On Thursday, he arrived at his office a little later than usual. He was just settling himself behind his desk when his secretary walked in and handed him over a hundred message slips. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook,” she said. “Congratulations.”
“Huh?”
“You mean, you haven’t heard?”
He tensed. “Heard what?”
“You’ve been awarded one of the highest civilian honors in the country. The Presidential Medal of Freedom.”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“Which means you’ve been invited to the White House.” The woman beamed. “Which means the president himself will be doing the honors.” She paused. “Six of those message slips,” she indicated the hand still holding them, “are from Andrew Sciascia. He needs to speak to you right away.”
The minute his secretary left, Blair picked up the phone and dialed his lawyer. When Andrew came on the line, he explained what needed to be done.
The man’s protest was vociferous. “You can’t,” he said. “No one turns down the president of the United States.”
“I’m not turning him down,” Blair argued. “You’ll be picking up the medal on my behalf.”
“Not good enough. I’m not the one he wants to meet.”
“Then ask him to send it to us. I’m not going, Andrew.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“I don’t care.”
“What do I tell the press?”
“The same thing we’ve been telling them all along. I will not meet with anyone until this is over.”
“They’re not used to this treatment, Blair. They will not be kind.”
“I don’t give a shit. Let them find someone else to go after.”
“There is no one else. You’re the hero of the day.”
“Yeah. Some hero. If I were a hero, I’d have my daughter back by now.”
“Blair…”
“Andrew, use any excuse you need to make. Just handle it for me. Okay?”
“Wait a minute.”
“Please?”
“Okay,” the lawyer finally said. “I’ll handle it.”
There were twelve messages from his sister, all marked urgent. Blair asked his secretary to call and see if this was about his mother. She came back to him within five minutes and advised that Cynthia wanted to discuss something entirely different.
The majority of the remaining messages were from the press. He threw those and the ones from his sister into his wastebasket.
The conversation with Andrew Sciascia came to mind. As usual after the fact, he wondered if he had made the right decision. How many people get to meet the president? he asked himself.
It didn’t matter.
His decision had been the correct one. Participating in some silly photo-op would not be wise.