The First Councel

Putting on her glasses, she doesn’t look amused. “It’s an interesting story, Michael. The only problem is, fifteen minutes ago, Edgar Simon was in this office telling me the exact same story about you. In his version, though, you were the one with the money.” She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair. “Now do you want to start over?”

CHAPTER 6

Why would he say that?” I ask, panicking.

“Michael, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but there’s-”

“I’m not in any trouble,” I insist. My mouth goes dry and nausea washes over me. I can feel it in my stomach. It’s all about to collapse. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear… it was him. We saw him carrying the-”

“Who’s we?”

“Huh?”

“We. You just said we. Who else was with you, Michael?”

I sit up straight in my seat. “No one was with me. I swear, I was all alone.”

Silence envelops the room and I can feel the weight of her judgment. “You really have balls, y’know that? When Simon came in here, he told me to take it easy on you. He figured you had problems. And what do you do? You lie to my face and blame it on him! On him of all people!”

“Wait a minute… you think I’m making this up?”

“I’m not answering that question.” She brushes her hand against a stack of red file folders. “I’ve already seen the answer.”

In the world of vetting and background checks, a red folder means an FBI file. Instinctively, I check the name on the tab of the top file. Michael Garrick.

My fists tighten. “You pulled my file?”

“Why don’t you tell me about your work on the new Medicaid overhaul-preserving Medicaid for criminals? It looks like a real crusade for you.”

There’s a tone in her voice that stabs like a stick in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t insult me, Michael. We’ve been through this once before. I know all about him. Still a real proud poppa, huh?”

I shoot out of my seat, barely able to control myself. She’s pushing the wrong buttons. “Leave him alone,” I growl. “He has nothing to do with this.”

“Really? It looks like a clear conflict of interest to me.”

“The only reason I’m on that issue is because Simon put the reference memo on my desk.”

“So you never thought about the fact that your father benefits from the program?”

“He doesn’t get the money; it goes straight to his facility!”

“He benefits, Michael! You can rationalize all you want, but you know it’s true. He’s your father, he’s a criminal, and if the program gets overhauled, he’ll lose his benefits.”

“He’s not a criminal!”

“The moment you got this issue, you should’ve recused yourself. That’s what the Standards of Conduct require and that’s what you neglected to do! It’s just like last time!”

“That was different!”

“The only thing different was that I gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now I know better.”

“So now you think I’m lying about Simon and the money?”

“You know what they say: Like father, like son.”

“Don’t you dare say that! You know nothing about him!”

“Is that what the money was for? Some sort of payout to keep him safe?”

“I wasn’t the one with the money… ”

“I don’t believe you, Michael.”

“Simon was the one who-”

“I said, I don’t believe you.”

“Why the hell won’t you listen?” I shout as my voice booms through the room.

Her answer is simple. “Because I know you’re lying.”

That’s it. I need help. I turn around and head for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

I don’t say a word.

“Don’t walk away from me!” she shouts.

I stop and turn around. “Does that mean you’re going to hear my side of the story?”

Locking her hands together, she drops them on her desk. “I think I’ve already heard everything I need.”

I reach for the door and pull it open.

“If you walk out of here, Michael, I promise you, you’ll regret it!”

It doesn’t slow me down.

“Get back here! Now!”

I step into the hallway and my world goes red. “Drop dead,” I say without turning around.

***

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in my office, staring at the small television that rests on the ledge by the window. Every office in the OEOB is wired for cable, but I keep the set locked on channel twenty-five-where the menu for the White House Mess runs endlessly throughout the day.

Soup of the day: French onion.

Yogurt of the day: Oreo.

Sandwich selections: Turkey, roast beef, tuna salad.

One by one, they scroll up the screen; boring white letters against a royal blue background. Right now, it’s about all I can handle.

By the third rerun of the Yogurt of the day, I’ve come up with thirteen unarguable reasons to rip Caroline’s head off. From setting me up, to taking those potshots at my dad-what the hell is wrong with her? She knew what she was doing from the moment I walked in there. Slowly, surely, though, adrenaline fades into a quiet calm. And with that calm comes the realization that unless we have another conversation, Caroline’s going to take Simon’s version of the story and bury me with it.