The First Councel

“I know you didn’t sleep with him. And I know you’d never hurt me.” Looking her straight in the eyes, I add, “I believe you, Nora.”

She stares at me, weighing every word. I’m not sure what she’s thinking, but she’s got to know I’m all out of options. It’s either this, or I dance for the police. At least here, she’s still in control.

Her eyes narrow and she makes her decision. Naturally, I have no idea what it is. “Get in the car,” she finally says.

Without a word, I circle around to the passenger’s side and open the door.

“What’re you doing?”

“You said to get in.”

“No, no, no,” she scolds. “Not with your face on every front page.” She pushes a button on her keychain and pops the trunk. “This time, you’re riding in back.”

***

Curled up in the trunk of the First Beautician’s Buick, I’m trying to ignore the damp-carpet smell. Lucky for me, there’re plenty of distractions. Besides the jumper cables that I’m nervously squeezing in each hand, there’s a full chess set-which I’ve just realized was never properly closed. As Nora ascends the circular ramp out of the garage, pawns, knights, bishops, and rooks bombard me from every direction. A knight hits me in the eye and bounces into my hand, just as a sharp right turn tells me we’re back on 17th Street.

Wrapped in darkness, I try to mentally follow the path of the car, twisting and turning its way toward the Southwest Appointment Gate. There’s no question she could be delivering me right to the authorities, but I think the last thing she wants is to be caught with the current “It” boy. At least, that’s what I’m counting on.

Including wheelchair entrances, there’re eleven different ways to get into the White House and the OEOB. The ones that involve walking require a valid ID and a stroll past at least two uniformed officers. The ones that involve driving require a bigshot and a kick-ass parking permit. I’ve got Nora. More than enough.

As the sound of traffic disappears behind us, I know we’re close. The car slows down as we approach the first checkpoint. I expect them to stop us, but for whatever reason, they don’t. Now comes the actual gate. This is the one that counts.

I roll forward as we come to an abrupt halt, grinding a few chess pieces into the carpet. There’s an electric hum as Nora’s window opens. I strain to hear the muffled voice of the uniformed guard. The night we went up on the roof, they never checked the trunk. Nora got in with nothing more than a wave and a smile. But in the last twenty-four hours, times have changed. I’m barely breathing.

“I’m sorry, Miss Hartson-those’re the rules. The FBI asked us to check every car.”

“I’m just picking up something from my mom. I’ll be in and out in a-”

“Whose car is this anyway?” he asks suspiciously.

“The woman who does my mom’s hair-you’ve seen her-”

“And where’re your agents?” he adds as I shut my eyes.

“Down by the checkpoint-even they know it’s only gonna take me a second. Now do you want to call them, or do you want to let me in?”

“Again, ma’am, I’m sorry. I can’t-”

“They’re waiting right down there.”

“It doesn’t matter-pop your trunk, please.”

“C’mon, Stewie, do I look dangerous to you?”

No, don’t flirt with him! These guys’re too smart to-

There’s a loud click and the car rolls forward. Nora-one; guards-nothing. We’re in.

As we move up West Exec, I can’t tell if there’re people running across the narrow street that separates the OEOB and the White House. Even if it’s empty, though, someone could easily walk out. Hoping to avoid surprises, and following my earlier instructions, Nora makes a sharp left up the concrete driveway and pulls right under the twenty-foot archway that leads to the ground floor of the OEOB. Out of sight and used mostly as a loading zone, it’s more obscure than the wide-open area of the West Exec parking lot. As the car levels off, I know we’re there. Nora shuts the engine and slams the door. Now comes the hard part.

She’s got to time this one just right. The archway may lead through to a courtyard, but it’s still physically part of the OEOB’s massive hallway. Which means there’re always plenty of people crisscrossing in and out of the automatic doors that’re cut into the base of the arch. If I’m going to get out of here without being seen, she’s going to have to wait until the hallway is clear.

Inside the trunk, I twist around on my stomach, slowly getting into position. My muscles are tensed. As soon as she opens the trunk, I’m out. I wrestle the jumper cables out of the way and brush chessmen away from my face. Nothing to trip me up. I don’t hear anything, but she hasn’t come to get me. There must be people nearby. That’s the only reason she’d wait. As the seconds turn into a full minute, my fingers pick anxiously at the trunk carpet.