's over.

"I thought they went to law school together," Simon persists, trying not to lose face.

"That doesn't mean he's a friend," Lamb says. "Trust me on this one, Edgar."

Simon nods. It's over.

"I'll ask him about the rumors and the child," Pam finally adds, breaking the silence of the room. "Sorry I missed it."

"Thank you," Simon replies. Determined to move on, he turns to me and signals that it's my turn to present.

Lowering my legal pad, I step forward and tell myself that nothing's changed. Whatever I saw last night, this is still my moment. "Been working on Justice's wiretap issue. When it comes right down to it, they want something called roving wiretap authority. Currently, if Justice or the FBI wants to wiretap someone, they can't just say, 'Jimmy "The Fist" Machismo is a lowlife, so give us the wiretaps and we'll set him up.' Instead, they have to list the exact places where suspicious activity is taking place. If they change the rule and get roving authority, they can be far less specific in their requests and they can put the taps wherever they want."

Simon runs his fingers along his beard, carefully weighing the issue. "It's got great tough-on-crime potential."

"I'm sure it does," I reply. "But it throws civil liberties out the window."

"Oh, c'mon," Julian interrupts. "Put away the tear towel. This should be a no-brainer--endorsed by Justice, endorsed by the FBI, hated by criminals--this issue's bulletproof."

"Nothing's bulletproof," I shoot back. "And when the New York Times throws this on the front page and says Hartson's now got the right to eavesdrop in your home, without reasonable suspicion, everyone from the liberal media to the conspiracy conservatives is going to be tearing hair. Just what Bartlett needs. It's not an issue for an election year, and more important, it's not right."

"It's not right?" Julian laughs.

Pompous political ass. "That's my opinion. You have a problem with that?"

"Back to your corners," Simon intercedes, waving us apart. "Michael, we'll talk about it later. Anything else?"

"Just one. On Tuesday, I got the OMB memo on the new Medicaid overhaul. Apparently, in one of their long-term-care programs, HHS wants to deny benefits to people with criminal records."

"Another reelection tough-on-crime scheme. It's amazing how creative we can be when our jobs are on the line."

I search his eyes, wondering what he means by that. Cautiously, I add, "The problem is, I think it conflicts with the President's Welfare to Work Program and his rehabilitation stance in the Crime Bill. HHS may think it's a great way to save cash, but you can't have it both ways."

Simon takes a second to think about it. The longer he's silent, the more he agrees. "Write it up," he finally says. "I think you may have someth--"

"Here you go," I interrupt as I pull a two-page memo from my briefcase. "They're about to go out with it, so I made it a priority."

"Thanks," he says as I pass the memo forward. I nod, and Simon casually turns back to the group. He's accustomed to overachievers.

When we finish going around the room, Simon moves to new business. Watching him, I'm truly amazed--through it all, he looks and sounds even calmer than when he started. "Not much to report," he begins in his always steady tone. "They want us to take another look at this thing with the census--"

My hand shoots up first.

"All yours, Michael. They want to revisit the outcome differences between counting noses one by one and doing a statistical analysis."

"Actually, there was an editorial in the--"

"I saw it," he interrupts. "That's why they're begging for facts. Nothing elaborate, but I want to give them an answer by tomorrow." Simon takes one last survey of the room. "Any questions?" Not a hand goes up. "Good. I'm available if you need me." Standing from his seat, Simon adjourns the meeting.

Immediately, half of the associates head for the door, including Pam and me. The other half stay and form a line to talk to Simon. For them, it's simply the final act in the ego play--their projects are so top secret, they can't possibly be talked about in front of the rest of us.

As I head for the door, I see Julian staking out a spot in the line. "What's the matter?" I ask him. "You don't like sharing with the rest of the class?"

"It's amazing, Garrick, you always know exactly what's going on. That's why he puts you on the big, sexy issues like the census. Oooooh, baby, that sucker's gold. Actuaries, here I come."

I pretend to laugh along with his joke. "Y'know, I've always had a theory about you, Julian. In fourth grade, when you used to have show-and-tell, you always tried to bring yourself, didn't you?"

"You think that's funny, Garrick?"

"Actually, I think it's real funny."

"Me too," Pam says. "Not hysterical, but funny."

Realizing he'll never survive a confrontation against the two of us, Julian goes nuclear. "Both of you can eat shit."

"Sharp comeback."

"Well done."

He storms around us to get back in line, and Pam and I head for the door. As we leave, I glance over my shoulder and catch Simon quickly turning away. Was he looking at us? No, don't read into it. If he knew, I'd know. I'd have to.

Avoiding the line at the elevator, we take the stairs and make our way back to the OEOB. As soon as we're alone, I see Pam's mood change. Staring straight down as we walk, she won't say a word.

"Don't beat yourself up over this," I tell her. "Gimbel didn't disclose it--you couldn't have known."

"I don't care what he told me; it's my job to know. I've got no business being here otherwise. I mean, as it is, I can barely figure out what I'm even doing anymore."

Here she goes--the yin to her own yang--toughness turned in on itself. Unlike Nora, when Pam's faced with criticism, her first reaction is to rip herself apart. It's a classic successful person's defense mechanism--and the easiest way for her to lower expectations.

"C'mon, Pam, you know you belong here."

"Not according to Simon."

"But even Caroline said--"

"Forget the rationalizing. It never works. I want to take some time to be mad at myself. If you want to cheer me up, change the subject."

Aaaand we're back--guerrilla honesty. "Okay, how's about some office gossip: Who do you think leaked the birthday party?"

"No one leaked it," she says as we return to the sterile hallways of the OEOB. "He just used it to make a point."

"But the Herald--"

"Open your eyes, boy. It was a party for Lawrence Lamb, First Friend. Once word got out about that, the whole complex came running. No one misses a social function with the President. Or with Nora."

I stop right in front of Room 170. Our office. "You think that's why I went?"

"You telling me otherwise?"

"Maybe."

Pam laughs. "You can't even lie, can you? Even that's too much."

"What're you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your unfailing predisposition to always be the Boy Scout."

"Oh, and you're so hyper-cool?"

"Life of a city girl," she says, proudly brushing some invisible lint from her shoulder.

"Pam, you're from Ohio."

"But I lived in--"

"Don't tell me about New York. That was law school--you spent half the time in your room, and the rest in the library. Besides, three years does not hyper-cool make."

"It makes sure I'm not a Boy Scout."

"Will you stop already with that?" Before I can finish, my beeper goes off. I look down at the digital screen, but don't recognize the phone number. I unclip it from my belt and read the message: "Call me. Nora."

My eyes show no reaction. My voice is super-smooth. "I have to take this one," I tell Pam.

"What's she want?"

I refuse to answer.

She's laughing again. "Do you sell cookies also, or is that just a Girl Scout thing?"

"Kiss my ass, homegrown."

"Not on the very best day of your life," she says as I head for the door.

I pull open the heavy oak door of our office and step into the anteroom that leads to three other offices. Three doors: one on the right, one in the middle, one on the left. I've nicknamed it the Lady or the Tiger Room, but no one ever gets the reference. Barely big enough to hold the small desk, copier, and coffee machine we've stuffed into it, the anteroom is still good for a final moment of decompression.

"Okay, fine," Pam says, moving toward the door on the right. "If it makes you feel any better, you can put me down for two boxes of the thin mints."

I have to admit the last one's funny, but there's no way I'm giving her the satisfaction. Without turning around, I storm into the room on the left. As I slam the door behind me, I hear Pam call out, "Send her my love."

By OEOB standards, my office is a good one. It's not huge, but it does have two windows. And one of the building's hundreds of fireplaces. Naturally, the fireplaces don't work, but that doesn't mean having one isn't a notch on the brag belt. Aside from that, it's typical White House: old desk that you hope once belonged to someone famous, desk lamp that was bought during the Bush administration, chair that was bought during the Clinton administration, and a vinyl sofa that looks like it was bought during the Truman administration. The rest of the office makes it mine: flameproof file cabinets and an industrial safe, courtesy of the Counsel's Office; over the fireplace, a court artist's rendition of me sitting in the moot court finals, courtesy of Michigan Law School; and on the wall above my desk, the White House standard, courtesy of my ego: a signed picture of me and President Hartson after one of his radio addresses, thanking me for my service.

Throwing my briefcase on the sofa, I head for my desk. A digital screen attached to my phone says that I have twenty-two new calls. As I scroll through the call log, I can see the names and phone numbers of all the people who called. Nothing that can't wait. Anxious to get back to Nora, I take a quick glance at the toaster, a small electronic device that bears an uncanny resemblance to its namesake and was left here by the office's previous occupant. A small screen displays the following in digital green letters:

POTUS: OVAL OFFICE

FLOTUS: OEOB

VPOTUS: WEST WING

NORA: SECOND FLOOR RESIDENCE

CHRISTOPHER: MILTON ACADEMY

There they are--The Big Five. The President, the VP, and the First Family. The principals. Like Big Brother, I instinctively check all of their locations. Updated by the Secret Service as each principal moves, the toaster is there in case of emergency. I've never once heard of anyone using it, but that doesn't mean it's not everyone's favorite toy. The thing is, I'm not concerned with the President of the United States, or the First Lady, or the VP. What I'm really looking at is Nora. I pick up the phone and dial her number.

She answers on the first ring. "Sleep okay last night?"

Clearly, she's got the same caller ID we do. "Somewhat. Why?"

"No reason--I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Again, I'm really sorry I put you in that position."

Sad as it is to admit, I love hearing the concern in her voice. "I appreciate the thought." Turning toward the toaster, I add, "Where am I calling you anyway?"

"You tell me--you're the one staring at the toaster."

I smile to myself. "No, I'm not."

"I told you last night--you're a bad liar, Michael."

"Is that why you were so intent on washing my mouth out?"

"If you're talking about my tongue down your throat, that was just to give you something exciting to think about."

"And that's your idea of excitement?"