The First Counsel (11 page)

"Michael Garrick," he says, reading from my ID. "You okay there, Michael? You able to talk?"

I nod, staring at the carpet. Across the room, the photographer is taking pictures of Caroline's body. When the first flash goes off, it seems so normal--photographers are at almost every White House event. But when I see her head sagging and twisting to the side, and the awkward way her mouth gapes open, I realize it's not Caroline anymore. She's gone. Now it's just a body; a slowly stiffening shell posed for a macabre photo shoot.

The agent with the Virginia twang lifts my chin, and his latex gloves scrape against the remnants of my morning shave. Before I can say a word, he looks me in the eyes. "You sure you're okay? We can always do this later, but . . ."

"No, I understand--I can do it now."

He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. "I appreciate you helping us out, Michael." Unlike the FBI polo crew, he's wearing a gray suit with a small stain on his right lapel. His tie is pulled tight, but the top button on his stark white shirt is open. The effect is the most subtle hint of casualness in his otherwise professional demeanor. "Quite a day, huh, Michael?" It's the third time since we've met that he's said my name, which I have to admit sets off my radar. As my old crim law professor once explained, name repetition is the first trick negotiators use to establish an initial level of intimacy. The second trick is physical contact. I look down at his hand on my shoulder.

He pulls it away, removes his glove, and offers up a handshake. "Michael, I'm Randall Adenauer, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI's Violent Crimes Unit."

His title catches me off guard. "You think she was murdered?"

"That's getting a little ahead of ourselves, don't you think?" he asks with a laugh that's even more forced than the way he buttons his shirt. "Far as we can tell right now, it looks like a simple heart attack--autopsy'll tell for sure. Now, you're the one who found her, aren't you?"

I nod.

"How long before you called it in?"

"Soon as I realized she was dead."

"And when you found her, she was exactly like that? Nothing moved?"

"Her head was down when I walked in. But when I shook her and saw her eyes--the way they are now--the way she looks back at you. That's when I crashed into the wall."

"So you knocked the picture over?"

"I'm pretty sure. I didn't expect to see her like--"

"I'm not blaming you, Michael."

He's right, I tell myself. There's no reason to get defensive.

"And the phone on the floor . . . ?" he asks.

"The whole room was spinning--I sat down to catch my breath. In a panic, I pulled it off the desk to call for help."

As I explain what happened, I realize he's not writing anything down. He just sort of stares my way, his sharp blue eyes barely focused on me. The way he's watching--if I didn't know better, I'd think he was reading cartoon word balloons just above my head. No matter how hard I try to get his attention, our eyes never meet. Finally, from his pants pocket, he pulls out a roll of butterscotch Life Savers and offers me one.

I shake my head.

"Suit yourself." He puts the top of the pack in his mouth and bites one off. "I'm telling you, I think I'm addicted to these things. I'm up to a pack a day."

"Better than smoking," I say, motioning to one of the many ashtrays in Caroline's office.

He nods and looks back at the word balloons. The small talk's over. "So when you found her, what were you coming to see her about?"

Over his shoulder, I spot the small stack of red file folders that are still on Caroline's desk. "Just some work-related stuff."

"Any of it personal?"

"Not really. Why?"

He looks down at the pack of Life Savers he's holding and pretends to be nonchalant. "Just trying to figure out why she had your file."

Adenauer is no dummy. He set me up for that one.

"Now you want to tell me what's really going on?" he asks.

"I swear to you, it was nothing. We were just going over a conflict of interest. She's the ethics officer; that's what she works on. I'm sure she pulled my file to check things out." Unsure if he's buying it, I point to Caroline's desk. "Look for yourself--she's got other files besides mine."

Before he can answer, the Asian agent in the light blue shirt approaches us. "Chief, did the uniformed guys leave you the combination to the--"

"Here you go," Adenauer says. He reaches into his jacket pocket and hands her a yellow sheet of paper.

Taking the combination, she starts working on the safe behind Caroline's desk.

When the distraction's over, Adenauer turns my way and stares me down. I lean back on the couch, trying to look unconcerned. Behind the desk, there's a loud thunk. The woman opens the safe.

"Michael, I understand why you want to be as far away from this as possible--I know how it works here. But I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm just trying to figure out what happened."

"I already told you everything I know."

"Chief, you better take a look at this," the Asian woman says from behind the desk.

Adenauer gets up and heads for the safe. The woman pulls out a manila envelope. She turns it upside down and the contents tumble onto the desk. One. Two. Three stacks of cash. Hundred dollar bills. Each stack wrapped in a First of America billfold.

I do everything in my power to look surprised, and to my credit, I think I actually get away with it. But deep down, as I stare at the three piles of cash that Nora left behind, I know this is just the beginning.

Chapter
8

Two hours of questioning later, I'm walking back to my office with a ruthless migraine and a throbbing pain at the base of my neck. I still can't believe Caroline had the money. Why would she . . . I mean, if she's got that . . . does that mean she was also in the woods? Or did she just pick it up later? Is that why she went after Simon at the morning meeting--because it was ten grand short? My mind tumbles through explanations, searching for the corner pieces of the puzzle. I can barely find an edge.

Around me, the hallways are almost completely empty, and as I pass every door, I can hear the faint echoes of dozens of televisions. Usually, the televisions in the OEOB run with the sound off. With news like this, everyone's listening.

The reaction is typical White House. As a former Clinton advisor explained to me years ago, the power structure of the White House is similar to a game of soccer played by ten-year-olds. You can assign everyone to a position, and you can demand that everyone stay where they're supposed to be, but the moment the game starts, every person on the field abandons their post and runs for the ball.

Case in point: the empty halls of the OEOB. Even before I check in with Trey, I know what's going on. The President is demanding information, which means the Chief of Staff is demanding information, which means the top advisors are demanding information, which means the press is demanding information. From there, everyone else is searching--calling one another and every other connection they can think of--trying to be the first one to reel in the answers. In a hierarchy where most of us are paid similar government salaries, the currency of choice is access and influence. Information is the key to both.

Every other crisis is put on hold as the kids desperately chase the ball. Under any other set of circumstances, I'd be right along with them. Today, though, as I return to my office, I can't help but think that the ball is me.

Closing the door behind myself, I turn on the squawk box, then head straight for the TV, where every network with a press pass is live from the White House. To double-check, I glance out the window and see the line of reporters doing stand-ups on the northwest corner of the lawn.

Panicking, I pick up the phone and dial Nora's number. The toaster says she's still in the Residence, but again, there's no answer. I need to know what's going on. I need Trey.

"Michael, this isn't exactly a good time," he says as he answers the phone. In the background, I hear what sounds like a roomful of people and the nonstop ringing of phones. It's a bad day to be a press secretary.

"Just tell me what's happening," I plead. "What do you have?"

"Rumors are it's a heart attack, though the FBI isn't putting anything out there until two. The first officer on the scene gave us most of it--says there were no external wounds and nothing suspicious." As Trey continues his explanation, his phone doesn't stop ringing. "You should see this guy--typical uniform division--begging for attention, then pretending he doesn't want to talk."

"So I'm not the ball?"

"Why would you be the ball?"

"Because I was the one who found her."

"So that's confirmed? We heard a rumor, but I figured you'd call me if--Jami, listen to this: I got the . . ."

"Trey, shut up!" I shout as loud as I can.

". . . the best gossip about Martin Van Buren. Did you know they used to make fun of him for wearing corsets? Isn't that great? I can't get enough of that guy--corset-wearing little Democrat. Cute as a button, he was. And let me tell you, that Panic of 1837 was all media hype--I don't believe a word of--"

"Did she walk away yet?" I interrupt.

"Yeah," he says. "Now tell me what's going on."

"It's not that big a deal."

"Not that big a deal? Do you know how many calls I've gotten on this thing just since we've been talking?"

"Fourteen," I say flatly. "I've been counting."

There's a pause on the other end. Trey knows me too well. "Maybe we should talk about it later."

"Yeah. I think that's best." Staring out the window, I look back at the line of reporters on the lawn. "Think you can keep me out of this?"

"Michael, I can get you information, but I can't work miracles. It all depends on what the FBI comes back with."

"But can't you--"

"Listen, the way this uniformed guy is talking, most people think he found her. For anyone else who asks, your name is officially changed to 'a fellow White House staffer.' That should save you from at least a thousand constituent letters."

"Thank you, Trey."

"I do my best," he says as the door to my office opens. Pam sticks her head in.

"Listen, I better go. I'll talk to you later."

I hang up the phone and Pam hesitantly asks, "Is now a good time, because . . ."

"Don't worry--c'mon in."

As she steps inside, I notice the sluggishness in her walk. Usually bouncy with a tireless stride, she's moving in slow motion, her shoulders sagging at her side. "Can you believe it?" she asks, collapsing in the seat in front of my desk. Her eyes are tired. And red. She's been crying.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

The single question causes a relapse in emotion that wells up her eyes with tears. Clenching her jaw, Pam fights it back down. She's not the type to cry in public. I reach into my desk and look for a tissue. All I have are some old presidential seal napkins. I hand them over, but she shakes her head.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"She hired me, y'know." Clearing her throat, she adds, "When I came through for interviews, Caroline was the only person who liked me. Simon, Lamb, all the rest, they didn't think I was tough enough. Simon wrote the word 'Whitebread' on my interview sheet."

"No, he didn't."

"Sure did. Caroline showed it to me," Pam says with a laugh. "But since I was going to be working for her, she was able to pull me through. First day I started, she handed me Simon's evaluation and told me to keep it. Said one day, I was going to shove the whole sheet down his throat."

"Did you keep the sheet?"

Pam continues to laugh.

"What?"

A wicked smile takes her cheeks. "Remember that victory party we had when Simon gave his congressional testimony on alcohol advertising?"

I nod.

"And remember the victory cake we served--the one Caroline said we made from scratch?"

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes," Pam adds with a wide smile. "On my hundred and fifty-second day here, Edgar Simon ate his words."

I laugh along with her. "Are you telling me you put your old evaluation in the cake?"

"I admit nothing."

"How's that even possible? Wouldn't he taste it?"

"What do you mean he? Trust me, I watched the whole thing--you ate quite a nice piece yourself."

"And you didn't stop me?"

"I didn't like you as much back then."

"But how'd you--"

"We wet the sheet, ripped it into small pieces, and threw it in the blender. That sucker pureed in no time. Best cooking lesson I ever took. Caroline was a mad genius. And when it came to Simon--she hated that bastard."

"Right up until the hour before she di--" I catch myself. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean . . ."

"It's okay," she says. Without another word, the two of us spend the next minute in complete, stark silence; an impromptu memorial for one of our own. To be honest, it's not until that moment that I realize what I'd left out. Through the two hours of questioning, and the worrying, and the angling to protect myself, I forgot one key thing: I forgot to mourn. My legs go numb and my heart sinks. Caroline Penzler died today. And whatever I thought of her, this is the first moment it's actually hit me. The short silence doesn't make her a saint, but the realization does me a world of good.