Phillip Margolin - Executive Privilege

The light from dozens of crystal chandeliers illuminated the tuxedo-and-evening-gown-clad elite who filled the grand ballroom of the Theodore Roosevelt Hotel in downtown Washington. Every inch of the huge ballroom was covered with circular tables draped with white tablecloths and decorated with elegant floral arrangements. For $1,000 a seat or $10,000 to sponsor a table, the contributors to Christopher Farrington’s campaign had been served a dinner of chicken or salmon, mashed potatoes, and asparagus. No one came to these fund-raisers for the food. Many of the attendees paid hard cash for rubber chicken because they expected the party to remember them fondly in the future. And if Farrington didn’t prevail, more than one of those in attendance had hedged his bet by contributing to Maureen Gaylord’s campaign chest, too.

Some of those in the crowd were ardent supporters of Christopher Farrington and were actually there to hear the president. They had been disappointed when it was announced that affairs of state had kept him from attending, but the mood changed quickly when the first lady began to speak. Claire Farrington had been funny and forceful, and the highlight of her speech had been her discussion of the president’s education policy, which she’d led into by voicing her concerns about America ’s schools as a mother and a mother-to-be. Thunderous applause had greeted the announcement of her pregnancy and an equally raucous round of handclapping signaled the crowd’s approval when her speech ended.

“You knocked their socks off,” Charles Hawkins told Claire as he escorted her off the dais. Hawkins was six two, lean, and hard muscled and he wore his salt-and-pepper hair in a buzz cut. He’d been an army Ranger before a knee injury suffered on a combat mission forced him to retire from the service. Except for a barely noticeable limp he still looked like he was on patrol in enemy territory. His hard eyes were always scanning the terrain for threats to the first family, and he was ready to strike at anyone who threatened Claire Farrington or her husband.

“You really think I did okay?” Claire asked.

“You had them eating out of your hand, and breaking the news that you’re going to be a mother again was a stroke of genius. That’s going to be the lead story in every newspaper in the country tomorrow.”

“I certainly hope so,” Claire said as her six-person Secret Service detail surrounded her and guided her through a corridor behind the kitchen. “Poor Maureen, she’s giving a major speech outlining her foreign policy at Georgetown, tonight. I bet it’ll be buried somewhere on page six.”

At the end of the back hall was the elevator that would take her to an elegantly appointed meeting room on the second floor of the hotel where she was scheduled to have her picture taken with a small group of major contributors. They had almost arrived at the elevator bank when Claire grimaced and her hand went to her stomach.

“Is anything wrong?” Hawkins asked, alarmed.

“I’d forgotten that morning sickness doesn’t just happen in the morning. Let’s make this quick, Chuck.”

“I’ll call off the photo op if you give me the word. Everyone will understand.”

“How many photos will I have to sit for?”

“I think there are twenty-five, but they’re all more interested in access to Chris than another photo for the mantel. We’ll promise them a private photo shoot at the White House.”

Claire put her hand on Hawkins’s forearm. “No, I’ll be okay. If it gets really bad I’ll tell you. I’ve got the suite so I can lie down if I get exhausted.”

“You’re certain you want to do this?”

“I’m fine,” she assured Hawkins. “Just move the line along and tell the photographer not to dawdle.”

“Ray,” she said, turning to Ray Cinnegar, the head of the Secret Service detail. “Can you take me to a restroom? I need a few minutes.”

“Sure thing. Maxine,” he called to the woman who was point leader for the detail and had checked out the route earlier. “Mrs. F. needs to make a restroom stop.”

“There’s one coming up at the next turn. I’ll scope it out.”

“Go.”

By the time Claire made the turn, Maxine was inside the restroom. Cinnegar kept the first lady outside until Maxine assured him that the restroom was secure. Claire sighed with relief.

When they arrived at the Theodore Roosevelt Meeting Room Hawkins ushered the first lady inside. The spacious room was furnished with original pieces that President Roosevelt had brought with him to the White House from Sagamore Hill, his family home. A line of men and women stood between the wall and a red velvet rope supported by brass stanchions. The line ended near the hotel’s most famous antique, a grandfather’s clock that had stood in a sitting room in the White House and graced the cover of the hotel’s brochure. The photographer was waiting in front of the clock, which rang nine times moments after the first lady entered.

Most of the men and women on the line were powerful attorneys, wealthy financiers, corporate executives and their spouses, but many of them looked like anxious children waiting to climb on Santa’s knee. Claire was amused. She’d experienced this phenomenon many times during her White House years-rich and powerful men and women reduced to gawking tourists at a celebrity sighting.

Several other people were milling around the room sipping champagne or eating the hors d’oeuvres that had been set out for the upscale crowd. One of the men had just stuffed a piece of caviar-smeared toast into his mouth. When he saw the first lady he wiped his hands on a napkin and swallowed quickly before walking over to her.

“Dale!” she said when she saw the lawyer.

“Just thought I’d give you a heads up,” Perry said. “The fifth guy in line is Herman Kava, an industrialist from Ohio and a client. Treat him nice.”

“Treat him nice” was code for a big contribution alert. Claire smiled.

“Thank you, Dale.”

“Glad to be of service. Hey, Chuck.”

Hawkins nodded before leading the first lady to her position in front of the clock.

Roughly forty minutes later, Claire thanked the last person in the line. As soon as an aide led the contributor out of the room she sagged with relief.

“How are you feeling?” Hawkins asked.

“Exhausted. Let me sit down.”

“Are you okay?” Dale Perry asked when Claire collapsed onto a chair.

“Oh, Dale, I thought you’d left.”

“I did, but I wanted to tell you the good news. Kava will be writing a check and he says Chris will be very pleased.”

“Good,” she answered as she rested her head on the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

Hawkins was about to say something when his cell phone rang. He looked conflicted, but Perry waved him away.

“Take the call. I’ll look after Claire.”

Hawkins pressed the phone to his ear then he cursed. “There’s no reception in here. I have to go outside.”

“Its okay, Chuck,” Claire assured him. “Dale will get me upstairs.”

Hawkins hurried out and Claire struggled to her feet.

“What’s upstairs?” asked Ray Cinnegar.

“I had Chuck book a suite for me in case I got sick or exhausted.”

Cinnegar scowled. “This is the first I’ve heard about a suite.”

“I’m sorry. I did it at the last moment and I forgot to tell you.”

“You’re supposed to clear this type of thing with us so we can check it out in advance.”

“I know, Ray. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think I can let you go up. We don’t know who’s in the adjoining suite, we haven’t checked the room for explosives…”

“Chuck also booked the adjoining suite and no one expected me to stay at the hotel. Check out the suite but do it quickly. I’m really not feeling well.”