“And you expect me to believe that?”
I’m too smart to argue with her. “Just tell me about Caroline.”
Biting the inside of her cheek, she studies me carefully.
“Please,” I add. “It’s important.”
She shakes her head and I know I’m in. “What do you want to know?”
“Is she loyal?”
“The First Lady thinks so.”
I nod at the reference. A longtime friend of the First Lady, Caroline met Mrs. Hartson at the National Parkinson’s Foundation in Miami, where Mrs. Hartson mentored and encouraged her to take night classes at the University of Miami Law School. From there, the First Lady brought her to the Children’s Legal Defense Fund, then to the campaign, and finally, to the White House. Long battles forge the strongest bonds. I just want to know, how strong? “So if I tell her something vitally important, can I trust her to keep a secret?”
“Help me out with what you mean by vitally.”
I sit in the chair in front of her desk. “It’s big.”
“Front-page big or cover-of-Newsweek big?”
“Newsweek.”
Pam doesn’t flinch. “Caroline’s in charge of screening all the bigshots: Cabinet members, ambassadors, the Surgeon General-she opens their closets and makes sure we can live with their skeletons.”
“So you think she’s loyal?”
“She’s got dirt on just about every hotshot in the executive branch. That’s why the First Lady put her here. If she’s not loyal, we’re dead.”
Falling silent, I lean forward and rest my elbows against my knees. It’s true. Before anyone’s nominated, they go through at least one confession session with Caroline. She knows the worst about everyone: who drinks, who’s done drugs, who’s had an abortion, and who’s hiding a summer home from their wife. Everyone has secrets. Myself included. Which means if you expect to get anything done, you can’t disqualify everyone. “So I shouldn’t worry?” I ask.
Pam stands up and crosses around to the other side of her desk. Sitting in the seat next to me, she looks me straight in the eye. “Are you in trouble?”
“No, not at all.”
“It’s Nora, isn’t it? What’d she do?”
“Nothing,” I say, pulling back a little. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can. You always can. But if you need any help at all… ”
“I know-you’ll be there.”
“With bells on, my friend. And maybe even a tambourine.”
“Honestly, Pam, that means more than you know.” Realizing that the longer I sit here, the more she’s going to pry, I stand from my seat and head for the door. I know I shouldn’t say another word, but I can’t help myself. “So you really think she’s okay?”
“Don’t worry about Caroline,” Pam says. “She’ll take care of you.”
I’m about to head over to Caroline’s when I hear the phone in my office ring. Running inside, I check the digital screen to see who it is. It’s the number from before. Nora. “Hello?” I say, picking it up.
“Michael?” She sounds different. Almost out of breath.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Have you spoken to her yet?”
“Caroline? No, why?”
“You’re not going to tell her I was there, are you? I mean, I don’t think you should… ”
“Nora, I already told you I wouldn’t-”
“And the money-you’re not going to say I took the money, right?” Her voice is racing with panic.
“Of course not.”
“Good. Good.” Already, she’s calming down. “That’s all I wanted to know.” I hear her take a deep breath. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to freak like that-I just started getting a little nervous.”
“Whatever you say,” I tell her, still confused by the outburst. I hate hearing that crack in her voice-all that confidence crushed to nothing. It’s like seeing your dad cry; all you want to do is stop it. And in this case, I can. “You don’t have to worry,” I add. “I’ve got it all taken care of.”
Walking down the hall to Caroline’s office is easy. So is knocking on her office door. Stepping inside is a piece of cake, and hearing the door slam behind me is an ice cream sundae. But when I see Caroline, sitting at her desk with her jet black dyed hair spreading on the shoulders of her black wool blazer, everything that I’ve been holding together-all of it-suddenly falls apart. My fear has a face. And before I can even say hello, the back of my neck floods with sweat.
“Take a seat, take a seat,” she offers as I almost collapse in front of her desk. Accepting the invitation, I lower myself into one of her two chairs. Without saying a word, I watch her pour four sugar packets into an empty mug. One by one, she rips each one open. In the left corner of the room, the coffee’s almost done brewing. Now I know where she gets her energy. “How’s everything going?” she asks.
“Busy,” I reply. “Really busy.” Over Caroline’s shoulder, I see her version of the ego walclass="underline" forty individual frames filled with thank-you notes written by some of Washington’s most powerful players. Secretary of State. Secretary of Defense. Ambassador to the Vatican. Attorney General. They’re all up there, and they were all cleared by Caroline.
“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask, hoping to slow things down.
“Hard to say. It’s like asking which of your children is your favorite.”
“The first one,” I say. “Unless they move away and never call. Then it’s the one who lives closest.”
In her line of work, Caroline spends every day having uncomfortable conversations with people. As a result, she’s seen just about every different manifestation of nervousness that exists. And from the sour look on her face, making jokes ranks near the bottom of her list. “Is there something I can help you with, Michael?”
My eyes stay locked on her desk, which is submerged under stacks of paper, file folders, and two presidential seal ashtrays. There’s a portable air filter in the corner of the room, but the place still reeks of stale cigarettes, which, besides collecting thank-you notes, are Caroline’s most obvious habit. To help me along, she takes off her glasses and offers a semiwarm glance. She’s trying to inspire faith and imply that I can trust her. But as I pick my head up, all I can think is that it’s the first time in two years that I’ve really looked at her. Without her glasses, her almond-shaped hazel eyes seem less intimidating. And although her furrowed brow and thin lips keep her appearance professional, she honestly looks worried about me. Not worried like Pam, but, for a woman in her late forties who’s still mostly a stranger, truly concerned.
“Do you need a drink of water?” she asks.
I shake my head. No more stalling.
“Is this a Counsel’s Office question or an ethics issue?” she asks.
“Both,” I say. This is the hard part. My mind’s racing-searching for the perfect words. Yet no matter how much I mentally practiced on the way over, there’s nothing like removing the net and doing it for real. As I’m about to step out on the tightrope, I run through the story one last time, hoping to stumble onto a lawful reason for the White House Counsel to be dropping money in the woods. Nothing I come up with is good. “It’s about Simon,” I finally say.
“Stop right there,” she commands. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she pulls out a small cassette recorder and a single blank tape. She knew that tone as soon as she heard it. This is serious.
“I don’t think that’s necess-”
“Don’t be nervous-it’s just for your protection.” She grabs a pen and writes my name on the cassette. When it’s in the recorder, I can see the words “Michael Garrick” through the tiny piece of glass. Hitting Record, she slaps the recorder against her desk, right in front of me.
She knows what I’m thinking, but she’s been through it before. “Michael, if this is important, you should have the proper documentation. Now why don’t you start from the beginning.”