The First Councel

CHAPTER 34

Almost there,” the cabbie announces twenty minutes later.

I raise my head just enough to peek out the left window. Flower beds, manicured lawns, plenty of cul-de-sacs. As we drive past the recently built McMansions that dot Potomac’s way-too-conscious-to-be-natural landscape, I slouch down in the seat, trying to stay out of view.

“Not a bad neighborhood,” the driver says with a whistle. “Check out the lawn frogs on that one.”

I don’t bother to look. I’m too busy trying to come up with other places to run. It’s harder than I would’ve thought. Thanks to the FBI’s original background check, my file is filled with my entire network. Family, friends. That’s how they check you out-they take your world. Which means if I’m looking for help, I have to step outside the maze. The thing is, if someone’s outside the maze, there’s usually a good reason for it.

“There it is,” I say, pointing to what I have to admit is a stunning New England-style colonial on the corner of Buckboard Place.

“Turn here?” the cab driver asks.

“No, keep going straight.” As we pass the house, I turn around and watch it through the back window. About two hundred yards away, I point to the empty driveway of a messy little rambler. Unkempt lawn, peeling shutters. Just like our old place. The black eye of the block. “Pull in here,” I say, studying the dusty front windows. No one’s home. These people work.

Without a word, we roll into the driveway, which runs perpendicular to the street. He pulls the cab in so that everything but the back window and the trunk are hidden by the house next door. It’s a great hiding spot-a room with a view.

Diagonally down the block, I keep my eyes on the old colonial. It’s got a spacious two-car garage. The driveway’s empty.

“So how long until he gets back?” the cabbie asks. “You’re running up some serious tab.”

“I told you, I’ll cover it. Besides,” I add, looking down at my watch, “he’ll be here soon-he doesn’t work full days anymore.”

Settling in for the wait, the cab driver reaches for the radio. “How about I turn on the news, so we can-”

“No!” I bark.

He raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you want, man,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

Within fifteen minutes, Henry Meyerowitz turns onto the block in his own personal midlife crisis-a 1963 jet black Porsche roadster convertible. I shake my head at the SMOKIN personalized plates. I hate my mother’s family.

To be fair, though, he’s the only one who ever reached out to me. At the funeral, he told me I should give him a call-that he’d love to take me out to a nice dinner. When he heard I got a job at the White House, he reiterated the offer. Hoping for a family connection that might mean something, I took him up on it. I remember trekking out here the week after I started work-even used a AAA map to negotiate the side streets-but it wasn’t until I was weaving my way through the actual neighborhood that I realized they didn’t invite my dad. Just me. Just the White House.

Too bad for them it’s always been a package deal. I don’t care if they’re the other side of the family-they did the same thing with my mom. If they didn’t want my parents, they couldn’t have me. After sitting parked around the corner for close to an hour, I drove to a gas station pay phone and told him something had come up. I never contacted him again. Until now.

As Henry makes a left onto Buckboard Place, I reach for the taxi door handle. I’m about to open it when I notice the black sedan that follows him into his driveway. Two men get out of the car. Dark suits. Not as built as the Secret Service. Just like the guys in my building. Approaching my cousin, they open a folder and show him a photograph. I’m pretty far up the block, but I can read the body language from here.

I haven’t seen him, my cousin says with a shake of his head.

Do you mind if we come in anyway? the first agent asks, pointing toward the door.

Just in case he shows up, the second agent adds.

Henry Meyerowitz doesn’t have much of a choice. He shrugs. And waves them in.

The front door of the New England-style colonial is about to slam in my face.

“Let’s get out of here,” I tell the driver.

“Huh?”

“Just get out of here. Please.”

The FBI agents are following my cousin inside. Instinctively, the cabbie turns the ignition and the engine roars.

“Not yet!” I yell. It’s too late. The car coughs to life. The agent closest to the door stops. I don’t move. From the doorway, the agent turns around and looks our way. He’s squinting hard, but doesn’t see a thing. It’s okay, I tell myself. From this angle, I think we’re-

“There!” he shouts, pointing right at us. “He’s up there!”

“FBI!” the first agent yells, pulling out a badge.

“Get out of here!” I shout to the cab driver.

He doesn’t move.

“What’re you waiting for!?”

The sad look in his eyes says it all. He’s not risking his livelihood for a fare. “Sorry, kid.”

I look out the back window. Both agents are closing in. The decision’s easy. I’m not going to be a prisoner. Out here, I still have a chance. And if I give myself up, I’ll never find the truth.

I kick open the door and scramble out. Knowing that there’s only a few dollars left in my wallet, I tear off my presidential cufflinks, toss them in the cabbie’s window, and take off. Unsure of where to go, I dart farther up the driveway and around the side of the house. Behind me, the cab driver pulls backwards at a 45-degree angle-just enough to block the driveway and get in the agents’ way.

“Get this piece of crap out of here!” one of the agents yells as I tear into the backyard. I grab two posts of the wooden fence surrounding the yard and hoist myself over. Landing in the backyard of the abutting house, I hear the FBI climbing over the cab, their shoes thunking against its metal hood.

“He’s in the other backyard!” one of the agents shouts.

I dash out toward the front of the house and find myself on a neighboring block. Rushing across the street, I run up a driveway toward the backyard of a third house. In this yard, the fence at the rear of the property is too high to scale, but the ones at the sides are shorter. I go over one into the backyard on the right. From there I hurdle the back fence and exit out onto another new block. From the quick look I got as they ran toward the cab, both agents appeared to be in their early forties. I’m twenty-nine. That should be all it takes.

“Give it up, Garrick!” one of them shouts, only a backyard behind.

That’s when I remember I’m a lawyer.

House by house, he’s closing in. I feel it at each fence. His voice keeps getting louder. When I started running, he was at least a minute behind. Now it’s less than thirty seconds. But as I land in the backyard of a beige Tudor-style home, I look up just in time to see my best way out: an enormous blue-and-white Metro bus blows past the driveway trailing a smokescreen of black exhaust. As it passes, its brakes scream. It’s stopping! I sprint down the driveway. Sure enough, as I turn onto the street, it’s waiting at the corner.

“Hold it!” I scream at the top of my lungs.

On board, an old woman carrying a mesh bag of groceries is teetering down the stairs.

I’m running full speed; it’s almost within reach. She reaches the sidewalk and waves goodbye to the bus driver. My hand brushes against the bus’s back right tire as I lunge for the door.

“FBI!” the agent shouts behind me. “Don’t let him in!”

I reach out my hand… almost there… If I make it in, I’m as good as-

The door slams before I get there. That’s the end. I missed it… I can’t believe I missed it. The bus lurches forward, kicking a cloud of black smoke in my face. I turn around and spot the FBI agent less than fifty feet up the block. I’m too out of breath… I can’t… But there’s no choice. I dash across the street and up the driveway of the nearest house. Within seconds, I’m in the backyard. Unlike the others, this yard is enclosed by a black wrought iron gate. At six feet, it’s too high to climb. I look for another way out. The agent’s already in the driveway. Nowhere to go but up.

Grabbing a nearby patio table, I shove it against the back of the fence and hop on top of it. It’s just the boost I need. From this height, I wrap my hands around two of the black metal spikes and pull myself up. Behind me, the agent’s closing in. As I cautiously maneuver my body over the fleur-de-lis-shaped spikes, I feel them pressing against my thigh. Slowly… slowly…

“Got you!” the agent shouts. He grabs my ankle as I straddle the tall fence.

I lash out and kick him directly in the face. He reels backwards and lets go just as I clear the fence, but as I hop down to the ground I’m off balance. I land on my ankle and it twists below me. A hot spasm shoots up my left leg. Stumbling to my feet, I ignore the pain and limp forward. On the other side of the fence, the agent’s already on the table.

My ankle’s throbbing, but I run. Keep running.

He scurries up the fence in a mad dash and throws one leg over. He’s wobbling, but all he has to do is-

“Aaaaah!” he screams.

I spin around. On top of the fence, he’s got a spike straight through his thigh. Blood’s slowly running down his leg. I cringe just looking at it.

“Are you okay?” I call out.

He doesn’t answer; his face is contorted in pain.

In the distance, I hear the second agent. “Lou, are you there? Lou!?” He’ll find his partner soon enough. Time for me to leave.

Throwing all my weight on my good leg, I limp out of there as fast as I can. Five blocks later, I spot another bus. This time, I make it on board. As the doors slap shut, I hear the howl of a nearby ambulance. That was fast. Standing at the front of the bus, I stare out the windshield and watch the flashing lights head our way.

“You gonna pay the fare, or what?” the bus driver asks, snapping me back to reality.

“Y-Yeah,” I say. As the ambulance shoots past us, I reach into my wallet and slide a dollar into the fare machine. On my way to the back of the bus, I feel my pager go off in my pocket. Pulling it out, I recognize the number instantly. It’s my own. Whoever it is, they’re in my office.

It takes twenty minutes before the bus pulls into the back parking lot of the Bethesda Metro station. From here, I have access to the subway and all its connections-downtown, out of town, and anywhere in between. But first, I have to find a phone.

Ducking inside the Metro building, I avoid the crowd that’s headed for the absurdly long escalators, and instead head for the bank of pay phones on my right. There’re still a few coins floating around my pocket, but after my conversation with Pam, I’m not taking any chances. Rather than dialing my number directly, I pick up the receiver and call the 800 number that’ll connect me with Signal. Once I’m routed through the White House phone system, it’ll be that much harder to trace my call.

“You have reached the Signal switchboard,” a mechanical female voice says. “For an office extension, press one.” I press 0.

“Signal operator 34,” someone quickly answers.

“I just got paged by Michael Garrick-can you connect me?”

“What’s the last name again?”

She sounds honest about that one. Good-it’s not everywhere yet. “Garrick,” I say. “In the Counsel’s Office.”

Within seconds, the phone to my office is ringing. Whoever’s in there, they’re getting nothing but the word “Signal” on caller ID.

“Pretty smart,” Adenauer answers. “Going through Signal like that… ”

My fist tightens around the receiver. I knew it was going to be him. In fact, I’m surprised it took him this long. “I didn’t do it,” I insist.

“Why didn’t you tell me about the money, Michael?”

“Would you’ve believed me?”

“Try me. Where’d you get it from?”

I’m sick of him jerking me around. “Not until I get some guarantees.”

“Guarantees are easy-but how am I going to know you’re telling me the truth?”

“I had a witness. I wasn’t alone that night.”

There’s a short pause on the other line. Remembering Vaughn’s advice about tracing calls, I look at the second hand on my watch. Eighty seconds max.

“You’re lying to me, Michael!”

“I’m not-”

Adenauer interrupts with what sounds like the buzz of a tape recorder.

“Last night being Thursday the third,” a female voice says.

Oh, no, I think to myself. Before she stopped the tape…

“I mean, that’s correct,” my recorded voice says. “Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw-”

“Before we get there, was anyone with you?”

“That’s not the important part-”

“Just answer the question,” Caroline says.

“No. I was alone.”

“Did you forget we had the tape?” Adenauer asks, sounding way too self-satisfied.

The second hand’s spinning. Thirty seconds to go. “I–I swear to you… that’s not the-”

“We found Vaughn,” Adenauer says. “And the gun. No more lies, Michael. Did you do it for Nora?”

“I’m telling you-”

“Stop bullshitting me!” Adenauer explodes. “Every time, it’s a new damn story!”

Twenty seconds. “It’s not a story! It’s my life!”

“All you have to do is come in.” Worried that I’m going to run, he’s trying to make nice. “If you help us-if you give us Nora-I promise you, the whole process’ll be a lot easier.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is true. Be smart about it, Michael. The longer you’re out there, the worse it looks.”

Ten seconds. “I have to go,” I say, my voice shaking. “I need… I need to think.”

“Just tell me you’re going to come in. You give the word and we’re there for you. Now what do you say?”

“I have to go.”

He’s out of patience and I’m about to hang up. “Let me tell you something, Michael-remember when Vaughn said it took eighty seconds to trace a phone call?”

“How’d you-”

“He was wrong,” Adenauer says. “See you soon.”

I slam down the phone and slowly turn around. Behind me is a mob of commuters angling for space on the escalators. At least three people are staring directly at me-a woman with Jackie O sunglasses and two men looking up from their newspapers. Before I can react, all three disappear on the escalators. Half the crowd’s going down to the subway; the other half’s going up to the street exit. I scan the rest of the mob, looking for suspicious glances and forceful strides. This is Washington, D.C., at rush hour. Everyone qualifies.

My body tenses. I’m tempted to run, but I don’t. It doesn’t make sense. They can’t trace a call through Signal. It’s impossible-he just wants me to panic; make a mistake. Calling his bluff, I take a hesitant step toward the crowd. I don’t care how good they are, nothing’s that fast. I keep telling myself that as I slide onto the escalator and get absorbed by the mob.

Clenching my jaw, I try to ignore my ankle. Nothing to make me look out of place. I glance around as we reach the top, but everything’s quiet. Cars whiz by; commuters disperse. Following two other passengers to the nearby taxi stand, I wait in line and hail a cab. Just another normal day at work.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks as I slide inside.

Ignoring the question, I look nervously left, then right.

Searching for a security blanket, my hand moves instinctively for my tie. As I reach for it, though, I realize it’s gone. I almost forgot. It was covered in blood.

“Let’s hear it,” the cabbie calls out. “I need a destination.”

“I don’t know,” I finally stammer.

He looks at me in the rearview. “You okay back there?”

Once again, I ignore the question. I can’t believe Adenauer has the tape-I knew I should’ve never let Caroline start recording-even with my stopping it early, there’s enough on there to… I don’t even want to consider it. Leaning forward on the stained cloth seats, I cuff my hands around my swollen ankle and feel like I’m about to collapse. I may’ve made my way out of the suburbs, but I’ve got to figure something out. I still need somewhere to go. Somewhere to think.

Home’s no good. Neither is Trey’s apartment. Or Pam’s. There’re a few friends from college and law school, but if the FBI’s sending people out to my cousin, that means they’re covering my file-and then some. Besides, I’m not going to put any more friends-or relatives-at risk. Once again, my eye starts twitching. There’s no way around it. Everything’s on me.

All that leaves is a nearby motel. It’s not a bad option, but I have to keep it safe. No credit cards-nothing they can trace me with. I open my wallet and see that I’m flying on fumes; all that’s left is twelve dollars in cash, my lucky two-dollar bill, and a Metro farecard. First things first. “How about a cash machine?”

“Now you’re talkin’,” the cabbie says.

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.