but--'
'It's okay, Michael, I know what I'm doing.'
'No, you--'
'I do,' she interrupts, growing more confident. 'I didn't come here to let you fly alone.' Pausing a moment, she adds, 'We'll get you out of this.'
On my face, I show her a smile, but deep down, I'm praying she's right. 'I was thinking of pulling Simon's and Caroline's FBI files. Maybe that'll tell us why he--'
'Forget about their files,' she says. 'I think we should go straight to the FBI and--'
'No!' I blurt, catching us both by surprise. 'I'm sorry . . . I just . . . I've already seen the results of that one. I open my mouth and Simon opens his.'
'But if you tell them--'
'Who do you think they're going to believe--the Counsel to the President or the young associate who got nabbed with ten grand in his glove compartment? Besides, the moment I start singing, I wreck my life. The vultures and their news vans'll be sniffing through every piece of dirty laundry they can find.'
'You're worried about your dad?'
'Wouldn't you be?'
She doesn't answer. Clearing her plate from the table, she replies, 'I still don't think you can just sit on this and hope it goes away.'
'I'm not sitting on it--I just . . . you should've heard Simon today. Quiet's going to be what keeps me around . . .' I pause as it once again knocks the wind out of me. 'That's all I have, Pam. Stay quiet and start searching. Anything else is just throwing myself to the wolves.' Letting the logic make the point, I add, 'Also, let's not forget the backdrop here: A scandal like this is a wrecking ball for the reelection. I guarantee that's why the FBI is keeping things so hush-hush.'
Her silence lets me know I'm right. I pick up my own plate and follow her to the kitchen. Pam's pouring half of her food into the garbage disposal. Another lost appetite.
Without turning around, Pam asks, 'What about Nora?'
I take a nervous sip of water. 'What about her?'
'What's she going to do to help you? I mean, if she wasn't such a freakshow, you wouldn't be in this mess.'
'It's not all her fault. Her life isn't as easy as you think.'
'Not as easy?' Pam asks, facing me. She gives me a long, steady look, then quickly rolls her eyes. 'Oh, no,' she groans. 'You're going to try and save her now, aren't you . . . ?'
'It's not that I want to save her . . .'
'You just have to, right? That's the way it always is.'
'What're you talking about?'
'I know why you do it, Michael; I even admire why you do it . . . but just because you couldn't help your dad . . .'
'This has nothing to do with my dad!'
She lets the outburst go, knowing it'll calm me down. In the silence, I take a breath. Sure, I grew up being protective of my father, but that doesn't mean I'm protective of everyone. And with Nora, it's . . . it's different.
'It's a wonderful instinct, Michael, but this isn't like what you did with Trey. Nora's not going to be as easy to cover up.'
'What're you talking about?'
'You don't have to play dumb--Trey told me how the two of you met: about how he came into your office looking for help.'
'He didn't need help; he just wanted some advice.'
'C'mon, now--he was caught painting devil beards and monocles on Dellinger's campaign posters, then got arrested for destruction of property. He was terrified to bring it to his boss . . .'
'He wasn't arrested,' I clarify. 'All it was was a citation. The whole thing was just harmless fun, and more important, it was on his own time--it wasn't like he was acting for the campaign.'
'Still, when he came in, you barely knew him; he was just a face from around headquarters . . . which means you certainly didn't have to call in any favors from your law school buddies at the DA's Office.'
'I didn't do anything illegal . . .'
'I'm not saying you did, but you didn't have to run to his rescue either.'
I shake my head. She doesn't understand. 'Pam, don't make more of it than it is. Trey needed help, and he found me.'
'No,' she blurts, her voice rising. 'He found you because he needed help.' Watching me carefully, she adds, 'For better or worse, we all have our reputations here.'
'So what does that have to do with Nora?'
'Just what I said: helping Trey, and your dad, and your friends, and everyone else who needs a rescue, doesn't mean you can pull it off with Nora. Not to mention the fact that if you're not careful, she'll let you take the fall alone.'
I think back to last night and the way Nora's voice cracked as she apologized. The way she said it . . . her chin quivering . . . she'd never let me fall alone. 'If she's staying quiet now, it's gotta be for a reason.'
'For a reason?' Pam asks. I can read it in the creases of her forehead. She thinks I'm starstruck. 'Now you're being plain stupid.'
'I'm sorry--that's how I see it.'
'Well, regardless of how blind you want to be, you still need her help. She's the only one who can corroborate your story about Simon.'
I nod, trying not to dwell on why she wouldn't see me today. 'When everything calms down, I bet she comes through.'
'Why do I have such a hard time believing that?'
'Because you don't like her.'
'I could care less about her--I'm just worried about you.'
'Don't worry, she's not going to let us down.'
'I hope you're right,' Pam says. 'Because if she does, you're going to be free-falling without a parachute. And before you can blink, you're going to taste every second of that impact.'
* * *
For financial reasons, Saturday morning means only two of my four newspapers are sitting outside my door. Even as a lawyer, government salaries only go so far. Regardless, the ritual's pretty much the same. Pulling the papers inside, I stare down at Bartlett's second consecutive day in the front photo--a beaming shot of him and his wife at their son's soccer game. Flipping the paper over, I scour the Post's below-the-fold, front-page story on Caroline's death and search for my name. It's not there. Not yet.
Instead, I get a recap of her death, followed by a quick sketch of what a good friend Caroline was to the First Lady. According to the quote under the old photo of the two friends, the relationship changed Caroline's life. Looking at the picture, I can see why. Caroline's the law student, all wide-eyed and passionate in her cheap blouse and wrinkled skirt; Mrs. Hartson is her supervisor--the sparkling director of Parkinson's fund-raising in her white Miami power suit. A friendship ended by a heart attack. Please let it just be a heart attack.
* * *
On the Saturday morning drive downtown, as I approach the White House, Pennsylvania Avenue is packed with joggers and bicyclists trying to leave the work week behind. Behind them, the sun is gleaming off the mansion's ivory columns. It's the kind of sight that makes you want to spend the whole day outside. That is, unless you can't get your mind off work.
I pull up to the first checkpoint before the Southwest Appointment Gate and flash my ID to a uniformed Secret Service officer. He glances at my photo and offers me a subtle smirk. In his right hand, he's holding what
