The First Counsel (24 page)

"Morning, morning, morning," he says as he holds up his squeegee. He's sporting army green camo pants and the rattiest black beard I've ever seen. Hanging from his pocket is an old Windex spray bottle filled with milky gray water. As he gets closer, I see he's also wearing a worn-out Harvard Law School sweatshirt. Only in D.C. "Where's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche?" he sings, falling in step next to me.

I've seen this guy before. I think it was in Dupont Circle. "Sorry, but I'm not driving," I tell him. "Just me and the Metro."

"No, no, no. Not you, not you. Fancy shoes always take the car."

"Not today. I'm really . . ."

"Where's your Porsche? Wh . . ."

"I told you . . ."

". . . ere's your Porsche? Where's your Porsche?"

Obviously, he's not listening. For more than a block and a half, he's at my side, running his squeegee back and forth along my imaginary windshield. To get him off my back, I reach into my pocket and pull out a dollar bill.

"Ahhh, there he is," Squeegee Man says. "Mr. Porsche."

I hand him the dollar and he finally lowers his squeegee.

"Your change, sir," he says pulling something from his pocket. "Vaughn says you have to talk," he whispers. "Let's try the Holocaust Museum. One o'clock on Monday. And don't bring the black guy from the pay phone."

"Excuse me?"

He smiles and stuffs something in my hand. A folded-up sheet of paper.

"What's this?"

I'm not getting an answer. He's already moved on. Behind me, I see him approach a balding man in a pin-striped suit. "Where's your Porsche?" he asks him, raising the squeegee.

I turn back to the paper and open it up. It's blank. Just a moment's distraction.

Over my shoulder, I look for the Squeegee Man. It's too late. He's gone.

* * *

Throwing my briefcase on my desk, I check the digital screen on my office phone. Four new messages waiting. I hit the Call Log button to see who they're from, but every one of them is an outside call. Whoever it is, they're desperate to get in touch. My phone rings, and I jump back, startled. Caller ID reads Outside Call.

I lunge for the receiver as quick as I can. "Hello?"

"Michael?" a soft female voice whispers.

"Nora? Is that--"

"Did you see Bartlett's quote?" she interrupts.

I don't answer.

"You saw it, didn't you?" she repeats. Her voice is shaky, and I know that tone. I heard it that day in the bowling alley. She's worried about her dad. "What'd Trey say about it?" she asks.

"Trey? Who cares what Trey said. How're you?"

She pauses, sounding confused. "I don't understand."

"How're you doing? Are you okay? I mean, no offense to your dad, but you're the one they're slapping around."

There's another pause. This one a little longer. "I'm fine . . . I'm good." There's a change in her voice. "How're you?" she asks, sounding almost happy.

"Don't worry about me. Now what were you saying about Bartlett's quote?"

"Nothing . . . nothing . . . just par for the course."

"I thought you wanted to talk abou--"

"No. Not anymore," she says with a laugh. "Listen, I really should run."

"So I'll talk to you later?"

"Yeah," she coos. "Definitely."

* * *

By the time I get off the phone with Nora, I'm already late for Simon's weekly meeting. Dashing out of my office, I head straight for the West Wing. "Hey, Phil," I say as I blow by the desk of my favorite Secret Service officer.

He shoots out of his seat and grabs me by the arm.

"What're you--"

"I need to see your ID," he says in a cold voice.

"Are you kidding me? You know I'm--"

"Now, Michael."

Pulling away, I remain calm. Reaching for the ID around my neck, I realize I've tucked it into the front pocket of my dress shirt. It shouldn't matter. He's never stopped me before.

He gives it a quick look and lets me pass. "Thanks," he says.

"No sweat." He's just being careful, I tell myself. Approaching the elevator, I assume he's going to make amends by opening the elevator door for me. I look over at him, but he doesn't care. Pretending not to notice, I hit the elevator call button myself. Word's starting to get out. It's going to be a crappy day.

* * *

Slinking to the back of Simon's crowded office, I see that everyone's in their usual places: Simon's at the head of the table, Lamb's in his favorite wingback, Julian's as close to the front as possible, and Pam's . . . hold it right there. Pam's got a seat on the couch. When we make eye contact, I expect her to shrug or wink--some way to acknowledge the ridiculousness of the power shift. She doesn't. She just sits back. At least someone's moving up in the world.

From the sound of things, we're still going around the room. Julian's up.

". . . and they still won't budge on punitive damages. You know how stubborn Terrill's people are--neck-high in their own bullshit and still refusing to smell it. I say we throw it to the press and leak the contents of the deal. Good or bad, it'll at least force a decision."

"I have a conference call with Terrill this afternoon. Let's see where we get then," Simon suggests. "Now tell me what Justice said about the roving wiretaps."

"They're still standing strong on it--they want to be the heroes in Hartson's crime platform." As he continues to explain, Julian glances my way with the most subtle of smirks. That cocky bastard. That's my issue.

* * *

"You assigned that project to me," I tell Simon after the meeting. "I've been working on it for weeks and you--"

"I understand you're upset," Simon interrupts.

"Of course I'm upset--you ripped it away and fed it right to the head vampire. You know Julian's going to kill it."

Simon reaches over and puts a soft hand on my shoulder. It's his passive-aggressive way of calming me down. All it does is make me want to put a brick through his teeth.

"Is it because of the investigation?" I finally ask.

He feigns concern at that one, but he's made his point: Keep screwing with me and I'll take your whole life away. Piece by miserable piece. The sad part is, he can do it. "Michael, you're under a lot of pressure right now, and the roving wiretap issues are only going to add to that. Believe me, I really am worried about you. Until this blows over, I think it's best for you to take it easy."

"I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can," he says, taking obvious joy in watching me squirm. "And actually, there's this one that just came in. It concerns a woman who was artificially inseminated by--"

"I saw it. The sperm case."

"That's it," he says with a coal-black grin. "You can get the paperwork from Judy--it shouldn't take you that long. And with Bartlett's new focus on family, maybe this'll turn into something big."

Now he's playing with me. I can see the gleam in his eyes--he's loving every minute of it.

"I'll get right on it," I say, simulating enthusiasm. I'm not giving him this one.

"You sure you're okay?" he asks, once again touching my shoulder.

I look him straight in the eye and smile. "Never been better." Heading for the door, I concentrate on my Monday meeting with Vaughn and wonder if this isn't about more than just a bigshot in a gay bar. Whatever he's hiding, Simon's slowly upping the ante. And from here on in, he'll do anything to stop the bleeding.

* * *

Back in my office, I can still see that haunting grin on Simon's face. If there was a point where I saw him as a victim, it's long gone. In fact, that's what scares me most--even if Simon was being blackmailed, he's taking way too much pleasure in what he's done. Which makes me think there's more to come.

I have to admit, though, he's right about one thing: Ever since the onset of this crisis, my work has taken a back seat. My call log is filled with unreturned phone calls, my e-mail hasn't been read in a week, and my desk, with its mountains of paper, has officially become my in-box.

In no mood to clean and even less mood to talk, I head straight for the e-mail. Scanning through the unending list of messages, I see one from my dad. I almost forgot they gave him limited access to a terminal. Opening the message, I read his quick note: "When you coming to visit?" He's got a point with that one--it's been over a month. Every time I go there, I leave feeling guilty and depressed. But he's still my father. I write back my own quick response: "I'll try this weekend."

After deleting over thirty different versions of the President's weekly, monthly, and hourly schedules, I notice a two-day-old message from someone with a Washington Post return address. I assume it has to do with the census or one of my other issues. But when I open it up, it says: "Mr. Garrick--If you have some time, I'd be interested in talking with you about Caroline Penzler. Naturally, we can keep it confidential. If you can be of assistance, please let me know." It's signed "Inez Cotigliano, Washington Post Staff Writer."

My eyes go wide and I have a hard time catching my breath. With Caroline's ties to our office and everyone in it, it's no shock that someone was going to start looking my way. But this isn't some conspiracy-cashew-nut Web site. This is the Washington Post.

Trying to stop my hands from shaking, I head for calmer ground. Pam's the expert on all-things-Caroline. I dart for the door and pull it open. In the anteroom, however, I'm surprised to find Pam sitting at the usually unoccupied desk right outside my door. The makeshift home of our coffee machine and piles of discarded magazines, the desk has been tenant-less for as long as I can remember.

"What're you--"

"Don't ask," she says, slamming down the receiver. "I'm in the middle of a call with the Vice President's Office, and suddenly my phone goes dead. No explanation, no reason. Now they're telling me there's a backlog for repairs, so I'm stuck out here until tomorrow. On top of that, I don't even understand half of this new stuff--they should've picked someone else--there's no way I'm gonna be able to pull it off." In front of her, the small desk is covered with red files and legal pads. Pam won't turn around, but I don't need to see the deep bags under her eyes to tell she's tired and overwhelmed. Even her blond hair, which is usually exceptionally neat, is breaking loose and looking frizzy. Caroline left tough shoes to fill. And like Trey said, new shoes hurt.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asks without waiting for an answer. "Every single one of these nominees is the same. I don't care if you want to be an ambassador, an undersecretary, or a member of the damn Cabinet--nine out of ten people are cheating on their spouses or floundering in therapy. And let me tell you something else: No one--I repeat--no one in this entire government is paying their taxes. 'Oops, I forgot about the housekeeper. I swear, I didn't know.' You're going to be heading the IRS for chrissakes!"

Raging, Pam spins around to finally face me. "Now what do you want?" she asks.

"Well, I--"

"Actually, now that I think about it, can it wait till later? I just want to finish this stuff."

"Sure," I say, looking down at her makeshift desk. Next to her stack of red file folders, I notice a manila one marked "FOIA--Caroline Penzler." Recognizing the acronym for the Freedom of Information Act, I ask, "Who's the FOIA request from?"

"That Post reporter--Inez whatever-her-name-is."

"Cotigliano."

"That's the one," Pam says.

The color fades from my face. I grab the file and rip out the multipage memo. "When did you get this?"

"I-I think it was yester--"

"Why didn't you tell me?" I shout. Before she can answer, I see the heading on the internal memo:

TO: All Counsel Staff

FROM: Edgar V. Simon, Counsel to the President

With the press taking such a quick interest, I bet he's doing this one personally. Flipping past Simon's memo, I notice he's even included Inez's actual request for documents. She's trying to get her hands on personnel files, judicial files, internal memos, ethics memos--every public document that's somehow related to Caroline. Luckily, Counsel's Office communications are generally protected from FOIA disclosure. Then I notice the last item on Inez's list. My heart stops. There it is in black and white--the easiest thing to give to the press--WAVES records. From September 4th. The day I found Caroline dead.

"Michael, before you . . ."

It's too late. By requesting these records, Inez has already lit the fuse. We can stall as long as we want, but it's just a matter of time until the entire world sees that I invited an accused murderer into the building. Which means it's no longer a question of if the records are going to get out; it's just a question of when.

Unable to speak, I slide my hand into my empty mailbox, wondering where my copy of the memo went. Then I look at Pam.