by Malcom James
He spent the rest of the morning scanning online resources in search of voter fraud articles. He didn’t find much of anything, other than articles about Franks’ tweets of a “rigged system” and claims of being robbed of three million votes.
Just before noon, Walter appeared next to his cubicle wall.
“How ‘bout a quick tour and lunch in the West Wing?” Walter asked, towering over Eli in his chair. “If we go now, we can beat the crowd.”
Eli closed his laptop. “Yes sir, that sounds great.”
“Let’s do it. And please, reserve your ‘sirs’ for the president and the generals.”
“Got it.”
Eli grabbed his jacket and followed Walter downstairs, outside and across Executive Avenue to the West Wing staff entrance, where they were presented with the final and most intense security checkpoint. This time there were plainclothes Secret Service agents manning the metal detector and X-ray machine vs. the uniformed D.C. police officers manning the Eisenhower checkpoints. Their cold efficiency and the way they looked right through you gave the impression they were reading your mind.
This was the third layer of security he’d passed through, and it made sense as he was now inside the White House. Given where he was, it almost seemed light, but he knew there were untold layers of additional security, invisible to the naked eye. Cameras, sniffers, biometrics; who knew? In a way, it was a triumph of American openness and technology that the White House was this accessible at all.
Once through, Walter lead Eli into the lobby. Staff members with ID badges and file folders and hurried looks on their faces waived at Walter as they crossed the lobby. “Ever heard of the Navy Mess?” Walter asked.
“Can’t say I have.”
“Small restaurant under the West Wing, run by the Navy. Also called the White House Mess. Right down here.” Walter turned and guided them down carpeted stairs to the host’s stand, emblazoned with the Presidential Seal, where an older Asian woman with a Navy pin on her lapel checked their reservation, and showed them to a table. The windowless dining room was ornate, with polished floor-to-ceiling wood paneling, and a nautical theme featuring historic oil paintings of U.S. Navy ships in famous battles. Eli counted a dozen dining tables, each with fine linen, china and fresh cut flowers. There was a take-out window for staffers to grab orders to go.
Over the course of the next hour, a caesar salad, grilled halibut with spring vegetables and iced tea, Walter educated Eli on the Mess, and the West Wing. Tables were available for Cabinet members, commissioned officers, senior staffers and White House guests, based on appointment. There were no windows because they were one level underground, and they were actually just around the hallway from the Situation Room, where so many historic operations had been directed.
Walter then gave Eli a crash course in what was about to come. There would be no welcome package in Eli’s inbox. And Walter didn’t want to have to repeat it, so he asked that Eli listen closely.
Walter Donnelly now reported to the President of The United States. President Franks preferred a flatter organization than previous presidents, with a large number of advisors reporting directly to him, versus having fewer direct reports and a deeper hierarchy. And Eli reported directly to Walter. That was partly because of what Eli had proven to them during the campaign, but also because they had very little IT staff they could trust; most of the IT support was provided by the General Services Administration, or the Secret Service. Eli was officially a “senior policy analyst.” He was part of the policy team, but as an analyst, he would need access to data, hence his security profile called that out, and his clearance had taken longer. Fortunately Eli had zero debt, zero criminal records and zero foreign entanglements, so there were no delays. And there were other things:
Always show up in a suit.
No drugs, or alcohol-related situations, inside or outside the White House. President Franks was adamant about that.
He shouldn’t get into any relationships with anyone that worked inside the White House. And if he did, or they did, they had to keep it outside the building and private, or they could tarnish the presidency, and would be ex-communicated immediately. Eli understood, and assured him that wouldn’t be an issue.
Most of the time, Eli would be posted up in the Eisenhower Building, knocking down his tasks. It might not be exciting, but it was mission-critical.
The truth was, on an org chart, Eli Green was only one box away from the President of the United States. Obviously it wasn’t a succession-of-power chart, and was totally bizarre, but he had to take that extremely seriously.
Anytime he was in the White House, he had to be “on” — no bullshit, on-message, extremely reticent and polite. The commander in chief, the joint chiefs, Cabinet secretaries, foreign leaders, congressional leaders, the vice president, the first lady, and the rest of the first family — any of them could appear around a corner at any time.
And finally, he had to be loyal. And what did that mean? Simple: they all worked for the president. They offered their opinion when directly asked, but all of it was ultimately in service of the president’s agenda.
The president trusted his own instincts, and preferred people who agreed with him, and the fact of him capturing the highest office in the land on his first try was only evidence of his brilliance, so that had to be considered when offering an opinion. “When in doubt, keep your mouth shut” was the operating motto.
So those were the basics, and Eli was confident he understood. Walter ordered coffee, a large slice of key lime pie and two forks so they could share.
As they dug into dessert, there was commotion in the dining room near the front, and people stood up. Eli could see Walter’s eyes fixed on the commotion. He smiled and nodded to Eli, raising his eyebrow just enough to indicate that Eli should turn around.
Eli turned, and there at the entrance to the dining room was President Franks, in the flesh. He was shaking hands, chatting, telling people to sit back down and finish their lunch.
Franks was in his usual suit and tie, all business, his trademark pompadour of shocking-white hair piled high and combed over the thinning front. He patted one of the lunching men on the shoulder, and then moved on, stopping at a new table to say hello.
He looked taller in real life. He was followed by two Secret Service agents and a man Eli knew was Ken Miller, Franks’ personal “body man” and head of his private security, who had worked for Franks for over two decades. Eli’s body tightened as the president came closer, and then turned and looked right at their table and came over. Walter tapped Eli’s wrist to help him snap out of it and stand up.
“Walter - how was the lunch?” Franks asked as he stuck out his hand. Walter shook President Franks’ hand. “Fantastic, Mr. President. And the key lime pie is to die for.”
“Is that right? I just came down to grab a burger, but I might have to add that to my order. And who’s this?” Franks asked as he stared straight at Eli.
“Eli Green, sir. He’s on our policy team, came to us from Paragon. He’ll be handling our analytics.” Eli stuck out his hand and Franks shook it vigorously. Unlike the rumors he heard, Franks’ hands seemed normal-sized. Not small, and not as large as he claimed; just average. But he had a strong and decisive grip, and held it for an extra-long beat.
“Good to meet you, Eli. Paragon? That’s beautiful. So you’re a high-tech guy then?”
“I guess you could say that, yes sir.”
“Paragon billed us a hell of a lot, but I think we got our money’s worth, don’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir, you did. I mean, I think we achieved what we set out to do,” Eli stammered.
“Damn straight we did. We won. That’s all that matters, right?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Good. So what are you working on now?”
“Voter fraud, sir,” Eli replied. Franks got a serious look as he finally released Eli’s hand.
�
�Excellent. We need to put a stop to this travesty as soon as possible. It’s making a mockery out of our democracy. Hey, that rhymes, doesn’t it? I kind of like that, it’s catchy — ‘mockery of democracy.’ I’m going to have to use that.”
They all laughed with him. “We agree, sir. And Eli will be a great addition to the team,” Walter offered.
“Glad to hear it. Keep up the good work. Your country needs you, big time.” Franks patted Eli on the shoulder, then turned with his three-man entourage and headed back to the take-out window, where the chef handed him a to-go bag, just the way he liked. And then Franks and his detail disappeared up the stairs, as quickly as they appeared.
Eli and Walter sat back down, as did the rest of the room, but the chit-chat was noticeably louder.
“You did good,” Walter said quietly, killing off the last of the pie.
***
Outside the Mess, they walked past the Situation Room, which Walter explained wasn’t only the famous conference room everyone heard of, but actually five thousand square feet of space, consisting of not only the main room, but several smaller secure briefing rooms, and most critically, the Watch Center. This was where a team of military and intelligence analysts monitored global threats and operations, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Back up stairs, they walked the hallway of the entire first floor, along the Secret Service office, then around the corner and past the “power offices” of the national security advisor, the press secretary, the vice president, and the chief of staff, before finally turning another corner, and peeking down a long hallway that ended with an intense-looking Secret Service agent standing by a closed door. The agent was bald, at least six-foot-four, and appeared to be reading their security badges from forty feet away. Walter gave the agent a waive, but got nothing in return. In a hushed tone, Walter explained that behind that door was the Oval Office. The other doors between them and the agent were the president’s private study, lavatory, and kitchen. He tapped Eli on the shoulder. “Come on,” he whispered, and they retreated.
Upstairs on the second floor of the West Wing, the mood was more relaxed. These were critical offices to be sure, but not quite the “main drag.” They were reserved for senior advisors, including the legislative affairs team, and the Office of Legal Counsel. Finally they arrived at Walter’s office, with an outer waiting area that included two desks, one for his executive assistant.
“I haven’t found her yet,” he mused.
“Who?”
“My executive assistant.”
“What happened to Mary from the campaign?”
“Mary from the campaign couldn’t afford the pay cut of government work. She’s fifty-five, married and lives in the District with two kids in private school. No one who works in the government can afford to live here. Why do you think this town is full of lobbyists?”
Eli nodded, half smiling. “Drain the swamp.”
“Precisely,” Walter replied, and slapped Eli on the back. “Besides, I’ve got a ton of resumes on my desk, some even with headshots. You’d be surprised what a girl would do to get a job in the White House,” he added, winking.
Walter’s phone buzzed, and he checked it. “Let’s go,” he mumbled, pocketing his phone and heading toward the hallway.
“What’s up?” Eli asked, trailing behind.
“Press conference.”
4
Natalie
The energy was palpable as Walter and Eli entered the office of the press secretary. They had a front row ticket to observe the action from the doorway. Press Secretary Steven Stevens stood behind a desk littered with folders, sleeves rolled up and tie loose, as a male staffer hovered next to him, reviewing his opening statement.
Televisions tuned to cable news were aligned on the wall below world clocks. Two more staffers rushed in and handed Stevens printouts. An ice-cold blond in a tight business suit called from the doorway to the briefing room. “Five minutes.”
Walter caught Eli staring, and whispered in his ear, “Michelle Banks, deputy press secretary.” A surge of excitement pumped in Eli’s chest. This was the heart of the action, and he was in the middle. Whatever was on that paper Stevens was reading would be forever recorded in the books of history, and it was happening right here in front of him, on the very first day. He’d been locked away in an office in front of a screen for most of the campaign. For someone who didn’t care about politics, he was finding it fascinating standing in the heart of the beast.
Another staffer came through the door between Eli and Walter.
“Sorry,” she said, pushing between them, leaving a trail of perfume.
Eli followed her as she slid into a chair across from Stevens. She was petite, probably mid-twenties. Her brunette hair was cut in a precise, angled bob, and her brown eyes were totally focused on the laptop that she opened and began typing furiously on.
Walter guided Eli to a vacant desk out of the way. “Natalie Roth, social media director,” he said under his breath. Social media? Now he was intrigued.
More staffers filed in a bit too loudly.
“Three minutes,” Michelle Banks called out, as Stevens rolled down and buttoned his sleeves, put on his jacket, and an aide checked his hair and makeup.
Eli watched as Natalie finished typing, then grabbed paper off a printer and walked around the desk and handed it to Stevens. Stevens read it. “Are you kidding me?” Natalie shook her head. Nope.
Stevens looked visibly annoyed. “When?” he asked.
“Three minutes ago,” she replied.
“God damn it!” Stevens shouted to no one in particular. Natalie retreated to her desk. Stevens noticed Walter across the room and made eye contact. “Have a look.”
Walter hurried to Stevens’ side. “Apparently we’re going to announce the outlines of tax reform very soon?” Stevens asked as he showed Walter the paper.
“The treasury secretary hasn’t even been confirmed.”
“Okay… do you have anything on this I can use?” Stevens pleaded.
“I got nothing. What are you going to do?” Walter asked.
“Well, he tweeted it, so it’s out there and they’re going to ask. I’ll just make some shit up.” Steven Stevens tightened his tie, grabbed a folder from his desk and shoved his papers in it, and walked into the shark-infested waters of the Brady Press Briefing Room.
What unfolded over the next twenty-three minutes was a striking clash between the White House and the press, and would soon become the “new normal.” Eli, Walter, and the rest of the communications team watched it all on the monitors in real time as it took place just beyond the door.
After his opening statement about President Franks meeting with a group of prestigious corporate leaders and “getting back to business for the American people,” the questions came fast and furious about a tweet the president sent just before the briefing, promising a tax plan “very soon!”
After tap dancing around that topic, Stevens was bombarded with questions about why the president referred to the media as “Fake News” for running stories about how, after the election but prior to the inauguration, the chiefs of the five main U.S. intelligence agencies met with both Franks and his predecessor, to discuss their report on Russian attempts to interfere in the election, and the fact that the intel chiefs not only concluded unanimously that Russia intended to help Franks and hurt his opponent, but also included an extra supplement in the briefing that detailed a dossier which contained a series of very serious and salacious allegations about the president and his involvement with the Russians, which had been compiled by a former British intelligence official.
“Because that is the definition of Fake News!” Stevens insisted. “The president has stated that the dossier is garbage, and yet you in the mainstream media insist on reporting it as if it were true,” Stevens pointed out.
“But none of the reports we ran said the contents were true, the reports simply st
ated that the intel agencies briefed the president on its existence, because he should know that this information was out there, whether true or not. That’s not ‘Fake News’ - that’s a fact that no one has disputed,” argued the Senior White House Correspondent from one of the leading cable channels.
“The dossier is Fake News, created by someone paid by the president’s opponents to damage him and prevent him from making the changes in Washington that he was elected by the American people to make, and every time you ask about it you are simply perpetuating that lie, and so you are Fake News too,” Stevens countered.
And so it went, back and forth, and to anyone paying very close attention, it was clear they were really debating two totally separate points. But to the average American, who might catch a few seconds of the exchange in an airport or on the evening news, the waters were so muddied and the facts so dense and the names of the players so many, that it all just amounted to a sense of two kids arguing.
The ground was slowly being shifted from what was a “knowable fact” to the idea that facts were more like opinions; everyone had their own, and who could really say what was true in the end?
Stevens knew the media had an even lower approval rating than the president, and so what appeared to political junkies and insiders to be an unnecessarily combative posture and clear obfuscation of the truth, was actually a brilliant strategy by the White House to make it impossible for the average American to know for sure what was going on, and therefore easier to simply ignore altogether.
Eli was impressed. Even the normally staid, standard give-and-take of the White House press briefing was being disrupted. After the presser ended, there was soft laugher and a good amount of back-slapping in the office, as Stevens returned with an air of victory.
In the aftermath, Eli strode over to Natalie Roth and interrupted her furious typing to introduce himself.
