by Brad Meltzer
Also by Brad Meltzer
Dead Even
The Tenth Justice
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, incidents, and dialogue, except for incidental references to public figures, products, or services, are imaginary and are not intended to refer to any living persons or to disparage any company’s products or services.
THE FIRST COUNSEL. Copyright © 2000 by Forty-four Steps, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
For information address Warner Books, Inc., 1271 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
A Time Warner Company
ISBN 0-7595-8075-8
A hardcover edition of this book was published in 2001 by Warner Books.
First eBook edition: December 2000
Visit our Web site at www.iPublish.com
For Cori,
my First Counsel,
my First Lady,
my First Love
And for my sister, Bari,
for never tattling when we were little,
and for always reading my mind as we grow up
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank the following people, whose love and support never fail to inspire: As always, my First Lady, Cori, who is an endless source of patience and inspiration—especially as I continually drive the two of us to the limits of sanity. From pre-book plotting to final-form editing, she is everything at every moment: friend, hand-holder, advisor, editor, partner, lover, soul-mate. I love you, C—if it weren’t for you, this book wouldn’t exist and neither would I; Jill Kneerim, my agent, for one of the kindest, most rewarding friendships I’ve ever known. Of everything I’ve been fortunate enough to experience as a writer, one of the best rewards was finding Jill. Her endless faith continually helps us keep it all in perspective, and we wouldn’t be here without her; Elaine Rogers, whose tremendous energy brought new definition to the term gangbusters; Sharon Silva-Lamberson, Stephanie Wilson, Nicole Linehan, Ellen O’Donnell, Hope Denekamp, Lindsey Shaw, Ike Wilson, and everyone else at the Palmer & Dodge Agency, who keep the machine running and are among the nicest people I’ve encountered.
I’d also like to thank my parents, for giving me everything they never had, for teaching me to lead with my heart, and for knowing exactly when to be my mom and dad. You’re both incredible; Noah Kuttler, whose never-ending patience affects all my work and whose insight forces me to reach my own potential; Ethan Kline, whose astute observations are among the first I turn to, and whose friendship and trust are simply awe-inspiring (thanks for the big one, E); Matt and Susan Oshinsky, Joel Rose, Chris Weiss, and Judd Winick continue to be a brain trust I never want to be without. They read, react, suggest, and always keep me laughing.
Since the White House prides itself on secrecy, I owe immense thank-yous to the following people who let me sneak in: Steve “Scoop” Cohen, for . . . well . . . for being Scoop. From the brainstorming of the plot, to the research, to the nitpicky details, Scoop was the master of ceremonies. He is fearless and insightful, and without his creative instinct, this book wouldn’t be the same. Thank you, buddy; Debi Mohile, whose keen eye kept me honest on (almost) every page and whose great sense of humor always made it a pleasure. No one knows the White House like Debi. Thanks for putting up with me; Mark Bernstein, one of the nicest people around, for showing me the rest of the way firsthand and for reminding me the value of old friends; Lanny Breuer, Chris Cerf, Jeff Connaughton, Vince Flynn, Adam Rosman, and Kathi Whalen, who went beyond the call of duty and never failed to use their imaginations to answer tons of my inane questions; Pam Brewington, Lloyd Cutler, Fred Fielding, Leonard Garment, Thurgood Marshall Jr., Cathy Moscatelli, Miriam Nemetz, Donna Peel, Jack Quinn, Ron Saleh, Cliff Sloan, John Stanley, and Rob Weiner, who were the rest of my White House team, and in giving their time, gave me so many of the great details and stories; Larry Sheafe and Chuck Vance, who were the nicest Secret Service guys anyone could ask for; the one First Daughter who was kind enough to share her experiences in the bubble (for nothing more than the good of fiction), thanks again!; Dr. Ronald K. Wright, for his amazing forensic advice; Pat Thacker, Anne Tumlinson, Tom Antonucci, Lily Garcia, and Dale Flam for help with the details; Marsha Blanco (who’s just incredible), Steve Waldron, Chuck Perso, Carol Rambo Ronai, Sue Lorenson, Dave Watkins, Fred Baughman, John Richard Gould, Rusty Hawkins, Philip Joseph Sirken, and Jo Anne Patterson, for welcoming me into The Arc organization and the mental retardation community (www.thearc.org for more information). Rarely have I been so inspired and so utterly humbled. And, of course, to my family and friends, whose names, as always, inhabit these pages.
Finally, I’d like to thank all of the talented and wonderful people at my new publisher, Warner Books: Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Chris Barba, Claire Zion, Bruce Paonessa, Peter Mauceri, Harry Helm, and all of the incredibly nice people who made this book a reality and always make me feel like part of the family. Special thanks also go out to Jamie Raab, not only for her editorial input, but for being one of our biggest supporters. Her warmth and energy never cease to amaze. Finally, I want to thank the two editors who worked on this book, Rob Weisbach and Rob McMahon. From the very start, Rob Weisbach lent his creative talents to every level of our publishing experience, and we wouldn’t be here without him. His influence can be felt on every page, and though I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Rob has real vision and we’ve always been blessed to be a part of it. I owe him my career and I cherish his friendship. At Warner, Rob McMahon is a true gentleman who picked up our proverbial ball and ran with it. We couldn’t be luckier. His editorial comments were insightful beyond belief and he always pushed me to reach beyond what I thought was possible. Rob, we’d be lost without you. So to Rob Weisbach and Rob McMahon, I will always appreciate your energy, but I am far more thankful for your faith.
I resented a lot about the White House.
Then I realized I could adjust or I could adjust.
Luci Johnson
Daughter of Lyndon Baines Johnson
You don’t live in the White House,
you are only exhibit A to the country.
President Theodore Roosevelt
I remember miserable nights of nightmares.
Susan Ford
Daughter of Gerald Ford
On her time as First Daughter
CHAPTER 1
I’m afraid of heights, snakes, normalcy, mediocrity, Hollywood, the initial silence of an empty house, the enduring darkness of a poorly lit street, evil clowns, professional failure, the intellectual impact of Barbie dolls, letting my father down, being paralyzed, hospitals, doctors, the cancer that killed my mother, dying unexpectedly, dying for a stupid reason, dying painfully, and, worst of all, dying alone. But I’m not afraid of power—which is why I work in the White House.
As I sit in the passenger seat of my beat-up, rusty blue Jeep, I can’t help but stare at my date, the beautiful young woman who’s driving my car. Her long, thin fingers hold the steering wheel in a commanding grip that lets both of us know who’s in charge. I could care less, though—as the car flies up Connecticut Avenue, I’m far more content studying the way her short black hair licks the back of her neck. For security reasons, we keep the windows closed, but that doesn’t stop her from opening the sunroof. Letting the warm, early-September air sweep through her hair, she leans back and enjoys the freedom. She then adds her final personal touch to the car: She turns on the radio, flips through my preset stations, and shakes her head.
> “This is what you like?” Nora asks. “Talk radio?”
“It’s for work.” Pointing to the dashboard and hoping to be cool, I add, “The last one has music.”
She calls my bluff and hits the last button. More talk radio. “You always this predictable?” she asks.
“Only when I—” Before I can finish, the shriek of an electric guitar pierces my eardrum. She’s found her station.
Tapping her thumbs against the steering wheel and bobbing her head to the beat, Nora looks completely alive.
“This is what you like?” I shout back over the noise. “Thrash radio?”
“Only way to stay young,” she says with a grin. She’s kicking my shins and she loves it. At twenty-two years of age, Nora Hartson is smart. And way too confident. She knows I’m self-conscious about the difference in our ages—she knew it the first moment I told her I was twenty-nine. She didn’t care, though.
“Think that’s going to scare me off?” she had asked.
“If it does, that’s your mistake.”
That’s when I had her. She needed the challenge. Especially a sexual one. For too long, things had been easy for her. And as Nora is so keenly aware, there’s no fun in always getting what you want. The thing is, that’s likely to be her lot in life. For better or worse, that’s her power. Nora is attractive, engaging, and extremely captivating. She’s also the daughter of the President of the United States.
As I said, I’m not afraid of power.
The car heads toward Dupont Circle, and I glance at my watch, wondering when our first date is going to end. It’s quarter past eleven, but Nora seems to just be getting started. As we pull up to a place called Tequila Mockingbird, I roll my eyes. “Another bar?”
“You gotta have at least a little foreplay,” she teases. I look over like I hear it all the time. It doesn’t fool her for a second. God, I love America. “Besides,” she adds, “this is a good one—no one knows this place.”
“So we’ll actually have some privacy?” Instinctively, I check the rearview mirror. The black Chevy Suburban that followed us out of the White House gate and to every subsequent stop we made is still right behind us. The Secret Service never lets go.
“Don’t worry about them,” she says. “They don’t know what’s coming.”
Before I can ask her to explain, I see a man in khakis standing at the side entrance of Tequila Mockingbird. He points to a reserved parking spot and waves us toward him. Even before he pushes the button in his hand and whispers into the collar of his struggling-to-be-casual polo shirt, I know who he is. Secret Service. Which means we don’t have to wait in the long line out front—he’ll take us in the side. Not a bad way to bar-hop, if you ask me. Of course, Nora sees it differently.
“Ready to rain on his parade?” she asks.
I nod, unsure of what she’s up to, but barely able to contain my smile. The First Daughter, and I mean the First Daughter, is sitting next to me, in my crappy car, asking me to follow her under the limbo stick. I can already taste the salsa.
Just as we make eye contact with the agent outside the Mockingbird, Nora rolls past the bar, and instead heads to a dance club halfway up the block. I turn around and check out the agent’s expression. He’s not amused. I can read his lips from here. “Shadow moving,” he growls into his collar.
“Wait a minute—didn’t you tell them we were going to the Mockingbird?”
“Let me ask you a question: When you go out, do you think it’s fun to have the Secret Service check out the place before you get there?”
I pause to think about it. “Actually, it seems pretty cool to me.”
She laughs. “Well, I hate it. The moment they walk in, the really interesting people hit the exits.” Pointing to the Suburban that’s still behind us, she adds, “The ones who follow me, I can deal with. It’s the advance guys that wreck the party. Besides, this keeps everyone on their toes.”
As we pull up to the valet, I try to think of something witty to say. That’s when I see him. Standing at the front entrance of our newest destination is another man whispering into the collar of his shirt. Like the agent who was standing outside the Mockingbird, he’s dressed in Secret Service casual standards: khakis and a short-sleeve polo. To call as little attention to Nora as possible, the agents try their best to be invisible—their attire is keyed to their protectee’s. Of course, they think they blend in, but last I checked, most people in khakis don’t carry guns and talk into the collars of their shirts. Either way, though, I’m impressed. They know her better than I thought.
“So, we going in or what?” I ask, motioning toward the valet, who’s waiting for Nora to open her door.
Nora doesn’t answer. Her piercing green eyes, which were persuasive enough to convince me to let her drive, are now staring vacantly out the window.
I tap her playfully on the shoulder. “So they knew you were coming. Big deal—that’s their job.”
“That’s not it.”
“Nora, we’re all creatures of habit. Just because they know your routine—”
“That’s the problem!” she shouts. “I was being spontaneous!”
Behind the outburst, there’s a pain in her voice that catches me off guard. Despite the years of watching her on TV, it’s the first time I’ve seen her open her soft side, and even though it’s with a yell, I jump right in. My playful shoulder-tap turns into a soothing caress. “Forget this place—we’ll find somewhere new.”
She glares angrily at the agent near the front door. He grins back. They’ve played this game before. “We’re out of here,” she growls. With a quick pump of the gas, our tires screech and we’re on to our next stop. As we take off, I again check the rearview mirror. The Suburban, as always, is right behind us.
“They ever let up?” I ask.
“Goes with the territory,” she says, sounding like she’s been kicked in the gut.
Hoping to cheer her up, I say, “Forget those monkeys. Who cares if they know where you—”
“Spend two weeks doing it. That’ll change your tune.”
“Not me. My tune stays the same: Love the guys with guns. Love the guys with guns. Love the guys with guns. We’re talkin’ mantra here.”
The joke is easy, but it works. She fights back the tiniest smile. “Gotta love those guns.” Taking a deep breath, she runs her hand across the back of her neck and through the tips of her black hair. I think she’s finally starting to relax. “Thanks again for letting me drive—I was starting to miss it.”
“If it makes you feel better, you’re an excellent driver.”
“And you’re an excellent liar.”
“Don’t take my word for it—look at the lemmings behind us; they’ve been smiling since you peeled out from the club.”
Nora checks the rearview mirror for herself and waves at two more of the khaki-and-polo patrol. Neither smiles, but the one in the passenger seat actually waves back. “Those’re my boys—been with me for three years,” she explains. “Besides, Harry and Darren aren’t that bad. They’re just miserable because they’re the only two who are actually responsible for me.”
“Sounds like a dream job.”
“More like a nightmare—every time I leave the House, they’re stuck watching my behind.”
“Like I said: dream job.”
She turns, pretending she doesn’t enjoy the compliment. “You love to flirt, don’t you?”
“Safest form of intense social interaction.”
“Safe, huh? Is that what it’s all about for you?”
“Says the young lady with the armed bodyguards.”
“What can I say?” she says with a laugh. “Sometimes you’ve got to be careful.”
“And sometimes you’ve got to burn the village to save it.”
She likes that one—anything that brings back some challenge. For her, everything else is planned. “So now you’re Genghis Khan?” she asks.
“I’ve been known to ravage a few helpless townships.”
>
“Oh, please, lawboy, you’re starting to embarrass yourself. Now where do you want to go?”
The forcefulness turns me on. I try to act unfazed. “Doesn’t matter to me. But do the monkeys have to follow?”
“That depends,” she says with a grin. “You think you can handle them?”
“Oh, yeah. Lawyers are well known for their ability to beat up large willing-to-take-a-bullet military types. There’s a whole ‘Fisticuffs’ section on the bar exam . . . right after the ‘Rain of Pain’ essay.”
“Okay, so if it’s not going to be fight, we’re going to have to go with flight.” She hits the gas and my head snaps back into the headrest. We’re now once again flying up Connecticut Avenue.
“What’re you doing?”
She shoots me a look that I can feel in my pants. “You wanted privacy.”
“Actually, I wanted foreplay.”
“Well if this works, you’re gonna get both.”
Now the adrenaline’s pumping. “You really think you can lose them?”
“Only tried once before.”
“What happened?”
She shoots me another one of those looks. “You don’t want to know.”
The speedometer quickly shoots up to sixty, and the poorly paved D.C. roads are making us feel every pothole. I grab the handle on the door and prop myself up straight. It’s at this moment that I see Nora as the twenty-two-year-old she really is—fearless, smug, and still impressed by the rev of an engine. Although I’m only a few years older, it’s been a long time since my heart’s raced this fast. After three years at Michigan Law, two years of clerkships, two years at a law firm, and the past two years in the White House Counsel’s Office, my passions have been purely professional. Then Nora Hartson slaps me awake and starts a flash fire in my gut. How the hell was I supposed to know what I was missing?
Still, I look back at the Suburban and let out a nervous laugh. “If this gets me in trouble . . .”
