The First Councel

CHAPTER 15

I wake up Friday morning feeling like I’ve been smacked in the back of the head with a skillet. Seven days after Caroline’s death, my anxieties are raging and my eyes feel swollen shut. The week of restless sleep is finally taking its toll. Frankenstein-shuffling to the front door, I open my eyes just long enough to pick up my newspapers. It’s a couple minutes past six and I still haven’t called Trey. It’s not going to be long now.

I take two steps toward the kitchen table and the phone rings. Never fails. I pick up without saying hello.

“Who’s your momma?” he croons.

I answer with an impossibly long yawn.

“You haven’t even showered, have you?” he asks.

“I haven’t even scratched myself yet.”

Trey pauses. “I don’t need to hear that. Understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, yeah, just tell me the news.” I pull the Post from the top of the pile and lay it flat on the table. My eyes go straight to the small headline at the bottom right of the page: “Sperm May Be Real, but Government Says Benefits Aren’t.”

“What’s with the sperm, Trey?”

Again, there’s a pause. “You better hope no one’s taping these calls.”

“Just tell me the story. Is this that lady who was artificially inseminated by her dead husband’s frozen sperm?”

“The one and only. She keeps it on ice, has herself a kid after the husband dies, and then applies for the dead husband’s Social Security benefits. Yesterday, HHS denied the request since the baby was conceived after the parent’s death.”

“So let me guess: Now they want the White House to reevaluate the agency’s decision?”

“Give the dog a bone,” he sings. “And believe me, this one’s a dog if ever there was one. Now it’s just a question of who’s going to get stuck with it.”

“Ten bucks says we will.” Flipping through the rest of the paper, I add, “Anything else interesting?”

“Depends on whether you think losing a bet is interesting.”

“What?”

“Jack Tandy’s media column in the Times. In an interview with Vanity Fair that hits the stands next week, Bartlett says-and I quote-‘If you can’t take care of the First Family, how can you possibly put family first?’”

I wince at the verbal stab. “Think it’s going to stick?”

“Are you kidding? A quote like that-I hate to say it, Michael, but that’s a winner talking. I mean, you can feel the shift. Unless the country throws a hissy fit, it’ll be in the stump speech by the next news cycle. Voters don’t like bad parents. And thanks to your girlfriend, Bartlett just got a brand-new applause line.”

Instinctively, I reach for the Times. But when I unfold it on the table, the first thing I notice is the front photo: a nice shot of Hartson and the First Lady talking to a group of religious leaders in the Rose Garden. But in the back right corner of the picture, lurking in the last row of the crowd, is the one person without a smile: Agent Adenauer.

I break out in an instant sweat. What the hell is he doing there?

“Michael, you with me?” Trey yells.

“Yeah,” I say, turning back to the receiver. “I… yeah.”

“What’s wrong? You sound like death.”

“Nothing,” I reply. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Within forty-five minutes, I’m showered, shaved, and two newspapers into the day. But as I leave my apartment, I still can’t stop thinking about the photo of Adenauer. There’s not a single good reason for an FBI investigator to be that close to Hartson, and the stressing alone has made me a solid fifteen minutes late to work. I don’t have time for this, I decide. No more distractions. Heading toward the Metro, I see a homeless man carrying a squeegee. The moment we make eye contact, I realize I’m about to take another kick in the wish list.

“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.

“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, señora. Solo venía 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.