The First Councel

“The point is, Michael, don’t spend your time defending yourself. Ash had it right. Everyone is watching. And right now, all they see is a woman who had a heart attack. If you start apologizing, they’re going to start thinking otherwise.”

I sit up straight in my seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing at all,” he says cheerfully. “I’m just looking out for you. That scab on your forehead’ll be gone by tomorrow. Take it from me-you don’t need another one.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I insist.

“No one says you did. It was a heart attack. We both know that.” He presses his pointer fingers against each other and brings them to his lips. With a silent grin, he sends home the threat. Go home and keep quiet, or stay here and pay the price. “By the way, Michael, don’t pick any more fights with the Secret Service. I don’t want to hear from them again.”

Over Simon’s shoulder, my eyes wander to his ego wall. In a silver frame is a copy of last year’s crime bill and one of four pens the President used to sign it. There’s a photo of Hartson and Simon fishing on a boat in Key West. And one of Simon advising Hartson in the Oval. There’s a personal note handwritten by Hartson, welcoming Simon back to the job. And there’s a great shot of the two men standing in the aisle on Air Force One: Simon’s laughing and the President’s holding up a bumper sticker that says: “My Lawyer Can Beat Up Your Lawyer.”

“Believe me, it’s for the best,” he says. “Take the rest of the day to relax.”

He’s a ruthless son of a bitch, I think to myself as I climb out of my seat. The prototypical White House attorney, he’s managed to say nothing, and yet still make his point perfectly clear. As of right now, the safest thing to do is stay quiet. It’s not something I’m happy with, but as I saw in Caroline’s office this morning, the alternative has its consequences. Heading toward the door, I do the only thing I can think of. I nod and go along with it. For now.

***

As soon as I get back to my apartment, I go straight for the only piece of furniture that I brought with me from Michigan: a makeshift desk that was created by resting an oversized piece of oak on top of two short black file cabinets. As beat up and ugly as it looks, is as comfortable as it makes me feel.

The rest of my furniture is rented along with the apartment. The black pullout sofa, the black Formica coffee table, the oversized leather easy chair, the small rectangular kitchen table, even the queen-size bed on the black-lacquered platform-none of it’s mine. But when the renting agent showed me the furnished apartment, it felt like home, with enough black furniture to keep any bachelor feeling manly. To make it complete, I added a TV and a tall black bookshelf. Certainly, using someone else’s stuff is a little impersonal, but when I first got to the city, I didn’t want to buy any furniture until I was sure I was going to be able to hack it. That was two years ago.

Like my office at work, the walls are what make the place mine. Over the couch are two red, white, and blue campaign posters with the worst slogans I could find. One is from a 1982 congressional race in Maine and says: “Charles Rust-Rhymes With Trust.” The other is from a 1996 race in Oregon that brings lack of creativity to a new low: “Buddy Eldon-American. Patriot. American.”

Pulling up my chair to the desk, I flip up the lid of my laptop and prepare to get some work done. When my mom left, when my dad got sent away, it was always my first instinct: Bury it all in work. But for the first time in a long while, it’s not making me feel any better.

I spend twenty minutes on Lexis before I realize that my census research is going nowhere. Regardless of how hard I try to concentrate, my mind keeps drifting back to the past few hours. To Caroline. And Simon. And Nora. I’m tempted to call her again, but I quickly decide against it. Internal calls made in the White House can’t be documented. Ones that originate from my home can. This is no time to take chances.

Instead, I pull out my wallet, remove my SecurID, and call the office. The size of a credit card, the SecurID resembles a tiny calculator without the numbered buttons. Utilizing a continuous-loop encryption program and a small liquid crystal display, SecurID gives you a six-digit code that changes every sixty seconds. It’s the only way to check your voice-mail from an outside line, and by constantly changing its numerical code, it ensures that no one can guess your password and listen to your messages.

Entering the SecurID code at the voice-prompt, I find out I have three messages. One from Pam, asking where I am. One from Trey, asking how I’m doing. And one forwarded from Deputy Counsel Lawrence Lamb’s assistant, announcing that the afternoon meeting with the Commerce Secretary is canceled. Nothing from Nora. I don’t like being abandoned like that.