The First Councel

Since then, I’ve been huddled in the far corner of Legal Seafood-the only restaurant in the airport that airs the local news, and therefore the best place to nurse my last twelve dollars.

“Here’s your soda,” the waitress says, lowering the glass to my table.

“Thanks,” I say, my eyes glued to the TV. To my surprise, the local affiliate has preempted its programming to cover the daily press conference live. It’s a power move by the stations-putting pressure on the Press Office to get on with the story. Naturally, the White House pushes back. CNN is one thing, but they can’t have the whole nation going live-it sets people into a panic and sends votes to Bartlett. So they do the best thing they can think of-they run the agenda backwards. Start with the small stories; work up to the home run.

As a result, we’re watching a wire-rimmed State Department bureaucrat explaining to eighty-five million people the benefits of the Kyoto Accords and how they’ll affect our long-term trade positions with Asia. In one massive collective yawn, thirty million people change the channel. For the networks, it’s a ratings nightmare. For the Press Office, it’s a TKO. The message is sent-don’t fuck with the White House.

Convinced that only the diehards are left, Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb and the President approach the podium. She’s there to speak; he’s there to let us know it’s serious. A candidate who can handle a crisis.

No more wasting time-she gets right into it. Yes, Caroline Penzler’s death was not from natural causes. No, the White House never knew. Why, because the toxicology reports were only recently completed. Everything else can’t be discussed because they don’t want it interfering with the current investigation. Like before, she tries to keep it short and sweet. She doesn’t have a chance. Once the smell of blood’s in the air, the press licks their chops.

In nanoseconds, the reporters in the room are on their feet and shouting questions.

“When’d the tox reports come back?”

“Is it true the story was leaked to the Post?”

“What about Michael Garrick?”

Reaching for my soda, I inadvertently knock it over. As it waterfalls off the table, the waitress runs to my side.

“Sorry about that,” I say as she throws down a rag.

“Not a big deal,” she replies.

On-screen, the Press Secretary explains that she doesn’t want to interfere with the FBI’s ongoing investigation, but there’s no way the reporters’ll let her avoid it that easily. Within seconds, the questions once again fly.

“Have you confirmed murder, or are you still considering suicide?”

“What about the ten thousand dollars?”

“Is it true Garrick’s still in the building?”

She’s getting hammered up there. Someone’s got to save her. Sure enough, the President steps in. To the American people, he looks like a hero. To the press-as soon as they saw him in the room, they knew they were going to get him. The President doesn’t just hang out at briefings. Still, it quiets the crowd.

Locking his hands on to the sides of the podium, he picks up where Goldfarb should’ve never left off. This is an FBI case. Period. They investigated; they ran the tests; and they kept it quiet to prevent exactly what’s happening from happening. Within seconds, he’s passed the buck. He’s so good at this, it’s scary.

When he’s convinced he’s clean, he tackles the questions. No, he can’t comment on Vaughn or myself. Yes, that would greatly impede the investigation. And yes, in case the press corps forgot, people are still innocent until proven guilty, thank you very much.

“However,” he says as the room falls silent. “I do want to make one thing perfectly clear… ” He pauses just long enough to get us all salivating. “If this is a murder… whatever it takes, we will find the person who killed my friend, Caroline Penzler.” He says it just like that. “My friend, Caroline Penzler.” Right there, it all shifts. From defense to offense in a matter of syllables. I can feel his poll numbers rocket. Screw Bartlett. There’s nothing America loves more than a little personal vengeance. When he’s done, he looks straight at the camera for the big closer. “Whoever they are, wherever they are, these people will pay.”

“That’s all we have to say,” the Press Secretary jumps in.

Hartson leaves the room; the press keeps shouting questions. It’s too late, though. It’s six o’clock. For now, the local news is going to have to pick up the pieces, and all they have is Hartson’s positively flawless sound bite. I have to hand it to them. That thing was choreographed better than the First Lady’s birthday party. Every moment was brilliant-right down to Goldfarb pretending she was overwhelmed. The President steps in, sounds fair, and saves the day. Play up the dead friend; sprinkle in some retaliation. Tough on crime never had it so good.

Of course, as the smoke clears, all I can focus on is who the press was asking about. Not Simon. And thankfully, not Nora. Just me. Me and Vaughn. Two dead men.

***