The First Counsel

* * *

"This better be good," Nora says, bursting into my office. She blows past the couch, but my eyes are still on the door.

She doesn't even have to ask--she knows who I'm looking for. The Service.

"They're not coming," she says.

"Are you sure?"

"What do you think?"

"So they--"

"They only follow if I leave the grounds. Otherwise, in here, they leave me . . ." Her voice trails off. She notices something behind my desk. The ego wall. Damn. Charging toward it, she goes straight to the photo of me and her dad. It's the same one I gave to my dad, but this one's signed.

"What?" I ask.

Studying the photo, she doesn't answer.

"Nora, can't you--"

"He must've been in a good mood . . . the signature's real."

"I'm thrilled--now can you stop for a second?"

Ignoring the request, she's too busy checking out the rest of my office. The crazy part is, most people get intimidated when they're not on their own turf. Nora thrives. "So this is where it all happens, huh? This is where you bust your ass for a signature on a glossy prin--"

"Nora!"

She looks up and grins, enjoying the outburst. "I'm just joshing with you, Michael."

"Now's not the time."

She knows that tone. "Listen, I'm sorry . . . just tell me what the big deal is. Who's on fire?"

I quickly relay everything that's happened with Pam and the files. As always, Nora's judgment comes quick.

"I told you," she says, taking a seat on the corner of my desk. "I said it from the start. That's how it always is in this place. It's all about competition."

"It has nothing to do with competition."

"Oh, so now you're going to ignore the fact that Caroline's death meant a huge promotion for Pam?"

"That's only for the interim. They'll hire someone new after the election."

"So you think she was being blackmailed? That she killed Caroline to hide whatever's in her file?"

I don't answer.

"And Jill came tumbling after," Nora says. "And let's not forget Vaughn's file. Didn't Pam promise she was going to pull that for you? Last I checked, you still don't have it."

"I don't need it. Lamb gave me most of it; Vaughn told me the rest."

"That still doesn't change the facts. Pam promised it and never delivered."

"Can you please just drop it?"

She crosses her legs and shakes her head. "So when you accuse her, it's fine; and when I accuse her, it's bad? Is that how it--"

"I don't want to talk about it," I interrupt, raising my voice. For the next few seconds, we sit in awkward silence. I eye the envelope that's resting on her lap. Finally, I say, "Did you get the information?"

"What do you think?" she asks, dangling it from her fingertips.

I snatch it away and rip it open. Inside is a four-page photocopy from the President's Oval Office appointment book. When Trey put in a request for the same information, he got nothing but goose-egg. Undeterred, we pulled out the big gun. Ten minutes later, Barbara was more than happy to fulfill Nora's request.

"What'd you tell her?" I ask, flipping through the pages.

"I told her we thought Simon was a killer, and we wanted to see if he was really in the Oval when Caroline died."

"That's cute."

"I didn't have to say anything--I told her it was personal. Before I could get another verb out of my mouth, she had copies in my hand."

The four pages of photocopies cover the four hours from eight A.M. until noon on the day Caroline died. One page for each hour. Looking at it, it's a true marathon.

8:06--Terrill enters. 8:09--Pratt enters. 8:10--McNider enters. 8:16--Terrill leaves. 8:19--Pratt and McNider leave. 8:20 to 8:28--phone calls. 8:29 -- Alan S. enters. 8:41--Alan S. leaves. The meetings run through the entire morning. Hartson doesn't have to go anywhere. They all come to him.

Flipping to the next page, I quickly find what I'm looking for.

9:27--Simon enters.

My finger scrolls through the rest of the list, looking for its match. My heart drops as soon as I see it. 10:32--Simon leaves. Damn. I didn't find the body until at least 10:30. That means he's got it. The perfect alibi.

There's a sad look on Nora's face. "I'm sorry," she says. When I don't answer, her voice starts to race. "Though it sure puts a hell of a finger on Pam, don't you think?"

"For once in your life, can you just stop?"

She doesn't appreciate that one. "Listen, Archie, just because you got dicked over by Betty doesn't mean you have to be an ass to Veronica." Before I can respond, she's on her way to the door.

"Nora, I'm sorry for snapping like that."

She doesn't care.

"Please, Veronica, don't leave. I can't do it without you."

She stops in her tracks.

"You mean that?" she asks, surprisingly serious.

I nod. "I could really use your help."

Hesitantly, she heads back to my desk. Her fingers stroll along the photocopied pages. Studying them, she eventually says, "Do you have any idea what they were meeting about? An hour's a long time to have in there."

I smile a thank-you. "I checked the old schedule--the first twenty minutes were for a briefing with some National Security folks. The last forty were listed as a leadership ceremony for some bar association hotshots. Probably some kind of schmoozefest for big donors--show them around the Oval, send them an autographed picture; a week later, ask them for a donation."

"Whatever it was, it tied Simon up for an hour."

"I don't know. There're plenty of other doors to the office. Maybe Simon snuck out and Barbara never noticed."

"Or maybe Pam--" She cuts herself off, learning from before. Even so, Nora knows what I'm thinking. "Have you asked her about it yet?"

"Who? Pam?"

"No, Nancy Reagan. Of course, Pam."

"Not yet. I checked her office, but she's not there."

"Then get off your ass and find her. Beep her, send an e-mail. You need to figure out what's going on."

"I tried. She won't answer."

"I bet she's at the party."

"What party?"

"Six o'clock in the Rose Garden. For my mom. Trey put together the event."

I almost forgot. Today's the First Lady's fiftieth birthday--and the live Dateline interview. "You really think Pam'll be there?"

"Are you kidding? Every clutch in the building'll be there. Pam'll be right at home." Nora looks down at her watch and adds, "Speaking of which, I should get going."

There's a moment of hesitation in her voice. "Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Yeah. Fine."

I know that tone. "Say what you're thinking, Nora."

She stays quiet.

I reach over and take her hand. As softly as possible, I pry open her fist. This can't be about the party--she's a pro at the staged stuff. "You nervous about the interview?"

"No, Michael, I love being judged by the whole damn country. I love when ten thousand letters flood in telling me I don't wear enough makeup and that my lipstick sucks. And the fact it's live? Ain't that the rotten cherry on top--one bad answer away from my very own Saturday Night Live sketch. I mean, my parents asked for this crap--I was just born into it."

She stops to catch her breath and I don't say a word.

"You have to understand," she adds. "I mean . . . I can live with all the other bullshit--I just don't like being the issue."

"Who says you're the--"

"Please, Michael, they send me the poll numbers too. There's a reason they want the whole family there."

"Nora, that doesn't mean you--"

"Whatever you're about to say, Romeo, I got a hundred million voters who disagree with you. And every vote counts."

"It may count, but it doesn't matter. There's a difference."

She looks up and stops. "You really think that, don't you?"

"Of course I do."

"Yeah, well, that's you." With one last glance at her watch, she pushes herself away from my desk and heads for the door. "Torturous or not, I gotta be there. Press Office asked me to wear a dress; they're lucky they're getting underwear."

In a blur, Hurricane Nora blows out of the office and leaves me alone in the wake of silence. Still, I know where I am. I've been here plenty of times before. The roar of absolute quiet. The calm before the storm.