You’re striking me dead.”
“She’s the President’s sister,” the nurse whisper-hissed. “I can’t kick her out.”
Palmiotti shook his head as he trudged to his private office in the back of the suite. Typical duty nurse. And typical Minnie.
“Heeey!” he called out, painting on a big smile as he threw the door open. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Across from his desk, sitting on the tan leather sofa, was a stumpy forty-two-year-old woman with a thick block of a body. She was dressed in her usual unconstructed dress, this one navy blue, plus her mother’s long dangly silver earrings from the early eighties, which was about the time Palmiotti first got to know Jessamine “Minnie” Wallace.
“Okay, Minnie, what’s it this time?”
Minnie lifted her chin, revealing a stout, squatty neck and a grin that—ever since her stroke—rose on only one side.
“Can’t I just be here to say hello?” she asked with the slight lisp (another lingering side effect from the stroke) that made the word just sound like juss.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing physical therapy right now?”
“Already did it,” Minnie promised.
Palmiotti stood there, studying her on the sofa as her thumb tapped against the bright pink cane that she still needed to walk. The handle of the cane was shaped and painted like the head of a flamingo. That was the problem with being the sister of the President—you wind up spending your life finding other ways to stand out. “You didn’t do your therapy again, did you?”
“Sure I did.”
“Minnie… Show me your hands,” Palmiotti challenged.
Minnie half-smiled, pretending not to hear him. “I meant to ask, you still seeing Gabriel for lunch today?” she said, referring to the President’s scheduler.
“Please don’t do that,” he begged.
“Do what?”
“What’s it now? Reception in the Oval? Having the President speak at your annual convention?”
“It’s a Caregivers’ Conference—for the top scientists who study brain injuries,” she explained, referring to the cause that she now spent so much time pushing for. “My brother already said he’d come, but when I spoke to Gabriel—”
“Listen, you know that if Gabriel tells you no, it’s no ,” he said. But as he reached for the best way to track down the President—the earpiece and Secret Service radio that sat on his desk—there was a sudden burst of voices behind him. Over his shoulder, out in the Ground Floor Corridor, he saw a phalanx of staffers—the President’s personal aide, his chief of staff, the press secretary, and an older black speechwriter—slowly gathering near the President’s private elevator. Palmiotti had watched it for three years now. Forget the radio. The personal aide always got the call first from the valet who laid out Wallace’s suits.
Sure enough, the red light above the elevator blinked on with a ping. Agent Mitchel whispered something into the microphone at his wrist, and two new Secret Service agents appeared from nowhere. Thirty seconds after that, President Orson Wallace, in fresh suit and tie, stepped out to start the day. For a second, the President glanced around the hallway rather than focusing on the swarm of staff.
The doctor shook his head.
Not every President is a great speaker. Not every President is a great thinker. But in the modern era, every single President is a master of one thing: eye contact. Bill Clinton was so good at it, when he was drinking lemonade while you were talking to him, he’d stare at you through the bottom of his glass just to maintain that lock on you. Wallace was no different. So when he stepped off the elevator and glanced around instead of locking on his aides…
… that’s when Palmiotti knew that whatever happened last night, it was worse than he thought.
“ Just gimme a minute ,” the President mimed as he patted his personal aide on the shoulder and sidestepped through the small crowd—straight toward Palmiotti’s
“She’s the President’s sister,” the nurse whisper-hissed. “I can’t kick her out.”
Palmiotti shook his head as he trudged to his private office in the back of the suite. Typical duty nurse. And typical Minnie.
“Heeey!” he called out, painting on a big smile as he threw the door open. “How’s my favorite girl?”
Across from his desk, sitting on the tan leather sofa, was a stumpy forty-two-year-old woman with a thick block of a body. She was dressed in her usual unconstructed dress, this one navy blue, plus her mother’s long dangly silver earrings from the early eighties, which was about the time Palmiotti first got to know Jessamine “Minnie” Wallace.
“Okay, Minnie, what’s it this time?”
Minnie lifted her chin, revealing a stout, squatty neck and a grin that—ever since her stroke—rose on only one side.
“Can’t I just be here to say hello?” she asked with the slight lisp (another lingering side effect from the stroke) that made the word just sound like juss.
“Aren’t you supposed to be doing physical therapy right now?”
“Already did it,” Minnie promised.
Palmiotti stood there, studying her on the sofa as her thumb tapped against the bright pink cane that she still needed to walk. The handle of the cane was shaped and painted like the head of a flamingo. That was the problem with being the sister of the President—you wind up spending your life finding other ways to stand out. “You didn’t do your therapy again, did you?”
“Sure I did.”
“Minnie… Show me your hands,” Palmiotti challenged.
Minnie half-smiled, pretending not to hear him. “I meant to ask, you still seeing Gabriel for lunch today?” she said, referring to the President’s scheduler.
“Please don’t do that,” he begged.
“Do what?”
“What’s it now? Reception in the Oval? Having the President speak at your annual convention?”
“It’s a Caregivers’ Conference—for the top scientists who study brain injuries,” she explained, referring to the cause that she now spent so much time pushing for. “My brother already said he’d come, but when I spoke to Gabriel—”
“Listen, you know that if Gabriel tells you no, it’s no ,” he said. But as he reached for the best way to track down the President—the earpiece and Secret Service radio that sat on his desk—there was a sudden burst of voices behind him. Over his shoulder, out in the Ground Floor Corridor, he saw a phalanx of staffers—the President’s personal aide, his chief of staff, the press secretary, and an older black speechwriter—slowly gathering near the President’s private elevator. Palmiotti had watched it for three years now. Forget the radio. The personal aide always got the call first from the valet who laid out Wallace’s suits.
Sure enough, the red light above the elevator blinked on with a ping. Agent Mitchel whispered something into the microphone at his wrist, and two new Secret Service agents appeared from nowhere. Thirty seconds after that, President Orson Wallace, in fresh suit and tie, stepped out to start the day. For a second, the President glanced around the hallway rather than focusing on the swarm of staff.
The doctor shook his head.
Not every President is a great speaker. Not every President is a great thinker. But in the modern era, every single President is a master of one thing: eye contact. Bill Clinton was so good at it, when he was drinking lemonade while you were talking to him, he’d stare at you through the bottom of his glass just to maintain that lock on you. Wallace was no different. So when he stepped off the elevator and glanced around instead of locking on his aides…
… that’s when Palmiotti knew that whatever happened last night, it was worse than he thought.
“ Just gimme a minute ,” the President mimed as he patted his personal aide on the shoulder and sidestepped through the small crowd—straight toward Palmiotti’s
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