Locking his hands on to the sides of the podium, he picks up where Goldfarb should've never left off. This is an FBI case. Period. They investigated; they ran the tests; and they kept it quiet to prevent exactly what's happening from happening. Within seconds, he's passed the buck. He's so good at this, it's scary.
When he's convinced he's clean, he tackles the questions. No, he can't comment on Vaughn or myself. Yes, that would greatly impede the investigation. And yes, in case the press corps forgot, people are still innocent until proven guilty, thank you very much.
"However," he says as the room falls silent. "I do want to make one thing perfectly clear . . ." He pauses just long enough to get us all salivating. "If this is a murder . . . whatever it takes, we will find the person who killed my friend, Caroline Penzler." He says it just like that. "My friend, Caroline Penzler." Right there, it all shifts. From defense to offense in a matter of syllables. I can feel his poll numbers rocket. Screw Bartlett. There's nothing America loves more than a little personal vengeance. When he's done, he looks straight at the camera for the big closer. "Whoever they are, wherever they are, these people will pay."
"That's all we have to say," the Press Secretary jumps in.
Hartson leaves the room; the press keeps shouting questions. It's too late, though. It's six o'clock. For now, the local news is going to have to pick up the pieces, and all they have is Hartson's positively flawless sound bite. I have to hand it to them. That thing was choreographed better than the First Lady's birthday party. Every moment was brilliant--right down to Goldfarb pretending she was overwhelmed. The President steps in, sounds fair, and saves the day. Play up the dead friend; sprinkle in some retaliation. Tough on crime never had it so good.
Of course, as the smoke clears, all I can focus on is who the press was asking about. Not Simon. And thankfully, not Nora. Just me. Me and Vaughn. Two dead men.
* * *
By eight o'clock, to avoid the glut of Friday night little-kid sitcoms, the restaurant switches to CNN--just in time to watch the story run again. When they're finished showing Hartson's sound bite, the anchorwoman says, "Tomorrow's Washington Post reports that this man, Michael Garrick, is currently being sought for questioning by authorities." As she says my name, my ID photo flashes on-screen. It happens so fast, I barely react. All I can do is look away. When she's done, I pick my head up and check the bar. Waitress. Bartender. Businessmen expense-accounting their salmon dinners. No one knows but me.
* * *
Having overstayed my welcome with the waitress, I eventually move over to the restaurant bar, where the bartender's used to stranded commuters who just want to watch a little TV. "Do you have a lost-and-found?" I ask him. "I think I left some stuff here during my last trip."
He pulls a cardboard Heinz ketchup box from behind the bar and plops it in front of me. Amid the keychains and lost paperbacks, I pick out a pair of sunglasses and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. My dad would've taken the box.
"All set?" the bartender asks.
"It's a start," I say, plastering the Dolphins on my head.
By nine o'clock, I've seen the story run four times. By ten, it's double that. I'm not sure why I'm still watching it, but I can't help myself. It's like I'm waiting for it to change--for the newscaster to come on and say, "This just in--Nora Hartson admits drug problem; Counsel's Office is completely corrupt; Garrick innocent." So far, it hasn't happened.
When the neon lights of the restaurant blink off, I take the hint and limp out toward the boarding gates. My ankle's better, but it's still stiff. Adjusting my glasses, and with my garment bag trailing behind me, I sink into a corner seat and crane my neck to see the televisions suspended from the ceiling. Three more hours of CNN brings the total up to twenty. Each time, the words are identical. Sure, there're some permutations--the anchorperson changes adjectives and intonations just to keep things lively--". . . this man, Michael Garrick . . ." ". . . this man, Michael Garrick . . ." ". . . this man, Michael Garrick . . ."--but the message is always the same. It's my face up there; my life; and as long as I sit here in my own little pity party, it's only going to get worse.
* * *
At two-fifteen in the morning, a delayed flight from Chicago arrives at the US Airways terminal. When the crowd clears off the plane, two security guards approach and tell me that the terminal is now closed.
"I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to leave," the second guard says.
Trying to make sure they don't get a good look at my face, I keep my head down and give them nothing but Dolphins logo. "I thought you were open twenty-f--"
"The gates close for security purposes. The main terminal's open all night. If you want to wait out there, you're welcome to."
Refusing to look up, I take my paper-thin garment bag and leave CNN behind.
By three A.M., I'm spread out on a small bench next to the information booth, with the garment bag draped over my chest. In the past fifteen minutes, the guards have chased away two homeless men. I'm wearing a suit. They leave me alone. It's not the best hiding spot, but it's one of the few that'll let me sleep. Unlike New York, the subway here closes at midnight. Besides, if the authorities are searching, they're looking for someone trying to leave. I want to stay.
Over the next fifteen minutes, I'm having a hard time keeping my head up, but I can't calm myself enough to actually welcome sleep. Naturally, I'm wondering about Nora and how she's going to react, but the real truth is, I can't stop thinking about my dad. By now, the press is already bulldozing through the rest of my life. It's not going to take long to find him. I don't care how independent he is, he's not built for something like this. None of us are. Except maybe Nora.
Fading out, my mind trips back to Rock Creek Parkway. Trailing Simon. Getting caught with the money. Saying it was mine. That's where the snowball started. Barely two weeks ago. From there, the images rush forward. Vaughn dead in the hotel room. Nora on the White House roof. Caroline's eyes, one straight, one cockeyed. The moments blur together, and I mentally sketch how it could've been different. There was always a simple way out, I just . . . I didn't want to take it. It wasn't worth it. Until now.
In Washington . . . No. In life . . . there're two separate worlds. There's the perception of what's important, and then there's what actually is. It's been too long since I realized there's a difference.
As my eyelids sway shut, I pull the garment bag all the way up to my chin. It's going to be a cold night, but at least I've made my decision. I'm sick of being stuck in a phone booth.
Chapter 36
Simon wakes up at four-thirty in the morning and hustles through a quick shower and shave. On most days, he sleeps until at least five-thirty, but if he wants to beat the press today, he's going to have to get out early. Naturally, there's no paper on his doorstep yet, but he checks anyway.
Outside, where I'm sitting, it's still completely dark, so as he goes from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen, I follow the trail of lights. As near as I can tell, he's got a tasteful house in a tasteful neighborhood. It's not the best of Virginia's sprawling suburbs, but that's why he chose it. I remember him telling the story during the last staff retreat. The day he and his wife were going to bid on the house, their Realtor called about a brand-new home in a coveted section of McLean. Sure it was more expensive, Simon's wife argued, but they could afford it. Simon wanted nothing to do with it. If he was going to teach his kids proper values, they had to have something to shoot for. There's nothing gained by always being on top.