The First Counsel

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For financial reasons, Saturday morning means only two of my four newspapers are sitting outside my door. Even as a lawyer, government salaries only go so far. Regardless, the ritual's pretty much the same. Pulling the papers inside, I stare down at Bartlett's second consecutive day in the front photo--a beaming shot of him and his wife at their son's soccer game. Flipping the paper over, I scour the Post's below-the-fold, front-page story on Caroline's death and search for my name. It's not there. Not yet.

Instead, I get a recap of her death, followed by a quick sketch of what a good friend Caroline was to the First Lady. According to the quote under the old photo of the two friends, the relationship changed Caroline's life. Looking at the picture, I can see why. Caroline's the law student, all wide-eyed and passionate in her cheap blouse and wrinkled skirt; Mrs. Hartson is her supervisor--the sparkling director of Parkinson's fund-raising in her white Miami power suit. A friendship ended by a heart attack. Please let it just be a heart attack.