The First Councel

“No te preocupes. No es gran cosa. Gracias, Lola!” Turning her attention back to me, she asks, “I’m sorry, where were we?”

“You know Spanish?”

“I’m from Miami, Paco. You think I’m gonna take French?” Before I can answer, she adds, “Now let’s talk about something else. What’re you doing this weekend? Maybe we can get together.”

“I can’t. I promised my dad I’d visit.”

“That’s nice of you. Where’s he live? Michigan?”

“Not exactly,” I whisper.

She recognizes the change in my tone. “What’s wrong?”

“No, nothing.”

“Then why’re you shutting down like that? C’mon, now-you can tell me. What’s really going on?”

“Nothing,” I insist, moving for a change of subject. After her call this morning, I’m tempted to, but… no… not yet. “I’m just worried about Simon.”

“What’d he do?”

I explain how he pulled me off the roving wiretap case. As always, Nora’s reaction is instantaneous.

“That dickhead-he can’t do that to you!”

“He already did.”

“Then make him change it. Get on the horn. Tell Uncle Larry.”

“Nora, I’m not going to-”

“Stop letting people push you around. Simon, the FBI, Vaughn-whatever they say, you accept it. When the food’s cold, send it back.”

“If you send it back, the cook spits in it.”

“That’s not true.”

“I bused tables at Sizzler for three years in high school. Believe me, I’d rather have the cold food.”

“Well, I wouldn’t. So if you’re not going to call Larry, then I will. In fact, you feast on your cold dinner-I’m going to call him right now.”

“Nora, don’t… ”

It’s too late. She’s gone.

I hang up the phone and notice a quiet clicking. It’s coming from behind me. Turning around, I notice a rumpled pudge of a man, with a thin beard that’s clearly trying to compensate for a receding hairline. Click, click, click. With a beat-up green camera bag dangling from his shoulder, he’s taking pictures of the OEOB. For a split second, though… right when I turned around… I could swear his camera was pointed at me.

Anxious to leave, I turn my back to him and step off the curb. But I can still hear that clicking. One right after the other. Taking one last look at the stranger, I focus on his equipment. Telephoto lens. Motor drive. Not your average D.C. tourist.

Stepping back to the curb, I slowly move toward him. “Do I know you?” I ask.

He lowers his camera and looks me straight in the eye. “Mind your own business.”

“What?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he spins around and takes off. As he runs, I notice that on the back of his camera bag there’re words written in black Magic Marker: “If found call 202-334- 6000.” Memorizing the number, I stop running and dart back to the pay phone. Shoving change down the throat of the machine, I dial the number and wait for someone to pick up. “C’mon… ” As it rings, I watch the stranger disappear up the block. This is never going to…

“Washington Post,” a female voice answers. “How may I direct your call?”

***

“I can’t believe this. Why the hell was he-?”

“Michael, calm down,” Trey says on the other line. “For all you know-”

“He was taking my picture, Trey! I saw him!”

“Are you sure it was just of you?”

“When I asked him about it, he ran away. They know it, Trey. Somehow, they know to focus on me, which means they’re not going to stop digging through my life until they hit either a casket or a… Oh, God.”

“What?” Trey asks. “What’s wrong?”

“When they find out what I did-they’re going to rip him apart.”

“Rip who apart?”

“I gotta go. I’ll speak to you later.”

“But what abou-”

I slam down the phone and dial a new number.

***

Ten digits later, I’m on the phone with Marlon Porigow, a deep-voiced man who’s in charge of my father’s visitation rights. “Tomorrow should be fine,” he tells me in a great Cajun bellow. “I’ll make sure he’s up and ready.”

“Any problems lately? He doing okay?” I ask.

“No one likes being a prisoner-but he manages. We all manage.”

“I guess,” I say, my left hand clamped ruthlessly to the armrest of my chair. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

As he’s about to hang up, I add, “And Marlon, can you do me a favor?”

“Name it.”

“I’m working on some… some pretty important stuff over here-some of it a little personal. And since I’m already nervous that the press is sniffing too closely, if you could… ”

“You want me to keep an extra eye on him?”

“Yeah.” I can still see that photographer scurrying up the block. “Just try to make sure no one gets in to see him. Some of these guys can be ruthless.”

“You really think someone’s gonna-”

“Yes,” I interrupt. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”

Marlon’s heard that tone before. “You’re up to your knees, now, ain’t ya?”

I don’t answer.

“Well, don’t worry ’bout a thing,” he continues. “Meals, showers, lights out-I’ll make sure no one gets near him.”

Returning the phone to its cradle, I’m alone in the room. I feel the ego walls closing in around me. Between Inez and the photographer, the press is zeroing in a bit too quickly. And they’re not alone. Simon, Vaughn, the FBI-they’re all starting to look closely. At me.

CHAPTER 16