The First Counsel

* * *

"Cut her some slack," Nora says on the other line. "She sounds avalanched with work."

"I'm sure she is, but she should also know how important it is to me."

"So now's she's supposed to read you all her mail? C'mon, Michael, when she got the memo, I'm sure she assumed you did too."

It's the exact same reaction Trey just gave me, but to be honest, I was hoping for a different opinion. "You don't understand," I add. "It's not just that she didn't tell me. It's just . . . ever since she started glomming up the ladder, it's like she's a different person."

"Smells like you've got a slight case of jealousy coming on."

"I'm not jealous." Standing at the pay phone across the street from the OEOB, I find myself scanning the crowds of pedestrians, trying to remember that photo I saw of Vaughn.

"Listen, sweet pea, you're starting to sound pathetic. I mean, even if you are paranoid, calling me from a pay phone? C'mon. Take a breath, buy a lollipop--do something. It's the same thing with the Post reporter. Mountains and molehills, baby."

I'm not sure what's more unnerving--the incident with Pam or the fact that Nora's suddenly acting like there's nothing to worry about. "You think?"

"Of course. Haven't you ever heard how Bob Woodward researched The Brethren? He was writing this book about the Supreme Court, but he couldn't get any of the clerks to talk to him. So he writes this six-hundred-page manuscript based on hearsay and rumors. Then he takes the manuscript, makes a few copies, and circulates it around the Court. Within a week, every egomaniac in the building is calling him to point out the inaccuracies. Pow--instant book."

"That's not true. Who told you that?"

"Bob Woodward."

I act cool. "So it's true?"

"It's true that I spoke to Woodward."

"What about the other part? The part with the clerks?"

"He said it's bullshit--one of Washington's great myths. He had no problem getting sources. He's Bob Woodward," she says with a laugh. "This other reporter--the one who e-mailed you--she's just fishing. The whole FOIA thing is just one big expedition. Oop, hold on a second--cleaning lady . . ." She covers the phone and her voice gets muffled--but I can still make it out. "Estoy charlando con un amigo. Puedes esperar un segundito?"

"Disculpe, senora. Solo venia para recojer la ropa sucia."

"No te preocupes. No es gran cosa. Gracias, Lola!" Turning her attention back to me, she asks, "I'm sorry, where were we?"

"You know Spanish?"

"I'm from Miami, Paco. You think I'm gonna take French?" Before I can answer, she adds, "Now let's talk about something else. What're you doing this weekend? Maybe we can get together."

"I can't. I promised my dad I'd visit."

"That's nice of you. Where's he live? Michigan?"

"Not exactly," I whisper.

She recognizes the change in my tone. "What's wrong?"

"No, nothing."

"Then why're you shutting down like that? C'mon, now--you can tell me. What's really going on?"

"Nothing," I insist, moving for a change of subject. After her call this morning, I'm tempted to, but . . . no . . . not yet. "I'm just worried about Simon."

"What'd he do?"

I explain how he pulled me off the roving wiretap case. As always, Nora's reaction is instantaneous.

"That dickhead--he can't do that to you!"

"He already did."

"Then make him change it. Get on the horn. Tell Uncle Larry."

"Nora, I'm not going to--"

"Stop letting people push you around. Simon, the FBI, Vaughn--whatever they say, you accept it. When the food's cold, send it back."

"If you send it back, the cook spits in it."

"That's not true."

"I bused tables at Sizzler for three years in high school. Believe me, I'd rather have the cold food."

"Well, I wouldn't. So if you're not going to call Larry, then I will. In fact, you feast on your cold dinner--I'm going to call him right now."

"Nora, don't . . ."

It's too late. She's gone.

I hang up the phone and notice a quiet clicking. It's coming from behind me. Turning around, I notice a rumpled pudge of a man, with a thin beard that's clearly trying to compensate for a receding hairline. Click, click, click. With a beat-up green camera bag dangling from his shoulder, he's taking pictures of the OEOB. For a split second, though . . . right when I turned around . . . I could swear his camera was pointed at me.

Anxious to leave, I turn my back to him and step off the curb. But I can still hear that clicking. One right after the other. Taking one last look at the stranger, I focus on his equipment. Telephoto lens. Motor drive. Not your average D.C. tourist.

Stepping back to the curb, I slowly move toward him. "Do I know you?" I ask.

He lowers his camera and looks me straight in the eye. "Mind your own business."

"What?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he spins around and takes off. As he runs, I notice that on the back of his camera bag there're words written in black Magic Marker: "If found call 202-334-6000." Memorizing the number, I stop running and dart back to the pay phone. Shoving change down the throat of the machine, I dial the number and wait for someone to pick up. "C'mon . . ." As it rings, I watch the stranger disappear up the block. This is never going to . . .

"Washington Post," a female voice answers. "How may I direct your call?"