The First Counsel (9 page)

"No, excitement would be if that little contraption you're staring at showed you exactly what I'm doing with my hands."

The woman's ruthless. "So this thing really works?"

"Don't know. They only give them to staff."

"So that's it, huh? Now I'm just staff?"

"You know what I mean. I usually . . . the way it works . . . I've never had the chance to watch myself," she stutters.

I can't believe it--she's actually embarrassed. "It's okay," I tell her. "I'm only joking."

"No, I know . . . I just . . . I don't want you to think I'm some spoiled snob."

I pause, lost in the almost scientific curiosity of what she finds important. "Well get it out of your head," I eventually say. "If I thought you were a snob, I wouldn't have gone out with you in the first place."

"That's not true," she teases. She's right. But the playfulness in her tone tells me she admires the attempt. Being Nora, her recovery's immediate. "So where does it say I am?" she adds, turning my attention back to the toaster.

"Second Floor Residence."

"And what does that tell you?"

"I have no idea--I've never been up there."

"You've never been up here? You should come."

"Then you should invite me." I'm proud of myself for that one. The invitation should be just around the corner.

"We'll see," she says.

"Oh, so now I haven't passed that test yet? What do I have to do? Act interested? Show a steady follow-up? Go to some group dinner and get checked out by your girlfriends?"

"Huh?"

"Don't act all coy--I know how it is with women--everything's a group decision these days."

"Not with me."

"And you expect me to believe that?" I ask with a laugh. "C'mon, Nora, you have friends, don't you?"

For the first time, she doesn't answer. There's nothing but dead air. My smile sags to a flat line. "I . . . I didn't mean . . ."

"Of course I have friends," she finally stammers. "Meanwhile, have you seen Simon yet?"

I'm tempted to go back, but this is more important. "At the meeting this morning. He walked in and the whole world hit slow motion. The thing is, watching his reaction, I don't think he saw us. I would've seen it in his eyes."

"Suddenly you're the arbiter of truth?"

"Mark my words, he didn't know we were there."

"So have you decided what you're going to do?"

"What's to decide? I have to report him."

She thinks about this for a second. "Just be careful abou--"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to tell anyone you were there."

"That's not what I was worried about," she shoots back, annoyed. "I was going to say, be careful who you go to with this. Considering the time period, and the person involved, this thing's going to Hindenburg."

"You think I should wait until after the election?"

There's a long pause on the other line. It's still her father. Finally, she says, "I can't answer that. I'm too close." I can hear it in her voice. It's only a twelve-point lead. She knows what could happen. "Is there a way to keep it out of the press?" she asks.

"Believe me, there's no way I'm throwing this to the press. They'd eat us alive by lunch."

"Then who do you go to?"

"I'm not sure, but I think it should be someone in here."

"If you want, you can tell my dad."

There it is again. Her dad. Every time she says it, it seems that much more ridiculous. "Too big," I say. "Before it goes to him, I want someone to do a little bit more research."

"Just to make sure we're right?"

"That's what I'm worried about. The moment this gets out, we're going to wreck Simon's career. And that's not something I take lightly. In here, once the finger's pointed at you, you're gone."

Nora's been on the receiving end for too long. She knows I'm right. "Is there someone you have in mind?"

"Caroline Penzler. She's in charge of ethics for the White House."

"Can you trust her?"

I pick up a nearby pencil and tap the eraser against my desk. "I'm not sure--but I know exactly who to ask."

Chapter
5

Leaving my office, I cross through the anteroom and head straight for Pam's. The door is always open, but I still give her a courtesy knock. "Anyone home?"

By the time she says "Come in," I'm already standing across from her desk. The setup of her office is a mirror image of mine, right down to the nonworking fireplace. As always, the differences are on the walls, where Pam has replaced my ego items with two personal effects: over her couch, a blown-up photograph of the President when he spoke at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, her hometown; and over her desk, an enormous American flag, which was a gift from her mother when Pam first got the job. Typical Pam, I think to myself. Apple pie at heart.

Facing the computer table that runs perpendicular to her desk, Pam is typing furiously with her back to me. As is her usual work mode, her thin blond hair is pulled back in a tight twist held by a red clip. "What's up?" she asks without turning around.

"I've got a question for you."

She flips through a pile of papers, looking for something in particular. When she finds it, she says, "I'm listening."

"Do you trust Caroline?"

Pam immediately stops typing and turns my way. Raising an eyebrow, she asks, "What's wrong? Is it Nora?"

"No, it's not Nora. It has nothing to do with Nora. I just have a question about this issue I'm working on."

"And you expect me to believe that?"

I'm too smart to argue with her. "Just tell me about Caroline."

Biting the inside of her cheek, she studies me carefully.

"Please," I add. "It's important."

She shakes her head and I know I'm in. "What do you want to know?"

"Is she loyal?"

"The First Lady thinks so."

I nod at the reference. A longtime friend of the First Lady, Caroline met Mrs. Hartson at the National Parkinson's Foundation in Miami, where Mrs. Hartson mentored and encouraged her to take night classes at the University of Miami Law School. From there, the First Lady brought her to the Children's Legal Defense Fund, then to the campaign, and finally, to the White House. Long battles forge the strongest bonds. I just want to know, how strong? "So if I tell her something vitally important, can I trust her to keep a secret?"

"Help me out with what you mean by vitally."

I sit in the chair in front of her desk. "It's big."

"Front-page big or cover-of-Newsweek big?"

"Newsweek."

Pam doesn't flinch. "Caroline's in charge of screening all the bigshots: Cabinet members, ambassadors, the Surgeon General--she opens their closets and makes sure we can live with their skeletons."

"So you think she's loyal?"

"She's got dirt on just about every hotshot in the executive branch. That's why the First Lady put her here. If she's not loyal, we're dead."

Falling silent, I lean forward and rest my elbows against my knees. It's true. Before anyone's nominated, they go through at least one confession session with Caroline. She knows the worst about everyone: who drinks, who's done drugs, who's had an abortion, and who's hiding a summer home from their wife. Everyone has secrets. Myself included. Which means if you expect to get anything done, you can't disqualify everyone. "So I shouldn't worry?" I ask.

Pam stands up and crosses around to the other side of her desk. Sitting in the seat next to me, she looks me straight in the eye. "Are you in trouble?"

"No, not at all."

"It's Nora, isn't it? What'd she do?"

"Nothing," I say, pulling back a little. "I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can. You always can. But if you need any help at all . . ."

"I know--you'll be there."

"With bells on, my friend. And maybe even a tambourine."

"Honestly, Pam, that means more than you know." Realizing that the longer I sit here, the more she's going to pry, I stand from my seat and head for the door. I know I shouldn't say another word, but I can't help myself. "So you really think she's okay?"

"Don't worry about Caroline," Pam says. "She'll take care of you."

* * *

I'm about to head over to Caroline's when I hear the phone in my office ring. Running inside, I check the digital screen to see who it is. It's the number from before. Nora. "Hello?" I say, picking it up.

"Michael?" She sounds different. Almost out of breath.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Have you spoken to her yet?"

"Caroline? No, why?"

"You're not going to tell her I was there, are you? I mean, I don't think you should . . ."

"Nora, I already told you I wouldn't--"

"And the money--you're not going to say I took the money, right?" Her voice is racing with panic.

"Of course not."

"Good. Good." Already, she's calming down. "That's all I wanted to know." I hear her take a deep breath. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean to freak like that--I just started getting a little nervous."

"Whatever you say," I tell her, still confused by the outburst. I hate hearing that crack in her voice--all that confidence crushed to nothing. It's like seeing your dad cry; all you want to do is stop it. And in this case, I can. "You don't have to worry," I add. "I've got it all taken care of."

* * *

Walking down the hall to Caroline's office is easy. So is knocking on her office door. Stepping inside is a piece of cake, and hearing the door slam behind me is an ice cream sundae. But when I see Caroline, sitting at her desk with her jet black dyed hair spreading on the shoulders of her black wool blazer, everything that I've been holding together--all of it--suddenly falls apart. My fear has a face. And before I can even say hello, the back of my neck floods with sweat.

"Take a seat, take a seat," she offers as I almost collapse in front of her desk. Accepting the invitation, I lower myself into one of her two chairs. Without saying a word, I watch her pour four sugar packets into an empty mug. One by one, she rips each one open. In the left corner of the room, the coffee's almost done brewing. Now I know where she gets her energy. "How's everything going?" she asks.

"Busy," I reply. "Really busy." Over Caroline's shoulder, I see her version of the ego wall: forty individual frames filled with thank-you notes written by some of Washington's most powerful players. Secretary of State. Secretary of Defense. Ambassador to the Vatican. Attorney General. They're all up there, and they were all cleared by Caroline.

"Which one's your favorite?" I ask, hoping to slow things down.

"Hard to say. It's like asking which of your children is your favorite."

"The first one," I say. "Unless they move away and never call. Then it's the one who lives closest."

In her line of work, Caroline spends every day having uncomfortable conversations with people. As a result, she's seen just about every different manifestation of nervousness that exists. And from the sour look on her face, making jokes ranks near the bottom of her list. "Is there something I can help you with, Michael?"

My eyes stay locked on her desk, which is submerged under stacks of paper, file folders, and two presidential seal ashtrays. There's a portable air filter in the corner of the room, but the place still reeks of stale cigarettes, which, besides collecting thank-you notes, are Caroline's most obvious habit. To help me along, she takes off her glasses and offers a semiwarm glance. She's trying to inspire faith and imply that I can trust her. But as I pick my head up, all I can think is that it's the first time in two years that I've really looked at her. Without her glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes seem less intimidating. And although her furrowed brow and thin lips keep her appearance professional, she honestly looks worried about me. Not worried like Pam, but, for a woman in her late forties who's still mostly a stranger, truly concerned.

"Do you need a drink of water?" she asks.

I shake my head. No more stalling.

"Is this a Counsel's Office question or an ethics issue?" she asks.

"Both," I say. This is the hard part. My mind's racing--searching for the perfect words. Yet no matter how much I mentally practiced on the way over, there's nothing like removing the net and doing it for real. As I'm about to step out on the tightrope, I run through the story one last time, hoping to stumble onto a lawful reason for the White House Counsel to be dropping money in the woods. Nothing I come up with is good. "It's about Simon," I finally say.

"Stop right there," she commands. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she pulls out a small cassette recorder and a single blank tape. She knew that tone as soon as she heard it. This is serious.

"I don't think that's necess--"

"Don't be nervous--it's just for your protection." She grabs a pen and writes my name on the cassette. When it's in the recorder, I can see the words "Michael Garrick" through the tiny piece of glass. Hitting Record, she slaps the recorder against her desk, right in front of me.