The First Counsel

* * *

Before last night, Edgar Simon was a great guy. Born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, he had less swagger than the East Coast power brokers and Beltway insiders who'd previously held the White House Counsel position. As a double-Harvard graduate, he wasn't lacking in gray matter. But I never focus on resumes. What impressed me most about Simon was his personal life.

A few months after I was hired, the press began to suspect that President Hartson was hiding the fact that he had prostate cancer. When the New York Times suggested that Hartson had a legal responsibility to share his medical records with the public, Simon stepped into his first major crisis. Forty-eight hours later, he found out that his twelve-year-old son was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, a genetic disorder of the nervous system that's potentially disabling for children.

After a three-day, no-sleep, rip-your-hair-out research marathon dedicated to the legal issues surrounding presidential medical privacy, Simon handed two things to the President: a briefing book on the crisis and his own resignation. Simon made it clear--his son came first.

Needless to say, the press ate it like popcorn. Parenting magazine crowned him Father of the Year. Then, one month later, when the initial crisis had passed, Simon returned to his position as Counsel. He said the President twisted his arm. Others said Simon couldn't stand being away from power. Either way, it didn't matter. At the height of his career, Edgar Simon walked away from it all. For his son. I'd always respect him for that.

Stepping into his office, I try to picture the Edgar Simon I used to know--the Father of the Year. All I see, though, is the man from last night--the viper with the forty-thousand-dollar secret.

Sitting at his desk, he looks up at me with the same mischievous smile he gave me this morning. But unlike our earlier encounter, I now know that he saw us last night. And I know what he told Caroline--whatever their disagreements were, he put the finger on me. Still, there's not a hint of anger on his face. In fact, the way his dark eyebrows are raised, he actually looks concerned.

"How're you doing?" he asks as I sit down in front of his desk.

"Okay."

"I'm sorry you had to find her like that."

I stare at the floor. "Me too."

There's a long pause in the air--one of those forced pauses where you know bad news is standing on your nose, waiting to springboard into your chest. Eventually, I lift my head.

Simon says it as soon as our eyes meet. "Michael, I think it'd be best if you went home."

"What?"

"Don't get upset--it's for your own protection."

I can barely contain myself; I'm not letting him pin this on me. "You're sending me home? How's that for my protection?"

Simon doesn't like being challenged. His tone is slow and deliberate. "People heard you yell at her. Then you found the body. The last thing we--"

"What are you saying?" I ask, jumping out of my seat.

"Michael, listen to me. The campaign guys are breathing fire all over us--this a dangerous game. If you put forth the wrong impression, you'll raise every voting eyebrow in the country."

"But I didn't--"

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm simply suggesting that you go home and take a breath. You've been through a great deal this morning, and you can use the time off."

"I don't need the--"

"It's not up for discussion. Go home."

Biting my lower lip, I return to my seat, unsure of what to say. If I bring up last night, he'll bury me with it--handing me to the press with a bird-in-his-teeth grin. Better to stay quiet and see where he goes. A little detente goes a long way; especially if it keeps me by his side. And behind his back.

Still, I can't help myself. There're too many unknowns. What if I have it backwards? Maybe it's about more than last night. Simon doesn't seem suspicious or accusatory, but that doesn't make me feel any less defensive. "Do you even know why Caroline and I were fighting?" I blurt, struggling to keep things honest. Before he can respond, I add, "She thought my dad's criminal record conflicted with my work on the Medicaid--"

"Now's not the time, Michael."

"But don't you think the FBI--"

Simon doesn't give me a chance to finish. "Do you know why this office is paneled?" he asks.

"Excuse me?"

"The office," he says, pointing to the walnut paneling that covers the surrounding four walls. "Do you have any idea why it's paneled?"

I shake my head, confused.

"Back in the Nixon administration, this office used to belong to Budget Director Roy Ash. The office down the hallway belonged to John Erlichman. Both were great corner offices. The only difference was, Erlichman's office was paneled and this one wasn't. This being the White House, Ash felt that that must've meant something. He thought everyone was watching and judging. So, being the wealthy sort he was, Ash used his own money and paneled this office. Now they were equals."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

"The point is, Michael, don't spend your time defending yourself. Ash had it right. Everyone is watching. And right now, all they see is a woman who had a heart attack. If you start apologizing, they're going to start thinking otherwise."

I sit up straight in my seat. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing at all," he says cheerfully. "I'm just looking out for you. That scab on your forehead'll be gone by tomorrow. Take it from me--you don't need another one."

"I didn't do anything wrong," I insist.

"No one says you did. It was a heart attack. We both know that." He presses his pointer fingers against each other and brings them to his lips. With a silent grin, he sends home the threat. Go home and keep quiet, or stay here and pay the price. "By the way, Michael, don't pick any more fights with the Secret Service. I don't want to hear from them again."

Over Simon's shoulder, my eyes wander to his ego wall. In a silver frame is a copy of last year's crime bill and one of four pens the President used to sign it. There's a photo of Hartson and Simon fishing on a boat in Key West. And one of Simon advising Hartson in the Oval. There's a personal note handwritten by Hartson, welcoming Simon back to the job. And there's a great shot of the two men standing in the aisle on Air Force One: Simon's laughing and the President's holding up a bumper sticker that says: "My Lawyer Can Beat Up Your Lawyer."

"Believe me, it's for the best," he says. "Take the rest of the day to relax."

He's a ruthless son of a bitch, I think to myself as I climb out of my seat. The prototypical White House attorney, he's managed to say nothing, and yet still make his point perfectly clear. As of right now, the safest thing to do is stay quiet. It's not something I'm happy with, but as I saw in Caroline's office this morning, the alternative has its consequences. Heading toward the door, I do the only thing I can think of. I nod and go along with it. For now.