Within ten minutes, Pam and I are sitting in the back of the room with fourteen boxes of Caroline's files spread out across the floor in front of us. It took a bucketful of assurances to convince Al to let us take a look, but with Pam being the new keeper of the files, there wasn't much room to argue. This is her job.
'Thanks again,' I say, looking up from the files.
'Don't worry about it,' Pam says coldly, refusing to make eye contact.
She has every right to be mad. She's risking her job to get us through this. 'I mean it, Pam. I couldn't--'
'Michael, the only reason I'm doing this is because I think they stabbed you with this one. Anything else is just your imagination.'
I turn away and stay quiet.
Flipping through the files, I'm left with the remnants of Caroline's three years of work. In each folder, it's all the same--sheet after sheet of cover-your-ass memos and filed-away announcements. None of them changed the world; just wasted paper. And no matter how fast I leaf through it, it just keeps going. File upon file upon file upon file. Wiping sweat from my forehead, I shove the carton aside. 'This is never going to work,' I say nervously.
'What do you mean?'
'It's going to take forever to look at every sheet--and Al's not giving us more than fifteen minutes with this stuff. I don't care what he said, he knows something's up.'
'You have any other ideas?'
'Alphabetically,' I blurt. 'What would she file it under?'
'I keep mine under E. Ethics.'
I look down at the manila folders in my box. The first is labeled Administration. The last is Briefing Papers. 'I got A through B, I say.'
Seeing that she has B through D, Pam walks on her knees to the next box and pulls off the cardboard lid. Drug Testing to Federal Register. 'Here!' she calls out as I hop to my feet.
Hunched over Pam's shoulder, I watch as she rifles through the folders. Employee Assistance Program . . . EEO . . . Federal Programs. Nothing labeled Ethics.
'Maybe the FBI took it,' she suggests.
'If they did, we'd know about it. It's got to be here somewhere.'
She's tempted to argue, but she knows I'm running out of options.
'What else could it be under?'
'I don't know,' Pam says. 'Files . . . Requests . . . it could be anything.'
'You take F; I'll take R.' Working my way down the line, I flip off the cover of each box. G through H . . . I through K . . . L through Lu. By the time I reach the second to last box, most of which is allocated to Personnel, I know I'm in trouble. There's no way the last quarter of the alphabet is fitting in the final box. Sure enough, I pull off the top and see that I'm right. Presidential Commissions . . . Press . . . Publications. That's where it ends. Publication.
'There's nothing under Files,' Pam says. 'I'm going to start at the--'
'We're missing the end!'
'What?'
'It's not here--these aren't all the boxes!'
'Michael, calm down.'
Refusing to listen, I rush to the small area where Caroline's files were originally stacked. My hands are shaking as they skim down the stacks of every surrounding box. Palmer . . . Perez . . . Perlman . . . Poirot. Nothing marked Caroline Penzler. Frantic, I zigzag through the makeshift aisles, looking for anything we may've overlooked.
'Where else could they be?' I ask in a panic.
'I have no idea--there's storage everywhere.'
'I need a place, Pam. Everywhere is a little vague.'
'I don't know. Maybe the attic?'
'What attic?'
'On the fifth floor--next to the Indian Treaty Room. Al once said they used it for overflow.' Realizing we're short on manpower, she adds, 'Maybe you should call Trey.'
'I can't--he's stalling Nora in his office.' I look down at the fourteen boxes laid out in front of us. 'Can you--'
'I'll go through these,' she says, reading my thoughts. 'You head upstairs. Page me if you need help.'
'Thanks, Pam. You're the best.'
'Yeah, yeah,' she says. 'I love you too.'
I stop dead in my tracks and study her barbed blue eyes.
She smiles. I don't know what to say.
'You should get out of here,' she adds.
I don't move.
'Go on,' she says. 'Get out of here!'
Running for the door, I look over my shoulder for one last glimpse of my friend. She's already deep into the next box.
* * *
Back in the halls of the basement, I keep my head down as I lope past a group of janitors pushing mop buckets. I'm not taking any chances. The moment I'm spotted, it's over. Following the hallway around another turn, I duck under a vent pipe and ignore two separate sets of stairs. Both are empty, but both also lead to crowded hallways.
A quarter-way down the hall, I slam on the brakes and push the call button for the service elevator. It's the one place I know I won't run into any fellow staffers. No one in the White House thinks of themselves as second- class.
Waiting, I anxiously check up and down this oven of a hallway. It's got to be ninety degrees. The armpits of my shirt are soaked. The worst part is, I'm out in the open. If anyone comes, there's nowhere to hide. Maybe I should duck into a room--at least until the elevator gets here. I look around to see what's--Oh, no. How'd I miss that? It's right across from the elevator, staring me straight in the face--a small black-and-white sign that reads 'Room 072--USSS/UD.' The United States Secret Service and the Uniformed Division. And here I am, standing right in front of it.
Looking up, I search the ceiling for a camera. Through the wires, behind the pipes. It's the Secret Service--it's got to be here somewhere. Unable to spot it, I turn back to the elevator. Maybe no one's watching. If they haven't come out yet, the odds are good.
I pound my thumb against the call button. The indicator above the door says it's on the first floor. Thirty more seconds--that's all I need. Behind me, I hear the worst kind of creak. I spin around and see the doorknob starting to turn. Someone's coming out. The elevator pings as it finally arrives, but its doors don't open. Over my shoulder, I hear hinges squeak. A quick look shows me the uniformed agent stepping out of the room. He's right behind me as the elevator opens. If he wanted to, he could reach out and grab me. I inch forward and calmly step into the elevator, praying he doesn't follow. Please, please, please, please, please. Even as the doors close, he can stick his hand in at the last second. Keeping my back turned, I squint with apprehension. Finally, I hear the doors close behind me.
Alone in the rusty industrial elevator, I turn, push the button marked 5, and let my head sag back against the beat-up walls. Approaching each floor, I tense up just a bit, but one after another, we pass them without stopping. Straight to the top. Sometimes there're benefits to being second-class.
When the doors open on the highest floor of the OEOB, I stick out my head and survey the hallway. There're a couple young suits at the far end, but otherwise, it's a clear path. Following Pam's instructions, I dart straight for the door to the left of the Indian Treaty Room. Unlike most of the rooms in the building, it's unmarked. And unlocked.
'Anyone here?' I call out as I push open the door. No answer. The room's dark. Stepping inside, I see that it's not even a room. It's just a tiny closet with a metal-grated staircase leading straight up. That must be the attic.
