The First Councel

CHAPTER 5

Leaving my office, I cross through the anteroom and head straight for Pam’s. The door is always open, but I still give her a courtesy knock. “Anyone home?”

By the time she says “Come in,” I’m already standing across from her desk. The setup of her office is a mirror image of mine, right down to the nonworking fireplace. As always, the differences are on the walls, where Pam has replaced my ego items with two personal effects: over her couch, a blown-up photograph of the President when he spoke at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, her hometown; and over her desk, an enormous American flag, which was a gift from her mother when Pam first got the job. Typical Pam, I think to myself. Apple pie at heart.

Facing the computer table that runs perpendicular to her desk, Pam is typing furiously with her back to me. As is her usual work mode, her thin blond hair is pulled back in a tight twist held by a red clip. “What’s up?” she asks without turning around.

“I’ve got a question for you.”

She flips through a pile of papers, looking for something in particular. When she finds it, she says, “I’m listening.”

“Do you trust Caroline?”

Pam immediately stops typing and turns my way. Raising an eyebrow, she asks, “What’s wrong? Is it Nora?”

“No, it’s not Nora. It has nothing to do with Nora. I just have a question about this issue I’m working on.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

I’m too smart to argue with her. “Just tell me about Caroline.”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she studies me carefully.

“Please,” I add. “It’s important.”

She shakes her head and I know I’m in. “What do you want to know?”

“Is she loyal?”

“The First Lady thinks so.”

I nod at the reference. A longtime friend of the First Lady, Caroline met Mrs. Hartson at the National Parkinson’s Foundation in Miami, where Mrs. Hartson mentored and encouraged her to take night classes at the University of Miami Law School. From there, the First Lady brought her to the Children’s Legal Defense Fund, then to the campaign, and finally, to the White House. Long battles forge the strongest bonds. I just want to know, how strong? “So if I tell her something vitally important, can I trust her to keep a secret?”

“Help me out with what you mean by vitally.”

I sit in the chair in front of her desk. “It’s big.”

“Front-page big or cover-of-Newsweek big?”

“Newsweek.”

Pam doesn’t flinch. “Caroline’s in charge of screening all the bigshots: Cabinet members, ambassadors, the Surgeon General-she opens their closets and makes sure we can live with their skeletons.”

“So you think she’s loyal?”

“She’s got dirt on just about every hotshot in the executive branch. That’s why the First Lady put her here. If she’s not loyal, we’re dead.”

Falling silent, I lean forward and rest my elbows against my knees. It’s true. Before anyone’s nominated, they go through at least one confession session with Caroline. She knows the worst about everyone: who drinks, who’s done drugs, who’s had an abortion, and who’s hiding a summer home from their wife. Everyone has secrets. Myself included. Which means if you expect to get anything done, you can’t disqualify everyone. “So I shouldn’t worry?” I ask.

Pam stands up and crosses around to the other side of her desk. Sitting in the seat next to me, she looks me straight in the eye. “Are you in trouble?”

“No, not at all.”

“It’s Nora, isn’t it? What’d she do?”

“Nothing,” I say, pulling back a little. “I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can. You always can. But if you need any help at all… ”

“I know-you’ll be there.”

“With bells on, my friend. And maybe even a tambourine.”

“Honestly, Pam, that means more than you know.” Realizing that the longer I sit here, the more she’s going to pry, I stand from my seat and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t say another word, but I can’t help myself. “So you really think she’s okay?”

“Don’t worry about Caroline,” Pam says. “She’ll take care of you.”

I’m about to head over to Caroline’s when I hear the phone in my office ring. Running inside, I check the digital screen to see who it is. It’s the number from before. Nora. “Hello?” I say, picking it up.

“Michael?” She sounds different. Almost out of breath.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Have you spoken to her yet?”

“Caroline? No, why?”

“You’re not going to tell her I was there, are you? I mean, I don’t think you should… ”

“Nora, I already told you I wouldn’t-”

“And the money-you’re not going to say I took the money, right?” Her voice is racing with panic.

“Of course not.”

“Good. Good.” Already, she’s calming down. “That’s all I wanted to know.” I hear her take a deep breath. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to freak like that-I just started getting a little nervous.”

“Whatever you say,” I tell her, still confused by the outburst. I hate hearing that crack in her voice-all that confidence crushed to nothing. It’s like seeing your dad cry; all you want to do is stop it. And in this case, I can. “You don’t have to worry,” I add. “I’ve got it all taken care of.”

Walking down the hall to Caroline’s office is easy. So is knocking on her office door. Stepping inside is a piece of cake, and hearing the door slam behind me is an ice cream sundae. But when I see Caroline, sitting at her desk with her jet black dyed hair spreading on the shoulders of her black wool blazer, everything that I’ve been holding together-all of it-suddenly falls apart. My fear has a face. And before I can even say hello, the back of my neck floods with sweat.

“Take a seat, take a seat,” she offers as I almost collapse in front of her desk. Accepting the invitation, I lower myself into one of her two chairs. Without saying a word, I watch her pour four sugar packets into an empty mug. One by one, she rips each one open. In the left corner of the room, the coffee’s almost done brewing. Now I know where she gets her energy. “How’s everything going?” she asks.

“Busy,” I reply. “Really busy.” Over Caroline’s shoulder, I see her version of the ego wall: forty individual frames filled with thank-you notes written by some of Washington’s most powerful players. Secretary of State. Secretary of Defense. Ambassador to the Vatican. Attorney General. They’re all up there, and they were all cleared by Caroline.

“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask, hoping to slow things down.

“Hard to say. It’s like asking which of your children is your favorite.”

“The first one,” I say. “Unless they move away and never call. Then it’s the one who lives closest.”

In her line of work, Caroline spends every day having uncomfortable conversations with people. As a result, she’s seen just about every different manifestation of nervousness that exists. And from the sour look on her face, making jokes ranks near the bottom of her list. “Is there something I can help you with, Michael?”

My eyes stay locked on her desk, which is submerged under stacks of paper, file folders, and two presidential seal ashtrays. There’s a portable air filter in the corner of the room, but the place still reeks of stale cigarettes, which, besides collecting thank-you notes, are Caroline’s most obvious habit. To help me along, she takes off her glasses and offers a semiwarm glance. She’s trying to inspire faith and imply that I can trust her. But as I pick my head up, all I can think is that it’s the first time in two years that I’ve really looked at her. Without her glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes seem less intimidating. And although her furrowed brow and thin lips keep her appearance professional, she honestly looks worried about me. Not worried like Pam, but, for a woman in her late forties who’s still mostly a stranger, truly concerned.

“Do you need a drink of water?” she asks.

I shake my head. No more stalling.

“Is this a Counsel’s Office question or an ethics issue?” she asks.

“Both,” I say. This is the hard part. My mind’s racing-searching for the perfect words. Yet no matter how much I mentally practiced on the way over, there’s nothing like removing the net and doing it for real. As I’m about to step out on the tightrope, I run through the story one last time, hoping to stumble onto a lawful reason for the White House Counsel to be dropping money in the woods. Nothing I come up with is good. “It’s about Simon,” I finally say.

“Stop right there,” she commands. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she pulls out a small cassette recorder and a single blank tape. She knew that tone as soon as she heard it. This is serious.

“I don’t think that’s necess-”

“Don’t be nervous-it’s just for your protection.” She grabs a pen and writes my name on the cassette. When it’s in the recorder, I can see the words “Michael Garrick” through the tiny piece of glass. Hitting Record, she slaps the recorder against her desk, right in front of me.

She knows what I’m thinking, but she’s been through it before. “Michael, if this is important, you should have the proper documentation. Now why don’t you start from the beginning.”

I close my eyes and pretend there’s still a net. “It all happened last night,” I begin.

“Last night being Thursday the third,” she verifies.

I nod. She points to her lips. “I mean, that’s correct,” I quickly say. “Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw-”

“Before we get there, was anyone with you?”

“That’s not the important part-”

“Just answer the question.”

I respond as quickly as I can. “No. I was alone.”

“So no one was with you?”

I don’t like the way she asks that. Something isn’t right. Once again, I feel the back of my neck hot with sweat. “No one was with me,” I insist.

She doesn’t seem convinced.

I reach forward and stop the tape. “Is there a problem?”

“Not at all.” She attempts to restart the tape, but my hand is over the recorder.

“I’m not doing this on tape,” I tell her. “Not yet.”

“Calm down, Michael.” Sitting back, she lets me have my way. The recorder stays off. “I know it’s hard. Just tell your story.”

She’s right. This isn’t the time to lose it. For the second time, I find calm in a deep breath and take solace in the fact that it’s no longer being recorded. “So I’m driving down 16th Street, when I suddenly see a familiar car in front of me. When I take a closer look at it, I realize it belongs to Simon.”

“Edgar Simon-Counsel to the President.”

“Exactly. Now, for whatever reason-maybe it’s the time of night, maybe it’s where we are-as soon as I see him, something doesn’t seem kosher. So I drop back and start to follow.” Detail by detail, I tell her the rest of the story. How Simon pulled over on Rock Creek Parkway. How he got out of his car carrying a manila envelope. How he climbed over the guardrail and disappeared up the embankment. And most important, once he was gone, what I found in the envelope. The only thing I leave out is Nora. And the cops. “When I saw the money, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. You have to imagine it: It’s past midnight, it’s pitch black, and there I am holding my boss’s forty-thousand-dollar payoff. On top of all that, I could swear someone was watching me. It was like they were right over my shoulder. I’m telling you, it was one of the scariest moments of my entire life. But before I went and blew the whistle, I thought I should talk to someone first. That’s why I came to you.”

I wait for a reaction, but she doesn’t give one. Eventually, she asks, “Are you done?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

She leans across the desk and picks up the cassette recorder. Her thumb flicks back and forth against the pause button. Nervous habit.

“So?” I ask. “What d’you think?”

Putting on her glasses, she doesn’t look amused. “It’s an interesting story, Michael. The only problem is, fifteen minutes ago, Edgar Simon was in this office telling me the exact same story about you. In his version, though, you were the one with the money.” She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair. “Now do you want to start over?”