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 wall: 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.'
I close my eyes and pretend there's still a net. 'It all happened last night,' I begin.
'Last night being Thursday the third,' she verifies.
I nod. She points to her lips. 'I mean, that's correct,' I quickly say. 'Anyway, I was driving along 16th Street when I saw--'
'Before we get there, was anyone with you?'
'That's not the important part--'
'Just answer the question.'
I respond as quickly as I can. 'No. I was alone.'
'So no one was with you?'
I don't like the way she asks that. Something isn't right. Once again, I feel the back of my neck hot with sweat. 'No one was with me,' I insist.
She doesn't seem convinced.
I reach forward and stop the tape. 'Is there a problem?'
'Not at all.' She attempts to restart the tape, but my hand is over the recorder.
'I'm not doing this on tape,' I tell her. 'Not yet.'
'Calm down, Michael.' Sitting back, she lets me have my way. The recorder stays off. 'I know it's hard. Just tell your story.'
She's right. This isn't the time to lose it. For the second time, I find calm in a deep breath and take solace in the fact that it's no longer being recorded. 'So I'm driving down 16th Street, when I suddenly see a familiar car in front of me. When I take a closer look at it, I realize it belongs to Simon.'
'Edgar Simon--Counsel to the President.'
'Exactly. Now, for whatever reason--maybe it's the time of night, maybe it's where we are--as soon as I see him, something doesn't seem kosher. So I drop back and start to follow.' Detail by detail, I tell her the rest of the story. How Simon pulled over on Rock Creek Parkway. How he got out of his car carrying a manila envelope. How he climbed over the guardrail and disappeared up the embankment. And most important, once he was gone, what I found in the envelope. The only thing I leave out is Nora. And the cops. 'When I saw the money, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. You have to imagine it: It's past midnight, it's pitch black, and there I am holding my boss's forty-thousand-dollar payoff. On top of all that, I could swear someone was watching me. It was like they were right over my shoulder. I'm telling you, it was one of the scariest moments of my entire life. But before I went and blew the whistle, I thought I should talk to someone first. That's why I came to you.'
I wait for a reaction, but she doesn't give one. Eventually, she asks, 'Are you done?'
I nod. 'Yeah.'
She leans across the desk and picks up the cassette recorder. Her thumb flicks back and forth against the pause button. Nervous habit.
'So?' I ask. 'What d'you think?'
Putting on her glasses, she doesn't look amused. 'It's an interesting story, Michael. The only problem is, fifteen minutes ago, Edgar Simon was in this office telling me the exact same story about you. In his version, though, you were the one with the money.' She crosses her arms and sits back in her chair. 'Now do you want to start over?'
Chapter 6
Why would he say that?' I ask, panicking.
'Michael, I don't know what kind of trouble you're in, but there's--'
'I'm not in any trouble,' I insist. My mouth goes dry and nausea washes over me. I can feel it in my stomach. It's all about to collapse. 'I-I don't know what you're talking about. I swear . . . it was him. We saw him carrying the--'
'Who's we?'
'Huh?'
'We. You just said we. Who else was with you, Michael?'
I sit up straight in my seat. 'No one was with me. I swear, I was all alone.'
Silence envelops the room and I can feel the weight of her judgment. 'You really have balls, y'know that? When Simon came in here, he told me to take it easy on you. He figured you had problems. And what do you do? You lie to my face and blame it on him! On him of all people!'
'Wait a minute . . . you think I'm making this up?'
'I'm not answering that question.' She brushes her hand against a stack of red file folders. 'I've already seen the answer.'
In the world of vetting and background checks, a red folder means an FBI file. Instinctively, I check the name on the tab of the top file. Michael Garrick.
My fists tighten. 'You pulled my file?'
'Why don't you tell me about your work on the new Medicaid overhaul--preserving Medicaid for criminals? It looks like a real crusade for you.'
There's a tone in her voice that stabs like a stick in the eye. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Don't insult me, Michael. We've been through this once before. I know all about him. Still a real proud poppa, huh?'
