The First Councel

Two hours later, I’m still working on my introduction. This isn’t high school debate with Mr. Ulery. It’s the Oval Office with Ted Hartson. President Hartson. With a dictionary at my side, I rewrite my opening sentence for the seventeenth time. Each word has to be just right. It’s still not there.

Opening sentence. Take eighteen.

***

Working straight through lunch, I hit the heart of the argument. Sure, we’re trained to present an unbiased view, but let’s be honest. This is the White House. Everyone’s got an opinion.

As a result, it doesn’t take me long to make a list of reasons for the President to come out against roving wiretaps. That’s the easy part. The hard part is convincing the President I’m right. Especially in an election year.

***

At five o’clock, I take my only break: a ten-minute round-trip dash to the West Wing for the first batch of fries that comes out of the Mess. Over the next four hours, I skim through hundreds of criminal cases, looking for the best ones to make my point. It’s going to be a late night, but as long as things stay quiet, I should be able to get through it.

“Candy bars! Who wants candy bars?” Trey announces, striding through the door. “Guess what just got added to the vending machines?” Before I can answer, he adds, “Two words, Lucy: Hostess. Cupcakes. I saw ’em downstairs-our childhood trapped behind glass. For seventy-five cents, we get it back.”

“Now’s really a bad time… ”

“I understand-you’re knee-deep. Then let me at least tell you about-”

“I can’t… ”

“No such thing as can’t. Besides, this is impor-”

“Dammit, Trey, can’t you ever take a hint?”

He’s not happy with that one. Without a word, he turns his back and heads for the exit.

“Trey… ”

He opens the door.

“C’mon, Trey… ”

At the last second, he stops. “Listen, hotshot, I don’t need the apology-the only reason I came by was because your favorite Post reporter just called us about the WAVES records. Adenauer may be waiting until Friday, but Inez’s cashing in every press favor she has. So no matter how badly you’re trying to smudge elbows with the President, you should know the clock’s ticking-and it may explode sooner than you think.” He wheels around and slams the door shut.

I know he’s right. By Adenauer’s count, I’m almost down to two days. But with everything else going on, it’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. After the President, and after Vaughn.

***

By eight o’clock, the howling in my stomach tells me I’m hungry, the searing pain in my lower back tells me I’ve been sitting too long, and the vibration of my pager tells me someone’s calling.

I whip it out of the clip on my belt and look at the message. “Emergency. Meet me in the theater. Nora.”

As I read the words, I feel my whole face go white. Whatever it is, it can’t be good. I take off without even thinking.

Within three minutes, I’m on a mad dash through the Ground Floor Corridor of the mansion. At the far end of the hallway, I push through a final set of doors, cut through the small area where they sell books on the White House public tour, and see the oversized bust of Abraham Lincoln. During the day, the hallway is usually filled with tour groups checking out the architectural diagrams and famous White House photos that line the left-hand wall. For the most part, visitors and guests think that’s pretty interesting. I wonder how they’d react if they knew that on the other side of that wall is the President’s private movie theater.

I run my open palm against my forehead, hoping to hide the sweat. As I approach the guard who’s stationed nearby, I motion to my destination. “I’m supposed to meet-”

“She’s inside,” he says.

I rip open the door, smell the slight remnants of popcorn, and dart into the theater.

Nora’s sitting in the front row of the empty fifty-one-seat theater. She has her feet hiked up on the armrest of her chair, and a big bag of popcorn on her lap.

“Ready for a surprise?” she asks, turning my way.

I’m not sure whether I’m angry or relieved.

“For once, stop looking so depressed. Just sit,” she says, patting the seat next to her.

Dumbfounded, I head over to the front row. There’re nine rows of traditional movie theater seats, but the front row consists of four leather La-Z-Boy recliners. Best seats in the house. I take the one to Nora’s left.

“Why’d you send that messa-?”

“Hit it, Frankie!” she shouts the moment I sit.

Slowly, the lights go down and the flickering stutter of the projector fills the air. The walls of the theater are draped with Soul Train-era burnt-orange-colored curtains with beige bird designs. Like the Music Room, Elvis would’ve loved it.

As the opening credits roll, I realize we’re watching the new Terrance Landaw movie. It’s not going to be out in theaters for another month, but the Motion Picture Association makes sure that the White House gets on the hottest new releases delivered every Tuesday. Subliminal lobbying.

“Is there a reason we’re-”

“Shhhhh!” she hisses with a playful smirk.