The First Councel

CHAPTER 38

Within ten minutes, Pam and I are sitting in the back of the room with fourteen boxes of Caroline’s files spread out across the floor in front of us. It took a bucketful of assurances to convince Al to let us take a look, but with Pam being the new keeper of the files, there wasn’t much room to argue. This is her job.

“Thanks again,” I say, looking up from the files.

“Don’t worry about it,” Pam says coldly, refusing to make eye contact.

She has every right to be mad. She’s risking her job to get us through this. “I mean it, Pam. I couldn’t-”

“Michael, the only reason I’m doing this is because I think they stabbed you with this one. Anything else is just your imagination.”

I turn away and stay quiet.

Flipping through the files, I’m left with the remnants of Caroline’s three years of work. In each folder, it’s all the same-sheet after sheet of cover-your-ass memos and filed-away announcements. None of them changed the world; just wasted paper. And no matter how fast I leaf through it, it just keeps going. File upon file upon file upon file. Wiping sweat from my forehead, I shove the carton aside. “This is never going to work,” I say nervously.

“What do you mean?”

“It’s going to take forever to look at every sheet-and Al’s not giving us more than fifteen minutes with this stuff. I don’t care what he said, he knows something’s up.”

“You have any other ideas?”

“Alphabetically,” I blurt. “What would she file it under?”

“I keep mine under E. Ethics.”

I look down at the manila folders in my box. The first is labeled Administration. The last is Briefing Papers. “I got A through B, I say.”

Seeing that she has B through D, Pam walks on her knees to the next box and pulls off the cardboard lid. Drug Testing to Federal Register. “Here!” she calls out as I hop to my feet.

Hunched over Pam’s shoulder, I watch as she rifles through the folders. Employee Assistance Program … EEO … Federal Programs. Nothing labeled Ethics.

“Maybe the FBI took it,” she suggests.

“If they did, we’d know about it. It’s got to be here somewhere.”

She’s tempted to argue, but she knows I’m running out of options.

“What else could it be under?”

“I don’t know,” Pam says. “Files … Requests … it could be anything.”

“You take F; I’ll take R.” Working my way down the line, I flip off the cover of each box. G through H … I through K … L through Lu. By the time I reach the second to last box, most of which is allocated to Personnel, I know I’m in trouble. There’s no way the last quarter of the alphabet is fitting in the final box. Sure enough, I pull off the top and see that I’m right. Presidential Commissions … Press … Publications. That’s where it ends. Publication.

“There’s nothing under Files,” Pam says. “I’m going to start at the-”

“We’re missing the end!”

“What?”

“It’s not here-these aren’t all the boxes!”

“Michael, calm down.”

Refusing to listen, I rush to the small area where Caroline’s files were originally stacked. My hands are shaking as they skim down the stacks of every surrounding box. Palmer… Perez… Perlman… Poirot. Nothing marked Caroline Penzler. Frantic, I zigzag through the makeshift aisles, looking for anything we may’ve overlooked.

“Where else could they be?” I ask in a panic.

“I have no idea-there’s storage everywhere.”

“I need a place, Pam. Everywhere is a little vague.”

“I don’t know. Maybe the attic?”

“What attic?”

“On the fifth floor-next to the Indian Treaty Room. Al once said they used it for overflow.” Realizing we’re short on manpower, she adds, “Maybe you should call Trey.”

“I can’t-he’s stalling Nora in his office.” I look down at the fourteen boxes laid out in front of us. “Can you-”

“I’ll go through these,” she says, reading my thoughts. “You head upstairs. Page me if you need help.”

“Thanks, Pam. You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she says. “I love you too.”

I stop dead in my tracks and study her barbed blue eyes.

She smiles. I don’t know what to say.

“You should get out of here,” she adds.

I don’t move.

“Go on,” she says. “Get out of here!”

Running for the door, I look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of my friend. She’s already deep into the next box.

Back in the halls of the basement, I keep my head down as I lope past a group of janitors pushing mop buckets. I’m not taking any chances. The moment I’m spotted, it’s over. Following the hallway around another turn, I duck under a vent pipe and ignore two separate sets of stairs. Both are empty, but both also lead to crowded hallways.

A quarter-way down the hall, I slam on the brakes and push the call button for the service elevator. It’s the one place I know I won’t run into any fellow staffers. No one in the White House thinks of themselves as second-class.

Waiting, I anxiously check up and down this oven of a hallway. It’s got to be ninety degrees. The armpits of my shirt are soaked. The worst part is, I’m out in the open. If anyone comes, there’s nowhere to hide. Maybe I should duck into a room-at least until the elevator gets here. I look around to see what’s-Oh, no. How’d I miss that? It’s right across from the elevator, staring me straight in the face-a small black-and-white sign that reads “Room 072-USSS/UD.” The United States Secret Service and the Uniformed Division. And here I am, standing right in front of it.

Looking up, I search the ceiling for a camera. Through the wires, behind the pipes. It’s the Secret Service-it’s got to be here somewhere. Unable to spot it, I turn back to the elevator. Maybe no one’s watching. If they haven’t come out yet, the odds are good.

I pound my thumb against the call button. The indicator above the door says it’s on the first floor. Thirty more seconds-that’s all I need. Behind me, I hear the worst kind of creak. I spin around and see the doorknob starting to turn. Someone’s coming out. The elevator pings as it finally arrives, but its doors don’t open. Over my shoulder, I hear hinges squeak. A quick look shows me the uniformed agent stepping out of the room. He’s right behind me as the elevator opens. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grab me. I inch forward and calmly step into the elevator, praying he doesn’t follow. Please, please, please, please, please. Even as the doors close, he can stick his hand in at the last second. Keeping my back turned, I squint with apprehension. Finally, I hear the doors close behind me.

Alone in the rusty industrial elevator, I turn, push the button marked 5, and let my head sag back against the beat-up walls. Approaching each floor, I tense up just a bit, but one after another, we pass them without stopping. Straight to the top. Sometimes there’re benefits to being second-class.

When the doors open on the highest floor of the OEOB, I stick out my head and survey the hallway. There’re a couple young suits at the far end, but otherwise, it’s a clear path. Following Pam’s instructions, I dart straight for the door to the left of the Indian Treaty Room. Unlike most of the rooms in the building, it’s unmarked. And unlocked.

“Anyone here?” I call out as I push open the door. No answer. The room’s dark. Stepping inside, I see that it’s not even a room. It’s just a tiny closet with a metal-grated staircase leading straight up. That must be the attic. I hesitate as I put my foot on the first step. In any building with five hundred rooms, there’re always gonna be a few that inherently seem off-limits. This is one of them.

I grab the iron handrail and feel a layer of dust under the palm of my hand. As I climb higher up the stairs, I’m encased in another sauna caused by the lack of air-conditioning. I thought I was sweating before, but up here… proof positive that heat rises. Every breath in is like a full gulp of sand.

As I continue up the stairs, I notice two deflated Winnie-the-Pooh mylar balloons attached to the banister. Both of them read “Happy Birthday” on them. Whoever was up here last, it must’ve been a hell of a private party.

At the top, I turn around and get my first good look at the long, rectangular attic. With high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams, it gets all its light from a few skylights and a set of miniature windows. Otherwise, it’s a dim, crowded room filled with leftovers. Discarded desks in one corner, stacked-up chairs in another, and what looks like an empty swimming pool cut into the center of the floor. As I get closer, I realize that the recessed part of the floor is actually the casing for a section of stained glass that’s surrounded by a waist-high guardrail.

As soon as my eyes hit it, I know I’ve seen it before. Then I remember where I am. Directly above the most ornate room in the building-the Indian Treaty Room. Looking down, I can see its outline through the huge sections of stained glass. The marble wall panels. The intricate marquetry floor. I was there for the AmeriCorps reception, when I first met Nora. The attic runs right over it. Their stained glass ceiling; my stained glass floor.

Deeper into the room, I finally find what I’m after. Beyond the guardrail, in the far left corner, are at least fifty file boxes. Right in the front, in a horizontal stack, are the six I’m looking for. The ones marked Penzler. My stomach constricts.

I grab the top box from the pile and rip off the cardboard lid. R through Sa. This is it. I pull out each file as I go. Racial Discrimination … Radio Addresses … Reapportionment … Request Memos.

The folder is at least three inches thick, and I tear it out with a sharp yank. Flipping it open, I see the most recent memo on top. It’s dated August 28th. A week before Caroline was killed. Addressed to the White House Security Office, the memo states that she “would like to request current FBI files for the following individual(s):” On the next line is a single name, Michael Garrick.

It’s not much in the way of news-I’ve known she requested my file since the day I saw it on her desk. Still, there’s something odd about seeing it in print. After everything that’s happened-everything I’ve been through-this is where it started.

No matter how ruthless Caroline was or how many people she blackmailed, even she knew it was impossible to get an FBI file without a request memo. Thinking about it, she probably didn’t see it as that big a deal-as Ethics Officer for the White House, she had fifty ways to justify each request. And if anyone tried to use a request against her… well, every one of us was guilty of something. So who cares about a little paper trail?

Remembering that Caroline had fifteen folders on her desk, I flip to the next memo and take a closer look at the other files she’d requested. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Those are the two nominees Nora told me about in the bowling alley. Including me, that’s three. Twelve more to go. The next eight are presidential appointees. That brings it to eleven. Pam’s was requested a while back. That’s twelve. Thirteen and fourteen are both judicial nominees-people I’ve never heard of. That leaves only one more name. I turn the page and look down, expecting it to be Simon. Sure enough, he’s there. But he’s not the only one. There’s an extra name on the last sheet.

My eyes go wide. I can’t believe it. I sit down on a box, the sheet trembling in my hand. Simon was right about one thing. I had it all backwards. That’s why Simon was clueless when I quizzed him about Nora. And why I couldn’t rip a hole in his alibi. And why… all this time… I had the wrong guy. Vaughn hit it right on the money. Nora was sleeping with the old man. I just had the wrong old man.

Caroline had requested a sixteenth file-a file that must’ve been snatched from her desk-snatched by the killer-so it was never seen by the FBI. That’s why he was never a suspect. I reread his name half a dozen times. The calmest among us. Lawrence Lamb.

A fit of nausea punches me in the throat and my chest caves in. The folder I’m holding sags to the floor. I don’t… I don’t believe it. It can’t be. And yet… that’s why I-And he-

I shut my eyes and clench my teeth. He knew I’d buy it-all he had to do was open the inner circle and wave a few perks. Fudge outside the Oval. Briefing the President. The chance to be the bigshot. Lamb knew I’d lick up every last drop. Including Nora. That was the cherry on top. And the more I relied on him, the less likely it became that I’d search things out for myself. That’s all he needed. That’s all I had. Blind faith.

Bent over, I’m still struggling to digest what’s running through my head. That’s why she brought me to see him. They gave me the list of suspects; I took it as fact. Without Vaughn, I never would’ve questioned it. There’s only one problem with the picture-it’s all coming together a bit too easily. From the box being up here, to the file being in its exact place… I can’t put my finger on it, but it feels a little too force-fed. It’s almost as if someone’s trying to help me. As if they want to be found out.

“I never meant to hurt you, Michael,” a voice whispers behind me.

I spin around, recognizing it immediately. Nora. “Is that the lie of the moment? Some maudlin disclaimer?”

She walks toward me. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” she says. “Not anymore.”

“Not anymore? That’s supposed to make me feel better? The first fifty things you told me were bullshit, but from here on in, it’s all sunshine?”

“It wasn’t bullshit.”

“It was, Nora! All of it was!”

“That’s not-”

“Stop lying!”

“Why’re you-”

“Why’m I what? Shattered? Enraged? Devastated? Why do you think, Nora!? That night we outran the Service, you weren’t lost! You knew where that bar was, and you knew Simon’d be waiting inside for the drop point!”

“I wasn’t-”

“You knew, Nora. You knew. After that, all you had to do was sit back and watch it play out. I follow; you leave the ten grand in my car; the next day, once Caroline’s dead, you’ve got an instant scapegoat.”

“Michael… ”

“You’re not even denying it! Trey was right, wasn’t he? That’s why you took the money-to plant on me! That’s all you had to do!”

For once, she decides not to fight back.

I take a second, catching my breath. “Must’ve been a real monkey-wrench when we got pulled over by the cops. You may’ve lost the Service, but now you had a witness.”

“It was more than that,” she whispers.

“Oh, that’s right-when I said the money was mine, it was also the first time anyone was ever nice to you. How’d you put it that night? People don’t do nice things for you? Well, no offense, Sybil, but I finally understand why.”

“You don’t mean that,” she says, putting a hand on my shoulder.

“Get the hell off me!” I shout, pulling away. “Dammit, Nora, don’t you get it? I was on your side! I looked past the drugs; I ignored every rumor. I took you to see my father, for chrissakes! I loved you, Nora! Do you have any idea what that means?” I can’t help it-I start choking up.

She looks at me with the saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. “I love you too.”

I shake my head. Too little. Too late. “Are you at least gonna tell me why?”

All I get is silence.

“I asked you a question, Nora. Why’d you do it?” My shoulders are shaking. “Tell me! Are you in love with him?”

“No!” Her voice cracks with that one.

“Then why’re you sleeping with him?”

“Michael… ”

“Don’t Michael me! Just give me an answer!”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“It’s sex, Nora! There are only so many reasons to do it-you’re in love… ”

“It’s more complicated th-”

“… you’re horny… ”

“This isn’t about you.”

“… you’re desperate… ”

“Stop it, Michael.”

“… you’re bored… ”

“I said stop it!”

“… or it’s against your will.”

Nora falls dead silent.

Oh, God.

Crossing her arms, she wraps them around her torso and tucks her chin toward her chest.

“Did he… ”

She raises her eyes just enough for me to see the first tears. They stream down her face and slowly trickle down her thin neck.

“He molested you?”

She turns away.

A sharp fire rips a hole in my stomach. I’m not sure if it’s rage or pain. All I know is it hurts. “When did it happen?” I ask.

“You don’t underst-”

“Was it more than once?”

“Please, Michael, please don’t do this,” she begs.

“No,” I tell her. “You need this.”

“It’s not what you think-it’s only since-”

“Only!? How long has it been going on?”

Once again, dead silence. A piece of wood creaks in the corner. She keeps her eyes locked on the floor. Her voice is tiny. “Since I was eleven.”

“Eleven?” I cry. “Oh, Nora… ”

“Please-please don’t tell anyone!” she begs. “Please, Michael!” Floodgates open. The tears come fast. “I… I have to… I don’t have money!”

“What do you mean you don’t have money?”

She’s breathing heavily-panting through her sobs. “For the drugs!” she sobs. “It’s just the drugs!”

As she says the words, I feel the blood drain from my face. That sick dominating bastard. He keeps her trapped by drugs in exchange for-

“Please, Michael, promise you won’t say anything! Please!”

I can’t stand hearing her beg. Sobbing uncontrollably, with her arms still wrapped around herself, she just stands there-in her self-made cocoon-afraid to reach out.

Since the day we met, I’ve seen a side of Nora Hartson that she’d never reveal to the public. As a friend and a liar, a lunatic and a lover. As a bored rich kid, a fear-nothing thrill-seeker, an odds-defying gambler, and even, for the briefest of moments, as a perfect daughter-in-law. I’ve seen her everywhere in between. But never as a victim.

I won’t let her go through this alone. There’s no need for alone. I cover her with my embrace.

“I’m sorry,” she cries as she crumbles in my arms. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing her back. “It’s all going to be okay.” But even as I say the words, both of us know it’s not. However it started, Lawrence Lamb has ruined her life. When someone steals your childhood, you never get it back.

Rocking back and forth, I use the same technique I use on my dad. She doesn’t need words; she just needs soothing.

“Y-You should… ” Nora begins, her head buried against my shoulder. “You should get out of here.”

“Don’t worry. No one knows we’re-”

“He’s coming,” she whispers. “I had to tell him. He’s on his way.”

“Who’s on his way?”

There’s a steady thunk as he bounds up the stairs. I spin around and the answer comes from the deep, calm voice in the corner of the room. “Get away from her, Michael,” Lawrence Lamb says. “I think you’ve already done enough.”