The First Councel

CHAPTER 8

Two hours of questioning later, I’m walking back to my office with a ruthless migraine and a throbbing pain at the base of my neck. I still can’t believe Caroline had the money. Why would she… I mean, if she’s got that… does that mean she was also in the woods? Or did she just pick it up later? Is that why she went after Simon at the morning meeting-because it was ten grand short? My mind tumbles through explanations, searching for the corner pieces of the puzzle. I can barely find an edge.

Around me, the hallways are almost completely empty, and as I pass every door, I can hear the faint echoes of dozens of televisions. Usually, the televisions in the OEOB run with the sound off. With news like this, everyone’s listening.

The reaction is typical White House. As a former Clinton advisor explained to me years ago, the power structure of the White House is similar to a game of soccer played by ten-year-olds. You can assign everyone to a position, and you can demand that everyone stay where they’re supposed to be, but the moment the game starts, every person on the field abandons their post and runs for the ball.

Case in point: the empty halls of the OEOB. Even before I check in with Trey, I know what’s going on. The President is demanding information, which means the Chief of Staff is demanding information, which means the top advisors are demanding information, which means the press is demanding information. From there, everyone else is searching-calling one another and every other connection they can think of-trying to be the first one to reel in the answers. In a hierarchy where most of us are paid similar government salaries, the currency of choice is access and influence. Information is the key to both.

Every other crisis is put on hold as the kids desperately chase the ball. Under any other set of circumstances, I’d be right along with them. Today, though, as I return to my office, I can’t help but think that the ball is me.

Closing the door behind myself, I turn on the squawk box, then head straight for the TV, where every network with a press pass is live from the White House. To double-check, I glance out the window and see the line of reporters doing stand-ups on the northwest corner of the lawn.

Panicking, I pick up the phone and dial Nora’s number. The toaster says she’s still in the Residence, but again, there’s no answer. I need to know what’s going on. I need Trey.

“Michael, this isn’t exactly a good time,” he says as he answers the phone. In the background, I hear what sounds like a roomful of people and the nonstop ringing of phones. It’s a bad day to be a press secretary.

“Just tell me what’s happening,” I plead. “What do you have?”

“Rumors are it’s a heart attack, though the FBI isn’t putting anything out there until two. The first officer on the scene gave us most of it-says there were no external wounds and nothing suspicious.” As Trey continues his explanation, his phone doesn’t stop ringing. “You should see this guy-typical uniform division-begging for attention, then pretending he doesn’t want to talk.”

“So I’m not the ball?”

“Why would you be the ball?”

“Because I was the one who found her.”

“So that’s confirmed? We heard a rumor, but I figured you’d call me if-Jami, listen to this: I got the… ”

“Trey, shut up!” I shout as loud as I can.

“… the best gossip about Martin Van Buren. Did you know they used to make fun of him for wearing corsets? Isn’t that great? I can’t get enough of that guy-corset-wearing little Democrat. Cute as a button, he was. And let me tell you, that Panic of 1837 was all media hype-I don’t believe a word of-”

“Did she walk away yet?” I interrupt.

“Yeah,” he says. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“Not that big a deal? Do you know how many calls I’ve gotten on this thing just since we’ve been talking?”

“Fourteen,” I say flatly. “I’ve been counting.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Trey knows me too well. “Maybe we should talk about it later.”

“Yeah. I think that’s best.” Staring out the window, I look back at the line of reporters on the lawn. “Think you can keep me out of this?”

“Michael, I can get you information, but I can’t work miracles. It all depends on what the FBI comes back with.”

“But can’t you-”

“Listen, the way this uniformed guy is talking, most people think he found her. For anyone else who asks, your name is officially changed to ‘a fellow White House staffer.’ That should save you from at least a thousand constituent letters.”

“Thank you, Trey.”

“I do my best,” he says as the door to my office opens. Pam sticks her head in.

“Listen, I better go. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hang up the phone and Pam hesitantly asks, “Is now a good time, because… ”

“Don’t worry-c’mon in.”

As she steps inside, I notice the sluggishness in her walk. Usually bouncy with a tireless stride, she’s moving in slow motion, her shoulders sagging at her side. “Can you believe it?” she asks, collapsing in the seat in front of my desk. Her eyes are tired. And red. She’s been crying.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

The single question causes a relapse in emotion that wells up her eyes with tears. Clenching her jaw, Pam fights it back down. She’s not the type to cry in public. I reach into my desk and look for a tissue. All I have are some old presidential seal napkins. I hand them over, but she shakes her head.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“She hired me, y’know.” Clearing her throat, she adds, “When I came through for interviews, Caroline was the only person who liked me. Simon, Lamb, all the rest, they didn’t think I was tough enough. Simon wrote the word ‘Whitebread’ on my interview sheet.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Sure did. Caroline showed it to me,” Pam says with a laugh. “But since I was going to be working for her, she was able to pull me through. First day I started, she handed me Simon’s evaluation and told me to keep it. Said one day, I was going to shove the whole sheet down his throat.”

“Did you keep the sheet?”

Pam continues to laugh.

“What?”

A wicked smile takes her cheeks. “Remember that victory party we had when Simon gave his congressional testimony on alcohol advertising?”

I nod.

“And remember the victory cake we served-the one Caroline said we made from scratch?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Pam adds with a wide smile. “On my hundred and fifty-second day here, Edgar Simon ate his words.”

I laugh along with her. “Are you telling me you put your old evaluation in the cake?”

“I admit nothing.”

“How’s that even possible? Wouldn’t he taste it?”

“What do you mean he? Trust me, I watched the whole thing-you ate quite a nice piece yourself.”

“And you didn’t stop me?”

“I didn’t like you as much back then.”

“But how’d you-”

“We wet the sheet, ripped it into small pieces, and threw it in the blender. That sucker puréed in no time. Best cooking lesson I ever took. Caroline was a mad genius. And when it came to Simon-she hated that bastard.”

“Right up until the hour before she di-” I catch myself. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean… ”

“It’s okay,” she says. Without another word, the two of us spend the next minute in complete, stark silence; an impromptu memorial for one of our own. To be honest, it’s not until that moment that I realize what I’d left out. Through the two hours of questioning, and the worrying, and the angling to protect myself, I forgot one key thing: I forgot to mourn. My legs go numb and my heart sinks. Caroline Penzler died today. And whatever I thought of her, this is the first moment it’s actually hit me. The short silence doesn’t make her a saint, but the realization does me a world of good.

As soon as Pam looks up, she sees the change in my expression. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah… I just can’t believe it.”

Pam agrees and shrinks back in her seat. “How’d she look?”

“What do you mean?”

“The body. Weren’t you the one who found the body?”

I nod, unable to answer. “Who told you?”

“Debi in Public Liaison heard it from her boss, who has a friend who has the office right across from-”

“I got it,” I interrupt. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Can I ask you a separate question?” Pam adds. From the tone in her voice, I know where she’s going with this. “Last night-whatever you got into-is that why Caroline died?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t do that to me, Michael. You said it was cover-of-Newsweek big. That’s what you went to see her about, isn’t it?”

I don’t answer.

“It was about Nora, wasn’t it?”

Still, nothing.

“If Caroline was killed for some-”

“She wasn’t killed! It was a heart attack!”

Pam watches me carefully. “You really believe that?”

“I actually do.”

When we first got assigned to the same office, Pam described herself as the person in fifth grade who got left behind when her friends got popular. It was a self-effacing icebreaker, but I have to say, even then, I never believed it. She’s way too savvy for that-she wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t. So even if she loves to play the underdog and put herself down-even if she constantly feels the need to lower expectations-I, until today, have always thought she was a guru of interpersonal dynamics.

“So the little psycho’s really worth that much to you?” she asks.

“You may have a hard time believing this, but Nora’s a good person.”

“If she’s so good, where’s she now?”

I look over at the toaster. Nothing’s changed. In green digital letters are the same three words: Second Floor Residence.

Running up the hallway of the OEOB, I know that the only way to find out what’s going on is face-to-face and in person. At full speed, with an empty interoffice mailer clutched in an anxious fist, I blow through the West Exec exit, cross the corridor between the buildings, and head for the West Wing of the White House. Passing through the doors under the sharp white awning, I wave a quick hello to Phil.

“Going up?” he asks, calling the elevator for me.

I shake my head.

“Crazy news, huh?”

“No question about it,” I say as I rush past him. Climbing the short flight of stairs on my left, I slow my pace to a brisk walk. You don’t run this close to the Oval. Not unless you want to be tackled or shot. I take a quick peek at Hartson’s secretary’s office to see how things are going. As always, the Oval and everything else near the President is lightning hot. It’s charged with an energy that’s impossible to describe. It’s not panic-there’s no panicking when you’re near the President. It’s simply a wave of energy that’s conspicuously and unapologetically alive. Like Nora.

Staying on course, I push forward. Ahead of me, I see another two uniformed officers and the lower press office, where four original Norman Rockwells line the wall that leads to the West Colonnade. Shoving open the doors, I step outside, fly past each of the spectacular white columns that line the Rose Garden, and reenter the mansion of the White House in the Ground Floor Corridor.

Straight ahead, across the wave of lush, pale red carpet, there’re four cherry-wood foldable dividers blocking the back half of the corridor. Public tours are on the other side. Every year thousands of tourists are led through the Ground Floor and the State Floor, the first two floors of the White House. They see the Vermeil Room, the China Room, the Blue Room, the Red Room, the Green Room, the Fill-in-the-Blank Room. But they don’t see where the President and the First Family actually live-where they sleep, where they entertain, and where they spend their time-the top two floors of the White House. The Residence.

Up the hallway, through the second door on my left, is the entryway that houses an elevator and a set of stairs. Both lead up to the Residence. The only thing in my way is the Secret Service: one uniformed officer on this floor; two on the floor above. No need to lose it, I tell myself. It’s just like anything else in life-a purposeful walk gets you inside. With an even, deliberate pace, I hold out the interoffice mailer and make my way up the hallway, toward the first officer. He’s leaning against the wall and appears to be staring at his own shoes. Keep your head down-just keep your head down. I’m only ten feet from the door. Five feet from the door. Three feet from the-Suddenly he looks up. I don’t stop. I shoot him a friendly nod as he eyes my ID. Blue pass goes just about anywhere. And presidential interoffice mail goes straight upstairs to the Usher’s Office. “Have a good one,” I add, for authenticity’s sake. He looks back at his shoes without a sound. Confidence is once again the ultimate hall pass. I head for the stairs. Only one more floor to go.

Although I’m tempted to celebrate, I know that the Ground Floor officer is just there to make sure people don’t wander in off the tour. The real checkpoint for the Residence is on the next landing. As I make my way up, I quickly spot two uniformed Secret Service officers waiting for me. Standing across from the elevator, these two aren’t looking at their shoes. I avoid eye contact and maintain the purposeful pace.

“Can I help you?” the taller of the two officers asks.

Keep walking-they’ll buy it, I tell myself. “How you doing?” I say, trying to sound like I’m here all the time. “She’s expecting me.”

The other officer steps in front of me and blocks my path to the next flight of stairs. “Who’s expecting you?”

“Nora,” I reply, showing them the mailer. I step to my right and act like I planned to take the elevator the rest of the way. When I push the call button, a rasping buzzer screams through the small entryway.

I turn around and both officers are looking at me.

“You can leave the mail with the usher,” the taller one says.

“She asked that it be hand-delivered,” I offer.

Neither of them is impressed. After reading my name from my ID, the taller officer steps into the Usher’s Office, which is right next to the stairs, and picks up the telephone. “I have a Michael Garrick down here.” He listens for a second. “No. Yeah. I’ll tell him. Thanks.” He hangs up the phone and looks back at me. “She’s not up there.”

“What? That’s impossible. When did she leave?”

“They said it was in the last ten minutes. If she takes the elevator down, we don’t see her.”

“Don’t they update her movements on your radio?”

“Not until she leaves the building.”

I stare him down. There’s nothing left to say. “Tell her I came by,” I add, heading back down the stairs.

As I make my way down, I see someone heading up. The staircase isn’t a wide one, so we brush shoulders, and I get my first good look at him. He’s wearing khakis and a navy blue polo. But it’s the earpiece he’s wearing that gives him away. Secret Service. One of Nora’s agents. Harry. His name’s Harry. He’s part of her personal detail. And the only time he leaves her side is when she’s upstairs in the Residence.

I turn around and follow him upstairs. As soon as the uniformed officers see me, they know I know.

“You were lying to me?” I ask the taller officer.

“Listen, son, this isn’t-”

“Why’d you lie?”

“Take it easy,” Harry says.

Within seconds, I see a plainclothes agent running up the stairs, from the Ground Floor. A second in a dark suit steps in and blocks the entrance to the hallway.

How the hell did they react so quickly? I look over my shoulder and get the answer. In the air conditioner vent by the doorway is a tiny penlight camera pointed straight at me.

Harry puts a hand on my shoulder. “Take my word for it,” he says. “You can’t win.”

He’s right about that one. I pull away from him and head back toward the stairs. Looking at Harry, I add, “Tell her we have to talk.”

He nods, but doesn’t say a word.

Storming down the stairs, I brush past the agent who’s blocking my way. “Have a nice day,” he says as I leave.

On my way back to the OEOB, I realize I’m squeezing both hands into tight fists. Opening them up, I stretch out my fingers, trying to shake off Nora’s dismissal. Yet with release comes panic. It’s not that bad, I tell myself. She’ll come through. She’s just being careful now. Besides, all I did was find the body and yell a bit. It’s not like I’m a suspect. No one even knows about the money. Except for Nora. And the D.C. police. And Caroline. And anyone else she told about the… Damn, the rumors could already be out there. And when they realize the bills are consecutive…

My thoughts are interrupted by the vibrations of my beeper. I pull it from my pocket and check the message. That’s when I’m reminded of the one other person who knows about the money. The message says it all: “Would like to speak to you. In person. E.S.”

E.S. Edgar Simon.