Brad Meltzer
The First Councel
JFK Jr. was Lark. Amy Carter was Dynamo. Chelsea Clinton was Energy. Meet Shadow. "Shadow" is the Secret Service codename for the First Daughter, Nora Hartson. And when she starts dating young White House lawyer Michael Garrick, he starts feeling like the First Counsel. That's what happens to everyone who lives in her world. It's a world all of us have heard about, but none of us truly know – a world where your dad's the President, your close friends wear earpieces and carry guns and a world where everyone is watching. On a date, Nora and Michael see something they shouldn't. To protect her, he admits to something he shouldn't. And when the problem snowballs out of control, she may have to do something she shouldn't. The First Counsel. The President's Daughter.
Acknowledgements
I wish to thank the following people, whose love and support never fail to inspire: As always, my First Lady, Cori, who is an endless source of patience and inspiration-especially as I continually drive the two of us to the limits of sanity. From pre-book plotting to final-form editing, she is everything at every moment: friend, hand-holder, advisor, editor, partner, lover, soul-mate. I love you, C-if it weren’t for you, this book wouldn’t exist and neither would I; Jill Kneerim, my agent, for one of the kindest, most rewarding friendships I’ve ever known. Of everything I’ve been fortunate enough to experience as a writer, one of the best rewards was finding Jill. Her endless faith continually helps us keep it all in perspective, and we wouldn’t be here without her; Elaine Rogers, whose tremendous energy brought new definition to the term gangbusters; Sharon Silva-Lamberson, Stephanie Wilson, Nicole Linehan, Ellen O’Donnell, Hope Denekamp, Lindsey Shaw, Ike Wilson, and everyone else at the Palmer Dodge Agency, who keep the machine running and are among the nicest people I’ve encountered.
I’d also like to thank my parents, for giving me everything they never had, for teaching me to lead with my heart, and for knowing exactly when to be my mom and dad. You’re both incredible; Noah Kuttler, whose never-ending patience affects all my work and whose insight forces me to reach my own potential; Ethan Kline, whose astute observations are among the first I turn to, and whose friendship and trust are simply awe-inspiring (thanks for the big one, E); Matt and Susan Oshinsky, Joel Rose, Chris Weiss, and Judd Winick continue to be a brain trust I never want to be without. They read, react, suggest, and always keep me laughing.
Since the White House prides itself on secrecy, I owe immense thank-yous to the following people who let me sneak in: Steve “Scoop” Cohen, for… well… for being Scoop. From the brainstorming of the plot, to the research, to the nitpicky details, Scoop was the master of ceremonies. He is fearless and insightful, and without his creative instinct, this book wouldn’t be the same. Thank you, buddy; Debi Mohile, whose keen eye kept me honest on (almost) every page and whose great sense of humor always made it a pleasure. No one knows the White House like Debi. Thanks for putting up with me; Mark Bernstein, one of the nicest people around, for showing me the rest of the way firsthand and for reminding me the value of old friends; Lanny Breuer, Chris Cerf, Jeff Connaughton, Vince Flynn, Adam Rosman, and Kathi Whalen, who went beyond the call of duty and never failed to use their imaginations to answer tons of my inane questions; Pam Brewington, Lloyd Cutler, Fred Fielding, Leonard Garment, Thurgood Marshall Jr., Cathy Moscatelli, Miriam Nemetz, Donna Peel, Jack Quinn, Ron Saleh, Cliff Sloan, John Stanley, and Rob Weiner, who were the rest of my White House team, and in giving their time, gave me so many of the great details and stories; Larry Sheafe and Chuck Vance, who were the nicest Secret Service guys anyone could ask for; the one First Daughter who was kind enough to share her experiences in the bubble (for nothing more than the good of fiction), thanks again!; Dr. Ronald K. Wright, for his amazing forensic advice; Pat Thacker, Anne Tumlinson, Tom Antonucci, Lily Garcia, and Dale Flam for help with the details; Marsha Blanco (who’s just incredible), Steve Waldron, Chuck Perso, Carol Rambo Ronai, Sue Lorenson, Dave Watkins, Fred Baughman, John Richard Gould, Rusty Hawkins, Philip Joseph Sirken, and Jo Anne Patterson, for welcoming me into The Arc organization and the mental retardation community (www.thearc.org for more information). Rarely have I been so inspired and so utterly humbled. And, of course, to my family and friends, whose names, as always, inhabit these pages.
Finally, I’d like to thank all of the talented and wonderful people at my new publisher, Warner Books: Larry Kirshbaum, Maureen Egen, Tina Andreadis, Emi Battaglia, Karen Torres, Martha Otis, Chris Barba, Claire Zion, Bruce Paonessa, Peter Mauceri, Harry Helm, and all of the incredibly nice people who made this book a reality and always make me feel like part of the family. Special thanks also go out to Jamie Raab, not only for her editorial input, but for being one of our biggest supporters. Her warmth and energy never cease to amaze. Finally, I want to thank the two editors who worked on this book, Rob Weisbach and Rob McMahon. From the very start, Rob Weisbach lent his creative talents to every level of our publishing experience, and we wouldn’t be here without him. His influence can be felt on every page, and though I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again: Rob has real vision and we’ve always been blessed to be a part of it. I owe him my career and I cherish his friendship. At Warner, Rob McMahon is a true gentleman who picked up our proverbial ball and ran with it. We couldn’t be luckier. His editorial comments were insightful beyond belief and he always pushed me to reach beyond what I thought was possible. Rob, we’d be lost without you. So to Rob Weisbach and Rob McMahon, I will always appreciate your energy, but I am far more thankful for your faith.
CHAPTER 1
I’m afraid of heights, snakes, normalcy, mediocrity, Hollywood, the initial silence of an empty house, the enduring darkness of a poorly lit street, evil clowns, professional failure, the intellectual impact of Barbie dolls, letting my father down, being paralyzed, hospitals, doctors, the cancer that killed my mother, dying unexpectedly, dying for a stupid reason, dying painfully, and, worst of all, dying alone. But I’m not afraid of power-which is why I work in the White House.
As I sit in the passenger seat of my beat-up, rusty blue Jeep, I can’t help but stare at my date, the beautiful young woman who’s driving my car. Her long, thin fingers hold the steering wheel in a commanding grip that lets both of us know who’s in charge. I could care less, though-as the car flies up Connecticut Avenue, I’m far more content studying the way her short black hair licks the back of her neck. For security reasons, we keep the windows closed, but that doesn’t stop her from opening the sunroof. Letting the warm, early-September air sweep through her hair, she leans back and enjoys the freedom. She then adds her final personal touch to the car: She turns on the radio, flips through my preset stations, and shakes her head.
“This is what you like?” Nora asks. “Talk radio?”
“It’s for work.” Pointing to the dashboard and hoping to be cool, I add, “The last one has music.”
She calls my bluff and hits the last button. More talk radio. “You always this predictable?” she asks.
“Only when I-” Before I can finish, the shriek of an electric guitar pierces my eardrum. She’s found her station.
Tapping her thumbs against the steering wheel and bobbing her head to the beat, Nora looks completely alive.
“This is what you like?” I shout back over the noise. “Thrash radio?”
“Only way to stay young,” she says with a grin. She’s kicking my shins and she loves it. At twenty-two years of age, Nora Hartson is smart. And way too confident. She knows I’m self-conscious about the difference in our ages-she knew it the first moment I told her I was twenty-nine. She didn’t care, though.