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Authors: Brad Meltzer
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Damn—the gang’s already waiting. Crowded around a walnut conference table that looks more like an antique dining room set, six associates sit with their pens and legal pads primed. At one end of the table, in his favorite wingback chair, is Lawrence Lamb, Simon’s Deputy Counsel. At the other end is an empty seat. Neither of us takes it. That’s Simon’s.
As Counsel, Simon advises the President on all legal matters arising in the White House. Can we require blood tests to nail deadbeat dads? Is it okay to limit cigarette companies’ right to advertise in youth-oriented magazines? Does the President have to pay for his seat on Air Force One if he’s using it to fly to a fund-raiser? From inspecting new legislation to researching new judicial nominees, the Counsel and the seventeen associates who work for him, including Pam and myself, are the law firm for the presidency. Sure, most of our work’s reactive: In the West Wing, the Senior Staff decides what ideas the President should pursue, then we get called in to do the how and if . But as any lawyer knows, there’s plenty of power in how s and if s.
In the corner of the dark-wood-paneled room, hunkereddown on the all-powerful couch, the Vice President’s Counsel is whispering to the Counsel for the Office of Administration, and the Legal Advisor for the National Security Counsel is whispering to the Deputy Legal Counsel for OMB. Bigshots talking to bigshots. In the White House, some things never change. Squeezing our way toward the back of the room, Pam and I stand with the rest of the seatless associates and wait for Simon to arrive. Within a few minutes, he walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table.
My eyes shoot to the floor as fast as they can.
“What’s wrong?” Pam asks me.
“Nothing.” My head’s still down, but I steal a quick peek at Simon. All I want to know is whether he saw us last night. I assume it’ll show on his face. To my surprise, it doesn’t. If he’s hiding something, you wouldn’t know it. His salt-and-pepper hair is as perfectly combed as it was on Rock Creek Parkway. He doesn’t look tired; his shoulders stand wide. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even glanced at me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Pam persists.
“Yeah,” I answer. I slowly pick my head up. That’s when he does the most incredible thing of all. He looks right at me and smiles.
“Is everything okay, Michael?” he asks.
The entire room turns and waits for my answer. “Y-Yeah,” I stammer. “Just waiting to get started.”
“Good, then let’s get right to it.” As Simon makes a few general announcements, I try my best to wipe the bewilderment from my face. If I hadn’t looked him straight in the eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He didn’t even take a second glance at the cut on my forehead. Whatever happened last night, Simon doesn’t know I was there.
“There’s one last thing I want to comment on and then we can get to new business,” Simon explains. “In this morning’s Herald , an article made reference to a birthday party we threwfor our favorite assistant to the President.” All eyes shoot to Lawrence Lamb, who refuses to acknowledge even the slightest bit of attention. “The article went on to mention that the Vice President was noticeably absent from the invite list, and that the crowd was buzzing with rumors of why he wasn’t there. Now, in case you’ve already forgotten, besides the President and the First Family, the only other people in that room were a handful of senior staffers and approximately fourteen representatives from this office.” He rests his hands flat on the desk and lets the silence drive home his point.
Without question, he has us. I may never look at him the same way again, but when he turns it on, Edgar Simon is an incredible lawyer. A master of saying it without saying it, he takes a quick scan of everyone in the room. “Whoever it was—it has to stop. They’re not asking those
As Counsel, Simon advises the President on all legal matters arising in the White House. Can we require blood tests to nail deadbeat dads? Is it okay to limit cigarette companies’ right to advertise in youth-oriented magazines? Does the President have to pay for his seat on Air Force One if he’s using it to fly to a fund-raiser? From inspecting new legislation to researching new judicial nominees, the Counsel and the seventeen associates who work for him, including Pam and myself, are the law firm for the presidency. Sure, most of our work’s reactive: In the West Wing, the Senior Staff decides what ideas the President should pursue, then we get called in to do the how and if . But as any lawyer knows, there’s plenty of power in how s and if s.
In the corner of the dark-wood-paneled room, hunkereddown on the all-powerful couch, the Vice President’s Counsel is whispering to the Counsel for the Office of Administration, and the Legal Advisor for the National Security Counsel is whispering to the Deputy Legal Counsel for OMB. Bigshots talking to bigshots. In the White House, some things never change. Squeezing our way toward the back of the room, Pam and I stand with the rest of the seatless associates and wait for Simon to arrive. Within a few minutes, he walks in and takes his seat at the head of the table.
My eyes shoot to the floor as fast as they can.
“What’s wrong?” Pam asks me.
“Nothing.” My head’s still down, but I steal a quick peek at Simon. All I want to know is whether he saw us last night. I assume it’ll show on his face. To my surprise, it doesn’t. If he’s hiding something, you wouldn’t know it. His salt-and-pepper hair is as perfectly combed as it was on Rock Creek Parkway. He doesn’t look tired; his shoulders stand wide. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even glanced at me.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Pam persists.
“Yeah,” I answer. I slowly pick my head up. That’s when he does the most incredible thing of all. He looks right at me and smiles.
“Is everything okay, Michael?” he asks.
The entire room turns and waits for my answer. “Y-Yeah,” I stammer. “Just waiting to get started.”
“Good, then let’s get right to it.” As Simon makes a few general announcements, I try my best to wipe the bewilderment from my face. If I hadn’t looked him straight in the eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. He didn’t even take a second glance at the cut on my forehead. Whatever happened last night, Simon doesn’t know I was there.
“There’s one last thing I want to comment on and then we can get to new business,” Simon explains. “In this morning’s Herald , an article made reference to a birthday party we threwfor our favorite assistant to the President.” All eyes shoot to Lawrence Lamb, who refuses to acknowledge even the slightest bit of attention. “The article went on to mention that the Vice President was noticeably absent from the invite list, and that the crowd was buzzing with rumors of why he wasn’t there. Now, in case you’ve already forgotten, besides the President and the First Family, the only other people in that room were a handful of senior staffers and approximately fourteen representatives from this office.” He rests his hands flat on the desk and lets the silence drive home his point.
Without question, he has us. I may never look at him the same way again, but when he turns it on, Edgar Simon is an incredible lawyer. A master of saying it without saying it, he takes a quick scan of everyone in the room. “Whoever it was—it has to stop. They’re not asking those
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