Melanie passed the motorcade and waved at the agents as she pulled into the White House. Sunday night work sessions were Melanie’s secret weapon. They allowed her to start Monday mornings on the offense, as they’d say during the campaigns. Late Sundays, she’d distribute what the staff called Melanie-grams.
To the White House press secretary, she sent an article from the Sunday paper about how calls seeking comment on Friday night went unanswered. Melanie circled the comment and wrote, “This is what interns and the night-duty officers are for!” To the domestic policy council, she sent an article from Science Times about organ transplants in cloned sheep, with a note asking them to schedule a policy time on medical ethics for the president. To the national security advisor, Melanie attached her own comments to Charlotte’s notes from a classified memo on the increased use of women and children as suicide bombers in Afghanistan. And to Vice President Neal McMillan, Melanie sent a recipe from Cooking Light for a jerk spice rub for ribs, which the vice president was famous for making at his ranch in New Mexico.
She had a separate stack for Ralph, most of it responses to things he’d sent in her direction. His strategy was to bury her in paper, but she didn’t have time to engage in the bureaucratic infighting Ralph had mastered in his fifteen years on the Hill. Ralph was a student of Lee Atwater, James Carville, and other great political gurus, and he saw in himself the same genius. All Melanie saw was his insecurity and overly partisan instincts. From Ralph’s perspective, Melanie monopolized Charlotte’s time and marginalized him. What Ralph didn’t understand was that Melanie didn’t need to monopolize the president’s time. She had something Ralph would never have: naked time in the steam room with the president.
Charlotte wasn’t a fan of the gym, but she loved the steam room. She said it helped her get out of her head and tap into her gut. It was there she told Melanie what she wanted done at the White House. The problem for Melanie, besides her aversion to nakedness and heat, was that it was impossible to take any notes in a steam room. Melanie was convinced that was why Charlotte gave her most important orders there.
Melanie glanced at her call log from the previous week. There were seventy-eight unreturned calls. She scanned the names. At least half of them were probably birthday calls, she thought.
One name stuck out and gave her a job in the pit of her stomach: Michael Robbins. He was an investigative reporter at one of the newsmagazines. She had become well acquainted with Michael during the Harlow administration. His specialty was breaking the news when a high-ranking government official was about to get indicted. Every press secretary in Washington, D.C., cringed when his name showed up in the inbox. The message for Melanie simply said, “Call ASAP.”
Melanie looked at the Boston cell-phone number and recognized it as his personal number. She lifted the receiver of the phone on her desk and dialed. Her call went straight to voice-mail.
Of course. I called from a blocked number, she thought. Michael didn’t pick up his phone on Sundays unless he knew who was on the other end.
She dug her personal cell phone out of the Dior bag and entered his number quickly.
“There you are,” he answered on the first ring. “I knew you’d call.”
“Michael, is everything OK?” Melanie asked.
“I need to see you. Your girl’s in trouble, Melanie,” he said.