* * *
Early Monday morning, on Labor Day, I'm sitting in the back row of a passenger van, still trying to convince myself that an FBI agent would communicate by sliding a note under my door. P. Vaughn. Peter Vaughn? Phillip Vaughn? Who the hell is this guy?
Driven by a sergeant in a gray sportcoat and a thin black tie, the van thunders down the highway, following the two identical vans in front of it. Sitting next to me is Pam, who hasn't said a word since our six A.M. pickup in West Exec parking. The remaining eleven passengers are following her lead. It's a minor miracle, really: thirteen White House lawyers packed in a van and no one's bragging, much less talking. But it's not just the early hour that's keeping everyone quiet. It's our destination. Today we bury one of our own.
Twenty minutes later, at Andrews Air Force Base, we check in with a uniformed guard at the gatehouse. At barely half past six, the sky's still dark, but everyone's wide awake. We're almost there. It's my first time on a military base, so I expect to see platoons of young men marching and jogging in step. Instead, as we weave across the winding paved road, all I can make out are a few low-lying buildings that I assume are barracks and a wide- open parking lot with tons of cars and a few scattered military jeeps. At the far end of the road, the van finally stops at the Distinguished Visitors Lounge, a mundane one-story brick building that evokes all the creativity of a 1950s sneeze.
Once inside, just about everyone strolls up to the wide glass window that overlooks the runway. They're trying to look nonchalant, but they're too anxious to pull it off. You can see it in the way they move. Like a kid sneaking an early peek at his birthday presents. What's the big deal? I ask myself. For the answer, I head straight for the window, prepared to be unimpressed. Then I see it. The words 'United States of America' are printed in enormous black letters across its blue and white body, and a huge American flag is painted on its tail. It's the biggest plane I've ever seen. And we're riding it to Minnesota for Caroline's funeral: Air Force One.
* * *
'Have you seen it?' I ask Pam, who's sitting alone on a bench in the corner of the room.
'No, I . . .'
'Go to the window. Trust me, you won't be disappointed. It's like a pregnant 747.'
'Michael . . .'
'I know--I sound like a tourist--but that's not always such a bad thing. Sometimes you have to pull out the camera, put on the Hard Rock T-shirt, and let it all hang--'
'We're not tourists,' she growls, her frozen glare stabbing me in the chest. 'We're going to a funeral.' As usual, she's right.
I step back to stop myself. Head to toe, I feel about two feet tall. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to--'
'Don't worry about it,' she says, refusing to face me. 'Just tell me when it's time to go.'
* * *
At a quarter to seven, they lead us out to the plane, where we line up single file. Dark suit, leather briefcase. Dark suit, leather briefcase. Dark suit, leather briefcase. One behind the other, the message is clear: It's a funeral, but at least we'll get some work done. I look down at my own briefcase and wish I'd never picked it up. Then I look over at Pam. She's carrying nothing but a small black purse.
At the front of the line, by the base of the stairs that lead up to the plane, is the Secret Service agent who checks each of our names and credentials. Next to the agent is Simon. Dressed in a black suit and a the- President-wore-one-a-few-weeks-ago silver tie, he greets each of us as we arrive. It's not often the Counsel gets to run such a public show, and from the dumb look on his face, he's basking in the glory. You can see it in the way he puffs out his chest. As the line moves forward, Simon and I finally make eye contact. The moment he sees me, he turns around and walks over to his secretary, who's standing a few feet away, clipboard in hand.
'Asshole,' I mutter to Pam.
When I reach the stairs, I give my name to the Secret Service agent. He searches the list he holds in the palm of his hand. 'I'm sorry, sir, what was that name again?'
'Michael Garrick,' I say, pulling my ID from behind my tie.
He checks again. 'I'm sorry, Mr. Garrick, I don't have you here.'
'That's impossi--' I cut myself short. Over the agent's shoulder, I notice Simon looking our way. He's wearing that same grin he was wearing the day he sent me home. That motherf--
'Call it in to Personnel,' Pam says to the agent. 'You'll see he's on staff.'
'I don't care if he's on staff,' the agent explains. 'If he's not on this list, he's not getting on this plane.'
'Actually, can I interrupt a moment?' Simon asks. Pulling a sheet of paper from his inside breast pocket, he steps back to the front of the line and passes it to the agent. 'In our rush to get this together, I think I inadvertently left out a few people. Here's an updated clearance sheet. I should've given this to you earlier, it's just . . . with this terrible loss . . .'
The agent looks down at the list and checks the code on the clearance sheet. 'Welcome aboard Air Force One, Mr. Garrick.'
I nod to the agent and shoot my coldest stare at Simon. Nothing needs to be said. To get on board, I better be on board. Anything else is going to have its consequences. He steps aside and motions me forward; I steel myself and climb the stairs.
On a normal day, staffers use the rear staircase--today, we get the front.
When I step into the cabin, I look around for a stewardess, but there's no one there. 'First time?' a voice asks. To my left is a young guy in an immaculately starched white shirt. The patches on his shoulder tell me he's Air Force.
'Is it open seating or . . .'
'What's your name?'
'Michael Garrick.'
'Mr. Garrick, follow me.'
He heads straight down the main hallway, which runs along the right side of the plane and is lined with bolted-down plush couches and fake-antique side tables. It's a flying living room.
As we enter the staff area, rather than shoving everyone into one big hundred-person cabin, the seating is broken into smaller ten-person sections. The seats face one another--five on five--with a shared Formica table between you and the person you're facing. Everyone watches everyone else. Around here, it's the easiest way to encourage work.
'Is it possible to get a window seat?' I ask.
'Not this time,' he says as he comes to a stop. He points to an aisle seat that faces forward. On the cushion is a folded white card with the presidential seal. Under the seal, it reads, 'Welcome Aboard Air Force One.' Beneath that, it reads my name: 'Mr. Garrick.'
My reaction is instantaneous. 'Can I keep this?'
'I'm sorry, but for security purposes, we need it back.'
'Of course,' I say, handing him the card. 'I understand.'
He does his best impression of a smile. 'That's a joke. I'm joking, Mr. Garrick.' As soon as I catch on, he adds, 'Now would you like a tour of the rest of the plane?'
'Are you kidding? I'd love t--' Over his shoulder, I see Pam heading our way. 'Y'know what, I'll pass for now. I've got some work to do.'
Checking the card across from me, Pam finds her name and sits down.
I'm about to throw my briefcase on the table between us, but instead, I put it below my seat. 'How're you doing?' I ask.
'Ask me when it's over.'
* * *
By seven A.M., we're boarded and ready to go, but since it's not a commercial flight, most people aren't in
