The First Councel

Listening to his strained words, I notice how tightly he’s holding the steering wheel. “So that’s why you told Caroline that I was the one who had the money?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The next morning. After the meeting. You told her the forty thousand dollars was mine-that I made the drop.”

He lets go of the wheel and looks at me completely confused. “I think you have it backwards. All I told her was that I wanted to see your file. I figured if you were the blackmailer… ”

“Me?”

“Dammit, Michael, stop lying to my face! You picked up the money-you’re a co-conspirator. I know that’s why you killed her.”

He says something else, but I’m not listening. “You never told her the money was mine?” I ask.

“Why would I do that? If Caroline was in on it-which I always thought she was-and she knew I found out-she’d have gutted me to keep me quiet.”

I feel the blood rush from my face. I don’t believe it… all this time… she made it up to keep me quiet-and to point the finger at Simon. It’s perfect when you think about it; she was playing us against each other. Searching for solid ground, I wrap my fist around the door handle. Slowly, painfully, I turn to look at Simon. And for the first time since we followed him out of the bar, I entertain the thought that he might be innocent.

“Are you okay?” he asks, reading my expression.

It doesn’t make any sense. “I didn’t do it-I never killed anyone. V-Vaughn… and Trey… even Nora said… ”

“You told Nora about this?”

Behind us, up the street, a bright light cuts through the darkness. A car just turned onto the block. No, not a car. A van. As it gets closer, I notice the broadcasting antenna attached to its roof. Oh, shit. That’s no mom-mobile. That’s a news van. Time’s up.

I throw open the door, but Simon grabs me by the arm. “Does Nora know? Did she tell Hartson?”

“Let go!”

“Don’t do this now, Michael! Please! Not while my kids are in the house!”

“I’m not telling anyone. I just want to get out of here!” Jerking my arm free, I scramble out of the car. The news van is almost in front of the house.

“Ask Adenauer! I didn’t do anything wrong!” Simon shouts. I’m about to take off, but… it’s hard to describe… there’s pain in his voice. With seconds to spare, I turn back for one last question. Until now, it’s the only one I’ve been afraid to ask. “Tell me the truth, Edgar. Have you ever slept with Nora?”

“What?”

That’s all I need to hear.

The door to the news van slides open and two people hop out. It’s hard not to miss the interior glow of Simon’s car. “Up there!” a reporter shouts as the cameraman turns on his light.

“Start the car and get out of here,” I tell him. “And tell Adenauer I’m innocent.”

“What about-”

I slam the car door and dart for the wooden fence in the backyard. Like a spotlight in a prison break, a blast of artificial light floods through the back window of Simon’s car and lights the right side of his face. By the time they pan across the rest of the backyard, I’m gone.

***

“Operator 27,” a male voice says, answering the phone.

“I just got paged,” I say to the Signal operator. “Can you please connect me to Room 160½.”

“I need a name, sir.”

“It’s not assigned to anyone. It’s an intern room.”

He puts me on hold to verify the rest. Typical White House operator. No time for-

“I’m connecting you now,” he announces.

As the phone rings, I huddle close to the gas station’s pay phone and thank God for 800 numbers. Looking down, I notice that the leather on my shoes is beginning to rip. Too many fences. Story of my life. When the phone rings for the third time, I start getting nervous. They should’ve picked up by now-unless no one’s there. I take a quick glance at my watch. It’s past nine o’clock. Someone’s got to need copies. It’s the-

“White House,” a young man’s voice answers.

I can hear it in the seriousness of his tone. Intern. Perfect.

“Who am I speaking with?” I bark.

“A-Andrew Schottenstein.”

“Listen, Andrew, this is Reggie Dwight from the First Lady’s Office. Do you know where Room 144 is?”

“I think-”

“Good. I want you to run down there and ask for Trey Powell. Tell him you need to speak to him and bring him back here to me.”

“I don’t understand. Why-”

“Listen, man, I’ve got about three minutes before the First Lady issues her statement on this Garrick fiasco, and Mr. Powell’s the only one who has the new draft. So get your butt out of the copy room and get your heinie running down that hallway. Tell him it’s Reggie Dwight, and tell him I need to speak to him.”

I hear the door slam as Andrew Schotten-something rushes out of his office. As an intern, he’s one of the few people who’ll actually fall for that one. More important, as chairman of the Elton John Fan Club, Washington Chapter, Trey is one of the few people who will recognize the singer’s real name.