The First Councel

I look down at the photo of Hartson and the empty crowd. “How did that even-”

“The whole thing is bullshit-there were three hundred people on the left and right of the photo, and the empty seats were for the marching band that was getting into place-the Herald just cropped it for effect. We’re demanding a retraction for tomorrow-because, you know, a four-line apology buried on A2 is far more effective than an ass-sized full-color on page one!”

“I take it the numbers aren’t looking good?”

“Seven points, Michael. That’s it. That’s our lead. Take away two more-which, once the wires pick up the photo, is exactly where we’re gonna be-and we’re officially in the margin of error. Welcome to mediocrity. Enjoy your stay.”

“What about the Vanity Fair story? Any response on that?”

“Oh, you didn’t hear? Yesterday in California-California of all places!-Bartlett apparently used his First Family/family first quote on a religious radio station. The callers ate it up.”

“I didn’t know they still had religion in California.”

There’s a long silence on the other line. He must be getting reamed for this one.

“I assume you’re planning something drastic?” I add.

“You should hear it around here. Last night, it got so bad, someone actually suggested putting the whole First Family on TV for a live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview.”

“And what’d they decide on?”

“Live prime-time all-of-them-at-once interview. If America’s really concerned that Nora’s out of control or that the Hartsons are bad parents, the only way to tackle it is to prove it wrong. Show ’em the entire family unit, throw in a couple Aw, Dads, and pray that all’s well once again.”

“It’s that easy, huh?” I ask with a laugh. “So I assume you’ll have nothing to do with this transparent attempt at public pandering?”

“Are you kidding? I’m in the center ring-my boss and I are in charge of it.”

“What?”

“I don’t know what you’re finding so funny, Michael. There’s nothing to laugh at. We’re bottoming out in every key battleground state. California, Texas, Illinois… If we don’t start converting some undecideds, we’re going to be out of our jobs.”

I freeze as he says the words. “You really think-”

“Michael, no sitting President’s ever done a First Family interview. Why do you think we are? It’s the same reason Lamb asked you to keep quiet. This is it-if the numbers don’t turn, Nora and company are heading back to sunny Flori-”

“Just tell me who you’re going with-20/20 or-”

“Dateline,” he blurts. “I suggested 60 Minutes, but everyone thought it was too Clinton. Besides, the First Lady likes Samantha Stulberg-she did a nice piece on her after the Inauguration.”

“And when is this all going to take place?”

“Eight P.M. this Thursday, which also, lucky for us, happens to be the First Lady’s fiftieth birthday.”

“You’re not wasting any time.”

“We can’t afford to. And no offense, boyo, but the way we’re headed, neither can you.”

***

It’s barely seven A.M. as I open the door to Room 170, and the darkness in the anteroom tells me I’m the first one in. With a cup of coffee in one hand and my briefcase in the other, I elbow on the light switch and start another fluorescent day. I count all three flickers before the light actually comes on-which is exactly how long it takes me to shut the alarm, pull the mail from my mailbox, and reach the door to my office.

Heading toward my desk, I peer out the window and take in the view. Hugged by the sun, the White House shines in the morning. It’s right out of the press kit. Green trees. Red geraniums. Glowing marble. For one glorious moment, everything’s right in the world. Then it’s interrupted by the quiet knock on my door.

“Come in,” I shout, assuming it’s Pam.

“Mind if I take a seat?” a man’s voice asks.

I spin around. Agent Adenauer.

He closes the door and extends an open handshake. “Don’t worry,” he says with a warm smile. “It’s only me.”

CHAPTER 22

What are you doing here?”

“Just got back from fishing,” Adenauer says, in his easygoing Southern drawl. “Three-day trip to the Chesapeake. Man, did it just take my breath-you got to get over there sometime.” With his cheap suit and his playful Keith Haring tie, he really does seem genuinely friendly. Like he wants to help.

“Take a seat,” I offer.

He tosses me a nod of appreciation. “I promise, I’ll make this one quick.” Sliding into the chair, he explains, “As I’m kicking through the grease, there’s just one thing I can’t get my head for.” He pauses a moment. “What’s going on with you and Simon?”

I’ve heard that tone before-it’s not an accusation; he’s worried for me. Still, I play dumb. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“Last time we spoke, you suggested that we check Simon’s bank accounts. When we went to see Simon, he said we should take a look at yours.”