The First Counsel

* * *

"How'd it go?" Pam asks as I stand in front of her desk.

"I don't know, it was kinda like--"

The ringing of her phone interrupts my thought. "Hold on a second," she says, picking it up. "This is Pam. Yeah. No, I know. You'll have it by next week. Great. Thanks." She hangs up and looks back up at me. "I'm sorry--you were saying . . ."

"It's hard to describe. When Simon got there, I thou--"

Once again, her phone interrupts.

"Don't worry--let it ring," she tells me.

I'm about to continue when I see her glance at the caller ID. I know that panicked look on her face. This is an important call.

"It's okay," I say. "Pick it up."

"It'll just take a minute," she promises as she lifts the receiver. "This is Pam. Yeah, I . . . What? No--he won't. I promise he won't." There's a long pause as she listens. This is going to be longer than a minute.

"Why don't I come back later," I whisper.

"I'm really sorry," she mouths, covering the receiver.

"Don't worry. It's not a big deal." Leaving Pam's office, I try to tell myself that's the truth.

Crossing through the anteroom, I decide to call Trey, who's probably still mad at me. As I head to my office, I see a pair of men's white Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear hanging from the doorknob. Above it is a laser-printed sign:

Welcome Home Brief(ing)Master!

Butterfly kisses,All of Your Adoring Fan

I pull off the underwear and open the door. Inside, it only gets worse. On my chair, covering my couch, hanging from my lamps and every picture frame--there's men's underwear everywhere. Boxers, briefs, even a little silk fruit-smuggler. To top it off, a dozen tighty-whities spell out the word "Mike" across my desk.

"All hail Briefmaster!" Trey shouts from his hiding spot behind the door. He drops to his knees and bows at my feet. "What say you, Master of the Brief . . . ing?"

"Unbelievable," I tell him as I admire the effort.

"I even stuffed them in your drawers," he says proudly. "Get it? Drawers?"

"I got it," I say, picking three more pair off my chair. "Where'd you get all these anyway?"

"They're mine."

"Skanky!" I say, tossing them across the room.

"What, you think I'm going to buy all new underwear for a one-time joke? Humor has a price, boy." He sniffs the air twice. "And now you're paying it."

I have to admit, it's just what I needed. "Thanks, Trey."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, now tell me how it went. Were you in good positioning for the photo?"

"What photo?"

"Oh, please, Michael--it's me. You know they take your picture on your virgin visit. I don't care how scared you are, everyone here's always got one eye on the camera. Always."

I let out the smallest of grins.

"I knew it!" Trey laughs. "You're more predictable than a bank calendar! What'd you do? Stiff jaw? Squinty eyes?"

"Are you kidding? I pulled out the big guns--stiff jaw, pursed lips, and I pointed at the memo, just to solidify the student-teacher dynamic."

"Nice touch," Trey nods. "Did that convince him about the wiretaps?"

"Let me put it this way: Y'know that feeling right before you get a haircut? When you wake up one morning and suddenly you've got a bathroom mat for hair? And every day, it gets that much worse? But then, on the actual day you're supposed to get the haircut, you wake up and magically, spontaneously, your hair looks great? Y'know what I'm talking about? It's like all your fears were for nothing?" Trey nods as I pause for effect. "Well, not today!" I shout at the top of my lungs. "My hair looked crappy all day long!"

"It couldn't have been that bad," Trey says, laughing.

"No, it was worse than bad. It was awful. Tragic. So tragic it approached poetic."

"Poetic's good. Everyone loves a good rhyming couplet."

"You weren't there, Trey. I was nervous enough by myself--I didn't need Simon showing up. And when he took my information request and crammed it down my throat--son of a bitch saved it up just to rattle me. That's why we haven't gotten his records; somehow, he knew what was going on. After that, I lost my center. Every time the President asked me a question I felt like all I could do was blink back at him."

"Trust me, that's how everyone feels with the President."

"That's not--"

"It is true--the moment he enters the room--Bam!--instant bedwetter."

I'm still not convinced, but I have to smile. "If you say so."

"You know it's the truth. There's nothing small around the President--and when he asks you a question, you want to have the answer. Now tell me what else happened. Did you get to filch anything cool? Pencils? Pens? I've-got-presidential-power-coursing-through-my-veins T-shirts?"

"Not really," I say, sitting down. "Just these . . ." I reach into my pocket and pull out a pair of presidential seal cufflinks.

"Don't tell me he--"

"Took them right off his shirt--I think it was his way of calming me down."

"Calming you down? You dope, you just got Grand Poobah cufflinks! He must've liked what you said!"

"We'll see when he makes his decision. They should be voting on it as we sp--"

The ringing of my phone cuts me off. Caller ID reads Outside Call. This could be it.

"Aren't you going to pick it up?" Trey asks.

"This is Michael," I answer.

"So, did he ask you about us?" Nora says with a laugh.

"What do you mean?"

"My dad--did he ask you if you groped my goodies?"

"He decided to leave that one out," I say, still wondering how Simon found out about my request. "He probably already had enough reasons to hate me."

"I'm sure you did fine. He gave you the cufflinks, didn't he?"

"How'd you--"

"Unless you're a jerk-off, he gives them to everyone on their first briefing. He has dozens of them in his desk. Nixon used to do the same thing. Story for your kids."

I grab the cufflinks and slide them back in my pocket. Unsure of what else to say, I'm relieved to see the little red indicator light that signals call waiting. "Hold on a second," I tell Nora. I switch to the other line without even checking caller ID. My mistake. "This is Michael."

"Nice job today," a smug voice says. It's Simon.

"T-Thanks."

"I mean it, Michael. You stumbled in the beginning, but now I think you learned your lesson. Am I right?"

He's asking me if I'm going to keep it quiet. After hearing that he sicced Adenauer on me, it's obvious what the alternative is. Still, there's something he's missing. If he knew I was meeting with Vaughn, he would've said something. Which means one of two things: Vaughn's truly got something to offer--or he's setting a hell of a trap. "Yeah," I stutter. "I learned my lesson."

"Good. Then let's talk about the wiretaps."

"Hold on a second." The touch of a button clicks me back to Nora. "Listen, I gotta run--that's Simon."

"What's he--"

Too late. I'm gone. "You were saying about the wiretaps . . . ?" I ask as I click back.

"It was certainly interesting," he replies. "When you left, I went over to the Roosevelt Room for the preliminary vote. Problem was, FBI, Justice, even the policy boys . . . they were all against us."

I hate the way he says us. "So what happened?"

"Just what I said." Referring to the Chief of Staff, he explains, "When Wesley was done counting the votes, he looks at me and says, 'Seven to two. You lose.' Proud of himself, he goes back to tell Hartson. Ten minutes later, Wesley returns. Looking my way, he says, 'I just spoke to the President. The vote's now seven to three. You win.'"

It takes a minute before it registers. Then, suddenly, it hits me. "I won?"

"We won," Simon replies. "Hartson said it wasn't the right thing to do. Consider it a gift." The next thing I hear is a click. He's gone.

"You won?" Trey asks.

I'm still speechless.

"C'mon, Michael, I'm giving you thirty seconds to--"

Damn--the time. I check my watch and race for the door, shouting to Trey over my shoulder. "We won! Hartson pushed it through!"

"So where're you going now? Victory party?"

"I'm late for Vaughn."

Getting up from his seat, Trey starts to follow. "Are you sure you don't want me to--"

"No. Not with the FBI watching."

Trey's eyes narrow.

"What?" I ask. "Now you don't think I should go?"

"No, but after what happened at the museum, I just think you should have some backup."

"I appreciate you offering, but . . . no . . . no way." I'm not putting him at risk. As I say the words, he's got an annoyed, almost hurt look on his face. I've known him long enough to know what he's thinking. "You think I'm out of my league, don't you?"

"You want to know what I think?" He slaps his palm flat against my desk. Then he flips his hand, so his knuckles hit the desk. Then back to his palm. Then back to his knuckles. Palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles, palm, knuckles. "Fish out of water."

"Thanks for the wonderful mime imitation, but I'll be fine."

"What if it's an ambush? You're out there all by yourself."

"It's not an ambush," I insist as I pull open the door. "I have a good feeling about this one."