The First Councel

“No, you’re right-that was pure chance. But if you didn’t get pulled over, she would’ve planted it in your car. Think about it. They set Vaughn up and make it look like you let him in the building. Then when Caroline shows up dead the next morning, between Vaughn and the money, you’ve got the smoking gun.”

“I don’t know. I mean, if that’s the case, then why haven’t they turned me in? I’ve still got the ‘gun.’ It’s just in police custody.”

“I’m not sure. Maybe they’re worried the cop’ll identify Nora. Maybe they’re waiting until after the election. Or maybe they’re waiting for the FBI to do it on their own. Five o’clock tomorrow.”

We sit in silence and I stare at my beer, studying its rising bubbles. Eventually, I look up at Trey. “I still have to speak to her.” Before he can react, I add, “Don’t ask me why, Trey-it’s just… I know you think she’s a whack-job-believe me, I know she’s a whack-job-but underneath… you’ve never seen it, Trey. All you see is someone you work for-but behind all the tough-stuff posturing and all the public-face nonsense, in a different set of circumstances, she can just as easily be you or me.”

“Really? So when was the last time we did Special K in the bowling alley?”

“I said underneath. There’s still a girl underneath.”

“See, now you’re sounding like Mithridates.”

“Who?”

“The guy who survived an assassination attempt by eating a little bit of poison every day. When they finally put it in his wine, his body was immune to it.”

“And what’s so bad about that?”

“Pay attention to the details, Michael. Even though he survived, he still spent every day eating poison.”

I can’t help but shake my head. “I just want to hear what she says. Your theory’s one possibility; there’re plenty of others. For all we know, Pam’s the one who-”

“What the hell is wrong with you? It’s like you’re on permanent autopilot!”

“You don’t understand… ”

“I do understand. And I know how you feel about her. Hell, even forgetting Nora, I still have my own questions about Pam-but take a step back and put on your rational pants. You’re trusting Nora and Vaughn-two complete strangers you’ve known less than a month-and questioning Pam, a good friend who’s been by your side for two years. Please, Michael, look at the facts! Does that make any sense to you? I mean, today alone… what’re you thinking?”

My eyes drop back to my beer. I don’t have an answer.

***

Early Friday morning, I tear through all four newspapers, checking to see if Adenauer kept his word. The Herald has a short piece on some of the conspiracy theories that’re starting to develop around Caroline’s death, but that’s to be expected. More important, Hartson bounced up six points in the polls, a giant leap that takes him out of the margin of error. It’s not hard to see why. The front photo in the Post is a shot of the whole family on Dateline. On the far right, Nora’s laughing at her mother’s joke. Just another day in the life.

Beyond that, as far as I can tell, it’s all okay. Nothing by Inez. Nothing by anyone. Now all I have to do is the hard part. According to the schedule, they should be landing any minute. I tighten my tie and pull it extra tight. Time to see Nora.

***

Once the Secret Service waves me in, I head straight to her bedroom on the third floor. I stop at her door, my hand poised to knock. Inside, I hear her talking to someone, so I lean in close. But just as I do, the door flies open and there’s Nora, radiant in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, cradling a cell phone to her ear, and grinning at me for all of a split second.

“I don’t care if he raises two million,” she shouts into the phone. “I’m not going to dinner with his son!” As I step in, she puts up her pointer finger and gives me the “one more minute” sign.

Based on the schedule, this must be about yesterday’s donor receptions. When we first met, she told me it’s always like this after the fund-raisers. Every letch with a checkbook starts calling in favors. For the President, they’re usually business requests. For Nora, they’re personal.