The First Councel

CHAPTER 12

Scooping up my newspapers early the following morning, I walk them to the kitchen table and hunt for my name on all four front pages. Nothing. Nothing on me, nothing on Caroline. Even the front photos, which I thought were going to be Hartson at the funeral, are dedicated to yesterday’s Orioles no-hitter. With the funeral finished, it’s no longer news. Just a heart attack.

Casually flipping through the New York Times, I wait for the phone to ring. Thirty seconds later, it does. “You got the fix?” I ask as soon as I pick up.

“Did you see it?” Trey asks.

“See what?”

He pauses. “A14 of the Post.”

I know that tone. I brush the Times from the table and nervously lunge for the Post. My hands can barely flip pages. Twelve, thirteen… there. “White House Lawyer Depressed, Treated.” Skimming through the short article, I read about Caroline’s bout with depression, and how she was successfully overcoming it.

As the story goes on, it never once mentions me, but any political junkie knows the rest. It may be creeping along on the middle pages, but Caroline’s story is still alive.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not the only one getting bad press,” Trey says, clearly trying to change the subject. “Have you seen the Nora story in the Herald?” Before I can answer, he explains, “According to their gossip columnist, one of Bartlett’s top aides called her-get this-‘the First Freeloader’ because she hasn’t made her mind up about grad school. Blood-guzzling, reputation-raping muckrakers.”

I flip to the Herald and pinpoint the story. “Not a smart move,” I say as I read it for myself. “People don’t like it when you attack the First Daughter.”

“I don’t know,” Trey says. “Bartlett’s boys’ve been polling this one for a while. If they’re sending it out, I’m betting people are warm to it.”

“If they were, Bartlett would’ve done it himself.”

“Give it a few days-this is just a trial balloon. I can already hear the speechwriters scribbling: If Hartson can’t take care of his own family, how’s he going to take care of the country?”

“That’s a big risk, Dukakis. The backlash alone… ”

“Have you seen the numbers? There’s not a backlash in sight. We thought we were going to get a bump from the funeral-Hartson’s lead is down to ten. I’m thinking IPO moms love the fighting-for-families idea.”

“I don’t care. They’re gonna draw the line here. It’ll never come out of Bartlett’s lips.”

“Wager time?” Trey asks.

“You really feel that strongly about it?”

“Even stronger than I felt about Hartson’s sunglasses-and-baseball-cap-on-the-aircraft-carrier look. Even if it was a little Top Gun, I told you we’d use it for the ad.”

“Uh-oh, big talk.” I look down at the article, thinking it through one more time. There’s no way they’ll have Bartlett say it. “Nickel bet?”

“Nickel bet.”

For the better part of two years, it’s been the best game in town. Around here, everyone loves to win. Including me.

“And nothing sketchy,” I add. “No holding back on blasting Bartlett for going after their virgin, innocent daughter.”

“Oh, we’re going after him,” Trey promises. “I’ll have Mrs. Hartson’s statement ready to go by nine.” He pauses. “Not that it’s going to help.”

“We’ll see.”

“We’ll certainly see,” he shoots back. “Now you ready to read?”

I close up the Herald, since we always do the Post first. But when I look down at the paper, the story about Caroline is still staring me in the face. I can cover it up all I want-it’s not going away. “Can I ask you a question?”

“What’s wrong? You wanna take back your bet?”

“No, it’s just… about this Caroline story… ”

“Aw, c’mon, Michael, I thought you weren’t gonna-”

“Tell me the truth, Trey-you think it’s got legs?”

He doesn’t answer.

I sink down in my seat. For whatever reason, the Post is still interested. And from what I can tell, they’re just starting to tighten the microscope.

“I’m looking for an Officer Rayford,” I say, reading the name from the confirmation of receipt early the following morning.

“This is Rayford,” he answers, annoyed. “Who’s this?”

As he says the words, I move the phone to my other ear and picture his crooked nose and hairless forearms. “Hi, Officer, this is Michael Garrick-you stopped me last week for speeding… ”

“And maybe dealing drugs,” he adds. “I know who you are.”

I close my eyes and pretend to be unintimidated. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m wondering if you’ve had a chance to check the money, so we could put this all behind-”

“Do you know how much money they photocopied before the drug sweep? Almost a hundred grand. Even at four bills per page, it’s going to take me days to make sure the serial numbers on your bills don’t match the serial numbers on ours.”

“I didn’t mean to bother you, I just-”

“Listen, when we’re done, we’ll give you a call. Until then, leave it alone. In the meantime, say hi to the President for me.”

How does he know where I work?

There’s a click on the other line and he’s gone.

“And that’s all he said?” Pam asks, sitting in front of my computer.

I look down at my desk, where I’m fidgeting with the swinging handle of the middle desk drawer. I flip it up, but it keeps falling down.

“Maybe you should tell the FBI about the money,” she adds, reading my reaction. “Just to be safe.”

“I can’t,” I insist.

“Of course you can.”

“Pam, think about it for a second-it’s not just telling the FBI-if it was just them, that’s one thing. But you know how they feel about Hartson. From Hoover to Freeh, it’s pure hate with every Chief Exec-always a power struggle. And with Nora involved… they’ll feed it to the press in the bat of an eye. It’s the same thing they did with the President’s medical records.”

“But at least you’d be-”

“I’d be dead is what I’d be. If I start gabbing with the FBI, Simon’ll point everyone my way. In a game of he said/he said, I lose. And when they look at the evidence, all they’re going to see are those consecutively marked bills. The first thirty grand in Caroline’s safe; the last ten grand in my possession. Even I’m starting to believe the money’s mine.”

“So you’re just going to sit around being Simon’s quiet boy?”

Grabbing a sheet of paper from my out-box, I wave it in front of her face. “Do you know what this is?”

“A tree victimized by the ravenous, death-dealing, cannibal machine we call modern society?”

“Actually, Thoreau, it’s a formal request to the Office of Government Ethics. I asked them for copies of Simon’s financial disclosure forms, which are filed every year.”

“Okay, so you’ve mastered public records. All that gives you is a list of his stock holdings and a few bank accounts.”

“Sure, but when I get his records, we’ll have a whole new place to search. You don’t just get forty thousand dollars from nowhere. He either liquidated some major investments, or has a debit in one of his accounts. I find that debit and I’ve got the easiest way to prove the money’s his.”

“Let me give you an even easier way: Have Nora verify that he was-”

“I told you, I’m not doing that. We already went through this: The moment she’s involved, we’re all on page one. Career over; election finished.”

“That’s not-”

“You want to be Linda Tripp?” I challenge.

She doesn’t answer.

“That’s what I thought. Besides, what Nora saw only takes care of the first night. When it comes to Caroline’s death-even if it was a heart attack-I’m still on my own.”

Pam shakes her head and my phone starts ringing.

Refusing to get into it, I go for the phone. “This is Michael.”

“Hey, Michael, it’s Ellen Sherman calling. Am I catching you at a bad time? You talking to the President or anything?”

“No, Mrs. Sherman, I’m not talking to the President.” Mrs. Sherman is the sixth-grade social studies teacher from my hometown in Arcana, Michigan. She’s also in charge of the annual school trip to Washington, and when she found out about my job, a new stop was added to the itinerary: a private tour of the West Wing.

“I’m sure you know why I’m calling,” she says with high-pitched elementary school zeal. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about us.”

“I’d never forget about you, Mrs. Sherman.”

“So we’re all checked in for the end of the month? You put all the names through security?”

“Did it yesterday,” I lie, searching my desk for the list of names.

“Howzabout Janie Lewis? Is she okay? Her family’s Mormon, y’know. From Utah.”

“The White House is open to all religions, Mrs. Sherman. Including Utah’s. Now is there anything else, because I really should run.”

“As long as you put the names throu-”

“I cleared everyone in,” I say, watching Pam continue to smolder. “Now you have a good day, Mrs. Sherman. I’ll see you on the-”

“Don’t try and chase me off the phone, young man. You may be big and famous, but you’re still Mikey G. to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. Sorry about that.” The Midwest dies hard.

“And how’s your father doing? Any word from him?”

I stare at the request for Simon’s financial disclosure forms. “Just the usual. Not much to report.”

“Well, please send him my best when you see him,” she says. “Oh, and Michael, one last thing… ”

“Yeah?”

“We really are proud of you here.”

It’s easy, but the compliment still makes me smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Sherman.” Hanging up the phone, I turn to my computer screen.

“Who was that?” Pam asks.

“My past,” I explain as I find Mrs. Sherman’s list. Her school trip was the first time I ever left Michigan. The plane ride alone made the world a bigger place.

“Can’t you do that la-”

“No,” I insist. “I’m doing it now.” Double-clicking on the WAVES folder, I open up a blank request form for the Worker and Visitor Entrance System. Before visitors are allowed in either the OEOB or the White House, they first have to be cleared through WAVES. One by one, I type in the names, birthdates, and Social Security numbers of Mrs. Sherman and her sixth-grade class. When I’m finished, I add the date, time, and place of our meeting, and then hit the Send button. On my screen, a rectangular box appears: “Your WAVES Visitor Request has been sent to the US Secret Service for processing.”

“You finally ready to rejoin the discussion?” Pam asks.

I look at my watch and realize I’m late. Hopping out of my seat, I reply, “When I get back.”

“Where’re you going?”

“Adenauer wants to see me.”

“The guy from the FBI? What’s he want?”

“I don’t know,” I say as I head for the door. “But if the FBI finds out what’s going on and this thing goes public, Edgar Simon’s going to be the least of my worries.”

I walk into the West Wing with my mind focused on Mrs. Sherman’s school trip. It’s a cerebral dodge that I hope’ll keep me from panicking about Adenauer and whether or not it’s a heart attack. The problem is, the more I think about sixth-graders, the more I worry I won’t be here to give the tour.

Approaching the guard’s desk at the first security checkpoint, I’m dying for a friendly face. “Hey, Phil.”

He looks up and nods. Nothing else to say.

I watch him as I pass, but he still doesn’t give me a syllable. It’s like the guard outside the parking lot. The more the FBI gets involved, the more strange looks I get. Trying not to think about it, I pass Phil, make a sharp right, and head down a short flight of stairs. After another quick right, I find myself standing outside the Sit Room.

The regular haunt of National Security Council bigwigs, the Situation Room is the most secure location in the White House complex. One rumor holds that as you pass through the door, you’re bathed in a thin band of invisible laser light that scans your body for chemical weaponry. Stepping inside, I don’t believe a word of it. We’re good, but we’re not that good.

“I’m looking for Randall Adenauer,” I explain to the first receptionist I see.

“And your name?” she asks, checking her scheduling book.

“Michael Garrick.”

She looks up, startled. “Oh… Mr. Garrick… right this way.”

My stomach drops out from under me. I lock my jaw to slow my breathing and follow the receptionist to what I assume will be one of the small peripheral offices. Instead, we stop at the closed door of the main conference room. Another bad sign. Rather than bringing me to the FBI’s fifth-floor office in the OEOB, he’s got me in the most secure room in the complex. It’s where Kennedy’s staff weighed in on the Cuban Missile Crisis, and where Reagan’s staff fought viciously over who should be running the country when the President was shot. Set up in here, Adenauer has something serious to hide.

The click of a magnetic lock grants me access to the room. I open the door and step inside. Visually, it’s an ordinary conference room: long mahogany table, leather chairs, a few pitchers of water. Technologically speaking, it’s much more. The lining of the room is rumored to keep out everything from infrared spy satellites to electromagnetic surveillance systems that measure telephone, serial, network, or power cable emanations. Whatever’s about to happen, there aren’t going to be any witnesses.

When the door closes behind me, I notice the soft humming that pervades the room. Sounds like sitting next to a copier, but it’s actually a white noise generator. If I’m wearing a wiretap or I’m bugged, the noise drowns it out. He’s not taking any chances.

“Thanks for coming down,” Adenauer says. He looks different than the last time I saw him. His sandy hair, his slightly off-center jaw-without Caroline’s body in the background, both somehow seem softer. Like before, the top button of his shirt is opened. His tie’s slightly loose. Nothing intimidating. He’s got a red file folder in front of him, but as he sits across the table, his right hand is palm-up and wide open. An outstretched offer to help.

“Is something bothering you, Michael?”

“I’m just wondering why you’re doing this here. You could’ve had me come up to your office.”

“Someone’s already using it, and if I had you come down to the main office, you would’ve been seen by every reporter who stakes out our building. At least here, I can keep you safe.”

It’s a good point.

“I’m not here to accuse you, Michael. I don’t believe in scapegoats,” he promises in his soft Virginia accent. Unlike last time, he doesn’t try to reach out and touch my shoulder, which is one of the real reasons I think he’s serious. As he speaks, he’s got a fussy professionalism to his voice. It matches his tweed suit-and reminds me of an old high school English teacher. No, not just a teacher. A friend.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Adenauer asks. He points to the chair at the corner of the conference table and I follow his lead. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll make it quick.”

He’s certainly taking it easy. When I’m seated, he opens the red file folder. Down to business. “So, Michael, do you still maintain that all you did was find the body?”

My head jerks up before he even finishes the question. “What’re you-”

“It’s just a formality,” he promises. “No need to get upset.”

I force a smile and take his word for it. But in his eyes… the way they narrow… he’s looking a little too amused.

“All I did was find her,” I insist.

“Terrific,” he replies, his expression unchanged. All around me, the humming white noise is getting irritating. “Now tell me what you know about Patrick Vaughn,” he says, once again relying on old interrogation tricks. Rather than asking if I know Vaughn, he bluffs it into the question. But my guard’s up. P. Vaughn. First name Patrick. The guy who slipped the note under my door. Hoping for more, I tell Adenauer the truth.

“Don’t know the guy.”

“Patrick Vaughn,” he repeats.

“I heard you the first time. I have no idea who he is.”

“C’mon, Michael, don’t do it like this. You’re smarter than that.”

I don’t like the sound of that one-it’s not a trick-there’s real concern in his voice. Which means he has a good reason to believe that I should know this guy Vaughn. Time to fish. “I swear, I’m trying my best. Help me out a little. What’s he look like?”

Adenauer reaches into the folder and pulls out a black-and-white mug shot. Vaughn’s a short guy with a thin, gang-TV-movie mustache, and slicked-back greasy hair. The identification card he’s holding in front of his chest lists a police arrest number and his date of birth. The last line of the card reads “Wayne County,” which tells me he’s spent some time in Detroit.

“Ringing any bells?” Adenauer asks.

I think back to my neighbor’s description of the guy with the gold chains.

“I asked you a question, Michael.”

My brain’s still stuck on the note under my door. If the guy with the chains… if he was Vaughn, why’s he asking my neighbor questions? Is he trying to help? Or is he trying to set me up? Until I know the answer, I’m not taking the risk. “I’m telling you, I have no idea who this guy is. Never seen him in my life.” It’s a lawyer’s answer, but it’s still the truth. I stare at the mug shot and cast another line. “What was he arrested for?”

Adenauer doesn’t move a muscle. “Don’t piss on my shoes, boy.”

“I’m not… I don’t know what you want me to say. What’d he do?”

The leather crackles as he leans forward in his seat. He’s moving in for the kill. “Take a wild guess… I mean, you were first on the scene.”

Oh, God. “He’s a murderer? This is the guy you think killed Caroline?”

He snatches the photo from my hands. “I gave you your chance, Michael.”

“What? You think I know him?”

“I’m not answering that question.”

Now I’m starting to sweat. There’s something he’s not saying. Is this the guy Simon hired? Maybe Simon’s using him to point a finger at me. The white noise is making it harder to think. “Did someone tell you something?”

“Forget it, Michael. Let’s move on.”

“I don’t want to move on. Tell me what’s making you think that? My father? Is it something with him? Is it because this guy’s from Detroit? That we’re both from Michi-?”

“What if I told you he’s been bagged twice in D.C. for selling drugs?” Adenauer interrupts. “That ring any bells?”

I already don’t like where this one’s going. “Should it?”

“You tell me-two drug arrests here, and a murder trial two years ago in Michigan. That sound like anyone you know?”

Focused on the drugs, I try not to think about the answer.

“By the way,” Adenauer says with a grin. “Did you see that article about Nora in the Herald this morning? What’d you think about them calling her the First Freeloader?”

I try to keep it calm. “Excuse me?”

“Y’know, I just figured with you guys dating and all-is it hard having to always share her with the world like that?”

I’m tempted to say something, but decide to wait it out.

“I mean, going out with the First Daughter-you must have some interesting stories to tell.” Crossing his arms, he waits for me to react. I give him a roomful of dead air. The dating’s one thing, but I’m not going to let him toss me around about Vaughn and rumors of Nora’s drugs. For all I know, it’s a bluff based on the Rolling Stone story. Or just their old vendetta against Hartson.

“So how long you two been together?” he finally adds.

“We’re not together,” I growl. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh. My mistake.”

“And what does that have to do with anything anyway?”

“Nothing-nothing at all,” Adenauer says. “I’m just talking some current events with a White House employee. This isn’t even in my log as an interrogation.” Watching me carefully, he puts the picture of Vaughn away and shuts the folder. “Now let’s get back to your story. You were fighting with Caroline before you found the body?”

“Yeah, she was-” I cut myself short. Son of a bitch. I never told Adenauer that Caroline and I were fighting. He’s walking all over me.

A true Virginian, though, he doesn’t gloat about it. “I meant what I said-I’m not here to accuse you,” he explains. “Someone in the hallway heard you yelling. I just want to know what it was about.” Before I can answer, he adds, “The truth this time, Michael.”

There’s no way around it. My eyes are locked on Adenauer’s red folder. Like before, he doesn’t take notes, he just reads my word balloons. Hoping to drown out the white noise with a deep breath, I tell him about my father, his criminal record, and the conflict with his benefits.

Adenauer listens without interrupting.

“I didn’t think I did anything illegal, but Caroline thought I should’ve recused myself. She saw it as a conflict of interest.”

He studies me, looking for a hole in the story. “And that’s all that happened? When she wouldn’t listen, you walked out and went back to your office?”

“That’s it. When I came back, she was dead.”

“How long were you gone?”

“Ten minutes-fifteen, max.”

“Any stops in between?”

I shake my head.

“Are you sure?” he asks suspiciously. Again, I get the feeling he knows something.

“That’s all that happened,” I insist.

He shoots me a long look, giving me every opportunity to change my story. When I don’t, he picks up his file and stands from his seat.

“I swear, I’m not lying-that’s the tru-”

“Michael, were you being blackmailed by Caroline?”

“What?” I ask, forcing a laugh. “Is that what you think?”

“You don’t want to know what I think,” he says. “Now help me out with this one. This wasn’t the first time she pulled your file, was it?”

My body’s frozen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s right here!” he shouts, pointing to the file. He flips it open and shows me the Request Log stapled to the inside cover. From the two signatures in the Out column, I can see Caroline’s pulled mine twice: Last week. And six months after I started work. “Care to tell what the first one’s about?”

“I have no idea.”

“The more you lie, the more it’s going to hurt.”

“I’m telling you, I have no idea.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want-I’m giving you the truth. I mean, if I killed her, why didn’t I remove my own file? Or at least take the money?”

“Listen, son, I once had a suspect shove a kitchen knife through his own lung-twice-just to take the suspicion off himself. There’re no boundaries when it comes to covering up.”

“I’m not covering anything up!” I shout. “She had a heart attack! Why can’t you just accept that?”

“Because she died with thirty thousand dollars in her safe. And more important, because it wasn’t a heart attack.”

“Excuse me?”

“I saw the autopsy myself. She had a stroke.”

I tighten my jaw and put on my bravest face. “That doesn’t mean she was murdered.”

“But it does mean it wasn’t a heart attack,” Adenauer points out, studying my reaction. “Don’t worry, Michael-when the tox reports come back, we’ll know what caused it. Now it’s just a matter of time.”

That’s what Adenauer was hiding; waiting to see what I’d give up. He’s not sure it’s a murder, but he’s not sure it’s not. “What about the press?” I ask.

“That depends on you. Of course, I’m not letting them trample this investigation-especially considering how close we are.” He throws me another of his concerned glances. “Wouldn’t you and your girlfriend agree?”

I look at him, but I’m lost in the white noise. My head’s throbbing. If the reports come back with bad news, and this gets out… All this time, I was worried they were going to try and nail me for murder… but the way he was teasing me about Nora… and linking her to Vaughn… I can’t help but think he’s got his sights on something bigger.

Doing my best not to panic, I go with my best alternative-the one thing I know can’t be traced back to me. “Have you checked Simon’s bank accounts?”

“Why would we want to do that?”

“Just check ’em,” I say, hoping it’ll buy some time.

“Anything else you want to tell me?” Adenauer asks.

“No, that’s it.” I have to get out of here. Leaving Adenauer where he is, I climb to my feet and stagger toward the door.

“I’ll call you when we get the tox reports,” he says, finally starting to gloat. He brought me here to test my reaction. And now that he’s got it, he wants to see what I’ll do. “It shouldn’t be too long,” he adds.

I don’t even pause to turn around. The less I see of him, the better. The only thing I want to do now is find out if there’s a connection between Nora and Patrick Vaughn.