The First Councel

CHAPTER 4

Racing through the already-open double doors and the waiting area where Simon’s assistant sits, Pam and I make a sharp right into Simon’s office. Hoping to sneak in quietly, I check to see if… Damn-the gang’s already waiting. Crowded around a walnut conference table that looks more like an antique dining room set, six associates sit with their pens and legal pads primed. At one end of the table, in his favorite wingback chair, is Lawrence Lamb, Simon’s Deputy Counsel. At the other end is an empty seat. Neither of us takes it. That’s Simon’s.

As Counsel, Simon advises the President on all legal matters arising in the White House. Can we require blood tests to nail deadbeat dads? Is it okay to limit cigarette companies’ right to advertise in youth-oriented magazines? Does the President have to pay for his seat on Air Force One if he’s using it to fly to a fund-raiser? From inspecting new legislation to researching new judicial nominees, the Counsel and the seventeen associates who work for him, including Pam and myself, are the law firm for the presidency. Sure, most of our work’s reactive: In the West Wing, the Senior Staff decides what ideas the President should pursue, then we get called in to do the how and if. But as any lawyer knows, there’s plenty of power in hows and ifs.

In the corner of the dark-wood-paneled room, hunkered down on the all-powerful couch, the Vice President’s Counsel is whispering to the Counsel for the Office of Administration, and the Legal Advisor for the National Security Counsel is whispering to the Deputy Legal Counsel for OMB. Bigshots talking to bigshots. In the White House, some things never change. Squeezing our way toward the back of the room, Pam and I stand with the rest of the seatless associates and wait for Simon to arrive. Within a few minutes, he walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table.

My eyes shoot to the floor as fast as they can.

“What’s wrong?” Pam asks me.

“Nothing.” My head’s still down, but I steal a quick peek at Simon. All I want to know is whether he saw us last night. I assume it’ll show on his face. To my surprise, it doesn’t. If he’s hiding something, you wouldn’t know it. His salt-and-pepper hair is as perfectly combed as it was on Rock Creek Parkway. He doesn’t look tired; his shoulders stand wide. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even glanced at me.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Pam persists.

“Yeah,” I answer. I slowly pick my head up. That’s when he does the most incredible thing of all. He looks right at me and smiles.

“Is everything okay, Michael?” he asks.

The entire room turns and waits for my answer. “Y-Yeah,” I stammer. “Just waiting to get started.”

“Good, then let’s get right to it.” As Simon makes a few general announcements, I try my best to wipe the bewilderment from my face. If I hadn’t looked him straight in the eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He didn’t even take a second glance at the cut on my forehead. Whatever happened last night, Simon doesn’t know I was there.

“There’s one last thing I want to comment on and then we can get to new business,” Simon explains. “In this morning’s Herald, an article made reference to a birthday party we threw for our favorite assistant to the President.” All eyes shoot to Lawrence Lamb, who refuses to acknowledge even the slightest bit of attention. “The article went on to mention that the Vice President was noticeably absent from the invite list, and that the crowd was buzzing with rumors of why he wasn’t there. Now, in case you’ve already forgotten, besides the President and the First Family, the only other people in that room were a handful of senior staffers and approximately fourteen representatives from this office.” He rests his hands flat on the desk and lets the silence drive home his point.

Without question, he has us. I may never look at him the same way again, but when he turns it on, Edgar Simon is an incredible lawyer. A master of saying it without saying it, he takes a quick scan of everyone in the room. “Whoever it was-it has to stop. They’re not asking those questions to make us look good, and this close to reelection, you should all be smarter than that. Am I making myself clear?”

Slowly, a grumble of acquiescence runs through the room. No one likes to be blamed for leaks. I stare at Simon knowing it’s the least of his problems.

“Great, then let’s put it behind us and move on. Time for some new business. Around the room, starting with Zane.”

Looking up from his legal pad, Julian Zane smirks wide. It’s the third meeting in a row that he’s been called on first. Pathetic. As if any of us is even counting.

“Still haggling with SEC reform,” Julian says in a self-important tone that slaps us all across the face. “I’m meeting with the Speaker’s counsel today to hit a few of the issues-he wants it so bad, he’s skipping recess. After that, I think I’ll be ready to present the decision memo.”

I cringe as Julian blurts his last few syllables. The decision memo is our office’s official policy recommendation on an issue. And while we do the research and writing for it, the finished product is usually presented to the President by Simon. Every once in a while, we get to do the presentation too. “Mr. President, here’s what we’re looking at… ” It’s the ultimate White House carrot-and something I’ve been waiting two years for.

Last week, Simon announced that Julian was presenting. It’s no longer news. Still, Julian can’t help but mention it.

Shading his eyes as he checks his schedule, Simon reveals the same silhouette I saw in his car. I try to bury it, but I can’t. All I see is that forty grand-ten of which is now linked to me.

Simon shoots me a look, and a hiccup of bile stabs up from my stomach. If he does know, he’s playing games. And if he doesn’t… I don’t care if he doesn’t. As soon as we’re out of here, I’m calling in some favors.

With a quick nod, we move to the person on Julian’s right. Daniel L. Serota. A shared smile engulfs the rest of the room. Here comes Danny L.

Everyone hired by the Counsel’s Office brings their own personal strength to the office. Some of us are smart, some are politically connected, some are good at dealing with the press, and some are good at dealing with pressure.

Danny L? He’s good at dealing with large documents.

He scratches the front of his glasses with his fingernails, trying to remove a smudge. As always, his dark hair is out of control. “The Israelis had it right. I went through every MEMCON we have on file,” he explains, referring to the memoranda of conversations, which are taken by aides when the President talks to a head of state. “The President and the Prime Minister never even speculated about how the hardware got there. And they certainly never mentioned U.N. interference.”

“And you got through every MEMCON that was in Records Management?” Simon asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“There were over fifteen thousand pages in there.”

Danny L. doesn’t skip a beat. “So?”

Simon shakes his head, while Pam leans over to pat Danny L. on the back. “You’re my hero,” she tells him. “You really are.”

As the laughter dies down, I continue to fight my panic. Simon’s enjoying himself too much. That doesn’t bode well for what he was doing in the woods. At first, I liked to think he was a victim. Now I’m not so sure.

My mind churns through the possibilities as Pam takes her turn. The associate in charge of background checks for judicial appointments, Pam knows all the dirt about our country’s future judges. “We have about three that should be ready for announcement by the end of the week,” she explains, “including Stone for the Ninth Circuit.”

“What about Gimbel?” Simon asks.

“On the D.C. Circuit? He’s one of the three. I’m waiting for some final paperw-”

“So everything checks out with him? No problems?” Simon interrupts in a skeptical tone.

Something’s wrong. He’s setting Pam up.

“As far as I know, there’re no problems,” Pam says hesitantly. “Why?”

“Because at the Senior Staff meeting this morning, someone told me there are rumors floating around that Gimbel had an illegitimate child with one of his old secretaries. Apparently, he’s been sending them hush money for years.”

The consequences quickly sink in. As the room falls silent, all eyes turn toward Pam. Simon’s going to hammer her on this one. “We’ve got an election that’s two months away,” he begins, his tone unnervingly composed, “and a President who just signed major legislation against deadbeat dads. So what do we do for an encore? We tell the world that Hartson’s current judicial candidate has intimate knowledge of our newest law.” Across the room, I see Julian and a few others laugh. “Don’t even snicker,” Simon warns. “In all the time I’ve been here, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen all three branches of government collide so embarrassingly.”

“I’m sorry,” Pam says. “He never mentioned anything abou-”

“Of course he didn’t mention it-that’s why it’s called a background check.” Simon’s voice remains calm, but he’s losing his patience. He must’ve taken plenty of heat in Senior Staff to be this worked up-and with Bartlett’s campaign slowly closing in, all the bigshots are on edge. “Isn’t that your job, Ms. Cooper? Isn’t that the point?”

“Take it easy, Edgar,” a female voice interrupts. I turn to my right and see Caroline Penzler wagging a finger from the couch. Dressed in a cheap wool blazer despite the warm weather, the heavyset Caroline is Pam’s supervisor on nominations. She’s also one of the few people in the room who’s not afraid of Simon. “If Gimbel kept it quiet and there’s no paper trail, it’s almost impossible for us to know.”

Appreciating the save, Pam nods a silent thank-you to her mentor.

Still, Simon’s unimpressed. “She didn’t ask the right questions,” he blasts at Caroline. “That’s the only reason it went through your legs.”

Caroline shoots an angry look at Simon. There’s a long history between these two. When Hartson first got elected, they were both up for the Counsel top spot. Caroline was a friend of the First Lady. She lobbied hard, but Simon won. And the white boys ruled. “Maybe you’re not appreciating the process,” Caroline says. “There’s a difference between asking the hard questions and asking every question under the sun.”

“In an election year, there’s no difference. You know how opinions run-every little detail gets magnified. Which means every question’s an important question!”

“I know how to do my job!” Caroline explodes.

“That’s clearly up for debate,” Simon growls back.

Refusing to let Caroline take the fall, Pam jumps back in. “Sir, I appreciate what you’re saying, but I’ve been calling him for days. He keeps saying he’s-”

“I don’t want to hear it. If Gimbel doesn’t have the time, he doesn’t have the nomination. Besides, he’s a friend of the President. For that reason alone, he’ll sit for the questions.”

“I tried, but he-”

“He’s a friend of the President. He understands.”

Before Pam can respond, someone else says, “That’s not true.” At the other end of the table, Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb continues, “He’s not a friend of the President.” A tall, thick man with crystal blue eyes and a long neck that cranes slightly lower from years of hunching over to talk to people, Lawrence Lamb has known President Hartson since their high school days in Florida. As a result, Lamb is one of the President’s closest friends and most trusted advisors. Which means he has what every one of us wants: the President’s ear. And if you have the ear, you have power. So when Lamb tells us that Gimbel isn’t a friend of the President, we know the argument’s over.

“I thought they went to law school together,” Simon persists, trying not to lose face.

“That doesn’t mean he’s a friend,” Lamb says. “Trust me on this one, Edgar.”

Simon nods. It’s over.

“I’ll ask him about the rumors and the child,” Pam finally adds, breaking the silence of the room. “Sorry I missed it.”

“Thank you,” Simon replies. Determined to move on, he turns to me and signals that it’s my turn to present.

Lowering my legal pad, I step forward and tell myself that nothing’s changed. Whatever I saw last night, this is still my moment. “Been working on Justice’s wiretap issue. When it comes right down to it, they want something called roving wiretap authority. Currently, if Justice or the FBI wants to wiretap someone, they can’t just say, ‘Jimmy “The Fist” Machismo is a lowlife, so give us the wiretaps and we’ll set him up.’ Instead, they have to list the exact places where suspicious activity is taking place. If they change the rule and get roving authority, they can be far less specific in their requests and they can put the taps wherever they want.”

Simon runs his fingers along his beard, carefully weighing the issue. “It’s got great tough-on-crime potential.”

“I’m sure it does,” I reply. “But it throws civil liberties out the window.”

“Oh, c’mon,” Julian interrupts. “Put away the tear towel. This should be a no-brainer-endorsed by Justice, endorsed by the FBI, hated by criminals-this issue’s bulletproof.”

“Nothing’s bulletproof,” I shoot back. “And when the New York Times throws this on the front page and says Hartson’s now got the right to eavesdrop in your home, without reasonable suspicion, everyone from the liberal media to the conspiracy conservatives is going to be tearing hair. Just what Bartlett needs. It’s not an issue for an election year, and more important, it’s not right.”

“It’s not right?” Julian laughs.

Pompous political ass. “That’s my opinion. You have a problem with that?”

“Back to your corners,” Simon intercedes, waving us apart. “Michael, we’ll talk about it later. Anything else?”

“Just one. On Tuesday, I got the OMB memo on the new Medicaid overhaul. Apparently, in one of their long-term-care programs, HHS wants to deny benefits to people with criminal records.”

“Another reelection tough-on-crime scheme. It’s amazing how creative we can be when our jobs are on the line.”

I search his eyes, wondering what he means by that. Cautiously, I add, “The problem is, I think it conflicts with the President’s Welfare to Work Program and his rehabilitation stance in the Crime Bill. HHS may think it’s a great way to save cash, but you can’t have it both ways.”

Simon takes a second to think about it. The longer he’s silent, the more he agrees. “Write it up,” he finally says. “I think you may have someth-”

“Here you go,” I interrupt as I pull a two-page memo from my briefcase. “They’re about to go out with it, so I made it a priority.”

“Thanks,” he says as I pass the memo forward. I nod, and Simon casually turns back to the group. He’s accustomed to overachievers.

When we finish going around the room, Simon moves to new business. Watching him, I’m truly amazed-through it all, he looks and sounds even calmer than when he started. “Not much to report,” he begins in his always steady tone. “They want us to take another look at this thing with the census-”

My hand shoots up first.

“All yours, Michael. They want to revisit the outcome differences between counting noses one by one and doing a statistical analysis.”

“Actually, there was an editorial in the-”

“I saw it,” he interrupts. “That’s why they’re begging for facts. Nothing elaborate, but I want to give them an answer by tomorrow.” Simon takes one last survey of the room. “Any questions?” Not a hand goes up. “Good. I’m available if you need me.” Standing from his seat, Simon adjourns the meeting.

Immediately, half of the associates head for the door, including Pam and me. The other half stay and form a line to talk to Simon. For them, it’s simply the final act in the ego play-their projects are so top secret, they can’t possibly be talked about in front of the rest of us.

As I head for the door, I see Julian staking out a spot in the line. “What’s the matter?” I ask him. “You don’t like sharing with the rest of the class?”

“It’s amazing, Garrick, you always know exactly what’s going on. That’s why he puts you on the big, sexy issues like the census. Oooooh, baby, that sucker’s gold. Actuaries, here I come.”

I pretend to laugh along with his joke. “Y’know, I’ve always had a theory about you, Julian. In fourth grade, when you used to have show-and-tell, you always tried to bring yourself, didn’t you?”

“You think that’s funny, Garrick?”

“Actually, I think it’s real funny.”

“Me too,” Pam says. “Not hysterical, but funny.”

Realizing he’ll never survive a confrontation against the two of us, Julian goes nuclear. “Both of you can eat shit.”

“Sharp comeback.”

“Well done.”

He storms around us to get back in line, and Pam and I head for the door. As we leave, I glance over my shoulder and catch Simon quickly turning away. Was he looking at us? No, don’t read into it. If he knew, I’d know. I’d have to.

Avoiding the line at the elevator, we take the stairs and make our way back to the OEOB. As soon as we’re alone, I see Pam’s mood change. Staring straight down as we walk, she won’t say a word.

“Don’t beat yourself up over this,” I tell her. “Gimbel didn’t disclose it-you couldn’t have known.”

“I don’t care what he told me; it’s my job to know. I’ve got no business being here otherwise. I mean, as it is, I can barely figure out what I’m even doing anymore.”

Here she goes-the yin to her own yang-toughness turned in on itself. Unlike Nora, when Pam’s faced with criticism, her first reaction is to rip herself apart. It’s a classic successful person’s defense mechanism-and the easiest way for her to lower expectations.

“C’mon, Pam, you know you belong here.”

“Not according to Simon.”

“But even Caroline said-”

“Forget the rationalizing. It never works. I want to take some time to be mad at myself. If you want to cheer me up, change the subject.”

Aaaand we’re back-guerrilla honesty. “Okay, how’s about some office gossip: Who do you think leaked the birthday party?”

“No one leaked it,” she says as we return to the sterile hallways of the OEOB. “He just used it to make a point.”

“But the Herald-”

“Open your eyes, boy. It was a party for Lawrence Lamb, First Friend. Once word got out about that, the whole complex came running. No one misses a social function with the President. Or with Nora.”

I stop right in front of Room 170. Our office. “You think that’s why I went?”

“You telling me otherwise?”

“Maybe.”

Pam laughs. “You can’t even lie, can you? Even that’s too much.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your unfailing predisposition to always be the Boy Scout.”

“Oh, and you’re so hyper-cool?”

“Life of a city girl,” she says, proudly brushing some invisible lint from her shoulder.

“Pam, you’re from Ohio.”

“But I lived in-”

“Don’t tell me about New York. That was law school-you spent half the time in your room, and the rest in the library. Besides, three years does not hyper-cool make.”

“It makes sure I’m not a Boy Scout.”

“Will you stop already with that?” Before I can finish, my beeper goes off. I look down at the digital screen, but don’t recognize the phone number. I unclip it from my belt and read the message: “Call me. Nora.”

My eyes show no reaction. My voice is super-smooth. “I have to take this one,” I tell Pam.

“What’s she want?”

I refuse to answer.

She’s laughing again. “Do you sell cookies also, or is that just a Girl Scout thing?”

“Kiss my ass, homegrown.”

“Not on the very best day of your life,” she says as I head for the door.

I pull open the heavy oak door of our office and step into the anteroom that leads to three other offices. Three doors: one on the right, one in the middle, one on the left. I’ve nicknamed it the Lady or the Tiger Room, but no one ever gets the reference. Barely big enough to hold the small desk, copier, and coffee machine we’ve stuffed into it, the anteroom is still good for a final moment of decompression.

“Okay, fine,” Pam says, moving toward the door on the right. “If it makes you feel any better, you can put me down for two boxes of the thin mints.”

I have to admit the last one’s funny, but there’s no way I’m giving her the satisfaction. Without turning around, I storm into the room on the left. As I slam the door behind me, I hear Pam call out, “Send her my love.”

By OEOB standards, my office is a good one. It’s not huge, but it does have two windows. And one of the building’s hundreds of fireplaces. Naturally, the fireplaces don’t work, but that doesn’t mean having one isn’t a notch on the brag belt. Aside from that, it’s typical White House: old desk that you hope once belonged to someone famous, desk lamp that was bought during the Bush administration, chair that was bought during the Clinton administration, and a vinyl sofa that looks like it was bought during the Truman administration. The rest of the office makes it mine: flameproof file cabinets and an industrial safe, courtesy of the Counsel’s Office; over the fireplace, a court artist’s rendition of me sitting in the moot court finals, courtesy of Michigan Law School; and on the wall above my desk, the White House standard, courtesy of my ego: a signed picture of me and President Hartson after one of his radio addresses, thanking me for my service.

Throwing my briefcase on the sofa, I head for my desk. A digital screen attached to my phone says that I have twenty-two new calls. As I scroll through the call log, I can see the names and phone numbers of all the people who called. Nothing that can’t wait. Anxious to get back to Nora, I take a quick glance at the toaster, a small electronic device that bears an uncanny resemblance to its namesake and was left here by the office’s previous occupant. A small screen displays the following in digital green letters:

POTUS: OVAL OFFICE

FLOTUS: OEOB

VPOTUS: WEST WING

NORA: SECOND FLOOR RESIDENCE

CHRISTOPHER: MILTON ACADEMY

There they are-The Big Five. The President, the VP, and the First Family. The principals. Like Big Brother, I instinctively check all of their locations. Updated by the Secret Service as each principal moves, the toaster is there in case of emergency. I’ve never once heard of anyone using it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not everyone’s favorite toy. The thing is, I’m not concerned with the President of the United States, or the First Lady, or the VP. What I’m really looking at is Nora. I pick up the phone and dial her number.

She answers on the first ring. “Sleep okay last night?”

Clearly, she’s got the same caller ID we do. “Somewhat. Why?”

“No reason-I just wanted to make sure you were okay. Again, I’m really sorry I put you in that position.”

Sad as it is to admit, I love hearing the concern in her voice. “I appreciate the thought.” Turning toward the toaster, I add, “Where am I calling you anyway?”

“You tell me-you’re the one staring at the toaster.”

I smile to myself. “No, I’m not.”

“I told you last night-you’re a bad liar, Michael.”

“Is that why you were so intent on washing my mouth out?”

“If you’re talking about my tongue down your throat, that was just to give you something exciting to think about.”

“And that’s your idea of excitement?”

“No, excitement would be if that little contraption you’re staring at showed you exactly what I’m doing with my hands.”

The woman’s ruthless. “So this thing really works?”

“Don’t know. They only give them to staff.”

“So that’s it, huh? Now I’m just staff?”

“You know what I mean. I usually… the way it works… I’ve never had the chance to watch myself,” she stutters.

I can’t believe it-she’s actually embarrassed. “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m only joking.”

“No, I know… I just… I don’t want you to think I’m some spoiled snob.”

I pause, lost in the almost scientific curiosity of what she finds important. “Well get it out of your head,” I eventually say. “If I thought you were a snob, I wouldn’t have gone out with you in the first place.”

“That’s not true,” she teases. She’s right. But the playfulness in her tone tells me she admires the attempt. Being Nora, her recovery’s immediate. “So where does it say I am?” she adds, turning my attention back to the toaster.

“Second Floor Residence.”

“And what does that tell you?”

“I have no idea-I’ve never been up there.”

“You’ve never been up here? You should come.”

“Then you should invite me.” I’m proud of myself for that one. The invitation should be just around the corner.

“We’ll see,” she says.

“Oh, so now I haven’t passed that test yet? What do I have to do? Act interested? Show a steady follow-up? Go to some group dinner and get checked out by your girlfriends?”

“Huh?”

“Don’t act all coy-I know how it is with women-everything’s a group decision these days.”

“Not with me.”

“And you expect me to believe that?” I ask with a laugh. “C’mon, Nora, you have friends, don’t you?”

For the first time, she doesn’t answer. There’s nothing but dead air. My smile sags to a flat line. “I… I didn’t mean… ”

“Of course I have friends,” she finally stammers. “Meanwhile, have you seen Simon yet?”

I’m tempted to go back, but this is more important. “At the meeting this morning. He walked in and the whole world hit slow motion. The thing is, watching his reaction, I don’t think he saw us. I would’ve seen it in his eyes.”

“Suddenly you’re the arbiter of truth?”

“Mark my words, he didn’t know we were there.”

“So have you decided what you’re going to do?”

“What’s to decide? I have to report him.”

She thinks about this for a second. “Just be careful abou-”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone you were there.”

“That’s not what I was worried about,” she shoots back, annoyed. “I was going to say, be careful who you go to with this. Considering the time period, and the person involved, this thing’s going to Hindenburg.”

“You think I should wait until after the election?”

There’s a long pause on the other line. It’s still her father. Finally, she says, “I can’t answer that. I’m too close.” I can hear it in her voice. It’s only a twelve-point lead. She knows what could happen. “Is there a way to keep it out of the press?” she asks.

“Believe me, there’s no way I’m throwing this to the press. They’d eat us alive by lunch.”

“Then who do you go to?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it should be someone in here.”

“If you want, you can tell my dad.”

There it is again. Her dad. Every time she says it, it seems that much more ridiculous. “Too big,” I say. “Before it goes to him, I want someone to do a little bit more research.”

“Just to make sure we’re right?”

“That’s what I’m worried about. The moment this gets out, we’re going to wreck Simon’s career. And that’s not something I take lightly. In here, once the finger’s pointed at you, you’re gone.”

Nora’s been on the receiving end for too long. She knows I’m right. “Is there someone you have in mind?”

“Caroline Penzler. She’s in charge of ethics for the White House.”

“Can you trust her?”

I pick up a nearby pencil and tap the eraser against my desk. “I’m not sure-but I know exactly who to ask.”