The First Counsel (25 page)

"I'm sorry," Pam says. "I thought you knew."

"Obviously, I didn't." I toss the memo on her desk and head for the door.

"Where're you going?"

"Out," I reply as I leave the office. "I just remembered something I have to do."

* * *

"Cut her some slack," Nora says on the other line. "She sounds avalanched with work."

"I'm sure she is, but she should also know how important it is to me."

"So now's she's supposed to read you all her mail? C'mon, Michael, when she got the memo, I'm sure she assumed you did too."

It's the exact same reaction Trey just gave me, but to be honest, I was hoping for a different opinion. "You don't understand," I add. "It's not just that she didn't tell me. It's just . . . ever since she started glomming up the ladder, it's like she's a different person."

"Smells like you've got a slight case of jealousy coming on."

"I'm not jealous." Standing at the pay phone across the street from the OEOB, I find myself scanning the crowds of pedestrians, trying to remember that photo I saw of Vaughn.

"Listen, sweet pea, you're starting to sound pathetic. I mean, even if you are paranoid, calling me from a pay phone? C'mon. Take a breath, buy a lollipop--do something. It's the same thing with the Post reporter. Mountains and molehills, baby."

I'm not sure what's more unnerving--the incident with Pam or the fact that Nora's suddenly acting like there's nothing to worry about. "You think?"

"Of course. Haven't you ever heard how Bob Woodward researched The Brethren? He was writing this book about the Supreme Court, but he couldn't get any of the clerks to talk to him. So he writes this six-hundred-page manuscript based on hearsay and rumors. Then he takes the manuscript, makes a few copies, and circulates it around the Court. Within a week, every egomaniac in the building is calling him to point out the inaccuracies. Pow--instant book."

"That's not true. Who told you that?"

"Bob Woodward."

I act cool. "So it's true?"

"It's true that I spoke to Woodward."

"What about the other part? The part with the clerks?"

"He said it's bullshit--one of Washington's great myths. He had no problem getting sources. He's Bob Woodward," she says with a laugh. "This other reporter--the one who e-mailed you--she's just fishing. The whole FOIA thing is just one big expedition. Oop, hold on a second--cleaning lady . . ." She covers the phone and her voice gets muffled--but I can still make it out. "Estoy charlando con un amigo. Puedes esperar un segundito?"

"Disculpe, senora. Solo venia para recojer la ropa sucia."

"No te preocupes. No es gran cosa. Gracias, Lola!" Turning her attention back to me, she asks, "I'm sorry, where were we?"

"You know Spanish?"

"I'm from Miami, Paco. You think I'm gonna take French?" Before I can answer, she adds, "Now let's talk about something else. What're you doing this weekend? Maybe we can get together."

"I can't. I promised my dad I'd visit."

"That's nice of you. Where's he live? Michigan?"

"Not exactly," I whisper.

She recognizes the change in my tone. "What's wrong?"

"No, nothing."

"Then why're you shutting down like that? C'mon, now--you can tell me. What's really going on?"

"Nothing," I insist, moving for a change of subject. After her call this morning, I'm tempted to, but . . . no . . . not yet. "I'm just worried about Simon."

"What'd he do?"

I explain how he pulled me off the roving wiretap case. As always, Nora's reaction is instantaneous.

"That dickhead--he can't do that to you!"

"He already did."

"Then make him change it. Get on the horn. Tell Uncle Larry."

"Nora, I'm not going to--"

"Stop letting people push you around. Simon, the FBI, Vaughn--whatever they say, you accept it. When the food's cold, send it back."

"If you send it back, the cook spits in it."

"That's not true."

"I bused tables at Sizzler for three years in high school. Believe me, I'd rather have the cold food."

"Well, I wouldn't. So if you're not going to call Larry, then I will. In fact, you feast on your cold dinner--I'm going to call him right now."

"Nora, don't . . ."

It's too late. She's gone.

I hang up the phone and notice a quiet clicking. It's coming from behind me. Turning around, I notice a rumpled pudge of a man, with a thin beard that's clearly trying to compensate for a receding hairline. Click, click, click. With a beat-up green camera bag dangling from his shoulder, he's taking pictures of the OEOB. For a split second, though . . . right when I turned around . . . I could swear his camera was pointed at me.

Anxious to leave, I turn my back to him and step off the curb. But I can still hear that clicking. One right after the other. Taking one last look at the stranger, I focus on his equipment. Telephoto lens. Motor drive. Not your average D.C. tourist.

Stepping back to the curb, I slowly move toward him. "Do I know you?" I ask.

He lowers his camera and looks me straight in the eye. "Mind your own business."

"What?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he spins around and takes off. As he runs, I notice that on the back of his camera bag there're words written in black Magic Marker: "If found call 202-334-6000." Memorizing the number, I stop running and dart back to the pay phone. Shoving change down the throat of the machine, I dial the number and wait for someone to pick up. "C'mon . . ." As it rings, I watch the stranger disappear up the block. This is never going to . . .

"Washington Post," a female voice answers. "How may I direct your call?"

* * *

"I can't believe this. Why the hell was he--?"

"Michael, calm down," Trey says on the other line. "For all you know--"

"He was taking my picture, Trey! I saw him!"

"Are you sure it was just of you?"

"When I asked him about it, he ran away. They know it, Trey. Somehow, they know to focus on me, which means they're not going to stop digging through my life until they hit either a casket or a . . . Oh, God."

"What?" Trey asks. "What's wrong?"

"When they find out what I did--they're going to rip him apart."

"Rip who apart?"

"I gotta go. I'll speak to you later."

"But what abou--"

I slam down the phone and dial a new number.

* * *

Ten digits later, I'm on the phone with Marlon Porigow, a deep-voiced man who's in charge of my father's visitation rights. "Tomorrow should be fine," he tells me in a great Cajun bellow. "I'll make sure he's up and ready."

"Any problems lately? He doing okay?" I ask.

"No one likes being a prisoner--but he manages. We all manage."

"I guess," I say, my left hand clamped ruthlessly to the armrest of my chair. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow it is."

As he's about to hang up, I add, "And Marlon, can you do me a favor?"

"Name it."

"I'm working on some . . . some pretty important stuff over here--some of it a little personal. And since I'm already nervous that the press is sniffing too closely, if you could . . ."

"You want me to keep an extra eye on him?"

"Yeah." I can still see that photographer scurrying up the block. "Just try to make sure no one gets in to see him. Some of these guys can be ruthless."

"You really think someone's gonna--"

"Yes," I interrupt. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't."

Marlon's heard that tone before. "You're up to your knees, now, ain't ya?"

I don't answer.

"Well, don't worry 'bout a thing," he continues. "Meals, showers, lights out--I'll make sure no one gets near him."

Returning the phone to its cradle, I'm alone in the room. I feel the ego walls closing in around me. Between Inez and the photographer, the press is zeroing in a bit too quickly. And they're not alone. Simon, Vaughn, the FBI--they're all starting to look closely. At me.

Chapter
16

The Saturday morning traffic out to Virginia isn't nearly as bad as I thought it'd be. I assumed I'd be bumper-to-bumper in I-95's asphalt embrace, but the bad weather leaves me breezing toward Richmond with nothing but dark gray skies and clouds in my eyes. It's the kind of colorless, grim day that feels like it's always about to rain. No, not rain. Pour. The kind of day that scares people away.

Married to the far left lane of the highway, I keep a cautious eye on the rearview mirror until I'm well out of Washington. It's been more than a month since the last time I drove out to see him, and I don't plan on bringing unwanted guests. For almost a half hour, I try to lose myself in the repetitious views of the tree-lined landscape. But every stray thought leads back to Caroline. And Simon. And Nora. And the money.

"Dammit!" I shout, banging the steering wheel. There's never an escape. I flick on the radio, find some good noisy music with a beat, then crank the volume way up. Ignoring the still overcast skies, I slide open the sunroof. The wind feels good on my face. For the next few hours, I'm going to do everything in my power to forget about life. Today's about family.

I spend the last half hour on the highway in a four-car caravan. I'm in second place, with a navy Toyota in front of me and a forest green Ford and a tan Suburban behind me. It's one of the true joys of traveling--linking up with strangers who match your speed. A united defense against the technology of a cop's speed gun.

Two exits away from my destination in Ashland, Virginia, I break from the procession and make my way over to the right-hand lane. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice that the tan Suburban follows. Just a coincidence, I decide. Up ahead, I see the sign for Kings Dominion. It always made me laugh that this place was so close to my dad's. An amusement park--so close; so far. I take a full whiff of the irony and a quick glance in the rearview. The Suburban's still behind me.

He's probably going to get off at the amusement park--there's not much else to see out here. But as we approach the exit, he doesn't have his blinker on. He's not even slowing down. He's just moving in closer.

I look over my shoulder to get a better view of the driver . . . and then my throat goes dry. What the hell is he doing here? And why's he alone? Yanking my wheel to the right, I pull onto the shoulder of the road, kicking a cloudful of gravel dust in his face. We're just a few yards shy of the Ashland exit, but with a punch of my leg, I slam the brakes as hard as I can. Behind me, the Suburban is blind from the dust and closer than ever. He comes to a jerking stop, but his front bumper lays a quick bite into mine.

Jumping out of my car, I race to the driver's side of the Suburban. "What do you want!?" I shout, banging the base of my fist against his window.

Turning away, Harry isn't concerned with my question. He's focused on something in the backseat. No, not something. Someone.

She sits up and her laugh rips through me. "And you think I'm a psycho driver?" Nora asks as she readjusts her baseball cap. "Honey, you take the cake, the presents, and the whole damn birthday party."

* * *

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Don't be mad," Nora says, getting out of the Suburban. "I just wanted to--"

"Just wanted to what? Follow me around? Run me off the road?"

"I . . . I just wanted to see where you were going," she whispers, staring at her feet.

"What?"

"You told me you were going to visit your dad . . . but something about the way you said it . . . I just wanted to be sure you were okay . . ."

I look over at Harry, then back to Nora. Her head's down and she's kicking at a few pebbles in the dirt. She's still hesitating. Afraid to open herself up. Every other time, that's when she's been burned. And with everything going on . . . the way we're tied together . . . she's risking it all just by being here. But she still came.

Even as I move toward her, I know Trey would tell me to walk away. He's wrong. There're some things you have to fight for--even if it means losing it all. No matter what anyone says, there's no easy anything.

Slowly, I lift her chin. "I'm glad you're here."

She can't help but smile. "So you're really going to see your dad?"

I nod.

"Can I meet him?"

"I-I'm not sure that's such a good idea."

She pauses at my reaction. "Why not?"

"Because . . . Why would you want to meet him anyway?"

"He's your dad, isn't he?"

She says it so quick, like there's no other answer. But that doesn't mean she's getting in.

"If you don't want me to, I'd understand."

I'm sure she would--she wrote the book, the prequel, and the sequel on this stuff. And maybe that's part of the problem. Once again, we're back to fear. And loyalty. I can't ask for it if I don't give it. "So you don't care that he's--"