The First Counsel

* * *

"This is stupid," I say as the waitress delivers a pitcher of beer to our table.

"Don't talk to me about stupid," Trey says, pouring himself a glass. "I was there today--I saw it myself. The best thing now is to plan your way out."

As he says the words, my eyes are locked on the waitress who's clearing the table next to us. Like the crane in the old carnival game, she lowers her arm and lifts all the important stuff: glassware, menus, a dish of peanuts. Everything else is trash. With a sweep of her arm, empty bottles and used napkins are brushed into the busboy's plastic bin. With one quick move, it's gone. That's what she did--after the fun, jettisoned the trash. Still, I refuse to believe it. "Maybe Vaughn had it wrong. Maybe when Nora gets back--"

"Wait a minute, you're gonna give her a chance to explain? After what she did tonight . . . Are you out of your head?"

"It's not like I have a choice."

"There're plenty of choices. Whole shopping-carts-ful of them: Hate her, despise her, curse her, scorn her, pretend you're nature and abhor her like a vacuum--"

"Enough!" I interrupt, my eyes still locked on the waitress. "I know what it looks like . . . I just . . . We don't have all the facts."

"What else do you need, Michael? She's sleeping with Simon!"

My chest constricts. Just the thought of it . . .

"I'm serious," he whispers, looking suspiciously at the tables around us. "That's why Caroline got killed. She found out the two of them were doing the horizontal Electric Slide, and when she started blackmailing them, they decided to push back. The only problem was, they needed someone to blame."

"Me," I mutter. It certainly makes sense.

"Think about the way it played out. It wasn't just a coincidence that you wound up in the bar that night; it was a setup. She took you there on purpose. The whole thing--losing the Service, pretending to be lost, even taking the money--that was all part of their plan."

"No," I whisper, pushing myself away from the table. "Not like that."

"What're you--"

"C'mon, Trey, there's no way they knew the D.C. police were going to pull us over for speeding."

"No, you're right--that was pure chance. But if you didn't get pulled over, she would've planted it in your car. Think about it. They set Vaughn up and make it look like you let him in the building. Then when Caroline shows up dead the next morning, between Vaughn and the money, you've got the smoking gun."

"I don't know. I mean, if that's the case, then why haven't they turned me in? I've still got the 'gun.' It's just in police custody."

"I'm not sure. Maybe they're worried the cop'll identify Nora. Maybe they're waiting until after the election. Or maybe they're waiting for the FBI to do it on their own. Five o'clock tomorrow."

We sit in silence and I stare at my beer, studying its rising bubbles. Eventually, I look up at Trey. "I still have to speak to her." Before he can react, I add, "Don't ask me why, Trey--it's just . . . I know you think she's a whack-job--believe me, I know she's a whack-job--but underneath . . . you've never seen it, Trey. All you see is someone you work for--but behind all the tough-stuff posturing and all the public-face nonsense, in a different set of circumstances, she can just as easily be you or me."

"Really? So when was the last time we did Special K in the bowling alley?"

"I said underneath. There's still a girl underneath."

"See, now you're sounding like Mithridates."

"Who?"

"The guy who survived an assassination attempt by eating a little bit of poison every day. When they finally put it in his wine, his body was immune to it."

"And what's so bad about that?"

"Pay attention to the details, Michael. Even though he survived, he still spent every day eating poison."

I can't help but shake my head. "I just want to hear what she says. Your theory's one possibility; there're plenty of others. For all we know, Pam's the one who--"

"What the hell is wrong with you? It's like you're on permanent autopilot!"

"You don't understand . . ."

"I do understand. And I know how you feel about her. Hell, even forgetting Nora, I still have my own questions about Pam--but take a step back and put on your rational pants. You're trusting Nora and Vaughn--two complete strangers you've known less than a month--and questioning Pam, a good friend who's been by your side for two years. Please, Michael, look at the facts! Does that make any sense to you? I mean, today alone . . . what're you thinking?"

My eyes drop back to my beer. I don't have an answer.