The First Counsel by Brad Meltzer Page A
Authors: Brad Meltzer
work, Caroline spends every day having uncomfortable conversations with people. As a result, she's seen just about every different manifestation of nervousness that exists. And from the sour look on her face, making jokes ranks near the bottom of her list. "Is there something I can help you with, Michael?"
My eyes stay locked on her desk, which is submerged under stacks of paper, file folders, and two presidential seal ashtrays. There's a portable air filter in the corner of the room, but the place still reeks of stale cigarettes, which, besides collecting thank-you notes, are Caroline's most obvious habit. To help me along, she takes off her glasses and offers a semiwarm glance. She's trying to inspire faith and imply that I can trust her. But as I pick my head up, all I can think is that it's the first time in two years that I've really looked at her. Without her glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes seem less intimidating. And although her furrowed brow and thin lips keep her appearance professional, she honestly looks worried about me. Not worried like Pam, but, for a woman in her late forties who's still mostly a stranger, truly concerned.
"Do you need a drink of water?" she asks.
I shake my head. No more stalling.
"Is this a Counsel's Office question or an ethics issue?" she asks.
"Both," I say. This is the hard part. My mind's racing--searching for the perfect words. Yet no matter how much I mentally practiced on the way over, there's nothing like removing the net and doing it for real. As I'm about to step out on the tightrope, I run through the story one last time, hoping to stumble onto a lawful reason for the White House Counsel to be dropping money in the woods. Nothing I come up with is good. "It's about Simon," I finally say.
"Stop right there," she commands. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she pulls out a small cassette recorder and a single blank tape. She knew that tone as soon as she heard it. This is serious.
"I don't think that's necess--"
"Don't be nervous--it's just for your protection." She grabs a pen and writes my name on the cassette. When it's in the recorder, I can see the words "Michael Garrick" through the tiny piece of glass. Hitting Record, she slaps the recorder against her desk, right in front of me.
She knows what I'm thinking, but she's been through it before. "Michael, if this is important, you should have the proper documentation. Now why don't you start from the beginning."
I close my eyes and pretend there's still a net. "It all happened last night," I begin.
"Last night being Thursday the third," she verifies.
I nod. She points to her lips. "I mean, that's correct," I quickly say. "Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw--"
"Before we get there, was anyone with you?"
"That's not the important part--"
"Just answer the question."
I respond as quickly as I can. "No. I was alone."
"So no one was with you?"
I don't like the way she asks that. Something isn't right. Once again, I feel the back of my neck hot with sweat. "No one was with me," I insist.
She doesn't seem convinced.
I reach forward and stop the tape. "Is there a problem?"
"Not at all." She attempts to restart the tape, but my hand is over the recorder.
"I'm not doing this on tape," I tell her. "Not yet."
"Calm down, Michael." Sitting back, she lets me have my way. The recorder stays off. "I know it's hard. Just tell your story."
She's right. This isn't the time to lose it. For the second time, I find calm in a deep breath and take solace in the fact that it's no longer being recorded. "So I'm driving down 16th Street, when I suddenly see a familiar car in front of me. When I take a closer look at it, I realize it belongs to Simon."
"Edgar Simon--Counsel to the President."
"Exactly. Now, for whatever reason--maybe it's the time of night, maybe it's where we are--as soon as I see him, something doesn't seem kosher. So I drop back and start to follow." Detail by detail, I tell her the
My eyes stay locked on her desk, which is submerged under stacks of paper, file folders, and two presidential seal ashtrays. There's a portable air filter in the corner of the room, but the place still reeks of stale cigarettes, which, besides collecting thank-you notes, are Caroline's most obvious habit. To help me along, she takes off her glasses and offers a semiwarm glance. She's trying to inspire faith and imply that I can trust her. But as I pick my head up, all I can think is that it's the first time in two years that I've really looked at her. Without her glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes seem less intimidating. And although her furrowed brow and thin lips keep her appearance professional, she honestly looks worried about me. Not worried like Pam, but, for a woman in her late forties who's still mostly a stranger, truly concerned.
"Do you need a drink of water?" she asks.
I shake my head. No more stalling.
"Is this a Counsel's Office question or an ethics issue?" she asks.
"Both," I say. This is the hard part. My mind's racing--searching for the perfect words. Yet no matter how much I mentally practiced on the way over, there's nothing like removing the net and doing it for real. As I'm about to step out on the tightrope, I run through the story one last time, hoping to stumble onto a lawful reason for the White House Counsel to be dropping money in the woods. Nothing I come up with is good. "It's about Simon," I finally say.
"Stop right there," she commands. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she pulls out a small cassette recorder and a single blank tape. She knew that tone as soon as she heard it. This is serious.
"I don't think that's necess--"
"Don't be nervous--it's just for your protection." She grabs a pen and writes my name on the cassette. When it's in the recorder, I can see the words "Michael Garrick" through the tiny piece of glass. Hitting Record, she slaps the recorder against her desk, right in front of me.
She knows what I'm thinking, but she's been through it before. "Michael, if this is important, you should have the proper documentation. Now why don't you start from the beginning."
I close my eyes and pretend there's still a net. "It all happened last night," I begin.
"Last night being Thursday the third," she verifies.
I nod. She points to her lips. "I mean, that's correct," I quickly say. "Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw--"
"Before we get there, was anyone with you?"
"That's not the important part--"
"Just answer the question."
I respond as quickly as I can. "No. I was alone."
"So no one was with you?"
I don't like the way she asks that. Something isn't right. Once again, I feel the back of my neck hot with sweat. "No one was with me," I insist.
She doesn't seem convinced.
I reach forward and stop the tape. "Is there a problem?"
"Not at all." She attempts to restart the tape, but my hand is over the recorder.
"I'm not doing this on tape," I tell her. "Not yet."
"Calm down, Michael." Sitting back, she lets me have my way. The recorder stays off. "I know it's hard. Just tell your story."
She's right. This isn't the time to lose it. For the second time, I find calm in a deep breath and take solace in the fact that it's no longer being recorded. "So I'm driving down 16th Street, when I suddenly see a familiar car in front of me. When I take a closer look at it, I realize it belongs to Simon."
"Edgar Simon--Counsel to the President."
"Exactly. Now, for whatever reason--maybe it's the time of night, maybe it's where we are--as soon as I see him, something doesn't seem kosher. So I drop back and start to follow." Detail by detail, I tell her the
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