The First Counsel

* * *

On my way back to the OEOB, I realize I'm squeezing both hands into tight fists. Opening them up, I stretch out my fingers, trying to shake off Nora's dismissal. Yet with release comes panic. It's not that bad, I tell myself. She'll come through. She's just being careful now. Besides, all I did was find the body and yell a bit. It's not like I'm a suspect. No one even knows about the money. Except for Nora. And the D.C. police. And Caroline. And anyone else she told about the . . . Damn, the rumors could already be out there. And when they realize the bills are consecutive . . .

My thoughts are interrupted by the vibrations of my beeper. I pull it from my pocket and check the message. That's when I'm reminded of the one other person who knows about the money. The message says it all: "Would like to speak to you. In person. E.S."

E.S. Edgar Simon.

Chapter 9

Sitting in the waiting room outside Simon's office, my only distraction is Judy's typing. Simon's personal assistant, Judy Stohr, is a chubby little woman with dyed red hair. Divorced the year Hartson decided to run for President, she gave up on men, moved from New Jersey to Hartson's home state of Florida, and joined the campaign. A walking encyclopedia for every day that's passed since then, Judy loves her new life. But as the always attentive mother of two college-age kids, she'll never be able to change who she is.

"What's wrong? You look sick."

"I'm fine," I tell her.

"Don't tell me 'fine.' You're not fine."

"Judy, I promise you, there's nothing wrong." As she stares me down, I add, "I'm sad about Caroline."

"Ucch, it's terrible. On my worst enemy, I wouldn't wish such--"

"Does he have anyone in there?" I interrupt, pointing to Simon's closed door.

"No, he's just been making calls. He's the one who told the President. And Caroline's family. Now he's talking to the major papers . . ."

"Why?" I ask nervously.

"His office; his territory. He's the point man on this. Press wants reaction from her boss."

That makes sense. Nothing out of the ordinary. "Any other news?"

Judy leans back in her chair, enjoying her moment as the most informed. "It's a heart attack. FBI's still going through the office, but they know what's going on--Caroline smoked more than my Aunt Sally and drank six cups of coffee a day. No offense, but what'd she expect?"

I shrug, unsure of how to respond.

In my silence, Judy sees something in my eyes. "You want to tell me what's really upsetting you, Michael?"

"It's nothing. Everything's fine."

"You're not still intimidated by these guys, are you? You shouldn't be--you're better than 'em all. That's truth talking to you: You're a real person. That's why people like you."

During my third week on the job, I mistakenly sent a letter to the head of the House Judiciary Committee that began "Dear Congressman" as opposed to "Dear Mr. Chairman." This being egoville, the Chairman's staff left a snide remark about it on Simon's voice-mail, and after a quick lashing by Simon, I made the mistake of telling Judy how intimidating it was being a state school boy in the White House's Ivy League world. Since then, I've realized I could hold my own. For me, it's no longer an issue. For Judy, it's always my problem.

"The more you succeed, the more they get scared," she explains. "You're a threat to the old boy network--rock-solid proof that it doesn't matter where you went to school or who your parents--"

"I get the point," I say with a snap.

Judy gives me a second to cool down. "You're still not over it, are you?"

"I promise you, I'm fine. I just need to speak to Simon."