The First Counsel

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Bounding upstairs two at a time, I race up the interior stairwell of the Treasury Building. Nora's voice has all but faded away and the only thing I'm focused on is the small black-and-white sign that reads "Exit--Lobby Level." Approaching the door, I want to kick it open and make a mad dash out the front. But, afraid of the attention, I inch it open and peek out--just enough to figure out where the hell I am. Down the hall in front of me is a metal detector and a sign-in desk. Behind the desk, with their backs to me, are a pair of uniformed Secret Service. Damn--how am I going to get through--Wait--I don't have to get through anything. I'm already in. All I have to do is leave.

Stepping out of the stairwell, I lift my shoulders, stuff confidence into my posture, and move firmly toward the turnstile at the exit. As I get closer, the officers are checking IDs and clearing in visitors. Neither of them has noticed me.

I'm less than ten feet from the turnstile. Do I need to swipe my ID to get out? Studying the woman in front of me, I don't think so. I step into the turnstile, but just as the metal bar presses against my waist, the officer closest to me turns my way. I force a smile and give him a two-fingered salute. "Have a good one," I add.

He nods back without a word. But he's still staring. As I pass through the turnstile, I feel his eyes on the back of my head. Ignore him. Don't panic. Only a few more steps to the glass door that leads outside. Almost there. A little farther. Across the street, I see the white-and-gold entrance of the Old Ebbitt Grill. This is it. If he's going to stop me, it's going to be in the next five seconds. Four. Three. I lean into the door and push it open. Two. This is his last chance. One. The door swings back behind me, leaving me alone on 15th Street. I'm out.

The first one I spot is right outside the building--heavy build, dark suit, dark sunglasses. There's another midway up the block. And two uniformed officers on the corner. They're all Secret Service. And from what I can tell, they've got the whole block covered.

Panic sends me spiraling as I struggle to stay on my feet. They mobilized so quickly . . . Of course, that's their job. Avoiding the agent in front, I move as fast as I can down the block. Keep your head low--don't let them get a good look.

"Stop right there!" the agent shouts.

I pretend I don't hear him and keep going. Fifty feet away, there's another agent waiting. "Sir, I'm asking you to stop moving," he says.

My hands quickly fill with sweat. My breathing's so labored, I feel it reverberate. He whispers something into the collar of his shirt. In the distance, I hear the shrill wail of a police siren. It's coming my way. Closer. I check every direction for a way out. I'm surrounded. Shooting out of the Southeast Gate, two motorcycle cops fly toward me. I freeze as soon as I see them. Instinctively, I raise my hands to surrender.

To my surprise, however, they blow right by me. Followed by a limo, followed by another limo, followed by a Blazer, followed by a dark van, followed by an ambulance, followed by another two motorcycle cops. As they disappear up the street, the agents follow. Within seconds, the clouds clear and a blue calm is returned to the block. Frozen in place, I let out a nervous laugh. It's not a manhunt--it's a motorcade. Just a motorcade.