The First Councel

“Where you going?” he asks in a loose Midwestern accent. As he turns around to face me, he’s got a thick arm wrapped around the back of the passenger seat.

“Anywhere… Straight… Just get out of here,” I say, kicking myself for coming to find the note. I knew this would happen.

He slams the gas and sends me flying backwards in my seat.

I turn to look back. The agents are shouting something, but I can’t hear them. It doesn’t matter-they’ve answered my question. The word’s out. And all eyes are on me.

***

Ten minutes later, we pull into an above-ground parking garage right off Wisconsin Avenue. The cabbie swears it’s the closest pay phone that can’t be seen from the street. I take his word for it.

“Do you mind waiting?” I ask as I hop out to the phone.

“You pay, I stay-American way.”

I pick up the receiver and dial Trey’s number. His line rings twice before he picks up.

“This is Trey.”

“How we doing?” I ask.

“Mi-” He stops himself. Someone’s in the office. “Where the hell are you? Are you okay?” he whispers.

“I’m fine,” I say unconvincingly. In the background, I hear the other phones in his office ringing. “What’s happening there?”

Another two phones go off. “It’s a friggin’ zoo-like nothing you’ve ever seen. Every reporter in the country has called us. Twice.”

“How bad am I going to be hit?”

There’s a short pause on the other line. “You’re Dan Quayle.”

“Have they issued-”

“No statements from anyone-Simon, Press Office, not even Hartson. Rumor is they’re going live at five-thirty-to make sure they have something for the nightlies. I’m telling you, man, I’ve never seen anything like it-the place is paralyzed.”

“And your friend at the Post?”

“All I know is they got a photo of you standing outside the building-probably the one taken by that photographer. Unless they get something better, he says it’s running A1 tomorrow.”

“Can’t he-”

“I’m trying my best,” he says. “There’s just no way around it. Inez got everything-you leaving Caroline’s office, the WAVES records, the tox reports, the money… ”

“She found the money?”

“My buddy says she knows someone at D.C. police. They typed your name in and it came up under ‘Financial Investigations.’ Ten thousand big ones seized from Michael Garri… ” Trey’s voice trails off. “What?” he asks, sounding muffled. He’s got a hand over the receiver. “Says who?”

“Trey!” I shout. “What’s going on?”

I hear people talking, but he doesn’t answer.

“Trey!”

Still nothing.

“Trey!”

“Are you there?” he finally asks.

I’m so sick, I’m going to vomit. “What the hell’s going on?” “Steve just got back from the Press Office,” he says hesitantly.

“Is it bad?”

I can’t hear it, but I know I’m getting the rub. It’s a record-breaker. “I wouldn’t panic until they confirm-”

“Just tell me what it is!”

“He says they found a gun in your car, Michael.”

“What?”

“Wrapped in an old map; hidden in your glove compartment.”

I feel like I just took a kick in the neck. My body’s reeling. I hold on to the phone booth to stand up. “I don’t own a… How did they… Oh, jeez, they’re going to find Vaughn… ”

“It’s just a rumor, Michael-for all we know, it’s-” Once again, he stops short. So does everyone in the background. The place is silent. All I hear are phones ringing. Someone must’ve walked in.

“What’re they saying?” a female voice demands. I recognize it instantly.

“Here you go, Mrs. Hartson,” another voice says.

“I gotta run,” Trey whispers into the phone.

“Wait!” I shout. “Not y-” It’s too late. He’s gone.

Lowering the phone to its cradle, I look over my shoulder for help. The only one there is the cab driver, who’s already lost in his newspaper. I hear the taxi coughing and wheezing from years of abuse. The rest of the garage is silent. Silent and abandoned. I put my hand over my stomach and feel the knife twisting in my gut. I have to… I have to get help. I pick up the receiver and stuff another set of coins in the pay phone. Without even thinking, I dial her number. It’s the first thought that comes to my brain. Forget what happened-call her. I need the front lines; I need to know what’s going on; and more than anything else, I need some honesty. Guerrilla honesty.

“This is Pam,” she says as she picks up the phone.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. After our last conversation, she’s probably ready to rip me apart.

She pauses long enough to let me know she recognizes my voice. I close my eyes and get ready for the tongue-lashing.

“How you doing, Pete?” she asks with a strain in her voice.

Something’s wrong. “Should I-”

“No, no,” she interrupts. “The FBI never called-they wouldn’t trace the phone lines… ”

That’s all I need to hear. I slam the phone back into its cradle. I have to hand it to her-regardless of how pissed she was, she came through. She’ll be taking major heat for that one. But if they’ve already closed in on my closest friends… Damn, maybe Trey didn’t even know. Maybe they already… I back up from the phone and race toward the cab. “Let’s get out of here,” I shout to the driver.

“Where to?” he asks as the tires screech toward Wisconsin Avenue.