She'll come through. She's just being careful now. Besides, all I did was find the body and yell a bit. It's not like I'm a suspect. No one even knows about the money. Except for Nora. And the D.C. police. And Caroline. And anyone else she told about the . . . Damn, the rumors could already be out there. And when they realize the bills are consecutive . . .
My thoughts are interrupted by the vibrations of my beeper. I pull it from my pocket and check the message. That's when I'm reminded of the one other person who knows about the money. The message says it all: 'Would like to speak to you. In person. E.S.'
E.S. Edgar Simon.
Chapter 9
Sitting in the waiting room outside Simon's office, my only distraction is Judy's typing. Simon's personal assistant, Judy Stohr, is a chubby little woman with dyed red hair. Divorced the year Hartson decided to run for President, she gave up on men, moved from New Jersey to Hartson's home state of Florida, and joined the campaign. A walking encyclopedia for every day that's passed since then, Judy loves her new life. But as the always attentive mother of two college-age kids, she'll never be able to change who she is.
'What's wrong? You look sick.'
'I'm fine,' I tell her.
'Don't tell me 'fine.' You're not fine.'
'Judy, I promise you, there's nothing wrong.' As she stares me down, I add, 'I'm sad about Caroline.'
'Ucch, it's terrible. On my worst enemy, I wouldn't wish such--'
'Does he have anyone in there?' I interrupt, pointing to Simon's closed door.
'No, he's just been making calls. He's the one who told the President. And Caroline's family. Now he's talking to the major papers . . .'
'Why?' I ask nervously.
'His office; his territory. He's the point man on this. Press wants reaction from her boss.'
That makes sense. Nothing out of the ordinary. 'Any other news?'
Judy leans back in her chair, enjoying her moment as the most informed. 'It's a heart attack. FBI's still going through the office, but they know what's going on--Caroline smoked more than my Aunt Sally and drank six cups of coffee a day. No offense, but what'd she expect?'
I shrug, unsure of how to respond.
In my silence, Judy sees something in my eyes. 'You want to tell me what's really upsetting you, Michael?'
'It's nothing. Everything's fine.'
'You're not still intimidated by these guys, are you? You shouldn't be--you're better than 'em all. That's truth talking to you: You're a real person. That's why people like you.'
During my third week on the job, I mistakenly sent a letter to the head of the House Judiciary Committee that began 'Dear Congressman' as opposed to 'Dear Mr. Chairman.' This being egoville, the Chairman's staff left a snide remark about it on Simon's voice-mail, and after a quick lashing by Simon, I made the mistake of telling Judy how intimidating it was being a state school boy in the White House's Ivy League world. Since then, I've realized I could hold my own. For me, it's no longer an issue. For Judy, it's always my problem.
'The more you succeed, the more they get scared,' she explains. 'You're a threat to the old boy network-- rock-solid proof that it doesn't matter where you went to school or who your parents--'
'I get the point,' I say with a snap.
Judy gives me a second to cool down. 'You're still not over it, are you?'
'I promise you, I'm fine. I just need to speak to Simon.'
* * *
Before last night, Edgar Simon was a great guy. Born and raised in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, he had less swagger than the East Coast power brokers and Beltway insiders who'd previously held the White House Counsel position. As a double-Harvard graduate, he wasn't lacking in gray matter. But I never focus on resumes. What impressed me most about Simon was his personal life.
A few months after I was hired, the press began to suspect that President Hartson was hiding the fact that he had prostate cancer. When the New York Times suggested that Hartson had a legal responsibility to share his medical records with the public, Simon stepped into his first major crisis. Forty-eight hours later, he found out that his twelve-year-old son was diagnosed with neurofibromatosis, a genetic disorder of the nervous system that's potentially disabling for children.
After a three-day, no-sleep, rip-your-hair-out research marathon dedicated to the legal issues surrounding presidential medical privacy, Simon handed two things to the President: a briefing book on the crisis and his own resignation. Simon made it clear--his son came first.
Needless to say, the press ate it like popcorn. Parenting magazine crowned him Father of the Year. Then, one month later, when the initial crisis had passed, Simon returned to his position as Counsel. He said the President twisted his arm. Others said Simon couldn't stand being away from power. Either way, it didn't matter. At the height of his career, Edgar Simon walked away from it all. For his son. I'd always respect him for that.
Stepping into his office, I try to picture the Edgar Simon I used to know--the Father of the Year. All I see, though, is the man from last night--the viper with the forty-thousand-dollar secret.
Sitting at his desk, he looks up at me with the same mischievous smile he gave me this morning. But unlike our earlier encounter, I now know that he saw us last night. And I know what he told Caroline--whatever their disagreements were, he put the finger on me. Still, there's not a hint of anger on his face. In fact, the way his dark eyebrows are raised, he actually looks concerned.
'How're you doing?' he asks as I sit down in front of his desk.
'Okay.'
'I'm sorry you had to find her like that.'
I stare at the floor. 'Me too.'
There's a long pause in the air--one of those forced pauses where you know bad news is standing on your nose, waiting to springboard into your chest. Eventually, I lift my head.
Simon says it as soon as our eyes meet. 'Michael, I think it'd be best if you went home.'
'What?'
'Don't get upset--it's for your own protection.'
I can barely contain myself; I'm not letting him pin this on me. 'You're sending me home? How's that for my protection?'
Simon doesn't like being challenged. His tone is slow and deliberate. 'People heard you yell at her. Then you found the body. The last thing we--'
'What are you saying?' I ask, jumping out of my seat.
'Michael, listen to me. The campaign guys are breathing fire all over us--this a dangerous game. If you put forth the wrong impression, you'll raise every voting eyebrow in the country.'
'But I didn't--'
'I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm simply suggesting that you go home and take a breath. You've been through a great deal this morning, and you can use the time off.'
'I don't need the--'
'It's not up for discussion. Go home.'
Biting my lower lip, I return to my seat, unsure of what to say. If I bring up last night, he'll bury me with it-- handing me to the press with a bird-in-his-teeth grin. Better to stay quiet and see where he goes. A little detente goes a long way; especially if it keeps me by his side. And behind his back.
Still, I can't help myself. There're too many unknowns. What if I have it backwards? Maybe it's about more than last night. Simon doesn't seem suspicious or accusatory, but that doesn't make me feel any less defensive. 'Do you even know why Caroline and I were fighting?' I blurt, struggling to keep things honest. Before he can respond, I add, 'She thought my dad's criminal record conflicted with my work on the Medicaid--'
'Now's not the time, Michael.'
