The First Counsel by Brad Meltzer Page A

Isn't that great? I can't get enough of that guy--corset-wearing little Democrat. Cute as a button, he was. And let me tell you, that Panic of 1837 was all media hype--I don't believe a word of--"
    "Did she walk away yet?" I interrupt.
    "Yeah," he says. "Now tell me what's going on."
    "It's not that big a deal."
    "Not that big a deal? Do you know how many calls I've gotten on this thing just since we've been talking?"
    "Fourteen," I say flatly. "I've been counting."
    There's a pause on the other end. Trey knows me too well. "Maybe we should talk about it later."
    "Yeah. I think that's best." Staring out the window, I look back at the line of reporters on the lawn. "Think you can keep me out of this?"
    "Michael, I can get you information, but I can't work miracles. It all depends on what the FBI comes back with."
    "But can't you--"
    "Listen, the way this uniformed guy is talking, most people think he found her. For anyone else who asks, your name is officially changed to 'a fellow White House staffer.' That should save you from at least a thousand constituent letters."
    "Thank you, Trey."
    "I do my best," he says as the door to my office opens. Pam sticks her head in.
    "Listen, I better go. I'll talk to you later."
    I hang up the phone and Pam hesitantly asks, "Is now a good time, because . . ."
    "Don't worry--c'mon in."
    As she steps inside, I notice the sluggishness in her walk. Usually bouncy with a tireless stride, she's moving in slow motion, her shoulders sagging at her side. "Can you believe it?" she asks, collapsing in the seat in front of my desk. Her eyes are tired. And red. She's been crying.
    "Are you okay?" I ask.
    The single question causes a relapse in emotion that wells up her eyes with tears. Clenching her jaw, Pam fights it back down. She's not the type to cry in public. I reach into my desk and look for a tissue. All I have are some old presidential seal napkins. I hand them over, but she shakes her head.
    "Are you sure you're okay?"
    "She hired me, y'know." Clearing her throat, she adds, "When I came through for interviews, Caroline was the only person who liked me. Simon, Lamb, all the rest, they didn't think I was tough enough. Simon wrote the word 'Whitebread' on my interview sheet."
    "No, he didn't."
    "Sure did. Caroline showed it to me," Pam says with a laugh. "But since I was going to be working for her, she was able to pull me through. First day I started, she handed me Simon's evaluation and told me to keep it. Said one day, I was going to shove the whole sheet down his throat."
    "Did you keep the sheet?"
    Pam continues to laugh.
    "What?"
    A wicked smile takes her cheeks. "Remember that victory party we had when Simon gave his congressional testimony on alcohol advertising?"
    I nod.
    "And remember the victory cake we served--the one Caroline said we made from scratch?"
    "Oh, no."
    "Oh, yes," Pam adds with a wide smile. "On my hundred and fifty-second day here, Edgar Simon ate his words."
    I laugh along with her. "Are you telling me you put your old evaluation in the cake?"
    "I admit nothing."
    "How's that even possible? Wouldn't he taste it?"
    "What do you mean he? Trust me, I watched the whole thing--you ate quite a nice piece yourself."
    "And you didn't stop me?"
    "I didn't like you as much back then."
    "But how'd you--"
    "We wet the sheet, ripped it into small pieces, and threw it in the blender. That sucker pureed in no time. Best cooking lesson I ever took. Caroline was a mad genius. And when it came to Simon--she hated that bastard."
    "Right up until the hour before she di--" I catch myself. "I'm sorry--I didn't mean . . ."
    "It's okay," she says. Without another word, the two of us spend the next minute in complete, stark silence; an impromptu memorial for one of our own. To be honest, it's not until that moment that I realize what I'd left out. Through the two hours of questioning, and the worrying, and the angling to protect myself, I forgot one key thing: I forgot to mourn. My legs go numb