Michael Palmer - Oath of Office

Darlene clinked Kim’s glass with more enthusiasm. “You know, Hajjar, I think you’d make someone a great chief of staff. Are you looking for a job?”

“Depends,” Kim answered, her rich brown eyes gleaming playfully. “Will I have to keep reminding you how terrific you are?”

“Absolutely,” Darlene said.

“Well, then, count me in.”

Just then, Ochoa came over to their table, leaned down, and spoke softly in Darlene’s ear. “Madam First Lady, Russell Evans is upstairs in the private party room. He asked if you two would be willing to join him for a drink.”

Darlene took a hard swallow of her V amp;T against the tightness that had developed in her chest. She flashed Kim a surprised look.

Evans, former Secretary of Agriculture, had been one of her husband’s first cabinet appointments. His resignation, in disgrace, had been responsible for at least some of the drop in Martin’s numbers. The scandal had been especially hard on Darlene. She and Evans went back to their childhood years in the Kansas plains town of Dubuque, where their farming families were neighbors even though they lived several miles apart. In fact, Martin had first met Evans through her, not long after the three of them started at Kansas State, and often used him as an adviser during his climb up the political mountain.

“Russ Evans is upstairs,” Darlene whispered.

“Goodness.”

“He wants to speak with us.”

“You okay with that?”

“Are you?”

“Part of me still thinks he was set up, if that’s what you mean.”

“I feel the same way,” Darlene said, “but so far, the way the facts are stacking up, things look pretty bad. Still, he never was anything other than helpful to me. Victor, we’d be happy to speak with him.”

Agents moved quickly to escort Darlene and Kim to the front of the bar. The tightness in Darlene’s chest refused to abate. Meeting with Evans like this would be juicy fodder for the paparazzi.

Darlene had heard rumors that Evans was going to plead guilty to statutory rape charges in connection to a motel rendezvous with a teenage prostitute. When the news broke, Darlene had sent him a supportive note expressing her hope that an explanation would come clear for the episode, and urging him to put his faith in the justice system. Perhaps, she wondered, he had been unable to take her words to heart, and wanted to position himself for a presidential pardon.

Not only had their lifelong friendship endured, but she had taken a med school elective course in farming and nutrition that he taught. Years later, she was the one to suggest that Martin consider appointing Evans-then an instructor in farming economics-as Secretary of Agriculture. Martin subsequently stood by their friend despite a fair amount of opposition in Congress.

Darlene and Kim followed the agents through a doorway to a narrow stairwell that ascended to the balcony level. At the end of another hallway, they came to a padded vinyl door.

“We’ve already checked the room. It’s safe to go in,” Ochoa said.

Darlene pushed open the door and allowed Kim to enter first. Evans was alone, seated at a low table in the center of a dimly lit, cavelike room. The paneled walls were painted black, and the mood lighting cast deep shadows across Evans’s round face. During the months since Darlene had last seen him, he seemed to have aged years. He stood up somewhat clumsily as the women entered, and Darlene wondered if he might have been drinking. He was a large, usually cheery man with thinning light brown hair, and at this moment, he exuded gloom.

“Darlene. Kim. Thanks for coming up,” he said, extending his meaty hand. “It’s good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Russ,” Darlene said, giving him a quick hug in lieu of his proffered handshake. “You look as if you’re holding up okay.”

Evans replied with his trademark deep baritone laugh. “I’ve gained fifteen pounds and am rapidly losing what little hair I had left,” he said. “But I’ll accept the compliment anyway.”

Darlene’s apprehension was replaced with a heavy sadness at seeing the man looking so beaten. Evans had eschewed life on his family’s farm in exchange for a master’s degree and a faculty position at an agricultural college. Before the scandal hit, she had enjoyed meetings in his office, surrounded by framed photographs of America’s farmland.

“Agent Ochoa said you wanted to speak with me. Is it about your case?”

“Please. Have a seat.” Evans pushed closer to the table. “I was at your event today.”

“You were?” Kim asked. “I didn’t see you there.”

Again, that laugh, but this time there was an undisguised tinge of bitterness. “Well, I kept to the background,” Evans said. “Not that it matters.”

“How so?” asked Darlene.

“I guess I’m still surprised how little anyone recognizes the guy who, for two years, was ninth in the presidential succession order. Once you’re not a player in this town, well, you’re not a player-except, of course, to the press corps. Now, those guys still have no problem recognizing me. Scandal sells papers. This morning, though, they were too focused on you to notice me. Everyone knew the president had blown off the event. Not even an appearance by Farmer Pornpone, as the tabloids are calling me, could pull their attention away.”

Darlene reached across the table and cupped Evans’s hands in her own. “You know you have supporters out there, Russ. Not everyone believes the charges against you.”

Evans managed a pale smile of appreciation. “Nice of you to say, Darlene. Unfortunately, whoever paid off the girl gave her enough to keep her lies coming, to say nothing of the impact of the box of kiddie porn that investigators found in the back of my closet.”

“Sorry if I’m out of place,” Kim said, “but what were you doing in that hotel room? We’ve heard all kinds of rumors and-”

Evans held up his hand. “No, don’t be sorry and don’t you worry about it,” he said. “My lawyer asked me to keep my side of the story away from the press until he heard what the U.S. Attorney had against me. Now that we know they’re calling off the prosecution because they can’t find the woman who filed the complaint, I’ll tell anybody who’ll listen-not that it will help get my job back. You see, my son, Derek, has been in trouble since his teens. Drugs and such. I haven’t spoken to him in nearly three years until I got this anonymous phone call telling me he was holed up at a motel just outside of D.C., and that he was in some sort of trouble. I think you know that Derek’s mother and I have been divorced for some time. I decided not to tell her about the call until I knew what was going on.

“I got to the motel as fast as I could and knocked on room twenty-four as the caller had instructed. The door opened up and I found myself alone in a hotel room with a very young, and very naked girl. A hidden camera on a tripod recorded everything. She literally threw herself at me, pushed me backwards onto the bed, and kissed me several times before I could throw her aside.

“I knew it was a setup and a very volatile situation. I probably should have called the police right then and there, but instead, I ran and called my attorney. I had no idea there was a camera hidden in the room. Later I found out the room was registered in a bogus name the day before, and the clerk who was on the desk at the time told the police it probably was me. The girl said she had done business with me before, and that I liked to have her undress me. But this was the first time I had asked to have the camera there. When the police looked at the film cartridge, the part showing me shoving her off and running away was conveniently missing.”