The First Counsel Read Free

before.”
    “What happened?”
    She shoots me another one of those looks. “You don’t want to know.”
    The speedometer quickly shoots up to sixty, and the poorlypaved D.C. roads are making us feel every pothole. I grab the handle on the door and prop myself up straight. It’s at this moment that I see Nora as the twenty-two-year-old she really is—fearless, smug, and still impressed by the rev of an engine. Although I’m only a few years older, it’s been a long time since my heart’s raced this fast. After three years at Michigan Law, two years of clerkships, two years at a law firm, and the past two years in the White House Counsel’s Office, my passions have been purely professional. Then Nora Hartson slaps me awake and starts a flash fire in my gut. How the hell was I supposed to know what I was missing?
    Still, I look back at the Suburban and let out a nervous laugh. “If this gets me in trouble . . .”
    “Is that what you’re worried about?”
    I bite my lip. That was a big step backwards. “No . . . it’s just that . . . you know what I mean.”
    She ignores my stumbling and gives it more speed.
    Stuck in the silence of our conversation, all I can hear is how loud the engine is revving. Up ahead is the entrance to the underpass that runs below Dupont Circle. The small tunnel has an initial steep drop, so you can’t see how many cars are actually ahead of you. Nora doesn’t seem to care. Without slowing down, we leap into the tunnel and my stomach drops. Luckily, there’s no one in front of us.
    As we leave the tunnel, all I can focus on is the green light at the end of the block. Then it turns yellow. We’re not nearly close enough to make it. Again, Nora doesn’t seem to care. “The light . . . !”
    It turns red and Nora jerks the wheel into an illegal left turn. The tires shriek and my shoulder is pressed against the door. For the first time, I actually think we’re in danger. I glance in the rearview mirror. The Suburban is still behind us. Never letting go.
    We race down a narrow, short street. I can see a stop signahead. Despite the late hour, there’s still a steady stream of cars enjoying the right of way. I expect Nora to slow down. Instead, she speeds up.
    “Don’t do it!” I warn her.
    She takes notice of the volume of my voice, but doesn’t reply. I’m craning my neck, trying to see how many cars there are. I see a few, but have no idea if they see us. We blow through the stop sign, and I shut my eyes. I hear cars screech to a halt and the simultaneous blaring of horns. Nothing hits us. I turn around and watch the Secret Service follow in our wake . . .
    “What’re you, a psychopath?”
    “Only if I kill us. If we live, I’m a daredevil.”
    She refuses to let up, twisting and turning through the brownstone-lined streets of Dupont Circle. Every stop sign we run leaves another chorus of screaming horns and pissed-off drivers. Eventually, we’re tearing up a one-way street that crosses back over the main thoroughfare, Connecticut Avenue. The only thing between us and the six lanes of traffic is another stop sign. With a hundred feet to go, she slams on the brakes. Thank God. Sanity’s returned.
    “Why don’t we just call it a night?” I offer.
    “Not a chance.” She’s scowling in the mirror, staring down her favorite agents. They look tempted to get out of the Suburban, but they have to know she’ll take off the moment they do.
    The agent in the passenger seat rolls down his window. He’s young, maybe even younger than me. “C’mon, Shadow,” he yells, rubbing it in by using her Secret Service code name. “You know what he said last time. Don’t make us call this one in.”
    She doesn’t take well to the threat. Under her breath, she mutters, “Cocky jock asshole.” With that, she punches the gas. The wheels spin until they find traction.
    I can’t let her do this. “Nora, don’t . . .”
    “Shut up.”
    “Don’t tell me to—”
    “I