The White House June 29
The meeting was under way when Addis entered McGreer’s suite.
“Do we have to do anything,” Ken Byrd asked, “other than issue a statement expressing shock and saying the President and Sally are praying for him?”
Kelly cracked his knuckles. “What’s important,” he said, “is that we look like we’re in control.”
“Put a special FBI team on it?” McGreer asked.
“That makes sense,” Mike Finn said.
They all looked toward Jake Grayton.
“I just got off the phone with the police chief,” Grayton said calmly. “He’s throwing everything he’s got into this. I think we should let them handle it initially. I hate this, too. But a shooting in Simple City isn’t that extraordinary. And, to be candid, the cops know how to work that turf better than the Bureau. We will, of course, offer them all the support.”
An uncharacteristically immodest moment for Grayton, Addis thought. He cleared his throat.
“I’d like to remind people,” Addis said, “that not only was Clarence until recently an official at the White House, he also was a key witness before a presidential commission investigating a presidential assassination. If you don’t do anything, people will wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Grayton asked. “Wonder what he was doing there on his own? Wonder why the attempted murder of an ex-White House official receives more attention than the murder yesterday of a fifteen-year-old on a bus, on her way to tutoring some kids?”
“Alfre Marvin,” Byrd said.
Grayton looked angry at being interrupted.
“That’s her name,” Byrd said nervously.
“Since the assassination, Clarence has been acting erratic. Not showing
up to meetings or training classes. Not filing reports. Who knows what’s going on in his head? Do you, Mr. Addis? Any ideas what he’s been up to?”
Addis did not say anything. McGreer broke the silence.
“What the fuck’s going on here? We’re all on the same fucking team. It’s fucking obvious. Ken, put out the god-damn press statement and note that President Mumfries has called Mrs. Dunne and told her that all the fucking available resources will be be made fucking available immediately to catch the fuckers. Alma’s probably at the hospital. Send Sally over there to be with her. If not tonight, then first thing tomorrow. Jake should make sure there’s a liaison between the fucking D.C. cops and the Bureau. Everyone fucking agree with this?”
They all turned toward Kelly. Using a handkerchief, Kelly wiped sweat off the back of his neck.
He’s going to be great on television, Addis said to himself.
“Yeah, sounds good,” Kelly said.
“Good,” McGreer said. “Let’s fucking go.”
McGreer stood up, and Kelly followed.
“What a way to head into the convention,” Kelly mumbled.
On the way to his office, where Lancette was waiting, Addis was stopped twice by Secret Service agents who asked what he knew about the attack on Dunne. Just what everybody else does, he said.
I don’t like lying, so stop asking me. Please.
“Nick.”
O’Connor was in the hallway with Lem Jordan.
“Do we know anything yet?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
Addis waited a moment for Jordan to say something. But he just stood there looking tired.
“What are you doing?” Addis asked O’Connor.
“Came over from Blair House to pick up some stuff.” She was carrying several files. “They wouldn’t let us in on what’s happening with Clarence.”
“Not surprising,” Addis said.
“Hear anything from your friend, Hynes-Pierce?”
“Not today. I’m sure he’s creeping about. Margaret hasn’t changed her mind?”
“Anyone been saying anything about the story on Mumfries and Katie?”
“Not to me,” Addis replied.
“I was told the press office hasn’t heard back from the Express.”
“So maybe there’s a truce,” Addis said with a smile. “Hear anything along those lines, M. T.?”
She shook her head. Jordan wasn’t talking. His hands were in his pocket.
“You okay, Lem?” Addis asked.
“Yeah, s-s-sure.”
“He just got back from New Orleans,” O’Connor said.
“How’s your mom?” Addis asked.
“S-she’s al-r-r-right,” Jordan replied. “Kind of a f-f-fal-fal—”
“False alarm,” O’Connor said.
“Good,” Addis said.
“We have to go,” O’Connor said.
“Before Kelly sees you?”
She ignored his comment.
“L-l-let’s go,” Jordan said.
“Okay, Lem.” She took a step toward Addis. “Call me if you hear anything about Clarence. Please.”
“Sure, M. T. Full disclosure.”
Addis watched as O’Connor and Jordan headed out. An odd couple, he thought. She walked as if she were a marionette that barely touched the ground. He plowed forward like a highway steamroller. Had they dropped by now because this was an opportune moment to retrieve information—party contact lists, scheduling records?—that Kelly might not want Margaret to have?
“Shit, I hate thinking this way,” Addis said to himself. Then he realized he had said it aloud.
Lancette was sitting at his desk when Addis returned. She held up a memo.
“A reminder that you can be called in for a random drug test at any time.”
“In the home of the free.”
She put the memo down.
“What did you tell them?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“And did they tell you anything?”
“Nothing we don’t already know. Your friend Grayton was there. Not too eager to dump the Bureau on top of the D.C. cops.”
“And what would that mean?”
“I don’t know. That he’s hoping the police will do their usual job.”
“And what do we do?” Lancette asked.
“I don’t know.”
She picked up the framed cartoon in which Hanover’s predecessor was
denigrating the names of famous Americans with foreign-sounding names, the cartoon signed by Hanover.
“You were pretty close to him, weren’t you?” Lancette asked.
“I thought so.”
“Thought so?”
“I don’t know what else there is to do tonight. Maybe we should get some sleep. See how Clarence is doing in the morning. Maybe we can talk to him then. If not, make some decisions of our own.”
“You want to go back to your house? I’m not ashamed to say I’m a little bit spooked.”
He thought of the black van. How often had it driven past?
“No. Clarence would bite our heads off for doing that. The White House always has rooms reserved at the Mayflower.”
“You and me?”
“Afraid of getting your name in the papers?”
“No. Doesn’t everyone in the White House know about these rooms?”
“Yes.”
“And isn’t that where they found … ?”
Allison Meade and Brady Sandlin, he thought.
“You mind a professional’s opinion?” she asked. “It’s not very secure.”
“Okay,” he said. “Another idea.”
They left his office and took the stairs to the ground floor. In the hallway outside the press office, they saw Grayton.
“Shit,” Lancette muttered.
He trotted up to them.
“Julia, you get around,” Grayton said.
“We’re old friends,” she said, nodding toward Addis. “We were having dinner when we heard about Clar … Mr. Dunne.”
“That’s odd,” Grayton said. “Clarence happens to be on the parkway when you’re run off the road. Then you happen to be with Nick when Clarence is shot.”
“Almost unbelievable,” Addis said.
“I had an instructor at the Academy,” Grayton replied. “He said a coincidence is what happens when there’s not enough room in the world for all of us to move around.”
Addis and Lancette didn’t say anything in response.
“Anyway,” Grayton went on, “I’m sure Nick’s been keeping you informed of what we know about Clarence.”
“He has,” Lancette said. “Now he’s going to see me home.”
“Good,” Grayton said. “You and Clarence have not had much luck lately. I hope it doesn’t spread.” He looked at Addis. “Good night.” Grayton walked away.
Addis and Lancette headed through the old pressroom. Much of it had
been removed: the podium was gone, the blue curtain and the White House seal that had hung on it, the chairs in the row in which the assassin had sat. Seats were still upturned. Lighting wiring and adhesive tape were strewn about. It was the first time Addis had been in the room since the murder. In the days after the assassination, there had been talk of sealing the room and maintaining it as a memorial. But Margaret Hanover had objected. Addis remembered what she had told one reporter: “I do not want to see the people’s White House, the very symbol of our democracy, turned into a tomb.”
“Nick,” Lancette started to say. But then she realized she had nothing else to tell him.
He stood in the middle of the room.
“That’s where Mary sat,” he said, pointing to an overturned seat in the front row. “She always got the first question. Been here the longest. Always let the press secretary know what she was going to ask about. Thought it looked bad for the President to appear surprised on television around the world.”
He pointed to a seat in the second row. A crumpled fast food-bag was next to it.
“That was Jeffrey’s spot. Pompous prick. Did that story on the President bringing in a masseuse. Demanded to know where the masseuse was from. And when he didn’t get an answer within an hour—shit, we didn’t know and the President was traveling—he said the White House was stonewalling. After the piece was on, he told me, ‘Sorry, I’m renegotiating my contract and I need lots of airtime.’ Shithead. When he was flying with us on the plane during the campaign he was sleeping with an assistant press secretary in the White House.”
Addis stared at a wall, as if he could see through it to the press office.
“She worked right there … . Conflict of interest? Didn’t stop him. Did we complain? What do you do? Make a stink and then they’re all out to get you.”
Another seat: “Paige. Fox News. Invited me to dinner at her house. Tried to … . Well, you know. I said no. The next week she did this piece saying Dan Carey was pushing me aside, that the President had … had lost confidence in me. Wasn’t true. Though I’m sure she accurately reported what Carey was telling her.”
“Okay, Nick, okay.” Lancette placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
They walked across the room. A reporter’s notebook was lying on the floor. A stack of old press releases was on a table by the door. They left the building.
“No matter what Margaret says,” he said, “it will always feel like a tomb.”
At the entrance to Blair House a guard stopped them. No more visitors tonight, the guard had been told.
“I assume Ms. O’Connor is still inside,” Addis said. “Please tell her I’m here.”
The guard picked up the phone. O’Connor was there in less than a minute and escorted them into the building.
“Mind if we use one of the guest rooms?” Addis asked.
O’Connor glanced at Lancette and raised an eyebrow.
“This is Julia Lancette,” Addis said. “She’s an analyst with the secret-keepers across the river. And it’s not like that. Clarence asked me to look after her tonight. And now …”
O’Connor pulled Addis away from Lancette and spoke in whispers.
“What’s friggin’ going on?” she asked.
“I don’t even know. A few nights ago, Julia was driving home and this nut tried to run her off the road. Clarence happened to be—”
“There,” O’Connor interrupted.
“Yeah, and he rammed this other driver, and, I guess, saved her. Right?”
“Yes,” Lancette said, sidling up next to Addis.
“And then she got these threatening calls,” Addis lied. “Like they’re from the same guy. And Clarence thought she should be careful. So when—”
“This sounds like bullshit, Nick,” O’Connor said. She squared off in front of Lancette: “And why is someone after you?”
“No idea,” she replied. “I got my name in the paper a while ago. Said I was with the Agency. Got a few calls from crazies. Asked if I was beaming signals into their fillings. That sort of thing. But nothing like this—”
O’Connor pulled Addis aside. “I don’t believe this. Nick, we’ve always told each other everything.”
“I don’t know everything. But, then, do I know everything you know these days?”
“That’s different,” O’Connor said. He noticed the lines at the side of her eyes were deeper than usual.
“I don’t know if it’s different or not. But I need your help. We have to stay somewhere.”
“Margaret’s already in bed. Why don’t you camp out in the study on the second floor? You can use the couch. The floor. There are some big pillows. A quilt. Is that good enough?”
“Sure, thanks, M. T.”
Addis showed Lancette to the wood-paneled study. They each took a turn in the attached bathroom. He offered her the couch.
“I’ll use some of the pillows,” he said, “and sleep on the floor.”
“Well …”
Is she going to suggest something else?
“That’s nice of you.”
He started to gather the pillows. She found a quilt in a closet and unfolded it.
“But can you set them up right here?” she asked, pointing to the floor next to the couch.
Did she merely want to feel secure? he asked himself.
“My pleasure,” he said.
Addis arranged his sleeping spot, and she lay down on the couch. He turned off the lamp, and positioned himself on the cushions. An orangish light from outside filled the room. She fixed the quilt so that it covered her and draped over Addis.
“Good night, Nick. Thanks for dinner and …”
He could smell her and felt a trembling within.
“It’s okay.”
Try to sleep. Try.
“I don’t think I’m going to sleep much tonight,” she said.
“Me neither,” he said. “Good night.”
Fifteen minutes later, she was asleep. He could tell from her breathing. He stared across the room at a portrait hanging on the wall. Dwight David Eisenhower was watching them.
She rolled over, and her hand gently dropped upon Addis’s shoulder. It was still there when he drifted off.