The First Counsel

* * *

The landing at Duluth International Airport is much smoother than the takeoff. As the runway comes into view, the television monitors in the cabin flicker with life. The TVs are built right into the wall--one over the head of the person on my right, another over the head of the person on Pam's left.

On the monitors, I see a mammoth blue and white plane coming in for a landing. The local news is covering our arrival, and since we're within airspace, the TVs pick up the local stations.

Amazing, I say to myself.

Trusting TV over reality, we keep our eyes on the monitors--and in a moment that turns our lives into the world's greatest interactive movie, when the wheels touch down on TV, we feel them touch down below us.

After the bigshots disembark, the rest of us make our way to the door. It's not a long walk, but you can already feel the mood swing. No one's talking. No one's touring. The joyride on the world's best private plane is over.

Eventually, the line starts to move and I offer Pam my hand. "C'mon, time to go."

She reaches out and accepts my invitation, locking each of her fingers between my own. I give her a warm, reassuring grip. The kind of grip you reserve for your best friends.

"How're you feeling?" I ask.

She squeezes even tighter and says one word. "Better."

Slowly making our way to the front of the plane, we eventually see what's causing our delayed departure. The President's standing inside the main doorway, personally offering his sympathies to each of us.

That human connection . . . his need to help . . . it's exactly why I came to work for Hartson in the first place. If he were shaking hands at the bottom of the jetway, it'd be a purely political move--a staged moment for the cameras and for reelection. In here, the press can't see him. It's every staffer's dream: a moment that exists only between you and him.

As we get closer, I see the First Lady standing to the left of her husband. She knew Caroline before any of us--a fact that I can see in the strain of her pursed lips.

It takes me three more steps before I see the familiar silhouette. Over Hartson's shoulder, I catch my favorite member of the First Family standing in the hallway and taking in the events.

When she looks up, our eyes connect. Nora offers a weak grin. She's trying to look her usual unaffected self, but I'm starting to see through it. The way she glances at her dad . . . then her mom . . . they're no longer the President and First Lady . . . they're her parents. This is what she has to lose. To us, it's a perk. For Nora . . . if there's even an inkling of scandal about her and the money--or even worse, the death . . . it's her life.

I let go of Pam's hand and give Nora a slight nod. You're not alone.

She can't help but smile back.

Without a word, Pam forcefully regrabs my hand. "Just remember," she whispers, "every beast has its burden."

Chapter 12

Scooping up my newspapers early the following morning, I walk them to the kitchen table and hunt for my name on all four front pages. Nothing. Nothing on me, nothing on Caroline. Even the front photos, which I thought were going to be Hartson at the funeral, are dedicated to yesterday's Orioles no-hitter. With the funeral finished, it's no longer news. Just a heart attack.

Casually flipping through the New York Times, I wait for the phone to ring. Thirty seconds later, it does. "You got the fix?" I ask as soon as I pick up.

"Did you see it?" Trey asks.

"See what?"

He pauses. "A14 of the Post."

I know that tone. I brush the Times from the table and nervously lunge for the Post. My hands can barely flip pages. Twelve, thirteen . . . there. "White House Lawyer Depressed, Treated." Skimming through the short article, I read about Caroline's bout with depression, and how she was successfully overcoming it.

As the story goes on, it never once mentions me, but any political junkie knows the rest. It may be creeping along on the middle pages, but Caroline's story is still alive.

"If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one getting bad press," Trey says, clearly trying to change the subject. "Have you seen the Nora story in the Herald?" Before I can answer, he explains, "According to their gossip columnist, one of Bartlett's top aides called her--get this--'the First Freeloader' because she hasn't made her mind up about grad school. Blood-guzzling, reputation-raping muckrakers."

I flip to the Herald and pinpoint the story. "Not a smart move," I say as I read it for myself. "People don't like it when you attack the First Daughter."

"I don't know," Trey says. "Bartlett's boys've been polling this one for a while. If they're sending it out, I'm betting people are warm to it."

"If they were, Bartlett would've done it himself."

"Give it a few days--this is just a trial balloon. I can already hear the speechwriters scribbling: If Hartson can't take care of his own family, how's he going to take care of the country?"

"That's a big risk, Dukakis. The backlash alone . . ."

"Have you seen the numbers? There's not a backlash in sight. We thought we were going to get a bump from the funeral--Hartson's lead is down to ten. I'm thinking IPO moms love the fighting-for-families idea."

"I don't care. They're gonna draw the line here. It'll never come out of Bartlett's lips."

"Wager time?" Trey asks.

"You really feel that strongly about it?"

"Even stronger than I felt about Hartson's sunglasses-and-baseball-cap-on-the-aircraft-carrier look. Even if it was a little Top Gun, I told you we'd use it for the ad."

"Uh-oh, big talk." I look down at the article, thinking it through one more time. There's no way they'll have Bartlett say it. "Nickel bet?"

"Nickel bet."

For the better part of two years, it's been the best game in town. Around here, everyone loves to win. Including me.

"And nothing sketchy," I add. "No holding back on blasting Bartlett for going after their virgin, innocent daughter."

"Oh, we're going after him," Trey promises. "I'll have Mrs. Hartson's statement ready to go by nine." He pauses. "Not that it's going to help."

"We'll see."

"We'll certainly see," he shoots back. "Now you ready to read?"

I close up the Herald, since we always do the Post first. But when I look down at the paper, the story about Caroline is still staring me in the face. I can cover it up all I want--it's not going away. "Can I ask you a question?"

"What's wrong? You wanna take back your bet?"

"No, it's just . . . about this Caroline story . . ."

"Aw, c'mon, Michael, I thought you weren't gonna--"

"Tell me the truth, Trey--you think it's got legs?"

He doesn't answer.

I sink down in my seat. For whatever reason, the Post is still interested. And from what I can tell, they're just starting to tighten the microscope.