A few seconds of silence were interrupted by hand-waving troops chomping at the bit to get the president’s attention.
“Yes, Mr. Hartman. You’re next,” Michaels said.
Kyle Hartman, NBC’s Washington correspondent, had been mostly friendly in the past toward Michaels, which was why the following question stunned Michaels so much.
“Is it true that you will assume a leadership position during the interim?” Hartman asked. “Seems a little bit beyond your purview, don’t you think?”
The first question was a good one that every journalist needed answered. But Michaels took offense at quasi-question Hartman posited, which sounded more for his benefit than for helping clarify things for Michaels. But Michaels was ready for him.
“Quite honestly, Kyle, I find that there are things that are beyond my purview each and every day as I hold this powerful office. There is no college course on how to become president. It’s just something you do—and you figure it out as you go along. I know that may not come as much comfort to you or many Americans, especially the ones who think I’m unqualified to hold this position. But I’ve already won the popularity contest, and my decisions from here on out are about doing the best job I can to prove to those who voted for me that they were right to trust me. If I don’t do that, I fail. However, it’s in my failing that I gain strength.”
“But, sir, I—”
Michaels held up his hand, which silenced Hartman for the moment.
“My point is that I’m no more capable of handling this situation than I am selecting the best color to paint my bedroom to make sure it matches with the comforter on my bed. But like everything else I do, I’m going to do my best, which includes listening to seasoned veterans around me who are experts in this field and taking their advice to heart.”
Hartman wasn’t satisfied with Michaels’ explanation.
“But, sir, from what I’ve heard, the experts you’ve surrounded yourself with don’t seem to be interested in rocking the status quo. They hold fringe views that aren’t generally shared among the vast majority of the economic community. How can you really consider all sides of an issue if you have loaded your cabinet and advisory boards with yes men?”
Michaels clenched his fists, trying hard to keep them hidden behind the lectern and out of sight from the opportunistic photographers’ pool, which would relish the chance to document his anger. He sifted through the notes on the podium, giving him time to cool down. After a deep breath, he responded to Hartman’s aggressive line of questioning.
“The only thing these men say yes to is sound economic policy,” Michaels said calmly. “They aren’t in anyone’s pocket. They aren’t here because they agree with my overall economic policy. They serve at my pleasure because they’re the best at what they do. You and I may disagree over how effective their track record is in averting crisis and navigating through new challenges, but I wouldn’t have them advising me if I didn’t believe they had our country’s best interest at heart.”
Michaels scanned the audience of reporters once more as their hands shot up haphazardly around the room and shouting recommenced. The faces turned, all eager to learn about the president’s response to the Supreme Court’s apparent attempt to overturn an act put into law by Congress more than 100 years prior. All Michaels saw were narrowed eyes and a press corps ready to pounce.
“Mr. President,” one reporter shouted loudly over the crowd, “is there any truth to a secret meeting you held recently with a select group of Supreme Court justices at the Library of Congress?”
That was Michaels’ cue to leave.
“No more questions. Good day,” he said.
He exited to the left and didn’t breathe until he was a few steps down the hall and out of sight. Pulling out a pocket square, he mopped his brow and held up his hand, signaling his Secret Service detail to stop. Michaels rested against the wall and took a deep breath before resuming his march back toward his office.
He needed an update on Justice Williams.
CHAPTER 16
Great Falls, Virginia
HAWK EYED JUSTICE CAMILLE WILLIAMS through his binoculars in preparation for making a dash across her sprawling property. The 15 acres she inherited along with an 8,000-square-foot mansion from her late husband Harold Wannamaker wasn’t easily accessible to any would-be intruders. A 10-foot stone wall enclosed the property and created a formidable perimeter. The only portion of the land that wasn’t walled in was the backside, which abutted a manageable cliff overlooking a roiling portion of the Potomac River.
“Do you see any guards?” Alex asked. “I can’t see any on the thermal imaging cameras I’m using.”
“From what I’ve observed, Williams only has a pair of guards and they’re both in the front of the property.”
“And that cliff didn’t give you any problems?” Samuels asked.
“Piece of cake,” Hawk said, pressing his eyes against his binoculars once more. “I see her in her study reading a book.”
“Be careful, Hawk,” Alex said. “If this goes sideways, you’re going to be lucky to get out alive. Her security guards are former military who served several tours in Iraq.”
Hawk shoved his binoculars into his backpack. “If I can keep the justice quiet enough to explain myself, everything will be just fine.”
He scanned the grounds once more before striking off toward Williams’ house.
“Bet you ten bucks Hawk gets attacked by some dogs,” Samuels said.
Hawk stopped near a tree and adjusted his ear piece. “I can hear everything you’re saying, Samuels. Nice to know you’re rooting for me.”
“Who says I’m not rooting for
