The First Family

by Michael Palmer

  As the car pulled away from the curb, Lee took out his cell phone and tried Karen’s number again. “Are you sure Karen is all right?” Lee asked from the backseat. “She’s not answering.”

  Lapham drove the speed limit, telling Lee this issue of national importance was not an actual medical emergency.

  “K-Ray? She’s fine,” Duffy said. Lee knew “K-Ray” was the nickname Karen’s team sometimes used for her. Karen’s last name was Ray before it was Blackwood, and Lee would be lying to himself if he said it did not hurt when she became Ray again. “You’ll see her soon enough,” Duffy added.

  Duffy’s fingers drummed a restless beat against the car’s dashboard. He was looking back at Lee, but not seeming to fix his gaze on anything. Duffy slipped off his sunglasses to get a better look at something outside, maybe the cherry blossoms in Dumbarton Oaks Park that were still in full bloom thanks to an unusually cold and wet April. Lee noted how Duffy’s eyes darted about like Jason Bourne seeking all exits, and how they bulged slightly from the sockets.

  Interesting …

  Duffy looked forward again, but didn’t bother putting his sunglasses back on. Lee was curious to get a look at his eyes again.

  “What exactly will I be doing at the White House?”

  Lee hoped that would get Duffy to look at him and indeed he glanced back, his expression oddly cryptic, fingers drumming restlessly against the front dash.

  “Afraid that sort of intel is above our pay grade,” he said.

  Lee noted how Duffy’s eyelids seemed to hesitate, leaving the white of the sclera visibly exposed rather than staying with the top of the iris as it normally does during downward eye movement.

  Lee decided to distract himself with his favorite pastime: diagnosis.

  “Agent Duffy, could I ask you to hold up your arms and close your eyes?”

  Duffy screwed up his face. “What? Why?”

  “Hey, indulge him,” said Lapham, elbowing Duffy in the arm.

  “Fine. Fine.”

  With a bit of reluctance, Duffy lifted his arms as if a kicker had made a field goal, and Lee observed a fine rapid tremor in both outstretched hands. Lee keyed in again on Duffy’s prominent stare.

  “Do you mind if I ask you something personal?”

  Lapham and Duffy exchanged knowing glances, something Lee found a bit peculiar.

  “Sure thing,” Duffy said.

  “Has your doctor ever mentioned hyperthyroidism to you, Graves’ disease specifically? It’s an autoimmune problem involving the thyroid gland.”

  From the driver’s seat, Lapham pumped his fist in the air. Duffy, shaking his head in dismay, took out his wallet, removed a crisp hundred-dollar bill, and handed it to Lapham.

  “I was diagnosed last month,” Duffy said. “Started with the hand tremor, but wasn’t long before other symptoms came up.” Lee felt certain he could find all his other symptoms were he to give Duffy a proper exam. “It’s not bad enough to put me on medical leave, but it is a pain in the ass.”

  “Why did you give Agent Lapham a hundred dollars just now?” asked Lee, nonplussed.

  Lapham’s grin broadened. “Because Duffy’s always betting on something,” he said. “K-Ray said you’d diagnosis his Graves’ disease just by looking at him. Said you were that good. Duffy bet you wouldn’t, and, well, I won.” Lapham waved the bill in his outstretched hand.

  “Now I feel badly,” Lee said to Duffy.

  “You should,” Duffy replied. “This job pays crap and I got serious bills to cover. No joke.”

  Duffy’s intense stare made it hard for Lee to pick up any levity, but he assumed it was there.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving the clinic, they reached the well-marked and highly restricted checkpoint at Fifteenth and E Streets Northwest. A duty guard checked Lapham and Duffy’s credentials. The rear window came down, and the same guard peered into the backseat at Lee.

  “So this is Shaman?”

  “Yeah,” Duffy said.

  The guard checked Lee’s ID before retreating to a concrete guardhouse where he accessed controls to lower a barricade emblazoned with the word STOP.

  Lapham drove forward a few feet before stopping at an area marked with white paint. An imposing K-9, handled by an equally imposing guard, canvassed the Suburban with its nose in search of explosive material. Other guards checked under the car with angled mirrors on a stick. It seemed everybody was subjected to rigorous security, even the people assigned to protect the first family.

  “Why did the guard back there call me Shaman?” asked Lee.

  “It’s your code name,” Duffy said. “The White House Communications Agency assigns names to people of prominence, but Lapham and I came up with your name all on our own.”

  “A shaman is a Native American medicine man,” Lapham said, “and given how Karen talked you up we thought it was fitting.”

  Lee nodded. “Can you tell me the president’s name?”

  “Believe it or not, you can look it up on Wikipedia,” Lapham said. “POTUS, that’s the president of the United States, is Brave Heart, and FLOTUS, she’s the first lady, is Black Bear.”

  “Why that name?”

  “You know how a mother cub defends her young.”

  Lee got a picture of a fiercely devoted parent.

  “What about Cam Hilliard?” Lee asked.

  “There’s a tradition of alliteration with these names, so he’s Bishop,” Duffy said.

  Lee returned another nod. Cam’s exceptional talent at chess was well documented. Bishop was a fitting nickname, and Lee thought Shaman was a pretty fine one as well.

  After passing the K-9 checkpoint, the Suburban continued up a snaking driveway toward the White House. Lee had been here before, on a tour Karen had arranged. The same feelings of history and majesty swept over him.

  Eventually they reached the distinct oval design of the South Portico entrance. Everyone got out of the Suburban, while a lone guard held open a door into the main building. Lee soon found himself standing in the middle of the resplendent Diplomatic Reception Room. He took a moment to marvel at the pastoral mural painted on the room’s round walls, the federal-era furniture upholstered in gold fabric, and the massive, plush turquoise-and-gold rug with the image of an eagle dominating its center. A portrait of George Washington hung over an ornate marble fireplace. If Lee had not left his cell phone in the car, per Lapham’s instructions, he might have been tempted to snap a selfie.

  Duffy and Lapham led Lee down a long corridor paved with black-and-white marble tiles, arranged in a chessboard pattern. Lee followed them through a doorway and into a warmly lit room with muted brown carpeting and straw-colored walls decorated with original oil paintings. It was a waiting room of sorts, though nothing like the one at Lee’s family practice. The furniture was upholstered in the highest-quality fabric, the lamps resting on burnished wood end tables were all antiques, and the magazine rack, adorned with the seal of the president, held a selection of military-themed journals.

  Karen was inside the waiting room, along with someone Lee did not expect to see: Ellen Hilliard, the first lady of the United States, who came right over to Lee and extended her hand. Karen stayed back, giving the first lady the first greeting.

  “Hello, Dr. Blackwood. Karen has told me so much about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

  The first lady’s handshake was practiced and confident.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” Lee managed. In a blink, his throat had gone completely dry.

  “Thank you for being here under these—well, unusual circumstances.”

  Ellen’s voice was warm and intimate, lacking any pretense. She could have been a friend, a patient, anybody really. Her kind eyes, an electric shade of blue, were inviting, and her bright smile made it easy to forget she was one of the most powerful women in the country.

  The first lady’s stature was an oft-discussed topic for the fashionistas on TV, but in person Lee realized she was nearly his height
, without heels. She wore her dark blond hair shoulder length, and her sleeveless pink dress, the color of the cherry blossoms, showed a body fit and trim from rigorous exercising. Her workout routine and diet were also well documented and frequently discussed in the media. She had an understated strand of white pearls around her slender neck. Glowing, near-flawless skin gave Ellen the appearance of a woman much younger than her fifty years.

  Lee found her so warm and engaging, he forgot to be intimidated. Living in the fishbowl of the White House could not have been easy, yet Ellen Hilliard had managed it with grace and aplomb. Karen had always spoken highly of FLOTUS, and meeting Ellen for the first time, Lee understood.

  More than a few political pundits speculated that without Ellen’s sharp mind, campaign know-how, and financial acumen (she had been the chief financial officer with Boys and Girls Clubs of America), Geoffrey Hilliard, then a U.S. senator from Maryland, would never have won the election.

  Lee believed Hilliard had won a second term because of a favorable economy and nothing more. The world was still going to hell in a handbasket, and he hadn’t voted for the guy. He hoped Karen had never shared his political leanings with the first lady.

  “I’m happy to be here,” Lee said. “Though I’m not really sure what this is all about.”

  Karen, dressed in a stylish dark blue pantsuit, stepped forward. She and Lee embraced briefly, but warmly.

  “You look well, Karen.”

  Lee’s annoyance at Karen for ignoring his many calls passed through him like a breeze. Divorce had taught him not to sweat the small stuff. These days, most of their correspondence about Josh happened through e-mail and text messages. Lee had not seen Karen in—what, months? It was hard to keep track of time. When Josh was little, the days were long and the years were short. Now it was all just a blur.

  “You do, too,” Karen replied. “Sorry to put you through all this.”

  “You didn’t have to send a surprise escort,” Lee said. “I would have come in a heartbeat.”

  “That wasn’t actually Karen’s decision. I’m afraid my husband doesn’t like to leave things to chance,” Ellen said.

  “You mean the—” Lee cleared his throat. “The president?”

  Ellen’s slight laugh came across as endearing. “Well, he is my husband.”

  Lee shook his head, only mildly mortified. He hoped he had not gone red in the face.

  “Yes, of course. I knew that. Have you asked me here to see a patient?”

  Ellen gave a nod. “Yes. The patient is my son, Cam.”

  “Got it.” Lee took a moment to collect his thoughts. “I’m afraid I’m still trying to sort this all out. I assume the first family has a physician, and I’m guessing a pretty good one at that.”

  “That they do,” Karen said. “Several, in fact. You’re actually in the White House Medical Unit. Three private exam rooms and a full-time staff of twenty-five to look after everyone from dignitaries to White House visitors.”

  “Sounds like a mini urgent-care center. Why do you need me?”

  “My son means the world to me, Dr. Blackwood.”

  “Please, call me Lee.” He thought of her code name: Black Bear.

  “Lee it is. I have full confidence in our medical staff. Dr. Frederick Gleason has given Cam a very thorough examination, but Karen, who spends a lot of time with my son, has me convinced we’d benefit from a second opinion, an outside opinion. I told Karen if we did bring in a consult, it would have to be someone with exceptional talent, which is why you’re here.”

  Lee sent Karen an appreciative glance. They might not have been perfect spouses, but they still held each other in extremely high regard.

  “I trust Karen’s judgment implicitly,” Ellen continued. “However, not everyone agrees these extra measures are necessary. Which is why I wanted to meet you first, to give you fair warning.”

  Uh-oh, thought Lee. Nothing was worse than butting heads with another doctor over a patient’s diagnosis, and it was especially concerning when this patient happened to be the son of the most powerful couple in the world.

  “I’m flattered by your confidence, and I hope I live up to the praise,” Lee said. “But who is Dr. Gleason?” The name was familiar, and Lee thought Karen might have mentioned him before.

  “He’s a navy captain and physician to the president,” Ellen said. “He’s our family doctor as well.”

  That’s not all, Lee thought. The twenty-fifth amendment gave Dr. Gleason the power to decide whether Geoffrey Hilliard was fit to lead the country. Lee’s authority did not go much beyond writing a prescription.

  “Has Dr. Gleason made an official diagnosis yet? What are Cam’s symptoms?”

  “You can ask him yourself,” Karen said, motioning to a closed door on the east side of the room, decorated by yet another embossed White House seal, this time partnered with a caduceus. “Everyone is waiting for you inside the exam room, the president as well.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The exam room, bright and airy, was as typical as any Lee had seen, with the notable exception of the president of the United States standing in a corner, talking on his specially encrypted cell phone. Karen, along with Lapham and Duffy, hung back in the waiting room. This was a private family matter.

  Lee inventoried the array of ultramodern medical equipment: all the essentials, including integrated diagnostic systems, instruments for checking vital signs, an ECG machine, and defibrillators were on hand. Various medications and medical supplies were neatly arranged inside tall, glass-fronted cabinets.

  Cam Hilliard, perched on the vinyl cushion of a durable exam table, sported a glum expression. He used the sleeve of his blue dress shirt to clean grime off his wire-rimmed glasses. He reminded Lee a little of Harry Potter. He did not look anything like his father, but Lee could certainly see his mother in him.

  A man in his late forties sat on a rolling exam stool not far from Cam. He was athletically built, with brown hair cut to military standards. He had a prominent nose, and for someone with a five o’clock shadow, quite a youthful face.

  Lee guessed this was Dr. Gleason and got confirmation when he saw the stitched monogram on the right pocket of his lab coat. Affixed to the left pocket was the seal of the president. No doubt about it, the White House was big on branding.

  The president ended his call and came over to Lee with the practiced smile of someone expert at glad-handing. Lee could not help being a bit starstruck. It was the president, after all.

  President Hilliard, who was shorter than his wife by two inches or so, had a presence Lee found magnetic and energizing. Nevertheless, the aging effect of the White House was impossible to ignore. Hilliard’s dark hair, balding from the front, featured brush strokes of gray not present when he first took office. The lines on his face were more deeply set, and his brown eyes no longer sparkled when he smiled. Hilliard had been a bit of a jock at Yale—baseball and crew—and his powerful jaw and well-muscled physique kept him from looking beaten down by the rigors of his job.

  “Dr. Blackwood, thank you for being here,” the president said, his voice a bit plummy, all trace of his Baltimore accent well disguised. Born and raised in a blue-collar neighborhood in Baltimore, Hilliard often referred to his hardscrabble upbringing in his speeches, but critics noted he had done little to lift former friends and neighbors out of the economic doldrums. Speeches were easy—governing was hard.

  “It’s my honor, Mr. President,” Lee said, giving Hilliard’s hand a firm shake.

  “I’m sorry to bring you here without notice,” the president said. “But Ellen convinced me we needed to take immediate action. Karen tells me you have a son together, former military, I understand.”

  “That’s right,” Lee said. “Josh was an Army Ranger. Did three tours in Afghanistan. Now he’s a ski instructor in Colorado. Quite the shift.”

  “Please tell him the president thanks him for his service.”

  “I’ll be sure to give him that message,” Lee said
. “I know he’ll appreciate your gratitude.”

  “Speaking as fathers, then,” Hilliard said. “I assume we can count on your discretion here. This is a rather—well, delicate situation.” The president glanced briefly at Cam.

  Dr. Gleason took that as his cue to come over and shake Lee’s hand. It was a fishy handshake, weak and limp, the first unmilitary thing about him.

  “Dr. Blackwood, we appreciate you being here.” Gleason did not sound like he meant it. “I’m glad to have your counsel. I want to do everything I can to help ease the concerns of the president and Mrs. Hilliard.”

  Lee had a pretty good BS meter, honed from years of dealing with patients lying to him about their health habits. His was pinging loudly. Gleason wanted Lee here as much as he wanted the flu.

  “I’m happy to be another set of eyes,” said Lee, addressing Cam directly. The boy kept his head down.

  Lee moved away from the president and Dr. Gleason so he could focus on Cam. He was not here for some meet-and-greet, after all; he had a job to do.

  “Hey there, Cam, my name is Dr. Lee Blackwood. I’m Karen’s former husband. Your parents thought it might be a good idea if I talked to you about what’s going on.”

  Lee spoke to Cam the way he would any new patient. Cam flashed his father a withering look.

  “What Dr. Gleason isn’t saying is that you’re wasting your time,” Cam said in a low voice. “Everyone’s mind is already made up.”

  “Made up their minds about what?” Lee asked. “I don’t even know your symptoms.”

  Ellen approached from behind and placed her hands on her son’s shoulders, but Cam remained sullen and silent.

  “Sweetheart, please talk to Dr. Blackwood. Tell him what you told us.”

  “Why bother?” he said, his voice still low. “I’m not depressed, but you all think I am.”

  “It seems we’re at a bit of an impasse,” Ellen said, exasperation evident, her face betraying the strain.

  Dr. Gleason stepped forward. “If it’s all right with the president and Mrs. Hilliard, I’d like Cam to step into the waiting room for a moment so we could speak privately.”