The First Councel

At the top, I turn around and get my first good look at the long, rectangular attic. With high, slanted ceilings and exposed wooden beams, it gets all its light from a few skylights and a set of miniature windows. Otherwise, it’s a dim, crowded room filled with leftovers. Discarded desks in one corner, stacked-up chairs in another, and what looks like an empty swimming pool cut into the center of the floor. As I get closer, I realize that the recessed part of the floor is actually the casing for a section of stained glass that’s surrounded by a waist-high guardrail.

As soon as my eyes hit it, I know I’ve seen it before. Then I remember where I am. Directly above the most ornate room in the building-the Indian Treaty Room. Looking down, I can see its outline through the huge sections of stained glass. The marble wall panels. The intricate marquetry floor. I was there for the AmeriCorps reception, when I first met Nora. The attic runs right over it. Their stained glass ceiling; my stained glass floor.

Deeper into the room, I finally find what I’m after. Beyond the guardrail, in the far left corner, are at least fifty file boxes. Right in the front, in a horizontal stack, are the six I’m looking for. The ones marked Penzler. My stomach constricts.

I grab the top box from the pile and rip off the cardboard lid. R through Sa. This is it. I pull out each file as I go. Racial Discrimination … Radio Addresses

… Reapportionment … Request Memos.

The folder is at least three inches thick, and I tear it out with a sharp yank. Flipping it open, I see the most recent memo on top. It’s dated August 28th. A week before Caroline was killed. Addressed to the White House Security Office, the memo states that she “would like to request current FBI files for the following individual(s):” On the next line is a single name, Michael Garrick.

It’s not much in the way of news-I’ve known she requested my file since the day I saw it on her desk. Still, there’s something odd about seeing it in print. After everything that’s happened-everything I’ve been through-this is where it started.

No matter how ruthless Caroline was or how many people she blackmailed, even she knew it was impossible to get an FBI file without a request memo. Thinking about it, she probably didn’t see it as that big a deal-as Ethics Officer for the White House, she had fifty ways to justify each request. And if anyone tried to use a request against her… well, every one of us was guilty of something. So who cares about a little paper trail?

Remembering that Caroline had fifteen folders on her desk, I flip to the next memo and take a closer look at the other files she’d requested. Rick Ferguson. Gary Seward. Those are the two nominees Nora told me about in the bowling alley. Including me, that’s three. Twelve more to go. The next eight are presidential appointees. That brings it to eleven. Pam’s was requested a while back. That’s twelve. Thirteen and fourteen are both judicial nominees-people I’ve never heard of. That leaves only one more name. I turn the page and look down, expecting it to be Simon. Sure enough, he’s there. But he’s not the only one. There’s an extra name on the last sheet.

My eyes go wide. I can’t believe it. I sit down on a box, the sheet trembling in my hand. Simon was right about one thing. I had it all backwards. That’s why Simon was clueless when I quizzed him about Nora. And why I couldn’t rip a hole in his alibi. And why… all this time… I had the wrong guy. Vaughn hit it right on the money. Nora was

sleeping with the old man. I just had the wrong old man.

Caroline had requested a sixteenth file-a file that must’ve been snatched from her desk-snatched by the killer-so it was never seen by the FBI. That’s why he was never a suspect. I reread his name half a dozen times. The calmest among us. Lawrence Lamb.

A fit of nausea punches me in the throat and my chest caves in. The folder I’m holding sags to the floor. I don’t… I don’t believe it. It can’t be. And yet… that’s why I-And he-

I shut my eyes and clench my teeth. He knew I’d buy it-all he had to do was open the inner circle and wave a few perks. Fudge outside the Oval. Briefing the President. The chance to be the bigshot. Lamb knew I’d lick up every last drop. Including Nora. That was the cherry on top. And the more I relied on him, the less likely it became that I’d search things out for myself. That’s all he needed. That’s all I had. Blind faith.