The First Councel

“I appreciate you seeing me like this,” I add as quickly as I can. It’s the understatement of the year. In the halls of the OEOB, there’re staffers who’d kill for private lessons with the White House’s best-dressed old pro.

“The first one’s always the hardest. After that, it’ll come naturally.”

I know I’m supposed to be listening, but my brain keeps practicing my opening line-Good morning, Mr. President. Good morning, Mr. President. Good morn-

“Just remember one thing,” Lamb continues. “When you get in there, don’t say hello to the President. You walk in; he looks up; you start. Anything else is a waste of time, which we all know he doesn’t have.”

I nod as if I knew it all along.

“Also, don’t get thrown by his reactions. The first answer he gives is always going to be provocative-he’ll yell, he’ll shout, he’ll scream, ‘Why are we doing it this way?’”

“I don’t understand… ”

“It’s how he vents,” Lamb explains. “He knows it’s always going to be a compromise, but he needs to show everyone-including himself-that he’s still got his hand on the moral compass.”

“Anything else?”

He nods his standard nod. “Just don’t forget what you’re there for.”

Once again, I’m lost.

“Michael, when it comes to advice, there’re three types: legal advice, moral advice, and political advice. What you can do, what you want to do, and what you should do. You may be trained in the first, but he’s going to want all three. In other words, you can’t just go in there and say, ‘Kill the wiretaps-it’s the right thing to do.’”

I’m still anxiously palming my knees. “But what if it is the right thing to do?”

“All I’m saying is, don’t get married to a victory-my gut tells me this thing’s a vote-getter.”

I don’t like the sound of that. If Lamb says it, it’s truth. “Is there any chance I’m going to convince him otherwise?”

“Time’ll tell,” Lamb says. “But I wouldn’t bet on it.”

With nothing left to say, I get up to leave the office.

“By the way,” he adds, “I’ve been trading calls with Agent Adenauer’s second in command. I have a meeting with him later today, so I’m hoping to have the final list of suspects by this afternoon-tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“That’s great,” I say, trying to stay focused. I’m about to switch back to the Oval, but I realize there’s something else I should tell him. “I had another meeting with the FBI.”

“I know,” he says wearily. He rests both elbows on his desk. “Thanks for keeping me up-to-date.”

It’s moments like this, with the even-more-pronounced-than-usual bags under his eyes, that Lawrence Lamb really starts to show his age.

“It’s not good, is it?” I ask.

“They’re starting to develop theories-I can tell by the way they’ve been asking their questions.”

“They gave me a deadline of Friday.”

Lamb looks up. That part he didn’t know. “I’ll make sure we have the list by tomorrow.” Before I can even say thank you, he adds, “Michael, are you sure she doesn’t know Vaughn?”

“I think so-”

“Don’t give me guesses!” he shouts, raising his voice. “You think so, or you know?”

“I-I think so,” I repeat, well aware that I’ll have the real answer in a few hours. It’s a panicked question from a man who never panics. But even Lawrence Lamb can’t predict Nora.

***

I cross over to the West Wing with fifteen minutes to spare, and while I know it’s considered bad form to show up early, I really don’t care.

Clutching an inch-thick file folder in my sweaty hand, I enter the small waiting room that connects to the Oval. “I’m Michael Garrick,” I say proudly as I approach Barbara Sandberg’s desk. “I’m here to see the President.”

She rolls her eyes at the enthusiasm. As Hartson’s personal secretary, she hears it every day. “First time?” she asks.

It’s a cheap shot, but it lets me know who’s boss. A short, no-nonsense New Yorker who enjoys chewing the stem of her reading glasses, Barbara’s been with the President since his Senate days in Florida. “Yeah,” I reply with a forced grin. “Is he running on time?”

“Don’t sweat it,” she says, warming up. “You’ll survive. Take a seat; Ethan will call you when he’s ready. If you want, have some fudge. It’ll calm you down.”

I’m not hungry, but I still take a toothpick and spear a small square of fudge from the glass bowl on Barbara’s desk. I’ve spent two years hearing about this stuff. Oh, you have to taste the fudge. You won’t believe Barbara’s fudge. For the bigshots, it’s braggart’s shorthand for a visit with the President. For those of us on the outside, it brings brownnosing jokes to a rude, crude low. As I take a seat in one of the wingback chairs, though, I finally have my answer. The fudge… is awesome.