The First Councel

and right there, you back off, determined to save her from her own wild ways.”

I pause a second too long. “I don’t know what you’re-”

“That’s it!” Trey cries. “Always raring to play protector. It’s the same thing with that old pro bono client you had during the campaign-the more he lied to you and led you along, the more you were determined he needed your help. You do it every time you get the bird-with-a-broken-wing face. Forever ready to save the world… except with Nora, swinging to the rescue makes you feel like a rock star… ”

“Who says I want to be a rock star?”

“You work in the White House, Michael-everyone wants to be a rock star. It’s the only reason we take the low pay and the abusive hours… ”

“Oh, so now you’re going to tell me you’d do this job for just anyone? That Hartson and the issues are all bullshit? That all we’re here for are the bragging rights?”

Trey takes a long, silent moment to answer. Idealism dies hard-especially when the President’s involved. As it is, we spend every day changing lives. Sometimes we get a chance to make them better. Corny as it sounds, both of us know it’s a dream job. Eventually, Trey adds, “All I’m saying is, even if you liked her, you wouldn’t have asked her out if it didn’t give you some sort of inside track to Daddy.”

“You really think I’m that conniving?”

“You really think I’m that naive? She’s the honcho’s kid. One leads right to the other. Whatever you told yourself, the political lizard in you can’t ignore it. But take it from me-just because you’re dating the President’s daughter, doesn’t mean you’re the First Counsel.”

I don’t like the way he says that, but I can’t help thinking about why Nora and I went out in the first place. She’s beautiful and thrillingly wild. It wasn’t just about a career move. At least, I pray I’m better than that.

“So are you gonna tell me what happ-”

“Can we please talk about it later?” I interrupt, hoping it’ll go away. “Now you got any other predictions for the morning?”

“Take my word on the census. It’s gonna be big. Bigger than Sir Elton at Wembley, at the Garden, even live in Australia.”

I roll my eyes at the only black person in existence who’s obsessed with Elton John. “Anything else, Levon?”

“Census. That’s all it’s going to be today. Learn how to spell it. Cen-sus.”

I hang up the phone and read the census story first. When it comes to the politics of politics, Trey’s never wrong. Even among political animals-including myself-there’s no one better. For four years, even before I saved his ass on the campaign, he’s been the First Lady’s favorite; so even though he’s only a Deputy Press Secretary in title, it doesn’t go into her office without first going through his fingers. And believe me, they’re great fingers to know.

I blow through the Post while shoveling my way through a quick bowl of Lucky Charms. After last night, I could use them. When the cereal’s gone, I go through the Times and the Journal, then I’m ready to go. With the last paper under my arm, I leave my one-bedroom apartment without making my bed. With the loss of my snooze bar and hair gel, I’m slowly acknowledging that, at twenty-nine years old, adulthood is upon me. The messy bed is simply a final act of denial. And one I won’t be giving up soon.

It takes me three stops on the Metro to get from Cleveland Park to Farragut North, the closest station to the White House. On the ride, I knock off half of the Herald. I can usually get through all of it, but Simon’s escapades make for an easy distraction. If he saw us, it’s over. I’ll be buried by lunch. Looking down, I see an inky handprint where my fingers grasp the paper.

The train pulls in and it’s almost eight o’clock. When I’m done climbing the escalator with the rest of the city’s suit-and-tie crowd, I’m hit in the face with a wave of D.C. heat. The remnant summer air is like licking grease, and the intensity of the bright sun is disorienting. But it’s not enough to make me forget where I work.

At the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the Old Executive Office Building, I force myself up the sharp granite stairs and pull my ID from my suit pocket. The whole area looks different than last night. Not as dark.

The long line of co-workers who’re trailing through the lobby and waiting to pass through security makes me keenly aware of one thing: Anyone who says they work in the White House is a liar. And that’s the truth. In reality, there are only a hundred and two people who work in the West Wing, where the Oval Office is. All of them are bigshots. The President and his top assistants. Grade-A prime meat.

The rest of us, indeed, just about everyone who says they work in the White House, actually works in the Old Executive Office Building, the ornate seven-story behemoth located right next door. Sure, the OEOB houses the majority of the people who work in the Office of the President, and sure, it’s enclosed by the same black steel bars that surround the White House. But make no mistake-it’s not the White House. Of course, that doesn’t stop every single person in there from telling their friends and family that they work in the White House. Myself included.

As the line shortens, I wedge my way in the front door. Inside, under the two-story-high ceiling, two uniformed Secret Service officers sit at an elevated welcoming desk and clear visitors into the complex. I try not to let my eye contact linger, but I can’t help staring them down. Did they hear about last night? Without a word, one of them turns to me and nods. I freeze, then quickly relax. Checking the rest of the line, he does the same to the guy behind me. Just a friendly hello, I decide.

Those of us with IDs are waiting for the turnstiles. Once there, I put my briefcase on the X-ray conveyor and press my ID against an electronic eye. Below the eye is a keypad that looks like the keypad on a telephone, but without any numbers. Within seconds, my ID registers, the beep sounds, and ten red numbers light up inside the buttons. Every time someone checks in, the numbers appear in a different order, so if someone’s watching me, they can’t decipher my PIN code. It’s the first line of security to enter the OEOB, and easily the most effective.

After entering my code, I walk through the X-ray machine, which, as always, goes off. “Belt,” I say to the uniformed Secret Service officer.

He runs his handheld metal detector over my belt and confirms my explanation. Every day we do this, and every day he checks. He usually doesn’t give me a second look; today, his gaze hovers for a few seconds too long. “Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah… sure.”

I don’t like the sound of that. Does he know? Did Nora’s crew put the word out?

No, not these guys. Dressed in their white button-down security guard uniforms, the Secret Service agents at the front door of the OEOB are different from the plainclothes agents who protect Nora and the First Family. In the hierarchy of the agents, the two worlds rarely mix. I keep telling myself that as I grab my briefcase from the conveyor belt and head toward my office.

Just as I open the door to Room 170, I see Pam running straight at me. “Turn around-we’re going early,” she shouts, her thin blond hair wisping behind her.

“When did they-”

“Just now.” She grabs me by the arm and spins me around. “Senior Staff went early, so Simon bumped us up. Apparently, he’s got somewhere to be.” Before I can get a word out, she adds, “Now what happened to your forehead?”

“Nothing,” I say, looking at my watch. “What time’s it called for?”

“Three minutes ago,” she answers.

Simultaneously, we both race up the hallway. Lucky for us, we have first-floor offices-which means we also have the shortest walk to the West Wing. And the Oval. To an outsider, it might not seem like much of a perk, but to those of us in the OEOB, it matters. Proximity is all.

As the heels of our shoes slam against the black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, I see the West Exec exit straight ahead. Pulling open one of the double doors, we step outside and cross the closed-off street between the OEOB and the White House. On the other side of the narrow road, we head for the awning that leads to the West Wing and make our way through two more sets of doors. Ahead of us, a uniformed Secret Service officer with buzzed black hair sits at a table and checks the IDs that hang around our necks. If our IDs had an orange background, he’d know we only have access to the OEOB and he’d have to stop us. A blue background means we