The First Counsel

* * *

Sliding my card into the ATM, I punch in my four-digit PIN code. Even with the bank's daily limit of six hundred dollars on withdrawals, that should be more than enough to get me through the night. Then I can start working on a solution.

Entering the dollar amount, I wait as the machine whirs through its motions. But instead of hearing the shuffling of bills being distributed, I see a digital message appear on-screen: "Transaction cannot be processed at this time."

Huh? Maybe I tried to take out too much. I hit the Cancel button to start again. This time, a new message appears: "To retrieve your card, please contact your branch manager or your local financial institution."

"What?" I hit Cancel again, but there's no response. The machine resets itself and the words "Please insert card" appear on-screen. I don't understand. How'd they . . . I look straight at the ATM and remember that the FBI's background check includes a disclosure of all current bank accounts. "Damn!" I shout, pounding my fist against unbreakable glass. They took my card. Refusing to give up, I pull out a credit card and shove it into the machine. All I need is a cash advance. Once again, though, the words flash up on-screen: "Transaction cannot be processed at this time."

The sun has barely started to set, so when I turn around, it's still light enough for the cabbie to read the expression on my face. He puts the car in gear. He knows a dead fare when he sees one.

"Wait . . . !" I call out.

The tires screech. He's gone. And I'm out on the street.

The last time this happened, I was seven. On the way home from the local barbershop, Dad decided to take a new shortcut through the repaved schoolyard. Two hours later, he'd forgotten where we lived. He could've picked up a pay phone and called my mom, but that thought never occurred to him.

Of course, back then, it was an adventure. Lost among the labyrinth of apartment buildings, he kept joking that wherever we were, it was going to be his new spot for hide-and-seek. I couldn't stop laughing. That is, until he started to cry. Frustration always did that to him. That high-pitched wail of adult desperation is one of my earliest memories--and one I wish I could forget. Few things slice as deep as a parent's tears.

Still, even as he fell apart, he tried to protect me, shielding me inside the glass walls of a phone booth. "We have to sleep here until Mom finds us," he said as it started to grow dark. I sat down in the booth. He leaned against it outside. At seven years old, I was rightfully scared. But not half as scared as I am now.

Chapter 35

By a quarter to six, I'm tucked away in the best Metro-accessible, high-traffic, twenty-four-hour hiding spot I could think of--Reagan National Airport. Before settling on my current location, I made one stop at the luggage store outside Terminal C. For two dollars and seventy-two cents, I cashed in my lucky two-dollar bill and all the change in my pocket for a defective black plastic garment bag that was about to be sent back to the manufacturer. Who cares if the zipper never opens?--it's not like I need it for travel. I just need to look the part. And when I combine it with a canceled ticket I fished out of the garbage, it does the job.

Since then, I've been huddled in the far corner of Legal Seafood--the only restaurant in the airport that airs the local news, and therefore the best place to nurse my last twelve dollars.

"Here's your soda," the waitress says, lowering the glass to my table.

"Thanks," I say, my eyes glued to the TV. To my surprise, the local affiliate has preempted its programming to cover the daily press conference live. It's a power move by the stations--putting pressure on the Press Office to get on with the story. Naturally, the White House pushes back. CNN is one thing, but they can't have the whole nation going live--it sets people into a panic and sends votes to Bartlett. So they do the best thing they can think of--they run the agenda backwards. Start with the small stories; work up to the home run.

As a result, we're watching a wire-rimmed State Department bureaucrat explaining to eighty-five million people the benefits of the Kyoto Accords and how they'll affect our long-term trade positions with Asia. In one massive collective yawn, thirty million people change the channel. For the networks, it's a ratings nightmare. For the Press Office, it's a TKO. The message is sent--don't fuck with the White House.

Convinced that only the diehards are left, Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb and the President approach the podium. She's there to speak; he's there to let us know it's serious. A candidate who can handle a crisis.

No more wasting time--she gets right into it. Yes, Caroline Penzler's death was not from natural causes. No, the White House never knew. Why, because the toxicology reports were only recently completed. Everything else can't be discussed because they don't want it interfering with the current investigation. Like before, she tries to keep it short and sweet. She doesn't have a chance. Once the smell of blood's in the air, the press licks their chops.

In nanoseconds, the reporters in the room are on their feet and shouting questions.

"When'd the tox reports come back?"

"Is it true the story was leaked to the Post?"

"What about Michael Garrick?"

Reaching for my soda, I inadvertently knock it over. As it waterfalls off the table, the waitress runs to my side.

"Sorry about that," I say as she throws down a rag.

"Not a big deal," she replies.

On-screen, the Press Secretary explains that she doesn't want to interfere with the FBI's ongoing investigation, but there's no way the reporters'll let her avoid it that easily. Within seconds, the questions once again fly.

"Have you confirmed murder, or are you still considering suicide?"

"What about the ten thousand dollars?"

"Is it true Garrick's still in the building?"

She's getting hammered up there. Someone's got to save her. Sure enough, the President steps in. To the American people, he looks like a hero. To the press--as soon as they saw him in the room, they knew they were going to get him. The President doesn't just hang out at briefings. Still, it quiets the crowd.

Locking his hands on to the sides of the podium, he picks up where Goldfarb should've never left off. This is an FBI case. Period. They investigated; they ran the tests; and they kept it quiet to prevent exactly what's happening from happening. Within seconds, he's passed the buck. He's so good at this, it's scary.

When he's convinced he's clean, he tackles the questions. No, he can't comment on Vaughn or myself. Yes, that would greatly impede the investigation. And yes, in case the press corps forgot, people are still innocent until proven guilty, thank you very much.

"However," he says as the room falls silent. "I do want to make one thing perfectly clear . . ." He pauses just long enough to get us all salivating. "If this is a murder . . . whatever it takes, we will find the person who killed my friend, Caroline Penzler." He says it just like that. "My friend, Caroline Penzler." Right there, it all shifts. From defense to offense in a matter of syllables. I can feel his poll numbers rocket. Screw Bartlett. There's nothing America loves more than a little personal vengeance. When he's done, he looks straight at the camera for the big closer. "Whoever they are, wherever they are, these people will pay."

"That's all we have to say," the Press Secretary jumps in.

Hartson leaves the room; the press keeps shouting questions. It's too late, though. It's six o'clock. For now, the local news is going to have to pick up the pieces, and all they have is Hartson's positively flawless sound bite. I have to hand it to them. That thing was choreographed better than the First Lady's birthday party. Every moment was brilliant--right down to Goldfarb pretending she was overwhelmed. The President steps in, sounds fair, and saves the day. Play up the dead friend; sprinkle in some retaliation. Tough on crime never had it so good.

Of course, as the smoke clears, all I can focus on is who the press was asking about. Not Simon. And thankfully, not Nora. Just me. Me and Vaughn. Two dead men.