Executive Privilege

by Phillip Margolin

  Charlotte managed a weak smile. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the pages collating in the plastic tray attached to the copier.

  “What are you up to?” Tim asked.

  “Just copying a report on the Asian trade deficit. Senator Gaylord wants to hammer Farrington on his trade policy.”

  “That should be easy. Farrington’s trade policies have been a disaster. If he gets elected we’ll be a Chinese territory before his term is through.”

  “I agree completely,” Charlotte said, egging Tim on in the hopes that he’d be so busy expounding his theories that he wouldn’t pay any attention to the papers she was copying.

  The ploy worked, and the last page shot out of the machine halfway through Tim’s tirade against the evils of the subsidy Japan was giving to one of its industries.

  “I’m glad you’re around to explain this economic stuff to me,” said Charlotte, who’d aced her course in international economic theory.

  “Not a problem,” Tim answered as Charlotte stacked the original and the copy in two neat piles.

  “Say, it’s almost dinnertime. Want to grab a bite?” he asked.

  Charlotte glanced at the wall clock. It was only a little after six and she had a few hours to kill before her meeting.

  “Gee, I’d love to. Where do you want to go?”

  Tim named a Thai restaurant a few blocks from campaign headquarters.

  “Thai sounds great. Give me a few minutes to straighten my desk and do a few odds and ends. Can I meet you in the lobby?”

  “Sure thing.” Tim beamed.

  Charlotte stalled for time in the copy room by leafing through one of the paper piles. As soon as Tim was out of sight, she extracted the five stolen pages from the stack of originals and returned to Reggie Styles’s office. She had just finished putting them back in the lower drawer when Tim walked up.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, sounding suspicious this time.

  “God, Tim! You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me. You’ll give me a heart attack. Instead of having dinner with you, I’ll be in the hospital.”

  Tim’s face cleared and he smiled. “Wouldn’t want that to happen,” he said.

  Charlotte placed the economic report in a stack of papers in Styles’s in-box and carried the copy with the list of slush fund contributors to her desk.

  “I’ll see you in a minute,” she said as she slipped the documents into her backpack and began straightening papers in a way that made her look as if she were actually doing something.

  “See you in the lobby.”

  The door closed behind Tim. Charlotte sagged with relief. She’d done it. Of course, she’d have to fake enjoying dinner with Tim. She couldn’t think of a way to get out of it without raising his suspicions, but that was a small sacrifice. Her adventure in political espionage had made her ravenously hungry anyway, and she was sure Tim would insist on paying for the meal. A narrow escape and a free meal; not a bad evening so far, she reckoned, and it would only get better in a few hours.

  Chapter Three

  Early in his presidency, Christopher Farrington had felt like a fraud, and he’d wondered how many other presidents had felt this way. Farrington was certain that every person who went into politics harbored a secret dream of one day being the president of the United States, but once the chosen few achieved their dream, he wondered if holding the office felt as surreal to them as his ascension to the presidency felt to him.

  In his case the dreamlike quality of his presidency had been heightened by the fact that there had been no election, only an early morning visit from a Secret Service agent telling him that President Nolan had suffered a fatal heart attack and he was now the commander in chief. One minute he was serving in the relative anonymity of the vice presidency and the next minute he was the Leader of the Free World.

  No one watching Christopher Farrington walk down the hall to his son’s room would have guessed that he harbored doubts about his ability to lead the nation. Farrington looked presidential. He was tall and broad shouldered, his full head of glossy black hair had enough gray to give a simultaneous impression of vigor and maturity, and his welcoming smile told you that he might have risen to the heights, but he was still a guy with whom you could share a cup of coffee at your kitchen table. Tonight, as he stood in the doorway watching his wife tuck in the covers around Patrick, their six-year-old son, he also looked like any proud parent. His chest swelled with pride when Claire leaned over and kissed Patrick’s forehead.

  President Farrington’s son would have none of the childhood memories the president had. Chris had grown up poor in rural Oregon with only a dim recollection of the father who’d deserted him, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. Most evenings, his mother had been too tired from working two jobs to tuck in Chris or his siblings. On the occasions when she’d bothered, her breath had been a mixture of mint and cheap liquor.

  Sports had saved Farrington’s life. He was six five and had a good enough jump shot to corral a scholarship at Oregon State, where he’d guided OSU to two appearances in the NCAA tournament. He was no slouch in the classroom either and his grades and financial need had earned him a full ride to law school in Oregon. There was a good chance that he could have gotten into one of the nation’s elite law schools, but political office had been Christopher Farrington’s goal since being elected class president in high school. A degree from Harvard or Yale didn’t appeal to him as much as the possibility of making influential contacts during his three years in law school, and at this he succeeded. Powerful backers and his notoriety as a sports hero helped him win a spot in the state senate on his first try. He’d risen to the position of majority leader when he decided to take on an incumbent governor, who was brought low by a financial scandal uncovered by an intrepid reporter two months before the election. Farrington’s closest friend and top aide, Charles Hawkins, had learned about the governor’s peccadilloes before advising his boss to make the run and had fed the information about them to the reporter when the time was right.

  Claire lowered the shade in Patrick’s room, and the spotlighted Washington Monument disappeared from view. She turned toward the doorway and smiled.

  “How long have you been standing there?” she asked when they were in the hall.

  “A few seconds,” Farrington answered as he closed the door quietly behind them.

  The hall outside the family bedrooms reminded the Farringtons of a floor in a colonial inn. A plush blue carpet went well with the old-fashioned, off-white wallpaper that President Nolan’s wife had selected. A few oil paintings from the 1800s depicting rural America in all its glory were interspersed with portraits of some of the lesser-known presidents. Freestanding lamps and a few small chandeliers lit their way. The Farringtons didn’t care much about interior decorating so there had been no change in the décor since Christopher had ascended to the presidency.

  The president was dressed in a dark blue, pinstripe business suit. The first lady was dressed in a powder blue pants suit and a cream-colored silk blouse. As they strolled down the hall Farrington wrapped his arm around Claire’s shoulder. It was easy to do, since Claire was only a few inches shorter than her husband.

  The first lady was a powerfully built woman who had gone to Oregon State on a volleyball scholarship and ended up as a third team all-American in her senior year. Her shoulder-length brown hair was curly, her nose was a little too large, and her blue eyes were a tad small for her face. She had a high forehead and flat cheekbones. Though not plain, she was certainly not girlishly pretty, but she was charismatic, and her size and intellect dominated any gathering. She had been the captain of her high school and college volleyball teams, captain of her high school basketball team, valedictorian of her high school, and an honors student in college and medical school.

  Chris and Claire had married while Claire was in medical school in Portland and Christopher was on the verge of his first run for office. Claire had cut back on her practice when Patrick was bo
rn and had given it up when the family moved to Washington, D.C., after Christopher was elected vice president.

  “You could have come in and kissed Patrick good night,” Claire said.

  “You two seemed so at peace that I didn’t want to spoil the moment.”

  The president kissed his wife on the forehead. “Have I ever told you what a great mother you are?”

  “From time to time,” Claire responded with a sly smile, “and you’re going to get many more chances.”

  Farrington looked confused, and Claire laughed. “I’m pregnant.”

  Farrington stopped short. He looked stunned.

  “You’re serious?”

  Claire stopped smiling. “You’re not sorry, are you?”

  “No, no, it’s just…I thought you were on the pill.”

  “I decided to stop taking it two months ago.” She put her hands on Chris’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. “Are you mad?”

  A mix of emotions swept across the president’s face but the words he spoke were the right ones.

  “We always wanted more kids. I just thought another pregnancy would be tough with everything you have to do as first lady.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Being pregnant didn’t slow me down during the gubernatorial campaign.”

  “True. It was actually a plus, if I recall.”

  “And it will be a plus this time. The women will applaud your family values and the men will be in awe of your virility.”

  Farrington laughed. Then he hugged Claire.

  “You’re a treasure.” He stepped back until they were at arm’s length. “Are you going to be okay tonight?”

  “I’ll be fine. My speech is short and it will be nice going out in public before I start looking like a whale.”

  “You don’t feel sick?”

  “I’ve had a little morning sickness, but I’m okay now. Chuck called ahead to the hotel and booked a suite in case I need to rest.”

  “I love you,” Farrington said, hugging her again. “You know I wouldn’t have dumped this on you at the last minute if this meeting wasn’t important, but Gaylord’s pulling out all the stops. Chuck says she’s raising a lot of money.”

  Farrington sounded worried. Claire laid her palm against his cheek. It was warm, and the touch calmed him.

  “Maureen is going to shit bullets when we announce I’m pregnant. Let’s see her claim the family values high ground now.”

  “I’m going to send Chuck with you.”

  “Won’t he be needed at the meeting?”

  “I want him by your side, Claire. I want to know you’re protected.”

  Claire kissed her husband’s cheek. “Don’t worry about me, and definitely don’t worry about Maureen Gaylord.”

  Chapter Four

  Dana Cutler was bored out of her skull. After three days of following Charlotte Walsh to class, the supermarket, restaurants, and her apartment, she was ready to shoot herself. This girl’s life was so dull that Dana couldn’t imagine why anyone was interested in it. She would have quit if the job didn’t pay so well.

  A little after 6 P.M., Dana had left a phone message for her mystery client at the number Dale Perry had given her, explaining that Walsh had walked out of Senator Gaylord’s campaign headquarters in the company of a white male, approximately six feet tall with wavy blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The subject and her escort had proceeded to the House of Thai where they were currently sharing what appeared to be pad thai, spring rolls, and some type of curry. Cutler was able to give this detailed report because she was seated in her car in a disabled parking spot viewing the couple through the lens of the Leica M8 digital camera that belonged to Jake Teeny. The disabled parking permit on her dashboard was courtesy of an acquaintance at the Department of Motor Vehicles who sold fake driver’s licenses, disabled permits, and other DMV goodies to supplement her income. If anyone ever asked, Dana would claim she was recovering from hip-replacement surgery and she had a letter from a quack who was on her acquaintance’s payroll to back her up.

  Dana had taken a chance and peed in another restaurant two doors down from the Thai place as soon as Walsh and her buddy ordered. Now, an hour later, she was free of the call of nature, but her stomach was rumbling. Dana grabbed a doughnut from the box on her passenger seat and was taking a bite when Walsh stood up. She stopped in midbite. Walsh had grabbed her backpack and headed for the door. Dana dropped the camera next to the box of doughnuts and started the engine of her inconspicuous, brown Toyota. The car looked like a piece of crap but Dana had installed an engine that would have made a NASCAR driver envious. Her father had owned a garage and raced cars when he was younger. Dana loved speed and learned how a car worked almost as soon as she learned her ABC's. Her dad had died of a stroke before she’d finished working on the engine and she’d always been sad that she hadn’t been able to take him for a spin in her jalopy.

  Thinking about her dad brought back memories of her childhood. She was certain that her memories were far different from those of Charlotte Walsh. Dana’s mother had walked out on the family in Dana’s sophomore year in high school. They talked occasionally, but Dana had never forgiven her for deserting the family. Walsh probably had great Thanksgivings and Christmases with loving parents and bright, overachieving siblings.

  Dana’s folks hadn’t been poor, but there was never any money for frills. Dana had to work during high school if she wanted spending money. Long nights as a waitress had paid her tuition to a community college, and Dana had been an underachiever until she joined the police force. Being a cop was something she was good at, but her days on the force were behind her now and she’d never get them back.

  Walsh headed back toward Gaylord campaign headquarters on K Street. A lot of the people who worked on K Street were lawyers, lobbyists, and employees of think tanks, and many of them had returned to the suburbs for dinner. The cafés where Washington ’s elite met for power lunches were closed and a lot of the windows in the high-rise office buildings were dark. Few pedestrians walked the streets, and the street vendors who hawked flowers and knockoffs of Rolex watches and Prada purses had closed up shop. Dana guessed that her quarry was going to the garage where she’d parked a few hours ago. Sure enough, Walsh disappeared into the garage and drove out a few minutes later.

  There weren’t many cars on the road so Dana hung back, speeding up anytime she felt in danger of losing sight of Walsh’s taillights. She hoped Walsh was going home to bed so she could get some sleep, too. The Toyota hit a pothole and the camera bounced on the passenger seat. When she thought about the camera, she automatically thought about Jake Teeny. He was a photojournalist Dana had met when he’d been assigned to take the photos for an article on policewomen. When she left the force, he’d helped her through her hardest days.

  It wasn’t unusual for Jake to be away for weeks at a time in some exotic locale or war zone. When he was in D.C. and they both felt like it, Dana stayed at Jake’s house, which was roomier than the small apartment she called home. They’d been friends and off-and-on lovers for years, but neither of them wanted anything permanent and the relationship was convenient for both of them. Jake was the only person to whom she’d opened up about what had happened at the farm, though she hadn’t come close to telling him the whole story. She couldn’t risk losing him, something that could very well happen if he learned everything she’d done.

  When Walsh turned onto the E Street expressway Dana knew that her quarry wasn’t headed back to her apartment. Her dream of an early night disappeared and she turned on the radio. A newscast was just ending with a story about the latest victim of the D.C. Ripper, a serial killer who’d been murdering women in the D.C. area. The announcer was explaining that the police appeared to be stymied when Dana turned the dial to DC101. After she left the hospital, Dana found that she had trouble listening to stories about violence to women. When she’d been a cop, she’d dealt with victims’ tales of rape, wife beating, and the like with a professional
detachment she could no longer summon up.

  “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC started playing just as the city gave way to a tree-lined roadway when she merged onto 66-west. Walsh took the exit for the Dulles Toll Road and drove along VA-267, exiting fifteen miles later onto Sully Road. After they passed a few illuminated construction sites and half-built subdivisions the Dulles Towne Center suddenly appeared in the distance. Dana groaned when she realized that the mall was Walsh’s destination.

  It was late, so most of the sprawling lot was free of cars. Dana expected Walsh to park near the well-lit mall entrance where the vehicles of those still shopping congregated, but she surprised Dana by driving past JCPenney and Old Navy to a remote section of the lot where the glow from the Sears and Nordstrom signs did not reach. Dana drove away from Walsh, turned off her lights, and circled back to a spot many rows away that gave her an unobstructed view of the driver’s side of the student’s car.

  As soon as she parked, Dana checked her watch. It was seven-forty-five, so it had taken almost forty-five minutes to drive to the mall from K Street. She took a few shots of the car before phoning her client to report where they were and where Walsh had parked in the lot. Then she took a drink of coffee from her thermos to help her stay awake and grabbed the doughnut she’d started outside the Thai restaurant. She finished the doughnut and perked up when she noticed that Walsh was still sitting in her car. This was the first interesting thing that had happened during her surveillance. If Walsh wasn’t at the mall to shop she was probably waiting for someone. If she was meeting this someone in a dark and remote part of the mall parking lot instead of the interior of the mall she didn’t want anyone to see the meeting. Maybe there was a reason to watch the coed after all.

  Dana focused Teeny’s camera on Walsh’s car and was about to take a few more shots when movement in her peripheral vision caused her to look right. A dark blue Ford drove into Walsh’s row and parked a space away from her. Teeny’s camera lens had a 3.4 f-stop so Dana could see the license plate. From farther away, she wouldn’t have been able to read the license, but she could take a picture of it and blow up the picture on her laptop. Dana jotted down the Ford’s license plate number. A moment later, Walsh got out of her car, looked around nervously, and got into the Ford’s backseat. The Ford drove off with Dana in pursuit, far enough back so, hopefully, her lights wouldn’t give her away.