The First Counsel by Brad Meltzer Page A

Secret Service officer with buzzed black hair sits at a table and checks the IDs that hang around our necks. If our IDs had an orange background, he'd know we only have access to the OEOB and he'd have to stop us. A blue background means we can go almost anywhere, including the West Wing.
    "Hey, Phil," I say, instinctively slowing down. This is the real test--if word's out, I'm not getting in.
    Phil takes one look at my blue background and smiles. "What's the rush?"
    "Big meetings, big meetings," I reply calmly. If he knew, he wouldn't be smiling.
    "Someone's got to save the world," he says with a nod. "Have a good one now." At this point, his job is done. Once we're past him, he's supposed to let us go. Instead, he pays us the highest compliment. As we turn toward the elevator, he hits a button below his desk and the elevator door on my left opens. When we step inside, he pushes something else and the button for the second floor lights up. He doesn't do that for just anyone--only for the people he likes. Which means he finally knows who I am. "Thanks!" I shout as the doors close. As I collapse against the back of the elevator, I have to smile. Whatever Simon saw, it's clear he's kept his mouth shut. Or better yet, maybe he never knew we were there.
    Reading the joy on my face, Pam says, "You love it when Phil does that, don't you?"
    "Who wouldn't?" I play along.
    "I don't know . . . people with well-adjusted priorities?"
    "You're just jealous because he doesn't open it for you."
    "Jealous?" Pam laughs. "He's a doorman with a gun--you think he has any bearing on your place in the food chain?"
    "If he does, I know where I'm going: onward and upward, honey." I throw in the "honey" just to push Pam's buttons. She's too smart to fall for it.
    "Speaking of fruitless pandering to the top, how'd your date go last night?"
    That's the true beauty of Pam. Guerrilla honesty. Glancing at the tiny video camera in the corner, I reply, "I'll tell you later."
    She looks up and falls silent. A second later, the elevator doors open.
    The second floor of the West Wing houses some of the best high-powered offices, including the First Lady's personal office and the one immediately on my right--the last place I want to be right now: our destination--the office of Edgar Simon, Counsel to the President.

    Chapter 4
    Racing through the already-open double doors and the waiting area where Simon's assistant sits, Pam and I make a sharp right into Simon's office. Hoping to sneak in quietly, I check to see if . . . 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 hows and ifs.
    In the corner of the dark-wood-paneled room, hunkered down 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