Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“It’s just a rumor, Michael-for all we know, it’s-” Once again, he stops short. So does everyone in the background. The place is silent. All I hear are phones ringing. Someone must’ve walked in.

“What’re they saying?” a female voice demands. I recognize it instantly.

“Here you go, Mrs. Hartson,” another voice says.

“I gotta run,” Trey whispers into the phone.

“Wait!” I shout. “Not y-” It’s too late. He’s gone.

Lowering the phone to its cradle, I look over my shoulder for help. The only one there is the cab driver, who’s already lost in his newspaper. I hear the taxi coughing and wheezing from years of abuse. The rest of the garage is silent. Silent and abandoned. I put my hand over my stomach and feel the knife twisting in my gut. I have to… I have to get help. I pick up the receiver and stuff another set of coins in the pay phone. Without even thinking, I dial her number. It’s the first thought that comes to my brain. Forget what happened-call her. I need the front lines; I need to know what’s going on; and more than anything else, I need some honesty. Guerrilla honesty.

“This is Pam,” she says as she picks up the phone.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound upbeat. After our last conversation, she’s probably ready to rip me apart.

She pauses long enough to let me know she recognizes my voice. I close my eyes and get ready for the tongue-lashing.

“How you doing, Pete?” she asks with a strain in her voice.

Something’s wrong. “Should I-”

“No, no,” she interrupts. “The FBI never called-they wouldn’t trace the phone lines… ”

That’s all I need to hear. I slam the phone back into its cradle. I have to hand it to her-regardless of how pissed she was, she came through. She’ll be taking major heat for that one. But if they’ve already closed in on my closest friends… Damn, maybe Trey didn’t even know. Maybe they already… I back up from the phone and race toward the cab. “Let’s get out of here,” I shout to the driver.

“Where to?” he asks as the tires screech toward Wisconsin Avenue.

I’ve only got one other option. “Potomac, Maryland.”

Almost there,” the cabbie announces twenty minutes later.

I raise my head just enough to peek out the left window. Flower beds, manicured lawns, plenty of cul-de-sacs. As we drive past the recently built McMansions that dot Potomac’s way-too-conscious-to-be-natural landscape, I slouch down in the seat, trying to stay out of view.

“Not a bad neighborhood,” the driver says with a whistle. “Check out the lawn frogs on that one.”

I don’t bother to look. I’m too busy trying to come up with other places to run. It’s harder than I would’ve thought. Thanks to the FBI’s original background check, my file is filled with my entire network. Family, friends. That’s how they check you out-they take your world. Which means if I’m looking for help, I have to step outside the maze. The thing is, if someone’s outside the maze, there’s usually a good reason for it.

“There it is,” I say, pointing to what I have to admit is a stunning New England-style colonial on the corner of Buckboard Place.

“Turn here?” the cab driver asks.

“No, keep going straight.” As we pass the house, I turn around and watch it through the back window. About two hundred yards away, I point to the empty driveway of a messy little rambler. Unkempt lawn, peeling shutters. Just like our old place. The black eye of the block. “Pull in here,” I say, studying the dusty front windows. No one’s home. These people work.

Without a word, we roll into the driveway, which runs perpendicular to the street. He pulls the cab in so that everything but the back window and the trunk are hidden by the house next door. It’s a great hiding spot-a room with a view.

Diagonally down the block, I keep my eyes on the old colonial. It’s got a spacious two-car garage. The driveway’s empty.

“So how long until he gets back?” the cabbie asks. “You’re running up some serious tab.”

“I told you, I’ll cover it. Besides,” I add, looking down at my watch, “he’ll be here soon-he doesn’t work full days anymore.”

Settling in for the wait, the cab driver reaches for the radio. “How about I turn on the news, so we can-”

“No!” I bark.

He raises an eyebrow. “Whatever you want, man,” he says. “Whatever you want.”

Within fifteen minutes, Henry Meyerowitz turns onto the block in his own personal midlife crisis-a 1963 jet black Porsche roadster convertible. I shake my head at the SMOKIN personalized plates. I hate my mother’s family.

To be fair, though, he’s the only one who ever reached out to me. At the funeral, he told me I should give him a call-that he’d love to take me out to a nice dinner. When he heard I got a job at the White House, he reiterated the offer. Hoping for a family connection that might mean something, I took him up on it. I remember trekking out here the week after I started work-even used a AAA map to negotiate the side streets-but it wasn’t until I was weaving my way through the actual neighborhood that I realized they didn’t invite my dad. Just me. Just the White House.

Too bad for them it’s always been a package deal. I don’t care if they’re the other side of the family-they did the same thing with my mom. If they didn’t want my parents, they couldn’t have me. After sitting parked around the corner for close to an hour, I drove to a gas station pay phone and told him something had come up. I never contacted him again. Until now.

As Henry makes a left onto Buckboard Place, I reach for the taxi door handle. I’m about to open it when I notice the black sedan that follows him into his driveway. Two men get out of the car. Dark suits. Not as built as the Secret Service. Just like the guys in my building. Approaching my cousin, they open a folder and show him a photograph. I’m pretty far up the block, but I can read the body language from here.

I haven’t seen him, my cousin says with a shake of his head.

Do you mind if we come in anyway? the first agent asks, pointing toward the door.

Just in case he shows up, the second agent adds.

Henry Meyerowitz doesn’t have much of a choice. He shrugs. And waves them in.

The front door of the New England-style colonial is about to slam in my face.

“Let’s get out of here,” I tell the driver.

“Huh?”

“Just get out of here. Please.”

The FBI agents are following my cousin inside. Instinctively, the cabbie turns the ignition and the engine roars.

“Not yet!” I yell. It’s too late. The car coughs to life. The agent closest to the door stops. I don’t move. From the doorway, the agent turns around and looks our way. He’s squinting hard, but doesn’t see a thing. It’s okay, I tell myself. From this angle, I think we’re-

“There!” he shouts, pointing right at us. “He’s up there!”

“FBI!” the first agent yells, pulling out a badge.

“Get out of here!” I shout to the cab driver.

He doesn’t move.

“What’re you waiting for!?”

The sad look in his eyes says it all. He’s not risking his livelihood for a fare. “Sorry, kid.”

I look out the back window. Both agents are closing in. The decision’s easy. I’m not going to be a prisoner. Out here, I still have a chance. And if I give myself up, I’ll never find the truth.

I kick open the door and scramble out. Knowing that there’s only a few dollars left in my wallet, I tear off my presidential cufflinks, toss them in the cabbie’s window, and take off. Unsure of where to go, I dart farther up the driveway and around the side of the house. Behind me, the cab driver pulls backwards at a 45-degree angle-just enough to block the driveway and get in the agents’ way.