pages. Twelve, thirteen . . . there. 'White House Lawyer Depressed, Treated.' Skimming through the short article, I read about Caroline's bout with depression, and how she was successfully overcoming it.
As the story goes on, it never once mentions me, but any political junkie knows the rest. It may be creeping along on the middle pages, but Caroline's story is still alive.
'If it makes you feel any better, you're not the only one getting bad press,' Trey says, clearly trying to change the subject. 'Have you seen the Nora story in the Herald?' Before I can answer, he explains, 'According to their gossip columnist, one of Bartlett's top aides called her--get this--'the First Freeloader' because she hasn't made her mind up about grad school. Blood-guzzling, reputation-raping muckrakers.'
I flip to the Herald and pinpoint the story. 'Not a smart move,' I say as I read it for myself. 'People don't like it when you attack the First Daughter.'
'I don't know,' Trey says. 'Bartlett's boys've been polling this one for a while. If they're sending it out, I'm betting people are warm to it.'
'If they were, Bartlett would've done it himself.'
'Give it a few days--this is just a trial balloon. I can already hear the speechwriters scribbling: If Hartson can't take care of his own family, how's he going to take care of the country?'
'That's a big risk, Dukakis. The backlash alone . . .'
'Have you seen the numbers? There's not a backlash in sight. We thought we were going to get a bump from the funeral--Hartson's lead is down to ten. I'm thinking IPO moms love the fighting-for-families idea.'
'I don't care. They're gonna draw the line here. It'll never come out of Bartlett's lips.'
'Wager time?' Trey asks.
'You really feel that strongly about it?'
'Even stronger than I felt about Hartson's sunglasses-and-baseball-cap-on-the-aircraft-carrier look. Even if it was a little Top Gun, I told you we'd use it for the ad.'
'Uh-oh, big talk.' I look down at the article, thinking it through one more time. There's no way they'll have Bartlett say it. 'Nickel bet?'
'Nickel bet.'
For the better part of two years, it's been the best game in town. Around here, everyone loves to win. Including me.
'And nothing sketchy,' I add. 'No holding back on blasting Bartlett for going after their virgin, innocent daughter.'
'Oh, we're going after him,' Trey promises. 'I'll have Mrs. Hartson's statement ready to go by nine.' He pauses. 'Not that it's going to help.'
'We'll see.'
'We'll certainly see,' he shoots back. 'Now you ready to read?'
I close up the Herald, since we always do the Post first. But when I look down at the paper, the story about Caroline is still staring me in the face. I can cover it up all I want--it's not going away. 'Can I ask you a question?'
'What's wrong? You wanna take back your bet?'
'No, it's just . . . about this Caroline story . . .'
'Aw, c'mon, Michael, I thought you weren't gonna--'
'Tell me the truth, Trey--you think it's got legs?'
He doesn't answer.
I sink down in my seat. For whatever reason, the Post is still interested. And from what I can tell, they're just starting to tighten the microscope.
* * *
'I'm looking for an Officer Rayford,' I say, reading the name from the confirmation of receipt early the following morning.
'This is Rayford,' he answers, annoyed. 'Who's this?'
As he says the words, I move the phone to my other ear and picture his crooked nose and hairless forearms. 'Hi, Officer, this is Michael Garrick--you stopped me last week for speeding . . .'
'And maybe dealing drugs,' he adds. 'I know who you are.'
I close my eyes and pretend to be unintimidated. 'Actually, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I'm wondering if you've had a chance to check the money, so we could put this all behind--'
'Do you know how much money they photocopied before the drug sweep? Almost a hundred grand. Even at four bills per page, it's going to take me days to make sure the serial numbers on your bills don't match the serial numbers on ours.'
'I didn't mean to bother you, I just--'
'Listen, when we're done, we'll give you a call. Until then, leave it alone. In the meantime, say hi to the President for me.'
How does he know where I work?
There's a click on the other line and he's gone.
* * *
'And that's all he said?' Pam asks, sitting in front of my computer.
I look down at my desk, where I'm fidgeting with the swinging handle of the middle desk drawer. I flip it up, but it keeps falling down.
'Maybe you should tell the FBI about the money,' she adds, reading my reaction. 'Just to be safe.'
'I can't,' I insist.
'Of course you can.'
'Pam, think about it for a second--it's not just telling the FBI--if it was just them, that's one thing. But you know how they feel about Hartson. From Hoover to Freeh, it's pure hate with every Chief Exec--always a power struggle. And with Nora involved . . . they'll feed it to the press in the bat of an eye. It's the same thing they did with the President's medical records.'
'But at least you'd be--'
'I'd be dead is what I'd be. If I start gabbing with the FBI, Simon'll point everyone my way. In a game of he said/he said, I lose. And when they look at the evidence, all they're going to see are those consecutively marked bills. The first thirty grand in Caroline's safe; the last ten grand in my possession. Even I'm starting to believe the money's mine.'
'So you're just going to sit around being Simon's quiet boy?'
Grabbing a sheet of paper from my out-box, I wave it in front of her face. 'Do you know what this is?'
'A tree victimized by the ravenous, death-dealing, cannibal machine we call modern society?'
'Actually, Thoreau, it's a formal request to the Office of Government Ethics. I asked them for copies of Simon's financial disclosure forms, which are filed every year.'
'Okay, so you've mastered public records. All that gives you is a list of his stock holdings and a few bank accounts.'
'Sure, but when I get his records, we'll have a whole new place to search. You don't just get forty thousand dollars from nowhere. He either liquidated some major investments, or has a debit in one of his accounts. I find that debit and I've got the easiest way to prove the money's his.'
'Let me give you an even easier way: Have Nora verify that he was--'
'I told you, I'm not doing that. We already went through this: The moment she's involved, we're all on page one. Career over; election finished.'
'That's not--'
'You want to be Linda Tripp?' I challenge.
She doesn't answer.
'That's what I thought. Besides, what Nora saw only takes care of the first night. When it comes to Caroline's death--even if it was a heart attack--I'm still on my own.'
