“Have you ever looked at any of the archival footage from that day? Maybe take a peek to see if everything you think you remember matches up with reality?”
I shake my head. A week after the shooting, when I was still in the hospital, I caught a clip of the footage while flipping through channels. It took three nurses to calm me down that night. “I haven’t seen the footage for a bit,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I figured this isn’t exactly your favorite home movie. But if you really want to know what happened, you have to start at the scene of the crime.” Before I can react, she reaches into her file folder and pulls out a black videocassette. “Lucky for you, I’ve got connections at the local TV stations.”
As she pops out of her seat and heads for the black Formica credenza with the VCR/TV combo, my throat tightens and my hands flood with sweat.
I can already tell this is a bad idea.
52
What about Claudia?” The Roman asked calmly, strolling over to Bev’s window and staring down at the agents, sheriff, and ambulance crew crowded into the rotary at the front of the building.
“You told me not to — that it was an internal investigation,” Bev said as she watched The Roman from her desk and anxiously picked at an open bag of microwave popcorn.
“And Oren?”
“I just told you—”
“Tell me again!” The Roman insisted, turning from the window, his pale skin and black hair practically glowing in the noon sunlight.
Bev stayed silent, her hand frozen in the popcorn.
The Roman knew he’d scared her, but he wasn’t about to apologize. Not until he had what he wanted.
“You said not to tell anyone — I didn’t tell anyone,” Bev finally offered. “Not B.B., not the President… no one.” Fidgeting with the tips of her dyed-black hair, she added, “Though I still don’t get how any of this helps Wes.”
The Roman turned back to the window, taking a moment to choose his words. Bev had known Wes since his first days in the White House. Like any protective parent, she wasn’t turning on her kid unless it was for his own good. “What helps Wes is finding out just who he ran into that night in Malaysia,” The Roman explained. “If what he said in the report is right — that it was just some drunk looking for the bathroom — then there’s nothing to worry about.”
“But to have me put a microphone in his pin… to hide it from everyone on staff… Why can’t you just tell me who you think approached him?”
“Bev, I told you from the start, this is part of a long-term inquiry that we believe — and hope — Wes accidentally stumbled onto. Trust me, we want to protect him as much as you do, which is why—”
“Does it have to do with Nico? Is that why he escaped?”
“This has nothing to do with Nico,” The Roman insisted.
“I just thought… with your hand…” she said, motioning to the white gauze wrapped around his palm.
The Roman knew that was the risk coming to the office. But with the wiretap silent, and Boyle still unaccounted for… some things had to be done face-to-face.
Sitting on the edge of Bev’s desk, The Roman cupped her hand between his palms. “Bev, I know you don’t know me. And I know it’s odd to suddenly get a call from an agent about an investigation you know nothing about, but I swear to you, this has nothing to do with Nico. Understand? Nothing. Everything I’ve asked of you… it’s only in the interests of national security and for Wes’s benefit,” he added, his pale blue eyes locked on hers. “Now I appreciate how you look out for him… we all know the pity you took…”
“It’s not pity. He’s a sweet kid…”
“… who should’ve left this job years ago, but didn’t because he’s terrified of stepping out of the thoughtful but crippling security blanket you’ve all tucked him into. Think about it, Bev. If you really care that much about him, this is the moment he needs you. So, is there anyone else out there we might’ve overlooked? Old White House contacts? Current in-house contacts? Anyone you can think of that he might turn to if he’s in trouble?”
Rolling backward on the wheels of her desk chair, Bev was silent at the onslaught of questions. For a moment, her eyes stayed with The Roman’s pale blues. But the more he pushed, the more she glanced around. At her keyboard. At her leather blotter. Even at the blurry 5 x 9 perched under her computer monitor, from her office birthday party a few years back. In the photo, the entire staff was in mid-laugh as the President blew out the candles on Bev’s birthday cake. It was the kind of photo that never existed in the White House, but decorated nearly every office here: slightly off-center, slightly funny, and slightly out of focus. Not a professional photo taken by a White House photographer. A family photo — taken by one of their own.
“Sorry,” Bev said, pulling her hand away and glancing down at The Roman’s gauze pad. “There’s no one else I can think of.”
53
“—ies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!” the announcer bellows through the P.A. system as the tape begins to roll, and the shiny black Cadillac One lumbers out onto the racetrack.
From the wide angle — showing half the motorcade in profile — I’m guessing it’s from a camera up in the stadium’s press box.
“There’s the ambulance with Boyle’s blood,” Dreidel points out, running around the conference table so he can get closer to the TV. He stops right next to Lisbeth, who’s just to the left of the screen. On my far right, Rogo’s back at the head of the oval table. But instead of moving toward the screen, he circles back. Toward me.
He doesn’t have to say a word. He juts his chin slightly to the left and lowers his eyebrows. You okay?
Tightening my jaw, I nod confidently. Rogo’s been my friend since before I could drive. He knows the truth.
“Lisbeth,” he calls out. “Maybe we should…”
“Leave it — I’m fine,” I insist.
As the limo leaves the final turn and heads toward the finish line, the camera pulls out to reveal the entire motorcade, which is now headed straight at us. I used to call it a funeral procession. I had no idea.
On-screen, the camera slowly pulls in on Cadillac One. I swear, I can smell the leather seats of the car, the oily whiff of Manning’s daily shoeshine, and the sweet tinge of gasoline from pit road.
“Okay, here we go,” Lisbeth says.
The video jump-cuts to a brand-new camera angle from the infield of the track — we’re now at eye level. On the passenger side, the Secret Service detail leader gets out of the limo and races to open the back door. Two other agents swoop into place, blocking any clear shot from the crowd. My feet ball up as my toes try to dig through the soles of my shoes. I know what’s coming. But just as the door opens, the picture freezes and pauses.
“Slow motion?” Dreidel asks.
“It’s the only way to get a good look at who’s in the background,” Lisbeth explains, gripping the edge of the top left corner of the TV. Dreidel crosses over and does the same on the right corner. Both lean in. They don’t want to miss a thing.
On the other side of the conference table, I twist in my seat. In slow motion, two more Secret Service agents slowly creep into the background near the open door that faces the crowd.
“And these are all guys you know?” Lisbeth asks, making a big circle around the five suit-and-tie agents on-screen.
“Geoff, Judd, Greg, Allan, and…” Dreidel pauses on the last one.
“Eddie,” I call out, never taking my eyes off the screen.
“It’ll be done in a sec,” Dreidel promises as if that’s supposed to make me feel better. He turns back toward the TV just in time to see five fingertips peek out like tiny pink worms above the roofline of the limo. My toes dig even deeper, practically burrowing through my shoes. I close my eyes for a second and swear I can smell popcorn and stale beer.