The First Counsel (13 page)

Needless to say, the press ate it like popcorn. Parenting magazine crowned him Father of the Year. Then, one month later, when the initial crisis had passed, Simon returned to his position as Counsel. He said the President twisted his arm. Others said Simon couldn't stand being away from power. Either way, it didn't matter. At the height of his career, Edgar Simon walked away from it all. For his son. I'd always respect him for that.

Stepping into his office, I try to picture the Edgar Simon I used to know--the Father of the Year. All I see, though, is the man from last night--the viper with the forty-thousand-dollar secret.

Sitting at his desk, he looks up at me with the same mischievous smile he gave me this morning. But unlike our earlier encounter, I now know that he saw us last night. And I know what he told Caroline--whatever their disagreements were, he put the finger on me. Still, there's not a hint of anger on his face. In fact, the way his dark eyebrows are raised, he actually looks concerned.

"How're you doing?" he asks as I sit down in front of his desk.

"Okay."

"I'm sorry you had to find her like that."

I stare at the floor. "Me too."

There's a long pause in the air--one of those forced pauses where you know bad news is standing on your nose, waiting to springboard into your chest. Eventually, I lift my head.

Simon says it as soon as our eyes meet. "Michael, I think it'd be best if you went home."

"What?"

"Don't get upset--it's for your own protection."

I can barely contain myself; I'm not letting him pin this on me. "You're sending me home? How's that for my protection?"

Simon doesn't like being challenged. His tone is slow and deliberate. "People heard you yell at her. Then you found the body. The last thing we--"

"What are you saying?" I ask, jumping out of my seat.

"Michael, listen to me. The campaign guys are breathing fire all over us--this a dangerous game. If you put forth the wrong impression, you'll raise every voting eyebrow in the country."

"But I didn't--"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm simply suggesting that you go home and take a breath. You've been through a great deal this morning, and you can use the time off."

"I don't need the--"

"It's not up for discussion. Go home."

Biting my lower lip, I return to my seat, unsure of what to say. If I bring up last night, he'll bury me with it--handing me to the press with a bird-in-his-teeth grin. Better to stay quiet and see where he goes. A little detente goes a long way; especially if it keeps me by his side. And behind his back.

Still, I can't help myself. There're too many unknowns. What if I have it backwards? Maybe it's about more than last night. Simon doesn't seem suspicious or accusatory, but that doesn't make me feel any less defensive. "Do you even know why Caroline and I were fighting?" I blurt, struggling to keep things honest. Before he can respond, I add, "She thought my dad's criminal record conflicted with my work on the Medicaid--"

"Now's not the time, Michael."

"But don't you think the FBI--"

Simon doesn't give me a chance to finish. "Do you know why this office is paneled?" he asks.

"Excuse me?"

"The office," he says, pointing to the walnut paneling that covers the surrounding four walls. "Do you have any idea why it's paneled?"

I shake my head, confused.

"Back in the Nixon administration, this office used to belong to Budget Director Roy Ash. The office down the hallway belonged to John Erlichman. Both were great corner offices. The only difference was, Erlichman's office was paneled and this one wasn't. This being the White House, Ash felt that that must've meant something. He thought everyone was watching and judging. So, being the wealthy sort he was, Ash used his own money and paneled this office. Now they were equals."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"The point is, Michael, don't spend your time defending yourself. Ash had it right. Everyone is watching. And right now, all they see is a woman who had a heart attack. If you start apologizing, they're going to start thinking otherwise."

I sit up straight in my seat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all," he says cheerfully. "I'm just looking out for you. That scab on your forehead'll be gone by tomorrow. Take it from me--you don't need another one."

"I didn't do anything wrong," I insist.

"No one says you did. It was a heart attack. We both know that." He presses his pointer fingers against each other and brings them to his lips. With a silent grin, he sends home the threat. Go home and keep quiet, or stay here and pay the price. "By the way, Michael, don't pick any more fights with the Secret Service. I don't want to hear from them again."

Over Simon's shoulder, my eyes wander to his ego wall. In a silver frame is a copy of last year's crime bill and one of four pens the President used to sign it. There's a photo of Hartson and Simon fishing on a boat in Key West. And one of Simon advising Hartson in the Oval. There's a personal note handwritten by Hartson, welcoming Simon back to the job. And there's a great shot of the two men standing in the aisle on Air Force One: Simon's laughing and the President's holding up a bumper sticker that says: "My Lawyer Can Beat Up Your Lawyer."

"Believe me, it's for the best," he says. "Take the rest of the day to relax."

He's a ruthless son of a bitch, I think to myself as I climb out of my seat. The prototypical White House attorney, he's managed to say nothing, and yet still make his point perfectly clear. As of right now, the safest thing to do is stay quiet. It's not something I'm happy with, but as I saw in Caroline's office this morning, the alternative has its consequences. Heading toward the door, I do the only thing I can think of. I nod and go along with it. For now.

* * *

As soon as I get back to my apartment, I go straight for the only piece of furniture that I brought with me from Michigan: a makeshift desk that was created by resting an oversized piece of oak on top of two short black file cabinets. As beat up and ugly as it looks, is as comfortable as it makes me feel.

The rest of my furniture is rented along with the apartment. The black pullout sofa, the black Formica coffee table, the oversized leather easy chair, the small rectangular kitchen table, even the queen-size bed on the black-lacquered platform--none of it's mine. But when the renting agent showed me the furnished apartment, it felt like home, with enough black furniture to keep any bachelor feeling manly. To make it complete, I added a TV and a tall black bookshelf. Certainly, using someone else's stuff is a little impersonal, but when I first got to the city, I didn't want to buy any furniture until I was sure I was going to be able to hack it. That was two years ago.

Like my office at work, the walls are what make the place mine. Over the couch are two red, white, and blue campaign posters with the worst slogans I could find. One is from a 1982 congressional race in Maine and says: "Charles Rust--Rhymes With Trust." The other is from a 1996 race in Oregon that brings lack of creativity to a new low: "Buddy Eldon--American. Patriot. American."

Pulling up my chair to the desk, I flip up the lid of my laptop and prepare to get some work done. When my mom left, when my dad got sent away, it was always my first instinct: Bury it all in work. But for the first time in a long while, it's not making me feel any better.

I spend twenty minutes on Lexis before I realize that my census research is going nowhere. Regardless of how hard I try to concentrate, my mind keeps drifting back to the past few hours. To Caroline. And Simon. And Nora. I'm tempted to call her again, but I quickly decide against it. Internal calls made in the White House can't be documented. Ones that originate from my home can. This is no time to take chances.

Instead, I pull out my wallet, remove my SecurID, and call the office. The size of a credit card, the SecurID resembles a tiny calculator without the numbered buttons. Utilizing a continuous-loop encryption program and a small liquid crystal display, SecurID gives you a six-digit code that changes every sixty seconds. It's the only way to check your voice-mail from an outside line, and by constantly changing its numerical code, it ensures that no one can guess your password and listen to your messages.

Entering the SecurID code at the voice-prompt, I find out I have three messages. One from Pam, asking where I am. One from Trey, asking how I'm doing. And one forwarded from Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb's assistant, announcing that the afternoon meeting with the Commerce Secretary is canceled. Nothing from Nora. I don't like being abandoned like that.

I was eight years old the first time my mother left for her clinical trials. She was gone for three days, and my dad and I had no idea where she went. Since she was a nurse, it was easy to check the hospital, but they didn't know where she was either. Or at least they weren't saying. The leftovers lasted for two days, but we eventually reached the point where we needed some food. Because of my mom's job, we weren't poor, but my dad was in no shape to go shopping. When I volunteered to go for us, he stuffed a fistful of bills in my hand and told me to buy whatever I wanted. Beaming with the pride of newfound wealth, I marched down to the supermarket and stocked up the cart. Skippy instead of the generic peanut butter; Coca-Cola instead of the drab store brand; for once, we were going to live in style. It took me close to two hours to make my selections, filling the cart almost to the top.

One by one, the cashier rang up each item while I flipped through a TV Guide. I was Dad; all I was missing was the pipe and the smoking jacket. But when I went to pay--when I pulled the wad of crumpled-up cash from my pocket--I was told that three dollars wasn't going to cover it. After a scolding by an assistant manager, they told me to put every item back where I found it. I did. Every item but one. I kept the peanut butter. We had to start somewhere.

* * *

Two hours later, I'm sitting in front of the TV, mentally walking through every reason that Simon would want Caroline dead. To be honest, it's not that difficult. In her position, Caroline knew the dirt on everyone--that's how she found out about my dad--so the most obvious answer is that she found something on Simon. Maybe it was something he wanted kept quiet. Maybe that's why he was dropping the money. Maybe he was being blackmailed by her. That'd certainly explain how it wound up in Caroline's safe. I mean, why else would it be there? If that's the case, though, it should be pretty obvious that Caroline didn't die of a simple heart attack. The problem is, if it looks like foul play, my life is over.

Panicking, I pick up the phone and start dialing. I need to know what's going on, but neither Trey nor Pam is there. There are others I can call, but I'm not going to risk looking suspicious. If they find out Simon sent me home, there'll be a new rumor buzzing through the halls. I hang up the phone and stare at the TV. It's been three hours since I left the office, and I'm already locked out.

Flipping through every news program I can find, I'm searching for what is arguably the most important reaction to the crisis: the official White House press conference. I look down at my watch, and notice it's almost five-thirty. It's got to happen soon. The press office is focused around the six o'clock news cycle, and they're too smart to let the evening news run with this on their own.

True to form, the announcement comes at exactly five-thirty. I hold my breath as Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb does a quick rundown of the facts: Early this morning, Caroline Penzler was found dead in her office of a heart attack caused by coronary artery disease. As she says the words, I once again start breathing. Keeping the explanation short and sweet, Goldfarb turns it over to Dr. Leon Welp, a heart specialist from Georgetown Medical Center, who explains that Caroline had a hysterectomy a few years ago, which made her prematurely experience menopause. Combine the drop in estrogen with heavy smoking, and you've got a quick recipe for a heart attack.

Before anyone can ask a question, the President himself comes out to do the regrets. Its a masterstroke by the Press Office. Forget the hows and whys, let's get to the emotion. I can practically taste the subtext: Our leader. A man who takes care of his own.

I hate election years.

As the President grasps the podium in two tight fists, I can't help but see the resemblance to Nora. The black hair. The piercing eyes. The reckless jaw. Always in control. Before he opens his mouth, we all know what's going to come out: "It's a dark day; she'll be sorely missed; our prayers go out to her family." Nothing suspicious; nothing to worry about. He tops it all off with a quick brush of his eye--he's not crying, but it's just enough to make us think that if he had a moment to himself, he might.

From Goldfarb, to the doctor, to the President, they all do their specialty. All I notice is that there's no mention of an investigation. Of course, the family has requested an autopsy, but Goldfarb spins it as a hope to help others with similar ailments. Brilliant touch. Just to be safe, though, the autopsy's set for Sunday, which means it won't be the topic of the weekend talk shows, and if the results show it's a murder, it'll be too late for the major magazines to make it a cover story. For at least two days, I'm safe. I try to tell myself that it may be over--that it'll all go away--but like Nora said, I'm a terrible liar.