If Lee had done anything, it was to reinforce Cam’s belief that his diminishing chess skills were rooted in something physical. While Ellen supported Gleason because he, not Lee, was the trusted doctor, the first lady’s request that Karen oversee the football game told a different story. Football was a physical game, so perhaps Ellen worried Cam was physically fragile, which would support Lee’s thinking. If Karen was right about that, then Lee had made an impression after all—just not enough of one to trump Gleason.
Karen had learned details of Cam’s exam results from Ellen, not Lee. There were several reasons Ellen placed her trust and confidence in Karen. For one, Karen was older than most of her Secret Service colleagues, only a few years younger than Ellen, in fact. Culturally they shared many of the same reference points. Personally, they had bonded over fertility issues. The first lady had used IVF to get pregnant with Cam, while Karen had given up trying for a second child after a string of devastating miscarriages. Those difficult times might have been long past, but they had left scars, and their shared experiences helped to forge an unusual bond.
At times Karen felt less like Ellen Hilliard’s protector and more like a personal friend. Some in the Secret Service wondered openly if Karen’s rapid career trajectory was based entirely on merit. In addition to her close relationship with FLOTUS, Karen’s father was former Secret Service, and whispers of nepotism followed her.
They could think what they wanted. Karen knew the truth.
From a young age, she had dreamt of following in her father’s footsteps. But woman plans and God laughs. At nineteen, Karen met a dashing young doctor, Lee Blackwood, eight years her senior (scandalous) from her hometown of Beckley, West Virginia. Her job at the bank, followed two years later with the birth of her son Josh, brought her great joy. It was a fulfilling existence until her dad, a vocal proponent for Secret Service reform, had rumpled the wrong suit.
Her father believed the numerous shortcomings of the Secret Service, which he openly discussed with Karen, dated back decades. In his opinion, almost every embarrassing security lapse was the result of poor employee screening, crazy schedules, not enough quality agents, and no time to plan.
“When a president gets shot, maybe then they’ll take me seriously,” he often said.
Her father wrote lengthy e-mails and memos to his superiors, in essence telling them the emperor had no clothes. While management expressed appreciation for the thoughtful feedback, Karen always worried such candor could cost him his job.
Around this time, Karen’s mother had moved from Beckley to Virginia to be closer to her husband, who traveled constantly for work and was seldom home. Aside from his family, the job was her father’s greatest love, which was why Karen’s heart sank when her dad phoned with news that he’d been fired. The defeat in his voice, the absolute sorrow, foreshadowed his rapid decline.
Josh was eight back then, Lee was working in his father’s practice, and Karen had a new mission in life. Without telling her family, she had applied for the Secret Service. A long-simmering passion for the job and a desire to fulfill her father’s reform wishes drove her. She had worried her dad’s controversial legacy would work against her, but to Karen’s surprise she was accepted. Fifteen years later, Karen had a brutal work schedule that had contributed significantly to her failed marriage, and not a single reform idea of her father’s put into practice.
From her hideout by the tree, Karen watched Cam take a snap from Edgar Feldman. Feldman, who inhabited a heavy body with legs and arms like tree stumps, maintained an A average at school, had been in detention only once for tardiness, and had yet to decide if he wanted to be a lawyer like his father or a doctor like his mother. All of Cam’s close friends had full background checks on file.
Cam’s friends were accustomed to the metal detectors, the facial recognition software, the nondisclosure agreements, and other procedural hurdles necessary to get inside the wall. Kids by nature were adaptable, and for the most part, the mystique and magic of the White House had yielded to the more pressing demands of having a good time.
And these kids were certainly doing that.
Cam’s pass was incomplete, though Feldman had put a good block on the rusher, a school chum named Arnold Chang, who happened to study advanced math at the TPI. On the next play, Rodger Winchester ran a buttonhook pattern several yards downfield and was wide open because the defense decided to rush two players instead of one. Feldman moved in front of Chang, leaving Taylor Gleason unblocked. Taylor, who looked like a mini version of his father, slim and athletic, with sandy blond hair and a handsome, albeit boyish face, was hardly an imposing figure, but he was quick on his feet and deceptive with his movements. Dr. Gleason’s competitive drive had pushed Taylor to excel at sports in addition to chess. As far as Karen could tell, Taylor was the only real athlete on the chess circuit.
He charged the quarterback with quick strides and managed to smash into Cam’s left side—the blind side—with a great deal of force. Taylor got the flag, all right, but the impact threw Cam’s legs out from under him. Karen held her breath as Cam went airborne. He seemed to float above the ground for a moment before he came crashing back to the turf with an audible thud.
By the time Karen got there, winded from her sprint, Cam’s buddies were already helping him sit up.
“Are you okay?” Karen tried not to sound like an overprotective parent, but she knew the hit had to have hurt.
“I didn’t mean to hit him that hard,” Taylor said, his voice shaky. “I was going for the flag.”
Maybe Taylor was upset after injuring his friend, or maybe Karen’s hard stare terrified him. Either way, the kid was rattled.
Cam winced in pain as Karen and Taylor helped him to his feet. He kept his hand to the left side of his chest, his breathing shallow. Scouring the ground, Karen checked for any sticks or a stone Cam might have landed on, but the White House landscapers kept the lawn clear as a putting green. Stone or no stone, though, that hit was pretty solid. Karen worried Cam might have fractured a rib.
“Let’s get you to the medical clinic,” Karen said.
“I’m okay,” Cam said, still clutching his left side. He shot Taylor an aggrieved look. “What the hell, Taylor!” he said.
“I was just going for the flag … I’m sorry, Cam. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
To Karen’s ears, Taylor sounded genuinely distraught, and she did not believe there was any malice behind the collision.
“Let’s have Dr. Gleason decide if you’re all right,” Karen said. “You boys wait right here.”
Soon enough, Cam was back inside the White House clinic. Karen called Gleason’s cell phone and explained what had happened.
“Taylor did it, huh?” Gleason sounded oddly proud of his son’s prowess. “I doubt it’s a broken rib,” he added, assuaging Karen’s concern only somewhat, “but I’ll be there in a moment to check him out.”
CHAPTER 10
The nurse, who had been a White House fixture for several administrations, took Cam’s vitals while awaiting Dr. Gleason’s arrival. They checked out fine. Dr. Gleason showed up five minutes later and asked Cam to lie down on the exam table.
“Sounds like you took quite a shot to the side,” Gleason said as he pushed on the lower part of Cam’s left chest. Cam winced again. “I’ll speak with Taylor when I get home. Can’t have my son injuring my patients.”
He said this facetiously, but again Karen picked up a trace of pride in his voice. Winning was everything with Gleason. It was possible he viewed Taylor’s prowess at chess or football as an extension of his own abilities, his worthiness. Karen had encountered similarly misguided parents years ago at Josh’s sporting events.
“No abrasions or lacerations,” Gleason said, continuing with his exam. “No obvious fracture. Now take a deep breath.”
Dr. Gleason listened with his stethoscope.
“Full and equal breath sounds on both sides,” he announced. “Abdomen is soft and not particul
arly tender. Cam, I think you’ll be fine, but no more football today.”
Cam did not seem disappointed.
“What about my friends?” he asked.
“We’ll get them all home,” Karen said, ruffling Cam’s hair. “Not to worry.”
“Tell them I’m sorry,” Cam said.
“Of course,” said Karen.
“And tell Taylor we’re cool.”
Karen knew this was teen-speak for “I’m not angry” and returned a warm smile. “Sure thing,” she said.
“Now, I want you to go up to your bedroom to rest,” Dr. Gleason said. “I’ll get you an ice pack and some Tylenol, but no aspirin or ibuprofen. Nothing else unless you ask first.”
Cam nodded.
“Dr. Gleason,” said Karen. “May I speak with you a moment—in private?”
In addition to the examination rooms, the White House physician’s clinic had an elegant three-room office suite situated directly across the corridor from the elevator to the first family’s residence. Karen followed Dr. Gleason into his office. He took a seat at his expansive cherrywood desk, clearly perturbed, as though he sensed Karen was about to waste his time. Karen shut the door and stood in front of his desk, arms akimbo.
“How do you know he didn’t fracture a rib?” she asked. Her voice had an edge. “You saw he had pain when he was breathing.”
“I listened to his chest, and he took nice, full breaths without a problem. He’s fine. A bit bruised is all.”
“But how do you know?”
“Your concern here is appreciated, but it’s also misplaced. Trust me on this, okay? I know. I’m his doctor.”
If Karen had learned one lesson about Gleason from Cam, it was that there was no changing his mind once it was made up.
“You’re the expert, of course. But if anything changes with him, will you please keep me apprised?”
“No problem, Karen.”
From a storage compartment in his top desk drawer, Gleason removed a brass key hooked to a tennis racket keychain. Karen recalled the time Gleason broke his racket by slamming it on the ground after a poorly played point during a tennis match against Ellen. Needless to say, Dr. Gleason and Ellen had not played a match against each other since.
“I’ll give Cam a pain reliever. Then he should go to his room and rest. You can keep a close eye on him if you want, but he’ll be fine. Trust me.”
Karen followed Gleason back into the clinic. Using the key he had taken from his desk drawer, Gleason unlocked a large glass-fronted medicine cabinet where all the clinic’s medicines, from aspirin to prescriptions, were kept. He put two pills into a Dixie cup, got a glass of water, and handed both to Cam.
“Keep ice on that bruise and take these, buddy,” Gleason said, locking the cabinet. “You’ll feel better in no time.”
Cam downed the pills in a quick swallow before departing for his bedroom. Karen wanted to go with him, but he insisted on going on his own. He trundled off to the elevator bay, holding the ice pack to his side, and Karen watched him go. Ellen Hilliard was giving a speech over at the Renwick Gallery, but had she been around, she would have insisted on tucking Cam into bed. She was Black Bear, after all.
Once Cam was gone, Karen called Donna Whitmore, the first lady’s chief of staff, and got a message to Ellen about what had happened. Her next call was to the White House kitchen, where she ordered some chicken soup for Cam, thinking that’s what his mother would have done. She had Duffy dismiss Cam’s pals early, relaying Cam’s message to Taylor, before returning to her small office in the basement of the West Wing, which was just roomy enough for a metal desk to hold her computer, business phone, and coffee mug.
Karen gave it twenty minutes before lingering concern got the better of her. She telephoned Lee, who was seeing patients at his practice, and related what had happened for his benefit.
“I’m sure Dr. Gleason is thrilled that you’re calling me for a consult.”
“He doesn’t know,” Karen said.
“I was kidding. I figured you hadn’t told him.”
“I forgot how subtle your sarcasm could be,” Karen said.
“You realize Cam could have fractured a rib.”
“That’s what I said, but Gleason thinks he’s fine.”
“Maybe he is, but I’d err on the side of caution. Better safe than sorry with these types of injuries. You’re going to have to use your judgment here. But if he has fractured a rib, he’ll need to be watched closely for complications. Pneumonia, for instance. If he’s not breathing fully because of splinting, the underlying lung tissue may not clear secretions sufficiently and infection can set in.”
“What should I do?”
“Keep an eye on him, and call me again if he’s acting abnormally in any way.”
“Will do,” said Karen. “Thank you, Lee.” And she meant it, too.
“You do remember that Josh and I are leaving for our camping trip tomorrow morning?”
“I do,” she said. “He called yesterday to make plans to see me. Said he was coming alone. What do you make of that?”
“I wouldn’t read anything into it,” Lee said. “Hannah isn’t the outdoorsy type.”
“I have no idea what type she is, to be honest,” Karen said caustically.
“I wish he’d see in her what I see.”
Karen shared Lee’s concern. She had met the love of Josh’s life, as he put it, this past September, when after some prodding Hannah had flown with him from Colorado to Washington to meet the parents. Karen had been excited to get to know the woman who had captured her son’s heart. Hannah was stunningly beautiful, tall and willowy, with brown hair and alluring green eyes. She might have been an incredible skier, but she was as chilly as the slopes where they had met.
Karen wanted Josh’s new girlfriend to adore him, to look at him the way he looked at her. But Hannah was more “selfie” than “selfless.” She talked fondly of old boyfriends in front of Josh, boasting about their accomplishments, and in almost the same breath would discuss future plans that did not include Karen’s son. And because Karen was trained to be observant, she noticed that it was always Josh who showed affection—a hug, a squeeze of the hand. Karen hoped that Josh coming to D.C. alone also coincided with a change to his relationship status on Facebook.
After saying good-bye to Lee, Karen went to check in on Cam, who seemed well enough for her to leave him alone. She attended an hour-long meeting with Lapham and Duffy to go over preparations for the first lady’s visit to a public school in a not-so-lovely part of town, and afterward, returned to Cam’s room to check on him again, guided more by intuition than anything else.
She knocked on the half-open doorway and peeked in, finding Cam lying in bed. The ice pack was on the floor beside an empty bowl of soup. Cam seemed restless.
“Just checking on you, pal. You doing okay?”
“I guess,” Cam said in a quiet voice. “But it still hurts when I take a deep breath, and I feel a little sick to my stomach. I don’t feel like throwing up or anything, just a little queasy.”
Karen entered the room, went over to his bed, and immediately noticed Cam was sweating a bit. She thought he looked pale, too, and wondered why he spoke so softly. Something was not right with him, not right at all, but when she took out her phone to call Gleason, Karen ended up calling Lee. It went against protocol, but Gleason had brushed off her earlier concern and she feared he’d do so again.
She stepped out into the hall and told Lee what she thought of Cam’s condition.
“Where is Gleason?”
Karen saw the president’s schedule in her head—an ability she’d gained from years of reviewing schedules. She checked the time on her Marc Jacobs watch, a gift from Josh she wore every day. Gleason had left the White House to accompany President Hilliard to Walter Reed, where he was to deliver a speech on improving health care for veterans—an important agenda item of the president’s second term. As part of his responsibilities, Gleason had to go wherever
the president went, or he had to appoint another White House doctor as his stand-in.
“He’s at Walter Reed,” Karen answered.
“What’s your take on Cam?” Lee said. “You lived with a doctor long enough, you have good instincts even if you don’t have the training.”
“I think something is wrong with him.”
“I agree. Bring him to the hospital. You can take him anywhere, but I’d go to the MDC. I’m affiliated there, so I can help.”
Karen’s stomach dropped. “Is it that serious?”
“I don’t know, but like I said before, better safe than sorry. The White House Medical Unit is a fine place to suture a cut, but I wouldn’t want to have abdominal surgery there.”
“No, of course not. Cam needs to go to the hospital for that.”
“My point exactly. A broken rib could have caused some internal damage. Let the hospital do a CT scan.”
“We don’t have a CT scanner in the White House Medical Unit,” Karen said, convincing herself there was good reason to go elsewhere for his treatment.
“I sure hope not. Otherwise my tax dollars really are being wasted. I’ll call Brian Seneca at the MDC and have him arrange for Cam to be brought to the fancy suites. You can’t just bring the president’s kid to the ER waiting room. Seneca is a superstar surgeon, but hopefully he won’t mind coordinating Cam’s care.”
“What about Gleason?”
“What about him?”
“He’s the doctor. I should at least consult him or the other doctors here.”
“The other docs will defer to Gleason. And how many times has Gleason backed you, me, or Cam, for that matter?”
“None.”
“By my count, he’s had three chances to do the right thing. You really want to give him a fourth? You tell Gleason you want to bring Cam to the hospital and he’ll do the exact opposite because his ego won’t let you be right.”
“He’ll go ballistic. He’ll probably get me fired.”
“I thought your job was to protect the president’s son at all cost.”
The First Family Page 6
