The First Counsel

by Brad Meltzer

  “Which one’s your favorite?” I ask, hoping to slow things down.

  “Hard to say. It’s like asking which of your children is your favorite.”

  “The first one,” I say. “Unless they move away and never call. Then it’s the one who lives closest.”

  In her line of work, Caroline spends every day having uncomfortable conversations with people. As a result, she’s seen just about every different manifestation of nervousness that exists. And from the sour look on her face, making jokes ranks near the bottom of her list. “Is there something I can help you with, Michael?”

  My eyes stay locked on her desk, which is submerged under stacks of paper, file folders, and two presidential seal ashtrays. There’s a portable air filter in the corner of the room, but the place still reeks of stale cigarettes, which, besides collecting thank-you notes, are Caroline’s most obvious habit. To help me along, she takes off her glasses and offers a semiwarm glance. She’s trying to inspire faith and imply that I can trust her. But as I pick my head up, all I can think is that it’s the first time in two years that I’ve really looked at her. Without her glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes seem less intimidating. And although her furrowed brow and thin lips keep her appearance professional, she honestly looks worried about me. Not worried like Pam, but, for a woman in her late forties who’s still mostly a stranger, truly concerned.

  “Do you need a drink of water?” she asks.

  I shake my head. No more stalling.

  “Is this a Counsel’s Office question or an ethics issue?” she asks.

  “Both,” I say. This is the hard part. My mind’s racing—searching for the perfect words. Yet no matter how much I mentally practiced on the way over, there’s nothing like removing the net and doing it for real. As I’m about to step out on the tightrope, I run through the story one last time, hoping to stumble onto a lawful reason for the White House Counsel to be dropping money in the woods. Nothing I come up with is good. “It’s about Simon,” I finally say.

  “Stop right there,” she commands. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she pulls out a small cassette recorder and a single blank tape. She knew that tone as soon as she heard it. This is serious.

  “I don’t think that’s necess—”

  “Don’t be nervous—it’s just for your protection.” She grabs a pen and writes my name on the cassette. When it’s in the recorder, I can see the words “Michael Garrick” through the tiny piece of glass. Hitting Record, she slaps the recorder against her desk, right in front of me.

  She knows what I’m thinking, but she’s been through it before. “Michael, if this is important, you should have the proper documentation. Now why don’t you start from the beginning.”

  I close my eyes and pretend there’s still a net. “It all happened last night,” I begin.

  “Last night being Thursday the third,” she verifies.

  I nod. She points to her lips. “I mean, that’s correct,” I quickly say. “Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw—”

  “Before we get there, was anyone with you?”

  “That’s not the important part—”

  “Just answer the question.”

  I respond as quickly as I can. “No. I was alone.”

  “So no one was with you?”

  I don’t like the way she asks that. Something isn’t right. Once again, I feel the back of my neck hot with sweat. “No one was with me,” I insist.

  She doesn’t seem convinced.

  I reach forward and stop the tape. “Is there a problem?”

  “Not at all.” She attempts to restart the tape, but my hand is over the recorder.

  “I’m not doing this on tape,” I tell her. “Not yet.”

  “Calm down, Michael.” Sitting back, she lets me have my way. The recorder stays off. “I know it’s hard. Just tell your story.”

  She’s right. This isn’t the time to lose it. For the second time, I find calm in a deep breath and take solace in the fact that it’s no longer being recorded. “So I’m driving down 16th Street, when I suddenly see a familiar car in front of me. When I take a closer look at it, I realize it belongs to Simon.”

  “Edgar Simon—Counsel to the President.”

  “Exactly. Now, for whatever reason—maybe it’s the time of night, maybe it’s where we are—as soon as I see him, something doesn’t seem kosher. So I drop back and start to follow.” Detail by detail, I tell her the rest of the story. How Simon pulled over on Rock Creek Parkway. How he got out of his car carrying a manila envelope. How he climbed over the guardrail and disappeared up the embankment. And most important, once he was gone, what I found in the envelope. The only thing I leave out is Nora. And the cops. “When I saw the money, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. You have to imagine it: It’s past midnight, it’s pitch black, and there I am holding my boss’s forty-thousand-dollar payoff. On top of all that, I could swear someone was watching me. It was like they were right over my shoulder. I’m telling you, it was one of the scariest moments of my entire life. But before I went and blew the whistle, I thought I should talk to someone first. That’s why I came to you.”

  I wait for a reaction, but she doesn’t give one. Eventually, she asks, “Are you done?”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  She leans across the desk and picks up the cassette recorder. Her thumb flicks back and forth against the pause button. Nervous habit.

  “So?” I ask. “What d’you think?”

  Putting on her glasses, she doesn’t look amused. “It’s an interesting story, Michael. The only problem is, fifteen minutes ago, Edgar Simon was in this office telling me the exact same story about you. In his version, though, you were the one with the money.” She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair. “Now do you want to start over?”

  CHAPTER 6

  Why would he say that?” I ask, panicking.

  “Michael, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but there’s—”

  “I’m not in any trouble,” I insist. My mouth goes dry and nausea washes over me. I can feel it in my stomach. It’s all about to collapse. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear . . . it was him. We saw him carrying the—”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Huh?”

  “We. You just said we. Who else was with you, Michael?”

  I sit up straight in my seat. “No one was with me. I swear, I was all alone.”

  Silence envelops the room and I can feel the weight of her judgment. “You really have balls, y’know that? When Simon came in here, he told me to take it easy on you. He figured you had problems. And what do you do? You lie to my face and blame it on him! On him of all people!”

  “Wait a minute . . . you think I’m making this up?”

  “I’m not answering that question.” She brushes her hand against a stack of red file folders. “I’ve already seen the answer.”

  In the world of vetting and background checks, a red folder means an FBI file. Instinctively, I check the name on the tab of the top file. Michael Garrick.

  My fists tighten. “You pulled my file?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your work on the new Medicaid overhaul—preserving Medicaid for criminals? It looks like a real crusade for you.”

  There’s a tone in her voice that stabs like a stick in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t insult me, Michael. We’ve been through this once before. I know all about him. Still a real proud poppa, huh?”

  I shoot out of my seat, barely able to control myself. She’s pushing the wrong buttons. “Leave him alone,” I growl. “He has nothing to do with this.”

  “Really? It looks like a clear conflict of interest to me.”

  “The only reason I’m on that issue is because Simon put the reference memo on my desk.”

  “So you never thought about the fact that your father benefits from the program?”

  “He doesn’t get
the money; it goes straight to his facility!”

  “He benefits, Michael! You can rationalize all you want, but you know it’s true. He’s your father, he’s a criminal, and if the program gets overhauled, he’ll lose his benefits.”

  “He’s not a criminal!”

  “The moment you got this issue, you should’ve recused yourself. That’s what the Standards of Conduct require and that’s what you neglected to do! It’s just like last time!”

  “That was different!”

  “The only thing different was that I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now I know better.”

  “So now you think I’m lying about Simon and the money?”

  “You know what they say: Like father, like son.”

  “Don’t you dare say that! You know nothing about him!”

  “Is that what the money was for? Some sort of payout to keep him safe?”

  “I wasn’t the one with the money . . .”

  “I don’t believe you, Michael.”

  “Simon was the one who—”

  “I said, I don’t believe you.”

  “Why the hell won’t you listen?” I shout as my voice booms through the room.

  Her answer is simple. “Because I know you’re lying.”

  That’s it. I need help. I turn around and head for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  I don’t say a word.

  “Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts.

  I stop and turn around. “Does that mean you’re going to hear my side of the story?”

  Locking her hands together, she drops them on her desk. “I think I’ve already heard everything I need.”

  I reach for the door and pull it open.

  “If you walk out of here, Michael, I promise you, you’ll regret it!”

  It doesn’t slow me down.

  “Get back here! Now!”

  I step into the hallway and my world goes red. “Drop dead,” I say without turning around.

  • • •

  Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in my office, staring at the small television that rests on the ledge by the window. Every office in the OEOB is wired for cable, but I keep the set locked on channel twenty-five—where the menu for the White House Mess runs endlessly throughout the day.

  Soup of the day: French onion.

  Yogurt of the day: Oreo.

  Sandwich selections: Turkey, roast beef, tuna salad.

  One by one, they scroll up the screen; boring white letters against a royal blue background. Right now, it’s about all I can handle.

  By the third rerun of the Yogurt of the day, I’ve come up with thirteen unarguable reasons to rip Caroline’s head off. From setting me up, to taking those potshots at my dad—what the hell is wrong with her? She knew what she was doing from the moment I walked in there. Slowly, surely, though, adrenaline fades into a quiet calm. And with that calm comes the realization that unless we have another conversation, Caroline’s going to take Simon’s version of the story and bury me with it.

  For the fourth time in ten minutes, I check the toaster and dial Nora’s number. It says she’s in the Residence, but no one picks up. I hang up and dial another two extensions. Trey and Pam are just as hard to find. I beeped both of them as soon as I got back, but neither has checked in.

  I scan the digital call log one last time, just to make sure they didn’t call while I was on the line. Nothing. No one’s there. No one but me. That’s what it comes down to. A world of one.

  Inside the White House, the heat, vent, and cooling systems keep the air pressure of the mansion higher than normal for one simple reason: If someone attacks with a bio weapon or nerve gas, the poison-filled air will be forced outward, away from the President. Of course, the joke among the staff is that this by definition makes the White House the most high-pressured place to work. Right now, sitting in my office, it’s got nothing to do with air systems.

  Feeling self-preservation surpass anger, I get up and head for the anteroom. As I open the door, I hear someone by the coffeemaker. If I’m lucky, it’ll be Pam. Instead, it’s Julian.

  “Tastes like someone pissed in this,” he says, shoving his coffee mug toward my face.

  “Well, it wasn’t me.”

  “I’m not blaming you, Garrick—I’m making a point. Our coffee sucks.”

  This isn’t the time to fight. “Sorry to hear that.”

  “What’s wrong with you? You look like crap.”

  “Nothing, just some stuff I’m working on.”

  “Like what? Sucking up to more criminals? You were two for two this morning.”

  I step past him and open the door. Although we tend to disagree on just about everything, I have to admit that our third officemate isn’t a bad person—he’s just a bit too intense for the general populace. “Enjoy the coffee, Julian.”

  Walking back to Caroline’s office, I find the massive hallway longer than ever. When I first started working here, I remember being so impressed with how big everything seemed. Over time, it all became both manageable and comfortable. Today, I’m right back where I started.

  Reaching Caroline’s office, I grab the doorknob without knocking. “Caroline, before you go nuts, let me expl—”

  I come to a trainwrecking halt.

  In front of me, Caroline is sunk low in her highback chair. Her head sags forward like an abandoned marionette’s, and one arm is dangling over the armrest. She’s not moving. “Caroline?” I ask, moving closer.

  No answer. Oh, God.

  In her lap, her other hand is holding on to an empty coffee mug that has the words “I Got Your State of the Union Right Here” written on it. Turned on its side and resting on her thigh, the mug is empty. “Caroline, are you okay?” I ask. That’s when I notice the slow dripping sound. It catches me by surprise and reminds me of the leaky faucet in my apartment. Following the sound, I realize it’s running from the chair to the floor. Caroline’s sitting in a puddle of coffee.

  Instinctively, I reach out and touch her shoulder. Her head flops back and hits the edge of the chair with a sickly thud. The vacancy in Caroline’s wide-open hazel eyes violently rips through me. One eye stares straight forward; the other slumps cockeyed to the side.

  Around me, the room starts to spin. My throat contracts and it’s suddenly impossible to breathe. Staggering backwards, I crash into the wall, knocking a framed thank-you note to the floor. Her life’s work shatters. I open my mouth, but I can barely hear what comes out. “Someone . . .” I cry, gasping for air. “Please . . . someone help.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A uniformed Secret Service officer with a nasty hooked jaw helps me to my feet. “Are you okay? Are you okay? Can you hear me?” he asks, shouting the questions until I nod yes. The phone and its wires are tangled around my ankles—from when I pulled the console off the desk. It was all I could think of, the only way to get help. He kicks the phone aside and helps me to the couch in the corner. I look back at Caroline, whose eyes are still wide open. For the rest of my life, she’ll be frozen in that position.

  The next fifteen minutes are a haze of investigative efficiency. Before I know what’s happening, the room is filled with an assortment of investigators and other law enforcement officials: two more uniformed officers, two Secret Service suits, a five-person FBI Crime Scene Unit, and a member of the Emergency Response Team holding an Uzi by the door. After some brief posturing over jurisdiction, the Secret Service let the FBI get to work. A tall man in a dark blue FBI polo shirt takes photos of the office, while a short Asian woman and two other men in light blue shirts pick the place apart. A fifth man with a Virginia twang in his voice is the one giving orders.

  “You, boys,” he says to the uniformed Secret Service. “You’d be a far bigger help if you waited outside.” Before they even move, he adds, “Thanks for your time now.” He turns to the Secret Service suits and gives them a quick once-over. They can stay. Then he comes over to me.

  “Michael Garr
ick,” he says, reading from my ID. “You okay there, Michael? You able to talk?”

  I nod, staring at the carpet. Across the room, the photographer is taking pictures of Caroline’s body. When the first flash goes off, it seems so normal—photographers are at almost every White House event. But when I see her head sagging and twisting to the side, and the awkward way her mouth gapes open, I realize it’s not Caroline anymore. She’s gone. Now it’s just a body; a slowly stiffening shell posed for a macabre photo shoot.

  The agent with the Virginia twang lifts my chin, and his latex gloves scrape against the remnants of my morning shave. Before I can say a word, he looks me in the eyes. “You sure you’re okay? We can always do this later, but . . .”

  “No, I understand—I can do it now.”

  He puts a strong hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate you helping us out, Michael.” Unlike the FBI polo crew, he’s wearing a gray suit with a small stain on his right lapel. His tie is pulled tight, but the top button on his stark white shirt is open. The effect is the most subtle hint of casualness in his otherwise professional demeanor. “Quite a day, huh, Michael?” It’s the third time since we’ve met that he’s said my name, which I have to admit sets off my radar. As my old crim law professor once explained, name repetition is the first trick negotiators use to establish an initial level of intimacy. The second trick is physical contact. I look down at his hand on my shoulder.

  He pulls it away, removes his glove, and offers up a handshake. “Michael, I’m Randall Adenauer, Special Agent in Charge of the FBI’s Violent Crimes Unit.”

  His title catches me off guard. “You think she was murdered?”

  “That’s getting a little ahead of ourselves, don’t you think?” he asks with a laugh that’s even more forced than the way he buttons his shirt. “Far as we can tell right now, it looks like a simple heart attack—autopsy’ll tell for sure. Now, you’re the one who found her, aren’t you?”

  I nod.

  “How long before you called it in?”

  “Soon as I realized she was dead.”