There it is again. Her dad. Every time she says it, it seems that much more ridiculous. 'Too big,' I say. 'Before it goes to him, I want someone to do a little bit more research.'
'Just to make sure we're right?'
'That's what I'm worried about. The moment this gets out, we're going to wreck Simon's career. And that's not something I take lightly. In here, once the finger's pointed at you, you're gone.'
Nora's been on the receiving end for too long. She knows I'm right. 'Is there someone you have in mind?'
'Caroline Penzler. She's in charge of ethics for the White House.'
'Can you trust her?'
I pick up a nearby pencil and tap the eraser against my desk. 'I'm not sure--but I know exactly who to ask.'
Chapter 5
Leaving my office, I cross through the anteroom and head straight for Pam's. The door is always open, but I still give her a courtesy knock. 'Anyone home?'
By the time she says 'Come in,' I'm already standing across from her desk. The setup of her office is a mirror image of mine, right down to the nonworking fireplace. As always, the differences are on the walls, where Pam has replaced my ego items with two personal effects: over her couch, a blown-up photograph of the President when he spoke at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, her hometown; and over her desk, an enormous American flag, which was a gift from her mother when Pam first got the job. Typical Pam, I think to myself. Apple pie at heart.
Facing the computer table that runs perpendicular to her desk, Pam is typing furiously with her back to me. As is her usual work mode, her thin blond hair is pulled back in a tight twist held by a red clip. 'What's up?' she asks without turning around.
'I've got a question for you.'
She flips through a pile of papers, looking for something in particular. When she finds it, she says, 'I'm listening.'
'Do you trust Caroline?'
Pam immediately stops typing and turns my way. Raising an eyebrow, she asks, 'What's wrong? Is it Nora?'
'No, it's not Nora. It has nothing to do with Nora. I just have a question about this issue I'm working on.'
'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
