Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

As a result, we’re watching a wire-rimmed State Department bureaucrat explaining to eighty-five million people the benefits of the Kyoto Accords and how they’ll affect our long-term trade positions with Asia. In one massive collective yawn, thirty million people change the channel. For the networks, it’s a ratings nightmare. For the Press Office, it’s a TKO. The message is sent-don’t fuck with the White House.

Convinced that only the diehards are left, Press Secretary Emmy Goldfarb and the President approach the podium. She’s there to speak; he’s there to let us know it’s serious. A candidate who can handle a crisis.

No more wasting time-she gets right into it. Yes, Caroline Penzler’s death was not from natural causes. No, the White House never knew. Why, because the toxicology reports were only recently completed. Everything else can’t be discussed because they don’t want it interfering with the current investigation. Like before, she tries to keep it short and sweet. She doesn’t have a chance. Once the smell of blood’s in the air, the press licks their chops.

In nanoseconds, the reporters in the room are on their feet and shouting questions.

“When’d the tox reports come back?”

“Is it true the story was leaked to the Post ?”

“What about Michael Garrick?”

Reaching for my soda, I inadvertently knock it over. As it waterfalls off the table, the waitress runs to my side.

“Sorry about that,” I say as she throws down a rag.

“Not a big deal,” she replies.

On-screen, the Press Secretary explains that she doesn’t want to interfere with the FBI’s ongoing investigation, but there’s no way the reporters’ll let her avoid it that easily. Within seconds, the questions once again fly.

“Have you confirmed murder, or are you still considering suicide?”

“What about the ten thousand dollars?”

“Is it true Garrick’s still in the building?”

She’s getting hammered up there. Someone’s got to save her. Sure enough, the President steps in. To the American people, he looks like a hero. To the press-as soon as they saw him in the room, they knew they were going to get him. The President doesn’t just hang out at briefings. Still, it quiets the crowd.

Locking his hands on to the sides of the podium, he picks up where Goldfarb should’ve never left off. This is an FBI case. Period. They investigated; they ran the tests; and they kept it quiet to prevent exactly what’s happening from happening. Within seconds, he’s passed the buck. He’s so good at this, it’s scary.

When he’s convinced he’s clean, he tackles the questions. No, he can’t comment on Vaughn or myself. Yes, that would greatly impede the investigation. And yes, in case the press corps forgot, people are still innocent until proven guilty, thank you very much.

“However,” he says as the room falls silent. “I do want to make one thing perfectly clear… ” He pauses just long enough to get us all salivating. “If this is a murder… whatever it takes, we will find the person who killed my friend, Caroline Penzler.” He says it just like that. “ My friend, Caroline Penzler.” Right there, it all shifts. From defense to offense in a matter of syllables. I can feel his poll numbers rocket. Screw Bartlett. There’s nothing America loves more than a little personal vengeance. When he’s done, he looks straight at the camera for the big closer. “ Whoever they are, wherever they are, these people will pay.”

“That’s all we have to say,” the Press Secretary jumps in.

Hartson leaves the room; the press keeps shouting questions. It’s too late, though. It’s six o’clock. For now, the local news is going to have to pick up the pieces, and all they have is Hartson’s positively flawless sound bite. I have to hand it to them. That thing was choreographed better than the First Lady’s birthday party. Every moment was brilliant-right down to Goldfarb pretending she was overwhelmed. The President steps in, sounds fair, and saves the day. Play up the dead friend; sprinkle in some retaliation. Tough on crime never had it so good.

Of course, as the smoke clears, all I can focus on is who the press was asking about. Not Simon. And thankfully, not Nora. Just me. Me and Vaughn. Two dead men.

By eight o’clock, to avoid the glut of Friday night little-kid sitcoms, the restaurant switches to CNN-just in time to watch the story run again. When they’re finished showing Hartson’s sound bite, the anchorwoman says, “Tomorrow’s Washington Post reports that this man, Michael Garrick, is currently being sought for questioning by authorities.” As she says my name, my ID photo flashes on-screen. It happens so fast, I barely react. All I can do is look away. When she’s done, I pick my head up and check the bar. Waitress. Bartender. Businessmen expense-accounting their salmon dinners. No one knows but me.

Having overstayed my welcome with the waitress, I eventually move over to the restaurant bar, where the bartender’s used to stranded commuters who just want to watch a little TV. “Do you have a lost-and-found?” I ask him. “I think I left some stuff here during my last trip.”

He pulls a cardboard Heinz ketchup box from behind the bar and plops it in front of me. Amid the keychains and lost paperbacks, I pick out a pair of sunglasses and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. My dad would’ve taken the box.

“All set?” the bartender asks.

“It’s a start,” I say, plastering the Dolphins on my head.

By nine o’clock, I’ve seen the story run four times. By ten, it’s double that. I’m not sure why I’m still watching it, but I can’t help myself. It’s like I’m waiting for it to change-for the newscaster to come on and say, “This just in-Nora Hartson admits drug problem; Counsel’s Office is completely corrupt; Garrick innocent.” So far, it hasn’t happened.

When the neon lights of the restaurant blink off, I take the hint and limp out toward the boarding gates. My ankle’s better, but it’s still stiff. Adjusting my glasses, and with my garment bag trailing behind me, I sink into a corner seat and crane my neck to see the televisions suspended from the ceiling. Three more hours of CNN brings the total up to twenty. Each time, the words are identical. Sure, there’re some permutations-the anchorperson changes adjectives and intonations just to keep things lively-“… this man, Michael Garrick… ” “… this man , Michael Garrick… ” “… this man, Michael Garrick … ”-but the message is always the same. It’s my face up there; my life; and as long as I sit here in my own little pity party, it’s only going to get worse.

At two-fifteen in the morning, a delayed flight from Chicago arrives at the US Airways terminal. When the crowd clears off the plane, two security guards approach and tell me that the terminal is now closed.

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to ask you to leave,” the second guard says.

Trying to make sure they don’t get a good look at my face, I keep my head down and give them nothing but Dolphins logo. “I thought you were open twenty-f-”

“The gates close for security purposes. The main terminal’s open all night. If you want to wait out there, you’re welcome to.”

Refusing to look up, I take my paper-thin garment bag and leave CNN behind.

By three A.M., I’m spread out on a small bench next to the information booth, with the garment bag draped over my chest. In the past fifteen minutes, the guards have chased away two homeless men. I’m wearing a suit. They leave me alone. It’s not the best hiding spot, but it’s one of the few that’ll let me sleep. Unlike New York, the subway here closes at midnight. Besides, if the authorities are searching, they’re looking for someone trying to leave. I want to stay.