The First Counsel (12 page)

As soon as Pam looks up, she sees the change in my expression. "You okay?"

"Y-Yeah . . . I just can't believe it."

Pam agrees and shrinks back in her seat. "How'd she look?"

"What do you mean?"

"The body. Weren't you the one who found the body?"

I nod, unable to answer. "Who told you?"

"Debi in Public Liaison heard it from her boss, who has a friend who has the office right across from--"

"I got it," I interrupt. This isn't going to be easy.

"Can I ask you a separate question?" Pam adds. From the tone in her voice, I know where she's going with this. "Last night--whatever you got into--is that why Caroline died?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't do that to me, Michael. You said it was cover-of-Newsweek big. That's what you went to see her about, isn't it?"

I don't answer.

"It was about Nora, wasn't it?"

Still, nothing.

"If Caroline was killed for some--"

"She wasn't killed! It was a heart attack!"

Pam watches me carefully. "You really believe that?"

"I actually do."

When we first got assigned to the same office, Pam described herself as the person in fifth grade who got left behind when her friends got popular. It was a self-effacing icebreaker, but I have to say, even then, I never believed it. She's way too savvy for that--she wouldn't be here if she wasn't. So even if she loves to play the underdog and put herself down--even if she constantly feels the need to lower expectations--I, until today, have always thought she was a guru of interpersonal dynamics.

"So the little psycho's really worth that much to you?" she asks.

"You may have a hard time believing this, but Nora's a good person."

"If she's so good, where's she now?"

I look over at the toaster. Nothing's changed. In green digital letters are the same three words: Second Floor Residence.

* * *

Running up the hallway of the OEOB, I know that the only way to find out what's going on is face-to-face and in person. At full speed, with an empty interoffice mailer clutched in an anxious fist, I blow through the West Exec exit, cross the corridor between the buildings, and head for the West Wing of the White House. Passing through the doors under the sharp white awning, I wave a quick hello to Phil.

"Going up?" he asks, calling the elevator for me.

I shake my head.

"Crazy news, huh?"

"No question about it," I say as I rush past him. Climbing the short flight of stairs on my left, I slow my pace to a brisk walk. You don't run this close to the Oval. Not unless you want to be tackled or shot. I take a quick peek at Hartson's secretary's office to see how things are going. As always, the Oval and everything else near the President is lightning hot. It's charged with an energy that's impossible to describe. It's not panic--there's no panicking when you're near the President. It's simply a wave of energy that's conspicuously and unapologetically alive. Like Nora.

Staying on course, I push forward. Ahead of me, I see another two uniformed officers and the lower press office, where four original Norman Rockwells line the wall that leads to the West Colonnade. Shoving open the doors, I step outside, fly past each of the spectacular white columns that line the Rose Garden, and reenter the mansion of the White House in the Ground Floor Corridor.

Straight ahead, across the wave of lush, pale red carpet, there're four cherry-wood foldable dividers blocking the back half of the corridor. Public tours are on the other side. Every year thousands of tourists are led through the Ground Floor and the State Floor, the first two floors of the White House. They see the Vermeil Room, the China Room, the Blue Room, the Red Room, the Green Room, the Fill-in-the-Blank Room. But they don't see where the President and the First Family actually live--where they sleep, where they entertain, and where they spend their time--the top two floors of the White House. The Residence.

Up the hallway, through the second door on my left, is the entryway that houses an elevator and a set of stairs. Both lead up to the Residence. The only thing in my way is the Secret Service: one uniformed officer on this floor; two on the floor above. No need to lose it, I tell myself. It's just like anything else in life--a purposeful walk gets you inside. With an even, deliberate pace, I hold out the interoffice mailer and make my way up the hallway, toward the first officer. He's leaning against the wall and appears to be staring at his own shoes. Keep your head down--just keep your head down. I'm only ten feet from the door. Five feet from the door. Three feet from the--Suddenly he looks up. I don't stop. I shoot him a friendly nod as he eyes my ID. Blue pass goes just about anywhere. And presidential interoffice mail goes straight upstairs to the Usher's Office. "Have a good one," I add, for authenticity's sake. He looks back at his shoes without a sound. Confidence is once again the ultimate hall pass. I head for the stairs. Only one more floor to go.

Although I'm tempted to celebrate, I know that the Ground Floor officer is just there to make sure people don't wander in off the tour. The real checkpoint for the Residence is on the next landing. As I make my way up, I quickly spot two uniformed Secret Service officers waiting for me. Standing across from the elevator, these two aren't looking at their shoes. I avoid eye contact and maintain the purposeful pace.

"Can I help you?" the taller of the two officers asks.

Keep walking--they'll buy it, I tell myself. "How you doing?" I say, trying to sound like I'm here all the time. "She's expecting me."

The other officer steps in front of me and blocks my path to the next flight of stairs. "Who's expecting you?"

"Nora," I reply, showing them the mailer. I step to my right and act like I planned to take the elevator the rest of the way. When I push the call button, a rasping buzzer screams through the small entryway.

I turn around and both officers are looking at me.

"You can leave the mail with the usher," the taller one says.

"She asked that it be hand-delivered," I offer.

Neither of them is impressed. After reading my name from my ID, the taller officer steps into the Usher's Office, which is right next to the stairs, and picks up the telephone. "I have a Michael Garrick down here." He listens for a second. "No. Yeah. I'll tell him. Thanks." He hangs up the phone and looks back at me. "She's not up there."

"What? That's impossible. When did she leave?"

"They said it was in the last ten minutes. If she takes the elevator down, we don't see her."

"Don't they update her movements on your radio?"

"Not until she leaves the building."

I stare him down. There's nothing left to say. "Tell her I came by," I add, heading back down the stairs.

As I make my way down, I see someone heading up. The staircase isn't a wide one, so we brush shoulders, and I get my first good look at him. He's wearing khakis and a navy blue polo. But it's the earpiece he's wearing that gives him away. Secret Service. One of Nora's agents. Harry. His name's Harry. He's part of her personal detail. And the only time he leaves her side is when she's upstairs in the Residence.

I turn around and follow him upstairs. As soon as the uniformed officers see me, they know I know.

"You were lying to me?" I ask the taller officer.

"Listen, son, this isn't--"

"Why'd you lie?"

"Take it easy," Harry says.

Within seconds, I see a plainclothes agent running up the stairs, from the Ground Floor. A second in a dark suit steps in and blocks the entrance to the hallway.

How the hell did they react so quickly? I look over my shoulder and get the answer. In the air conditioner vent by the doorway is a tiny penlight camera pointed straight at me.

Harry puts a hand on my shoulder. "Take my word for it," he says. "You can't win."

He's right about that one. I pull away from him and head back toward the stairs. Looking at Harry, I add, "Tell her we have to talk."

He nods, but doesn't say a word.

Storming down the stairs, I brush past the agent who's blocking my way. "Have a nice day," he says as I leave.

* * *

On my way back to the OEOB, I realize I'm squeezing both hands into tight fists. Opening them up, I stretch out my fingers, trying to shake off Nora's dismissal. Yet with release comes panic. It's not that bad, I tell myself. She'll come through. She's just being careful now. Besides, all I did was find the body and yell a bit. It's not like I'm a suspect. No one even knows about the money. Except for Nora. And the D.C. police. And Caroline. And anyone else she told about the . . . Damn, the rumors could already be out there. And when they realize the bills are consecutive . . .

My thoughts are interrupted by the vibrations of my beeper. I pull it from my pocket and check the message. That's when I'm reminded of the one other person who knows about the money. The message says it all: "Would like to speak to you. In person. E.S."

E.S. Edgar Simon.

Chapter
9

Sitting in the waiting room outside Simon's office, my only distraction is Judy's typing. Simon's personal assistant, Judy Stohr, is a chubby little woman with dyed red hair. Divorced the year Hartson decided to run for President, she gave up on men, moved from New Jersey to Hartson's home state of Florida, and joined the campaign. A walking encyclopedia for every day that's passed since then, Judy loves her new life. But as the always attentive mother of two college-age kids, she'll never be able to change who she is.

"What's wrong? You look sick."

"I'm fine," I tell her.

"Don't tell me 'fine.' You're not fine."

"Judy, I promise you, there's nothing wrong." As she stares me down, I add, "I'm sad about Caroline."

"Ucch, it's terrible. On my worst enemy, I wouldn't wish such--"

"Does he have anyone in there?" I interrupt, pointing to Simon's closed door.

"No, he's just been making calls. He's the one who told the President. And Caroline's family. Now he's talking to the major papers . . ."

"Why?" I ask nervously.

"His office; his territory. He's the point man on this. Press wants reaction from her boss."

That makes sense. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Any other news?"

Judy leans back in her chair, enjoying her moment as the most informed. "It's a heart attack. FBI's still going through the office, but they know what's going on--Caroline smoked more than my Aunt Sally and drank six cups of coffee a day. No offense, but what'd she expect?"

I shrug, unsure of how to respond.

In my silence, Judy sees something in my eyes. "You want to tell me what's really upsetting you, Michael?"

"It's nothing. Everything's fine."

"You're not still intimidated by these guys, are you? You shouldn't be--you're better than 'em all. That's truth talking to you: You're a real person. That's why people like you."

During my third week on the job, I mistakenly sent a letter to the head of the House Judiciary Committee that began "Dear Congressman" as opposed to "Dear Mr. Chairman." This being egoville, the Chairman's staff left a snide remark about it on Simon's voice-mail, and after a quick lashing by Simon, I made the mistake of telling Judy how intimidating it was being a state school boy in the White House's Ivy League world. Since then, I've realized I could hold my own. For me, it's no longer an issue. For Judy, it's always my problem.

"The more you succeed, the more they get scared," she explains. "You're a threat to the old boy network--rock-solid proof that it doesn't matter where you went to school or who your parents--"

"I get the point," I say with a snap.

Judy gives me a second to cool down. "You're still not over it, are you?"

"I promise you, I'm fine. I just need to speak to Simon."

* * *

Before last night, Edgar Simon was a great guy. Born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, he had less swagger than the East Coast power brokers and Beltway insiders who'd previously held the White House Counsel position. As a double-Harvard graduate, he wasn't lacking in gray matter. But I never focus on resumes. What impressed me most about Simon was his personal life.

A few months after I was hired, the press began to suspect that President Hartson was hiding the fact that he had prostate cancer. When the New York Times suggested that Hartson had a legal responsibility to share his medical records with the public, Simon stepped into his first major crisis. Forty-eight hours later, he found out that his twelve-year-old son was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, a genetic disorder of the nervous system that's potentially disabling for children.

After a three-day, no-sleep, rip-your-hair-out research marathon dedicated to the legal issues surrounding presidential medical privacy, Simon handed two things to the President: a briefing book on the crisis and his own resignation. Simon made it clear--his son came first.