'Was he serious?' Trey asks through the phone.
Staring at the blank TV in my office, I don't answer. On-screen, all I see is my reflection.
'Michael, I asked you a question: Was Adenauer serious?'
'Huh?'
'Was he--'
'I-I think so,' I finally say. 'I mean, since when does the FBI make empty threats?'
Trey takes a second to answer. He knows what I'm going through, but that doesn't mean he's going to hold back. 'This isn't just a bad hair day,' he warns. 'If even a hint of what happened gets out . . .'
'I know, Trey. Believe me, I know--you read me the polls every morning--but what am I supposed to do? Yesterday you're telling me to turn myself in so Nora doesn't bury me; today, you're crying that if anything gets out, I single-handedly wreck the presidency. The only thing that's consistent is that either way I'm screwed.'
'I didn't mean to--'
'All I can do is go for the truth--find Vaughn and figure out if he's got some insight into what really happened. If that doesn't work . . .' I stop, unable to finish the sentence.
He gives me a few seconds to calm down. 'What about Simon's financial disclosure forms?' he eventually asks, still determined to help. 'I thought we were going to look through those to see where he got the money.'
'According to Adenauer, there's nothing in his bank accounts.'
'And you're going to take his word for it?'
'What else you want me to do? I put the request in over a week ago--it should be here any day.'
'Well, I hate to break it to you, but any day's not gonna cut it. You've only got three days left. If I were you, I'd put on my nice-guy voice and have a long overdue talk with Nora.'
Silently, I once again stare at the TV, rolling the option around my brain. He has a point. Still, if Vaughn comes through . . . if he's also been screwed by Simon . . . That's the door to a brand-new reality. Maybe Vaughn was the one Simon met in the bar. Simon could've been borrowing the cash. Maybe that's why there was nothing in his bank accounts.
'So whattya say?' Trey asks.
I shake my head even though he can't see it. 'Tomorrow's my meeting with Vaughn,' I say hesitantly. 'After that, I can always talk to Nora.'
By the long pause, I can tell Trey disagrees.
'What?' I ask. 'I thought you wanted me to meet with Vaughn?'
'I do.'
'So what's the problem?'
Again, there's a pause. 'I know it's hard for you to accept this, Michael, but just remember that, sometimes, you should be looking out for yourself.'
* * *
It takes me a good half hour to turn my attention back to the briefing, but once there, I'm consumed. The wiretap file is spread out in front of me, and my desk is buried in a pile of law review articles, op-ed pieces, scientific studies, and current opinion polls. I've spent the last two months learning everything I could about this issue. Now I have to figure out how to teach it. No, not just teach it--teach it to the leader of the free world.
Two hours later, I'm still working on my introduction. This isn't high school debate with Mr. Ulery. It's the Oval Office with Ted Hartson. President Hartson. With a dictionary at my side, I rewrite my opening sentence for the seventeenth time. Each word has to be just right. It's still not there.
Opening sentence. Take eighteen.
* * *
Working straight through lunch, I hit the heart of the argument. Sure, we're trained to present an unbiased view, but let's be honest. This is the White House. Everyone's got an opinion.
As a result, it doesn't take me long to make a list of reasons for the President to come out against roving wiretaps. That's the easy part. The hard part is convincing the President I'm right. Especially in an election year.
* * *
At five o'clock, I take my only break: a ten-minute round-trip dash to the West Wing for the first batch of fries that comes out of the Mess. Over the next four hours, I skim through hundreds of criminal cases, looking for the best ones to make my point. It's going to be a late night, but as long as things stay quiet, I should be able to get through it.
'Candy bars! Who wants candy bars?' Trey announces, striding through the door. 'Guess what just got added to the vending machines?' Before I can answer, he adds, 'Two words, Lucy: Hostess. Cupcakes. I saw 'em downstairs--our childhood trapped behind glass. For seventy-five cents, we get it back.'
'Now's really a bad time . . .'
'I understand--you're knee-deep. Then let me at least tell you about--'
'I can't . . .'
'No such thing as can't. Besides, this is impor--'
'Dammit, Trey, can't you ever take a hint?'
He's not happy with that one. Without a word, he turns his back and heads for the exit.
'Trey . . .'
He opens the door.
'C'mon, Trey . . .'
At the last second, he stops. 'Listen, hotshot, I don't need the apology--the only reason I came by was because your favorite Post reporter just called us about the WAVES records. Adenauer may be waiting until Friday, but Inez's cashing in every press favor she has. So no matter how badly you're trying to smudge elbows with the President, you should know the clock's ticking--and it may explode sooner than you think.' He wheels around and slams the door shut.
I know he's right. By Adenauer's count, I'm almost down to two days. But with everything else going on, it's going to have to wait until tomorrow. After the President, and after Vaughn.
* * *
By eight o'clock, the howling in my stomach tells me I'm hungry, the searing pain in my lower back tells me I've been sitting too long, and the vibration of my pager tells me someone's calling.
I whip it out of the clip on my belt and look at the message. 'Emergency. Meet me in the theater. Nora.'
As I read the words, I feel my whole face go white. Whatever it is, it can't be good. I take off without even thinking.
Within three minutes, I'm on a mad dash through the Ground Floor Corridor of the mansion. At the far end of the hallway, I push through a final set of doors, cut through the small area where they sell books on the White House public tour, and see the oversized bust of Abraham Lincoln. During the day, the hallway is usually filled with tour groups checking out the architectural diagrams and famous White House photos that line the left-hand wall. For the most part, visitors and guests think that's pretty interesting. I wonder how they'd react if they knew that on the other side of that wall is the President's private movie theater.
I run my open palm against my forehead, hoping to hide the sweat. As I approach the guard who's stationed nearby, I motion to my destination. 'I'm supposed to meet--'
'She's inside,' he says.
I rip open the door, smell the slight remnants of popcorn, and dart into the theater.
