Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

Around me, the hallways are almost completely empty, and as I pass every door, I can hear the faint echoes of dozens of televisions. Usually, the televisions in the OEOB run with the sound off. With news like this, everyone’s listening.

The reaction is typical White House. As a former Clinton advisor explained to me years ago, the power structure of the White House is similar to a game of soccer played by ten-year-olds. You can assign everyone to a position, and you can demand that everyone stay where they’re supposed to be, but the moment the game starts, every person on the field abandons their post and runs for the ball.

Case in point: the empty halls of the OEOB. Even before I check in with Trey, I know what’s going on. The President is demanding information, which means the Chief of Staff is demanding information, which means the top advisors are demanding information, which means the press is demanding information. From there, everyone else is searching-calling one another and every other connection they can think of-trying to be the first one to reel in the answers. In a hierarchy where most of us are paid similar government salaries, the currency of choice is access and influence. Information is the key to both.

Every other crisis is put on hold as the kids desperately chase the ball. Under any other set of circumstances, I’d be right along with them. Today, though, as I return to my office, I can’t help but think that the ball is me.

Closing the door behind myself, I turn on the squawk box, then head straight for the TV, where every network with a press pass is live from the White House. To double-check, I glance out the window and see the line of reporters doing stand-ups on the northwest corner of the lawn.

Panicking, I pick up the phone and dial Nora’s number. The toaster says she’s still in the Residence, but again, there’s no answer. I need to know what’s going on. I need Trey.

“Michael, this isn’t exactly a good time,” he says as he answers the phone. In the background, I hear what sounds like a roomful of people and the nonstop ringing of phones. It’s a bad day to be a press secretary.

“Just tell me what’s happening,” I plead. “What do you have?”

“Rumors are it’s a heart attack, though the FBI isn’t putting anything out there until two. The first officer on the scene gave us most of it-says there were no external wounds and nothing suspicious.” As Trey continues his explanation, his phone doesn’t stop ringing. “You should see this guy-typical uniform division-begging for attention, then pretending he doesn’t want to talk.”

“So I’m not the ball?”

“Why would you be the ball?”

“Because I was the one who found her.”

“So that’s confirmed? We heard a rumor, but I figured you’d call me if-Jami, listen to this: I got the… ”

“Trey, shut up!” I shout as loud as I can.

“… the best gossip about Martin Van Buren. Did you know they used to make fun of him for wearing corsets? Isn’t that great? I can’t get enough of that guy-corset-wearing little Democrat. Cute as a button, he was. And let me tell you, that Panic of 1837 was all media hype-I don’t believe a word of-”

“Did she walk away yet?” I interrupt.

“Yeah,” he says. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s not that big a deal.”

“Not that big a deal? Do you know how many calls I’ve gotten on this thing just since we’ve been talking?”

“Fourteen,” I say flatly. “I’ve been counting.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Trey knows me too well. “Maybe we should talk about it later.”

“Yeah. I think that’s best.” Staring out the window, I look back at the line of reporters on the lawn. “Think you can keep me out of this?”

“Michael, I can get you information, but I can’t work miracles. It all depends on what the FBI comes back with.”

“But can’t you-”

“Listen, the way this uniformed guy is talking, most people think he found her. For anyone else who asks, your name is officially changed to ‘a fellow White House staffer.’ That should save you from at least a thousand constituent letters.”

“Thank you, Trey.”

“I do my best,” he says as the door to my office opens. Pam sticks her head in.

“Listen, I better go. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hang up the phone and Pam hesitantly asks, “Is now a good time, because… ”

“Don’t worry-c’mon in.”

As she steps inside, I notice the sluggishness in her walk. Usually bouncy with a tireless stride, she’s moving in slow motion, her shoulders sagging at her side. “Can you believe it?” she asks, collapsing in the seat in front of my desk. Her eyes are tired. And red. She’s been crying.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

The single question causes a relapse in emotion that wells up her eyes with tears. Clenching her jaw, Pam fights it back down. She’s not the type to cry in public. I reach into my desk and look for a tissue. All I have are some old presidential seal napkins. I hand them over, but she shakes her head.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“She hired me, y’know.” Clearing her throat, she adds, “When I came through for interviews, Caroline was the only person who liked me. Simon, Lamb, all the rest, they didn’t think I was tough enough. Simon wrote the word ‘Whitebread’ on my interview sheet.”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Sure did. Caroline showed it to me,” Pam says with a laugh. “But since I was going to be working for her, she was able to pull me through. First day I started, she handed me Simon’s evaluation and told me to keep it. Said one day, I was going to shove the whole sheet down his throat.”

“Did you keep the sheet?”

Pam continues to laugh.

“What?”

A wicked smile takes her cheeks. “Remember that victory party we had when Simon gave his congressional testimony on alcohol advertising?”

I nod.

“And remember the victory cake we served-the one Caroline said we made from scratch?”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes,” Pam adds with a wide smile. “On my hundred and fifty-second day here, Edgar Simon ate his words.”

I laugh along with her. “Are you telling me you put your old evaluation in the cake?”

“I admit nothing.”

“How’s that even possible? Wouldn’t he taste it?”

“What do you mean he? Trust me, I watched the whole thing-you ate quite a nice piece yourself.”

“And you didn’t stop me?”

“I didn’t like you as much back then.”

“But how’d you-”

“We wet the sheet, ripped it into small pieces, and threw it in the blender. That sucker puréed in no time. Best cooking lesson I ever took. Caroline was a mad genius. And when it came to Simon-she hated that bastard.”

“Right up until the hour before she di-” I catch myself. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean… ”

“It’s okay,” she says. Without another word, the two of us spend the next minute in complete, stark silence; an impromptu memorial for one of our own. To be honest, it’s not until that moment that I realize what I’d left out. Through the two hours of questioning, and the worrying, and the angling to protect myself, I forgot one key thing: I forgot to mourn. My legs go numb and my heart sinks. Caroline Penzler died today. And whatever I thought of her, this is the first moment it’s actually hit me. The short silence doesn’t make her a saint, but the realization does me a world of good.

As soon as Pam looks up, she sees the change in my expression. “You okay?”

“Y-Yeah… I just can’t believe it.”

Pam agrees and shrinks back in her seat. “How’d she look?”

“What do you mean?”