The First Counsel (19 page)

The agent looks down at the list and checks the code on the clearance sheet. "Welcome aboard Air Force One, Mr. Garrick."

I nod to the agent and shoot my coldest stare at Simon. Nothing needs to be said. To get on board, I better be on board. Anything else is going to have its consequences. He steps aside and motions me forward; I steel myself and climb the stairs.

On a normal day, staffers use the rear staircase--today, we get the front.

When I step into the cabin, I look around for a stewardess, but there's no one there. "First time?" a voice asks. To my left is a young guy in an immaculately starched white shirt. The patches on his shoulder tell me he's Air Force.

"Is it open seating or . . ."

"What's your name?"

"Michael Garrick."

"Mr. Garrick, follow me."

He heads straight down the main hallway, which runs along the right side of the plane and is lined with bolted-down plush couches and fake-antique side tables. It's a flying living room.

As we enter the staff area, rather than shoving everyone into one big hundred-person cabin, the seating is broken into smaller ten-person sections. The seats face one another--five on five--with a shared Formica table between you and the person you're facing. Everyone watches everyone else. Around here, it's the easiest way to encourage work.

"Is it possible to get a window seat?" I ask.

"Not this time," he says as he comes to a stop. He points to an aisle seat that faces forward. On the cushion is a folded white card with the presidential seal. Under the seal, it reads, "Welcome Aboard Air Force One." Beneath that, it reads my name: "Mr. Garrick."

My reaction is instantaneous. "Can I keep this?"

"I'm sorry, but for security purposes, we need it back."

"Of course," I say, handing him the card. "I understand."

He does his best impression of a smile. "That's a joke. I'm joking, Mr. Garrick." As soon as I catch on, he adds, "Now would you like a tour of the rest of the plane?"

"Are you kidding? I'd love t--" Over his shoulder, I see Pam heading our way. "Y'know what, I'll pass for now. I've got some work to do."

Checking the card across from me, Pam finds her name and sits down.

I'm about to throw my briefcase on the table between us, but instead, I put it below my seat. "How're you doing?" I ask.

"Ask me when it's over."

* * *

By seven A.M., we're boarded and ready to go, but since it's not a commercial flight, most people aren't in their seats--they're standing together in small groups or wandering around, exploring the plane. Without question, it looks more like a cocktail party than a plane ride.

Looking up from her newspaper, Pam catches me leaning into the aisle and staring up the hallway. "Don't worry, Michael, she'll be here."

She thinks I'm looking for Nora. "Why do you always assume it's about her?"

"Isn't everything about her?"

"That's funny."

"No, Charlie Brown is funny . . ." She lifts her newspaper and snaps it into place. "Yeah, that Charlie Brown . . . he sure does love that Little Red-Haired Girl . . ."

Ignoring her, I get up from my seat.

"Where're you going?" she asks, lowering the paper.

"Just to the bathroom. Be back in a second."

At the front of the plane, I find two bathrooms, both of which are occupied. To my left, on a bolted-down end table is a bolted-down candy dish. Inside the dish are books of matches with the Air Force One logo on them. I grab one for Pam and one for my dad. Before I can get one for myself, I hear the pulsing thumps of incoming helicopters. The bathroom door opens, but I head straight for the windows. Peering outside, I see two identical multipassenger helicopters. The one carrying Hartson is Marine One. The other's just a decoy. By switching him between the two aircraft, they hope would-be assassins won't know which one to shoot out of the sky.

The two copters land almost simultaneously, but one's closer to the plane. That's Marine One. When the doors open, the first person out is the Chief of Staff. Behind him comes a top advisor, a few deputies, and finally, Lamb. The man's amazing. Always has the ear. Nora comes next, followed by her younger brother, Christopher, a gawky-looking kid who's still in boarding school. Holding hands, the two siblings pause a moment, waiting for their parents. First, Mrs. Hartson. Then the President. Of course, while everyone's staring at POTUS, I can't take my eyes off his daugh---

A strong hand settles on my shoulder. "Who you looking at?" Simon asks.

I spin around at the sound of his voice. "Just the President," I shoot back.

"Incredible sight, don't you think?"

"I've seen better," I jab.

He shoots me a look that I know'll leave a bruise. "Remember where you are, Michael. It'd be a real shame if you had to go home."

I'm tempted to fight, but I'm not going to win this one. Time to be smart. If Simon wanted me out, I'd be long gone. He just wants silence. That's what's going to keep this out of the papers; that's what's going to keep me at my job; that's what's going to continue to keep Nora safe. And like she said in the bowling alley, that's the only way we're going to get to the bottom of this.

"We understand each other?" Simon asks.

I nod. "You don't have to worry about me."

"Good," he says with a smile. He motions to the back of the plane and sends me on my way.

I return to my seat feeling like I've been kicked in the stomach.

"See your girlfriend?" Pam asks as I'm about to sit down. Once again hiding behind the newspaper, her voice is quivering.

"What's wrong?"

She doesn't answer.

I reach over and tug on the paper. "Pam, tell me what's . . ." Her eyes are welled up with tears. As the paper hits the table between us, I get my first look at what she's reading. Page B6 of the Metro Section. Obituaries. At the top is a picture of Caroline. The headline reads: "White House Lawyer Caroline G. Penzler Dies."

Before I can react, the plane starts to move. A sudden lurch forward sends Pam's purse to the floor, and just as it hits, her White House pen slides onto the carpet. After a short announcement, we head down the runway, ready for takeoff. Some people return to their seats; others don't care. The cocktail party continues. The whole cabin's trembling from the final thrust of takeoff. Still, no one's wearing a seatbelt. It's a subtle gesture, but it does imply power. And even en route to a funeral, that's what the White House is all about.

* * *

The landing at Duluth International Airport is much smoother than the takeoff. As the runway comes into view, the television monitors in the cabin flicker with life. The TVs are built right into the wall--one over the head of the person on my right, another over the head of the person on Pam's left.

On the monitors, I see a mammoth blue and white plane coming in for a landing. The local news is covering our arrival, and since we're within airspace, the TVs pick up the local stations.

Amazing, I say to myself.

Trusting TV over reality, we keep our eyes on the monitors--and in a moment that turns our lives into the world's greatest interactive movie, when the wheels touch down on TV, we feel them touch down below us.

After the bigshots disembark, the rest of us make our way to the door. It's not a long walk, but you can already feel the mood swing. No one's talking. No one's touring. The joyride on the world's best private plane is over.

Eventually, the line starts to move and I offer Pam my hand. "C'mon, time to go."

She reaches out and accepts my invitation, locking each of her fingers between my own. I give her a warm, reassuring grip. The kind of grip you reserve for your best friends.

"How're you feeling?" I ask.

She squeezes even tighter and says one word. "Better."

Slowly making our way to the front of the plane, we eventually see what's causing our delayed departure. The President's standing inside the main doorway, personally offering his sympathies to each of us.

That human connection . . . his need to help . . . it's exactly why I came to work for Hartson in the first place. If he were shaking hands at the bottom of the jetway, it'd be a purely political move--a staged moment for the cameras and for reelection. In here, the press can't see him. It's every staffer's dream: a moment that exists only between you and him.

As we get closer, I see the First Lady standing to the left of her husband. She knew Caroline before any of us--a fact that I can see in the strain of her pursed lips.

It takes me three more steps before I see the familiar silhouette. Over Hartson's shoulder, I catch my favorite member of the First Family standing in the hallway and taking in the events.

When she looks up, our eyes connect. Nora offers a weak grin. She's trying to look her usual unaffected self, but I'm starting to see through it. The way she glances at her dad . . . then her mom . . . they're no longer the President and First Lady . . . they're her parents. This is what she has to lose. To us, it's a perk. For Nora . . . if there's even an inkling of scandal about her and the money--or even worse, the death . . . it's her life.

I let go of Pam's hand and give Nora a slight nod. You're not alone.

She can't help but smile back.

Without a word, Pam forcefully regrabs my hand. "Just remember," she whispers, "every beast has its burden."

Chapter
12

Scooping up my newspapers early the following morning, I walk them to the kitchen table and hunt for my name on all four front pages. Nothing. Nothing on me, nothing on Caroline. Even the front photos, which I thought were going to be Hartson at the funeral, are dedicated to yesterday's Orioles no-hitter. With the funeral finished, it's no longer news. Just a heart attack.

Casually flipping through the New York Times, I wait for the phone to ring. Thirty seconds later, it does. "You got the fix?" I ask as soon as I pick up.

"Did you see it?" Trey asks.

"See what?"

He pauses. "A14 of the Post."

I know that tone. I brush the Times from the table and nervously lunge for the Post. My hands can barely flip pages. Twelve, thirteen . . . there. "White House Lawyer Depressed, Treated." Skimming through the short article, I read about Caroline's bout with depression, and how she was successfully overcoming it.

As the story goes on, it never once mentions me, but any political junkie knows the rest. It may be creeping along on the middle pages, but Caroline's story is still alive.

"If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one getting bad press," Trey says, clearly trying to change the subject. "Have you seen the Nora story in the Herald?" Before I can answer, he explains, "According to their gossip columnist, one of Bartlett's top aides called her--get this--'the First Freeloader' because she hasn't made her mind up about grad school. Blood-guzzling, reputation-raping muckrakers."

I flip to the Herald and pinpoint the story. "Not a smart move," I say as I read it for myself. "People don't like it when you attack the First Daughter."

"I don't know," Trey says. "Bartlett's boys've been polling this one for a while. If they're sending it out, I'm betting people are warm to it."

"If they were, Bartlett would've done it himself."

"Give it a few days--this is just a trial balloon. I can already hear the speechwriters scribbling: If Hartson can't take care of his own family, how's he going to take care of the country?"

"That's a big risk, Dukakis. The backlash alone . . ."

"Have you seen the numbers? There's not a backlash in sight. We thought we were going to get a bump from the funeral--Hartson's lead is down to ten. I'm thinking IPO moms love the fighting-for-families idea."

"I don't care. They're gonna draw the line here. It'll never come out of Bartlett's lips."

"Wager time?" Trey asks.

"You really feel that strongly about it?"

"Even stronger than I felt about Hartson's sunglasses-and-baseball-cap-on-the-aircraft-carrier look. Even if it was a little Top Gun, I told you we'd use it for the ad."

"Uh-oh, big talk." I look down at the article, thinking it through one more time. There's no way they'll have Bartlett say it. "Nickel bet?"

"Nickel bet."

For the better part of two years, it's been the best game in town. Around here, everyone loves to win. Including me.

"And nothing sketchy," I add. "No holding back on blasting Bartlett for going after their virgin, innocent daughter."

"Oh, we're going after him," Trey promises. "I'll have Mrs. Hartson's statement ready to go by nine." He pauses. "Not that it's going to help."

"We'll see."

"We'll certainly see," he shoots back. "Now you ready to read?"

I close up the Herald, since we always do the Post first. But when I look down at the paper, the story about Caroline is still staring me in the face. I can cover it up all I want--it's not going away. "Can I ask you a question?"