The First Councel

I nod, trying not to dwell on why she wouldn’t see me today. “When everything calms down, I bet she comes through.”

“Why do I have such a hard time believing that?”

“Because you don’t like her.”

“I could care less about her-I’m just worried about you.”

“Don’t worry, she’s not going to let us down.”

“I hope you’re right,” Pam says. “Because if she does, you’re going to be free-falling without a parachute. And before you can blink, you’re going to taste every second of that impact.”

***

For financial reasons, Saturday morning means only two of my four newspapers are sitting outside my door. Even as a lawyer, government salaries only go so far. Regardless, the ritual’s pretty much the same. Pulling the papers inside, I stare down at Bartlett’s second consecutive day in the front photo-a beaming shot of him and his wife at their son’s soccer game. Flipping the paper over, I scour the Post’s below-the-fold, front-page story on Caroline’s death and search for my name. It’s not there. Not yet.

Instead, I get a recap of her death, followed by a quick sketch of what a good friend Caroline was to the First Lady. According to the quote under the old photo of the two friends, the relationship changed Caroline’s life. Looking at the picture, I can see why. Caroline’s the law student, all wide-eyed and passionate in her cheap blouse and wrinkled skirt; Mrs. Hartson is her supervisor-the sparkling director of Parkinson’s fund-raising in her white Miami power suit. A friendship ended by a heart attack. Please let it just be a heart attack.

***

On the Saturday morning drive downtown, as I approach the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue is packed with joggers and bicyclists trying to leave the work week behind. Behind them, the sun is gleaming off the mansion’s ivory columns. It’s the kind of sight that makes you want to spend the whole day outside. That is, unless you can’t get your mind off work.

I pull up to the first checkpoint before the Southwest Appointment Gate and flash my ID to a uniformed Secret Service officer. He glances at my photo and offers me a subtle smirk. In his right hand, he’s holding what looks like a pool cue with a round unbreakable mirror attached to the end of it. Without a word, he runs the mirror below the car. No bombs, no surprise guests. Knowing the rest of the ritual, I pop my rear hatch. The first officer rummages through the back of my Jeep, as I notice a second officer standing on the side with a way-too-alert German shepherd. When my car’s finally parked, they’ll send the dog sniffing on an hourly basis. Right now, they wave me in.

I find an open spot on State Place, right outside the steel bars of the gate. At my level, that’s the best parking I can get. Outside the gate. Still, at least I have a parking pass.

Traveling the rest of the way on foot, I cross inside the gate, swipe my badge at the turnstile, and wait for the lock to click. I walk past two more guards, neither of whom gives me a second look. As I glance over my shoulder, however, I notice the officer with the mirror on the other side of the gate. Through the bars, he’s staring straight at me. Smirk still on his face.

Picking up speed, I head up the sidewalk, with the OEOB on my left and the West Wing on my right. The corridor between the two is lined with Mercedes, Jaguars, Saabs, and just enough beat-up Saturns to stave off elitist guilt. The most prestigious parking lot in the city. All of it inside the gate. An island unto itself, West Exec parking is also where the hierarchy of White House command is laid out for the world to see: the closer your spot to the entrance of the West Wing, the higher your rank. Chief of Staff is closer than the Deputy Chief of Staff, who’s closer than the Domestic Policy Advisor, who’s closer than me. And even though I don’t usually drive to work, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be inside the gate.

Getting closer to the front, I can’t help myself. I pretend to hear someone calling my name and again look over my shoulder. The guard’s still there. Our eyes lock and he whispers something into his walkie-talkie. What the hell is… Forget it. He’s just trying to scare me. Who could he be speaking to anyway?

I turn back to the parking lot and see a black Volvo in Spot Twenty-six. Simon’s somewhere in the building. At the end of the row, there’s an old gray Honda in Spot Ninety-four. It belongs to Trey, whose boss lets him use her spot on weekends. Midway between the two, I notice there’s a brand-new red car parked in Spot Forty-one. Caroline’s been dead less than twenty-four hours, and someone’s already taken her parking space.

As I approach the side entrance of the OEOB, I take one last glance at the guard outside the gate. For the first time since I arrived, he’s gone-back to sliding his mirror under the belly of arriving cars. Still, it’s just like the night on the embankment-not only is my neck soaked-I can’t shake the feeling that I’m being watched.