The First Counsel

* * *

Lawrence Lamb doesn't even look up. Sitting with near-military poise, he's inspecting a red file folder that's spread out on his huge leather-topped desk. I whisper a deferential "Good afternoon," but he's not interested. Nora, staring out the window, whirls around as I walk in.

"What's going on?" I ask her as soon as the door to Lamb's West Wing office slams shut.

"You might want to take a seat," Nora suggests.

"Don't tell me what to--"

"Michael, sit down," Lamb insists in his always-calm voice. With more speed than I'd give him credit for, he whips off his reading glasses and finally looks up. His sharp blue eyes say the rest: I'm in his office now.

Sitting next to Nora in one of the two chairs opposite Lamb's desk, I rephrase the question. "Nora told me you found out more about Vaughn."

"And she told me you're a trustworthy friend. Which means I'm only going to ask this once: Have you ever had any personal dealings with Patrick Vaughn?"

I look over at Nora, who reads my mind. With a subtle nod, she answers my question about Lamb: I can trust him. "I swear to you, I've never seen him, spoken to him, dealt with him . . . nothing. The only reason I know his name is because the investigator at the FBI--"

"I'm well aware of Agent Adenauer," Lamb interrupts. "And I'm also aware of what you did for us that night with the authorities." He shoots me a subtle nod to make sure I understand. In the back-scratch world of politics, this is his way of returning the favor. Lamb slides on his reading glasses and looks back at the file folder. Wearing his suit jacket despite the fact he's in his own office, Lamb has a formal, almost dignified air about him. Like his subdued Brooks Brothers ties, he doesn't need to try. After years of managing a successful health care company, he's made his money--which is why he's just about the only person on staff who doesn't have chewed-apart fingernails.

Letting the red file folder rest in his manicured hand, he begins, "Patrick Taylor Vaughn was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and started out as your basic punk drug dealer. Pot, hash, nothing special. The interesting part, however, is that he's smart. Rather than nickel-and-diming his way through the old neighborhood, he starts servicing the young elites at Boston's many fine universities. It's safer, and they pay their bills. Now he moves up to designer drugs: LSD, Ecstasy, lots of Special K."

My eyes quickly dart at Nora. She's staring at the floor.

"After a few turf battles, Vaughn gets sick of the competition and heads for your home state of Michigan."

I give him a sharp look.

"You wanted the story," Lamb says. "In Michigan, he has a few run-ins with the law. Then, two years ago, the police find the body of Jamal Khafra, one of Vaughn's major competitors. Someone stood on the back of Jamal's neck and used piano wire to slice his throat. Vaughn gets fingered for the murder, but swears he didn't do it. Even passes a lie detector. After some prosecutorial blunders, the jury comes back with an acquittal. Feeling lucky, Vaughn hightails it out of Michigan and starts over right here in D.C. He lives in Northeast, off 1st Street. The problem is, when the FBI went to question him about Caroline, they first spoke to one of his neighbors, who apparently tipped him off. Right around then, Vaughn disappeared. He's been missing for almost a week."

"I don't understand. Why's he even a suspect?"

"Because when they examined the WAVES records on the day of Caroline's death, the FBI found that Patrick Vaughn was in the building."

"In the OEOB? You've got to be kidding."

"I wish I were."

"So what does that have to do with me?"

"That's what we have to talk about, Michael. According to the computer records, you're the one who cleared him in."

Chapter 14

Are you nuts?" I shout, grasping the armrests of my chair. "I have no idea who he is!"

"It's okay," Nora says as she rubs my back.

"How could I . . . I never heard of the guy!"

"I knew it wasn't you," she says.

Lamb looks less convinced. He's barely moved since he broke the news. Leaning up against his desk, he's studying the scene--watching the two of us react. It's what he does best: surveying first, deciding later.

Making the plea personal, I turn his way. "I swear to you, I never let him in."

"Who else had access to your office?" he asks.

"Excuse me?"

"To have your name on it, the WAVES request had to've been sent from your computer," he explains. "Now after the staff meeting, who else was near your office?"

"Just . . . just Pam," I reply. "And Julian. Julian was there when I got back."

"So either of them could've used your computer."

"It's certainly possible." Yet as I say the words, I don't really believe them. Why would either of them invite a drug dealer into the--Son of a bitch. My eyes focus on Nora. I can still picture her little brown vial. That night in the bar, she said it was headache medicine. I've done my best to avoid it--but she has to get it from somewhere.

"Is there anyone else who had access to your computer?" Lamb asks.

I think back to that first night with Nora. She told me she took the money as evidence. To protect her dad. But now . . . all that money . . . the cost of drugs . . . if she's looking for a scapegoat . . .

"I asked you a question, Michael," Lamb reiterates. "Did Pam or Julian have access to your computer?"

I keep my stare on Nora. "It could've been done without the computer," I explain. "There're other ways to clear someone into the building. You can call the request in by an internal phone, or even do it by fax."

"So you're saying it could've been anyone?"

"I guess," I say. Nora finally looks up at me. "But it's got to be Simon."

"Even if it is, how'd he get this Vaughn guy in?" Nora interrupts. "I thought the Service does security checks on all visitors."

"They only stop foreign nationals and people convicted of felonies. Both of Vaughn's drug hits were reduced to misdemeanors, and he was acquitted of the murder. Whoever cleared him in, they knew the system."

"Do you know when the request was sent?" I ask.

"Right after our staff meeting. And according to Adenauer's timeline, it could've easily been you."

"It wasn't," Nora jumps in.

"Just relax," Lamb says.

"I'm telling you, it wasn't," she insists.

"I heard you!" he says, his voice booming. Catching himself, Lamb falls awkwardly silent. It's getting too personal. "I don't know what you want from me," he says to Nora.

"You told me you'd help him."

"I said I'd talk to him." Weighing the facts, Lamb throws me one last look. Like the best of the bigshots, he doesn't give a hint of what he's thinking. He just sits there, his steel features unmoving. Eventually, he says, "Nora, do you mind excusing us for a second?"

"No way," she shoots back. "I'm the one who brought him h--"

"Nora . . ."

"There's no way I'm leaving without a--"

"Nora!"

Like a scolded dog, she shrinks down in her seat. I've never heard Lamb raise his voice. And I've never seen Nora so shaken. That's why he looked after her all those summers--Lamb's one of the few people who can tell her no. Understanding the stakes, Nora rises and heads for the door. As it's about to close behind her, she calls out, "He's going to tell me everything anyway." The door slams shut.

Alone in the office, there's an awkward pause hanging in the air. My eyes jump over Lamb's shoulder as I try to lose myself in office decor. Studying the colonial landscape oil painting behind him, I realize for the first time that he doesn't have an ego wall. He doesn't need one. He's just there to protect his friend.

"Do you care about her?" he asks.

"What?"

"Nora. Do you care about her?"

"Of course I care about her. I've always cared about her."

Rapping his knuckle lightly against his desk, Lamb looks off in the distance, gathering his thoughts. "Do you even know her?" he eventually asks.

"Excuse me?"

"It's not a trick question--do you know her? Do you really know who she is?"

"I-I think so," I stammer. "I'm trying to."

He nods, as if that's an answer. Eventually, his strong voice creaks forward. "When she was younger--seventh, eighth grade--she started playing field hockey. Fast. Heavy contact. They signed her up so she would have some real girlfriends, and she used to play for hours--on the carpets, outside our farm--anywhere she could lug her stick. She used to make Chris play against her. But for Nora, the best part wasn't just the physical side; she loved being on the team. Leaning on each other, having someone to celebrate with--that's what made it worth it. But when her father finally got elected Governor . . . well, security concerns meant that team sports were out. Instead, she got an image consultant who did her clothes shopping for her and her mom. It seems silly now, but that's how they saw it."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"If you care about her, you should know that."

"If I didn't care about her, I wouldn't have lied about the money."

The way his shoulders slack, I can tell that's what he needed to hear. In some ways, I'm not surprised. Now that the FBI knows we're dating, we're all stuck at the epicenter. Nora, Simon, myself . . . one wrong move and we all go down. To be honest, I don't think Lamb would care if I was the one who was sucked in. But from the steely look on his face, and the coldly pragmatic way he asked if I cared about her, he's not letting me take his goddaughter--or the President--along for the ride.

He picks up the FBI folder on his desk and hands it to me. "I assume she told you about the other files in Caroline's office. There were fifteen altogether--some on her desk; others in her drawers. The FBI's treating them as a preliminary suspect list."

"One of the files was mine."

He nods to himself, almost as if it were a test. "In the back of Vaughn's FBI file is the list of everyone they've cleared so far." I flip to the list and see three more judicial nominees. The other two are the names Nora showed me. Five down, ten to go. The suspect list is shrinking. And they still haven't gotten to me.

"I don't have to tell you, Michael--if Nora's linked to a drug dealer . . . much less a murderer . . ."

He doesn't have to finish the sentence. We all know what's at stake here. "Does this mean you're going to help?" I ask.

His voice is slow and methodical. "I'm not going to interfere with this investigation . . ."

"Of course."

". . . but I'll do what I can."

I sit up in my chair. "I appreciate you believing me."

"It's not you," he says matter-of-factly. "I believe her." Watching my reaction, he adds, "They're my family, Michael. I held Nora in my arms eight hours after she was born. When she calls me seven times in two hours, demanding that I start taking some action to protect you, I tend to take notice."

"She called you seven times?"

"That's just today," he says. "She's a complicated girl, Michael. She did almost everything you asked. And if she's worried about you . . . that's enough for me."

I look nervously at Lamb. "Does that mean she told the President?"

"Son, if you're asking me about their private conversations, there's nothing for me to say. But if I were you . . ." He pauses, making sure I get the point. "I'd pray that he never finds out. Forget about the fact that with a quiet directive, he can wipe out a small city halfway around the world, or that he's always followed around by a military aide carrying the nuclear codes in a leather satchel. Because when it all comes down, none of that compares to being a father with a hurt daughter."