The First Counsel

* * *

I walk into Trey's office sporting a Cheshire cat grin. Ten minutes later, he's yelling at me.

"Stupid, Michael. Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

"Why're you getting so nuts?"

"Who else have you told about this? How many?"

"Just you," I answer.

"Don't lie to me."

He knows me too well. "I told Pam. Just you and Pam. That's it. I swear."

Trey runs the palm of his hand from the light brown skin of his forehead to the back of his shortly buzzed afro. His small hand moves slowly across his head--I've seen it before--he calls it "the rub." A quick rub is like an embarrassed little laugh or snicker, used when a dignitary trips or falls in the middle of a photo-op. The speed slows down as the consequences grow, and the slower the rub, the more he's upset. When Time ran an unflattering profile of the First Lady, the rub was slow. When the President was rumored to have cancer, it was even slower. Five minutes ago, I told him what happened with Nora and Caroline. I check his hand to clock the speed. Molasses.

"It's only two people. Why're you making such a big deal?"

"Let me make this as clear as possible: I love the fact that you're moving up in the world, and I love the fact that you trust me with all your secrets. I even love the fact Nora wants to climb in your pants--believe me, we're going to be getting back to that one--but when it comes to something this big, you should keep your mouth shut."

"So I shouldn't have told you?"

"You shouldn't have told me and you shouldn't have told Pam." He pauses a moment. "Okay, you should've told me. But that's it."

"Pam would never say anything."

"How do you know that? Has she trusted you with any of her stuff?"

I know what he's driving at when he asks that question. He may only be a twenty-six-year-old staffer, but when it comes to figuring out where to step, Trey knows where all the land mines are.

"I'm telling you," he says, "if Pam doesn't share it with you, you shouldn't share it with her."

"See, now you're being too political. Not everything in life is tit for tat."

"This is the White House, Michael. It's always tit for tat."

"I don't care. You're wrong about Pam. She doesn't have anything to gain."

"Please, boychick, you know she loves you."

"So? I love her too."

"No, not like that, Magoo. She doesn't just love you." He puts his hand over his heart like he's doing the Pledge of Allegiance, then quickly starts drumming against his chest. "She wuuuvs you," he croons, rolling his eyes. "I'm talking the pretty pink dreams: teddy bears . . . ice-cream shakes . . . happy floating rainbows . . ."

"Get over yourself, Trey. You couldn't be further from reality."

"Don't mock me, boy. It's just like what the President does with Lawrence Lamb."

"What do you mean?"

Instinctively, Trey leans back in his chair and cranes his neck to check the rest of the reception area. He shares an office with two other people. Both of his officemates' desks are by a window, sectioned off by a few filing cabinets. Trey's is by the door. He likes to see who's coming and going. Neither of his co-workers is in today, but Trey can't help himself. It's the first rule of politics. Know who's listening. When he's satisfied we're alone, he says, "Look at their relationship. Lamb sits in on all your meetings, he's in on all the final decisions, his title's even Deputy Counsel, but when it comes to actual legal work, he's nowhere to be found. Now why do you think that is?"

"He's a lazy, toothless bastard?"

"I'm serious. Lamb's there to keep an eye on you and the rest of your office."

"That's not--"

"C'mon, Michael, if you were President, who would you rather have watching your back: a group of strangers from your staff, or a friend you've had for thirty years? Lamb knows all the personal stuff--that's why he's trusted. The same goes for us; it's been almost four years since I first spoke to you on the campaign, but this place moves in dog years. Yet with Pam . . ."

"I appreciate the concern, but she'd never say anything. She's from Ohio."

"Ulysses S. Grant was from Ohio and he had the most corrupt administration in history. It's all an act--those Midwesterners are ruthless."

"I'm from Michigan, Trey."

"Except for the ones from Michigan. Love those people."

Shaking my head, I say, "You're just mad because I told Pam first."

He can't help but leak a smile. "I want you to know, I'm the one who kept your name out of the papers. I didn't tell anyone you found the body."

"And I appreciate that. But right now, I want to talk about Nora. Tell me what you know."

"What's to know? She's the First Daughter. She's got her own fan club. She doesn't answer her own mail. And she's severely yummy. She's also a little bit of a headcase, but, now that I think about it, that actually turns me on."

He's making too many jokes. Something's wrong. "Say what you're thinking, Trey."

He runs his hands down the length of his cheap maroon-striped tie. With his scuffed tasseled loafers, knockoff John Lennon glasses, and his stiff navy jacket with the gold button covertly safety-pinned in place, he's a few dollars short of the model young prep. It's amazing, really. He's got less money than anyone on staff, and he's still the only one wearing a suit on Saturday.

"I told you before, Michael: You're in trouble. These people aren't lightweights."

"But what do you think about Nora?"

"I think you better be careful. I don't know her personally, but I see her when she comes in to find her mom. In and out: always quick; sometimes upset; and never a word to anyone."

"That doesn't mean--"

"I'm not talking about courtesy--I'm talking about the underneath. She may let you touch her cookies, and she may be a braggable girlfriend, but you know the rumors--X, Special K, maybe some cocaine . . ."

"Who said she's doing coke?"

"No one. At least not yet. That's why we call it a rumor, my friend. It's too big to print without a source."

I stay silent.

"You don't know her, Michael. You may've watched her throw Frisbees with her dog on the South Lawn, and you may've seen her go off to her first sociology class at college, but that's not her life. Those're just press clippings and fluff for the nightlies. The rest of the picture is hidden. And the picture's huge."

"So you're saying I should just abandon her?"

"Abandon her?" he laughs. "After all you've done . . . no one could accuse you of that. Not even Nora."

He's right. But it doesn't make it any easier. When I don't respond, he adds, "It's really starting to get to you, isn't it?"

"I just don't like how everyone automatically paints the target on her."

"On her? What abou--" He catches himself. And sees the look on my face. "Oh, jeez, Michael, don't tell me you're . . . Oh, you are, aren't you? This isn't just about protecting her . . . you're actually starting to like her now, aren't you?"

"No," I shoot back. "Now you're reading too much into it."

"Really?" he challenges. "Then answer me this: Sexually speaking, when you went out that first night, what actually happened?"

"I don't understand."

"You want me to ask in Latin? The two of you went on a date. Before you left, you swore you'd give me every last detail. In fact, I think the quote was, 'I'm gonna check out the underwear on the First Daughter.' You were all primed for the locker room debriefing--so let's hear it. What actually happened? How'd she kiss? Throw me some play-by-play."

Once again, I'm silent.

"Don't hold back," Trey adds. "Was she good or tongue-sloppy?"

My mind is flooded with images of her in my arms . . . and the way she slid her hand across my thigh . . . Oh, man, Trey would die if he heard tha--I stop myself and look down at the muted blue industrial carpet.

"So?" Trey asks. "Tell me what happened."

I'm sure every guy who's ever dated her has been put in this position. My answer comes in a whisper. "No."

"What?"

"No," I repeat. "It's no one's business. Not even yours."

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms against his chest, Trey leans back in his seat. "Just because you've seen her on the TV in your living room, doesn't mean she's been there, Michael. Besides, even if the whisperings are wrong, first and foremost, she's Hartson's daughter."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means she's got politics in her blood. So if the two of you get pinned against the wall, well . . . she'll be the one slithering away."

Chapter 11

The first thing I do when I get home is open the tiny metal mailbox for apartment 708, collect my newest pile of mail, and head over to the front desk. "Anything down there?" I ask Fidel, who's been the building's doorman since before I moved in.

He looks below the counter, where they keep the packages.

"Can you also check for Sidney?" I add.

He stands up holding a cardboard box with a FedEx sticker on it and slaps it on the counter. It rattles like a Spanish maraca. "Nothing for you; pills for Sidney," Fidel says, flashing his wide smile.

With my briefcase in one hand and mail in the other, I wedge the package under my armpit, slide it off the desk, and head for the elevator. "Have a good night, Fidel."

Angling the corner of the oversized box to press the elevator button marked 7, I stare at the name on the package. Sidney Gottesman. Apartment 709. Celebrating his ninety-sixth birthday in October, Sidney's been my neighbor for the past two years. And bedridden for two months.

When I first moved in, on a Superbowl Sunday, he was nice enough to invite me over to watch the game--he was asleep by the second quarter. When his doctors amputated his right leg because of diabetes complications, I did my best to return Sidney's favor. In his wheelchair, he can handle the mail--he just hates taking packages.

Balancing the package in one arm and my briefcase in the other, I knock on his door. "Sidney! It's me!" He doesn't answer. He never answers.

Knowing the routine, I leave the box on his rubber doormat and cross the hall to my apartment. As I turn, the hallway's quiet. More quiet than when I arrived. The building's air-conditioning hums. The dryer in the laundry room tumbles. Behind me, I hear the clunky arrival of the elevator. I spin around to see who's there, but no one gets out. The door slides shut. The hallway's still silent.

Searching for my keys, I reach into my right pocket, then my left. They're not there. Damn. Don't tell me I . . . Did I leave them downstairs with the . . . No--here--in my hand. Wasting no time, I shove the key into my front door and twist the lock. "Looking for a new job?" a man's voice asks from down the hall.

Startled, I turn to my right and see Joel Westman, my next-door neighbor, coming out of his apartment. "Excuse me?" I ask.

"Some guy knocked on my door this afternoon and asked me a few quick questions about you. Last time that happened, it was the FBI."

My briefcase slips from my hand and falls to the floor. As it hits, the locks pop open, releasing my papers all along the front of my door.

"You okay there?" Joel asks.

"Y-Yeah. Of course," I say, struggling to sweep the papers back into place. When I started at the White House, the FBI talked to my neighbors as part of the background check. Whatever they're up to, it's faster than I expected.

"So you're not looking for a new job?"

"No," I say with a forced laugh. "They're probably just updating their files." As Joel heads up the hall, I add, "What'd they ask anyway?"

"It was just one guy this time. Late twenties. Boston accent. Heavy on the gold chains."

I look up at Joel, but stifle my reaction. Since when does the FBI wear gold chains?

"I know, kinda weird, but . . . hey, whatever keeps the nation safe," Joel continues. "Don't sweat it, though--he didn't ask anything special: what I knew about you; when you were home; what kind of hours you kept. Similar to last time." Joel starts to read the nervousness on my face. "Was I not supposed to say anything?"

"No, no, not at all. They do this every couple of years. Nothing to worry about."

As Joel heads toward the elevator, I'm left trying to figure out who he was talking to. A minute ago, I was panicked by the FBI. Now I'm praying for them.

Opening the door to my apartment, I notice a sheet of paper folded in half. Someone slipped it under the door while I was gone. Inside is a three-word message: "We Should Talk." It's signed "P. Vaughn."

P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn, P. Vaughn. I roll the name through my subconscious, but nothing comes up. Behind me, the front door to my apartment slams shut. I jump from the bang. Although the sun hasn't set, the apartment feels dark. As quickly as possible, I turn on the lights in the hallway, the kitchen, and the living room. Something still feels wrong.

In the kitchen, I hear the measured pings of the leaky faucet. Two days ago, it was a sound I had long since internalized. Today, all it does is remind me of finding Caroline. The puddle of coffee that ran to the floor. One eye straight, one eye cockeyed.

I pull a sponge from the counter and stuff it in the drain. It doesn't stop the leaking, but it muffles the sound. Now all I notice is the muted humming of the central air-conditioning. Desperate for silence, I head toward the living room and shut it off. It fades with an awkward cough.

I look around the apartment, studying its details. My desk. The rented furniture. The posters. It all looks the same, but something's different. For no reason whatsoever, my eyes focus on the black leather couch. The two beige throw-pillows are exactly where I left them. The middle cushion still bears the imprint from where I watched TV last night. A single bead of sweat runs down the back of my neck. Without the air conditioner, the room is stifling. I look back at the name in the note. P. Vaughn. P. Vaughn. The faucet's still dripping.

I step out of my shoes and take off my shirt. Best thing to do is lose myself in a shower. Clean up. Start over. But as I head to the bathroom, I notice, right by the edge of the couch, the pen that's sitting on the floor. Not just any pen--my red-white-and-blue-striped White House pen. With a tiny presidential seal and the words "The White House" emblazed in gold letters, the pen was a gift during my first week at work. Everyone has one, but that doesn't mean I don't treasure it--which is exactly why I wouldn't leave it on the floor. Once again looking around, I don't see anything out of place. It could've just fallen from the coffee table. But as I reach down to pick it up, I hear a noise from the hall closet.

It's not anything loud--just a quiet click. Like the flick of two fingers. Or someone shifting their weight. I spin around, watching for movement. Nothing happens. I put on my shirt and stuff my pen in my pocket, as if that's going to help. Still nothing. The apartment is so quiet, I notice the sound of my own breathing.

Slowly, I move toward the closet door. It's barely ajar. I feel the adrenaline rushing. There's only one way to deal with this. Time to stop being a victim. Before I can talk myself out of it, I race at the door, ramming it shoulder first. The door slams shut and I grab the handle with everything in me.

"Who the hell are you?" I scream in my most intimidating voice.

With my weight against the door, I'm braced for impact. But no one fights back. "Answer me," I warn.

Once again, the apartment's silent.

Looking over my shoulder, I peer into the kitchen. A wooden block full of knives is on the counter. "I'm opening the door, and I have a knife!"

Silence.

"This is it--come out slowly! On three! One . . . two . . ." I pull open the door and race for the kitchen. By the time I turn around, there's a six-inch steak knife in my hand. The only thing I see, though, is a closetful of coats.

Wielding the knife in front of me, I take a step toward the closet. "Hello?" In a teen slasher pic, this is the moment when the killer jumps out. It doesn't stop me.

Slowly, I pick my way through the rack of coats. When I'm done, though, I realize the truth: No one's there.

My shirt now pressed with sweat against my chest, I return the knife to the kitchen and turn the air-conditioning back on. Just as the hum returns, I hit the play button on the answering machine. Time to get rid of the silence.

"You have one message," the machine tells me in its mechanical voice. "Saturday, one-fifty-seven P.M."

A second passes before a man's voice begins, "Michael, this is Randall Adenauer with the FBI. We have an appointment on Tuesday, but I'd like to send some officers over tomorr--" He stops, distracted. "Then tell them I'll call him back!" he shouts, sounding like he's covering the receiver. Turning back to the phone, he adds, "I apologize, Michael. Please give me a call."

Pulling the White House pen from my pocket, I jot down his number and breathe a quick sigh of relief. He sent them over--that's who it was--gold chains or not, that must've been who Joel was talking to. FBI Agent Vaughn. I hit Erase on the answering machine and walk back to my bedroom. When I reach my nightstand, I stop dead in my tracks. There it is, on top of yesterday's crossword puzzle--a red-white-and-blue-striped pen with the words "The White House" emblazed on it. I look down at the pen in my hand. Then back at the one on my nightstand. Rewinding twenty-four hours, I think about Pam's visit with the Thai food. It could easily be Pam's, I tell myself. Please let it be Pam's.