The First Counsel

* * *

Back in my office, I can still see that haunting grin on Simon's face. If there was a point where I saw him as a victim, it's long gone. In fact, that's what scares me most--even if Simon was being blackmailed, he's taking way too much pleasure in what he's done. Which makes me think there's more to come.

I have to admit, though, he's right about one thing: Ever since the onset of this crisis, my work has taken a back seat. My call log is filled with unreturned phone calls, my e-mail hasn't been read in a week, and my desk, with its mountains of paper, has officially become my in-box.

In no mood to clean and even less mood to talk, I head straight for the e-mail. Scanning through the unending list of messages, I see one from my dad. I almost forgot they gave him limited access to a terminal. Opening the message, I read his quick note: "When you coming to visit?" He's got a point with that one--it's been over a month. Every time I go there, I leave feeling guilty and depressed. But he's still my father. I write back my own quick response: "I'll try this weekend."

After deleting over thirty different versions of the President's weekly, monthly, and hourly schedules, I notice a two-day-old message from someone with a Washington Post return address. I assume it has to do with the census or one of my other issues. But when I open it up, it says: "Mr. Garrick--If you have some time, I'd be interested in talking with you about Caroline Penzler. Naturally, we can keep it confidential. If you can be of assistance, please let me know." It's signed "Inez Cotigliano, Washington Post Staff Writer."

My eyes go wide and I have a hard time catching my breath. With Caroline's ties to our office and everyone in it, it's no shock that someone was going to start looking my way. But this isn't some conspiracy-cashew-nut Web site. This is the Washington Post.

Trying to stop my hands from shaking, I head for calmer ground. Pam's the expert on all-things-Caroline. I dart for the door and pull it open. In the anteroom, however, I'm surprised to find Pam sitting at the usually unoccupied desk right outside my door. The makeshift home of our coffee machine and piles of discarded magazines, the desk has been tenant-less for as long as I can remember.

"What're you--"

"Don't ask," she says, slamming down the receiver. "I'm in the middle of a call with the Vice President's Office, and suddenly my phone goes dead. No explanation, no reason. Now they're telling me there's a backlog for repairs, so I'm stuck out here until tomorrow. On top of that, I don't even understand half of this new stuff--they should've picked someone else--there's no way I'm gonna be able to pull it off." In front of her, the small desk is covered with red files and legal pads. Pam won't turn around, but I don't need to see the deep bags under her eyes to tell she's tired and overwhelmed. Even her blond hair, which is usually exceptionally neat, is breaking loose and looking frizzy. Caroline left tough shoes to fill. And like Trey said, new shoes hurt.

"You know what the worst part is?" she asks without waiting for an answer. "Every single one of these nominees is the same. I don't care if you want to be an ambassador, an undersecretary, or a member of the damn Cabinet--nine out of ten people are cheating on their spouses or floundering in therapy. And let me tell you something else: No one--I repeat--no one in this entire government is paying their taxes. 'Oops, I forgot about the housekeeper. I swear, I didn't know.' You're going to be heading the IRS for chrissakes!"

Raging, Pam spins around to finally face me. "Now what do you want?" she asks.

"Well, I--"

"Actually, now that I think about it, can it wait till later? I just want to finish this stuff."

"Sure," I say, looking down at her makeshift desk. Next to her stack of red file folders, I notice a manila one marked "FOIA--Caroline Penzler." Recognizing the acronym for the Freedom of Information Act, I ask, "Who's the FOIA request from?"

"That Post reporter--Inez whatever-her-name-is."

"Cotigliano."

"That's the one," Pam says.

The color fades from my face. I grab the file and rip out the multipage memo. "When did you get this?"

"I-I think it was yester--"

"Why didn't you tell me?" I shout. Before she can answer, I see the heading on the internal memo:

TO: All Counsel Staff

FROM: Edgar V. Simon, Counsel to the President

With the press taking such a quick interest, I bet he's doing this one personally. Flipping past Simon's memo, I notice he's even included Inez's actual request for documents. She's trying to get her hands on personnel files, judicial files, internal memos, ethics memos--every public document that's somehow related to Caroline. Luckily, Counsel's Office communications are generally protected from FOIA disclosure. Then I notice the last item on Inez's list. My heart stops. There it is in black and white--the easiest thing to give to the press--WAVES records. From September 4th. The day I found Caroline dead.

"Michael, before you . . ."

It's too late. By requesting these records, Inez has already lit the fuse. We can stall as long as we want, but it's just a matter of time until the entire world sees that I invited an accused murderer into the building. Which means it's no longer a question of if the records are going to get out; it's just a question of when.

Unable to speak, I slide my hand into my empty mailbox, wondering where my copy of the memo went. Then I look at Pam.

"I'm sorry," Pam says. "I thought you knew."

"Obviously, I didn't." I toss the memo on her desk and head for the door.

"Where're you going?"

"Out," I reply as I leave the office. "I just remembered something I have to do."