The First Councel

Running up the hallway of the OEOB, I know that the only way to find out what’s going on is face-to-face and in person. At full speed, with an empty interoffice mailer clutched in an anxious fist, I blow through the West Exec exit, cross the corridor between the buildings, and head for the West Wing of the White House. Passing through the doors under the sharp white awning, I wave a quick hello to Phil.

“Going up?” he asks, calling the elevator for me.

I shake my head.

“Crazy news, huh?”

“No question about it,” I say as I rush past him. Climbing the short flight of stairs on my left, I slow my pace to a brisk walk. You don’t run this close to the Oval. Not unless you want to be tackled or shot. I take a quick peek at Hartson’s secretary’s office to see how things are going. As always, the Oval and everything else near the President is lightning hot. It’s charged with an energy that’s impossible to describe. It’s not panic-there’s no panicking when you’re near the President. It’s simply a wave of energy that’s conspicuously and unapologetically alive. Like Nora.

Staying on course, I push forward. Ahead of me, I see another two uniformed officers and the lower press office, where four original Norman Rockwells line the wall that leads to the West Colonnade. Shoving open the doors, I step outside, fly past each of the spectacular white columns that line the Rose Garden, and reenter the mansion of the White House in the Ground Floor Corridor.

Straight ahead, across the wave of lush, pale red carpet, there’re four cherry-wood foldable dividers blocking the back half of the corridor. Public tours are on the other side. Every year thousands of tourists are led through the Ground Floor and the State Floor, the first two floors of the White House. They see the Vermeil Room, the China Room, the Blue Room, the Red Room, the Green Room, the Fill-in-the-Blank Room. But they don’t see where the President and the First Family actually live-where they sleep, where they entertain, and where they spend their time-the top two floors of the White House. The Residence.

Up the hallway, through the second door on my left, is the entryway that houses an elevator and a set of stairs. Both lead up to the Residence. The only thing in my way is the Secret Service: one uniformed officer on this floor; two on the floor above. No need to lose it, I tell myself. It’s just like anything else in life-a purposeful walk gets you inside. With an even, deliberate pace, I hold out the interoffice mailer and make my way up the hallway, toward the first officer. He’s leaning against the wall and appears to be staring at his own shoes. Keep your head down-just keep your head down. I’m only ten feet from the door. Five feet from the door. Three feet from the-Suddenly he looks up. I don’t stop. I shoot him a friendly nod as he eyes my ID. Blue pass goes just about anywhere. And presidential interoffice mail goes straight upstairs to the Usher’s Office. “Have a good one,” I add, for authenticity’s sake. He looks back at his shoes without a sound. Confidence is once again the ultimate hall pass. I head for the stairs. Only one more floor to go.

Although I’m tempted to celebrate, I know that the Ground Floor officer is just there to make sure people don’t wander in off the tour. The real checkpoint for the Residence is on the next landing. As I make my way up, I quickly spot two uniformed Secret Service officers waiting for me. Standing across from the elevator, these two aren’t looking at their shoes. I avoid eye contact and maintain the purposeful pace.

“Can I help you?” the taller of the two officers asks.

Keep walking-they’ll buy it, I tell myself. “How you doing?” I say, trying to sound like I’m here all the time. “She’s expecting me.”

The other officer steps in front of me and blocks my path to the next flight of stairs. “Who’s expecting you?”

“Nora,” I reply, showing them the mailer. I step to my right and act like I planned to take the elevator the rest of the way. When I push the call button, a rasping buzzer screams through the small entryway.

I turn around and both officers are looking at me.

“You can leave the mail with the usher,” the taller one says.

“She asked that it be hand-delivered,” I offer.

Neither of them is impressed. After reading my name from my ID, the taller officer steps into the Usher’s Office, which is right next to the stairs, and picks up the telephone. “I have a Michael Garrick down here.” He listens for a second. “No. Yeah. I’ll tell him. Thanks.” He hangs up the phone and looks back at me. “She’s not up there.”

“What? That’s impossible. When did she leave?”

“They said it was in the last ten minutes. If she takes the elevator down, we don’t see her.”

“Don’t they update her movements on your radio?”

“Not until she leaves the building.”

I stare him down. There’s nothing left to say. “Tell her I came by,” I add, heading back down the stairs.