The First Counsel Read Free

both scraped our bumpers. I mean, how many nights do you get to outrun the Secret Service and live to tell about it?"
    "I do it every other Thursday. It's not that big a deal."
    "Laugh all you want, but you have to admit it was a thrill."
    I look over my shoulder. We're completely alone. And I have to admit, she's right.

First Counsel (2000)

    * * *
    It takes about ten minutes before I realize we're lost. In the span of a few blocks, the immaculate brownstones of Dupont Circle have faded into the run-down tenements on the outskirts of Adams Morgan. "We should've turned on 16th," I say.
    "You have no idea what you're talking about."
    "You're absolutely right; I'm two hundred percent clueless. And you want to know how I know that?" I pause for effect. "Because I trusted you to drive! I mean, what the hell was I thinking? You barely live here; you're never in a car; and when you are, it's usually in the backseat."
    "What's that supposed to mean?"
    Just as she asks the question, I realize what I've said. Three years ago, right after her father got elected, during Nora's sophomore year at Princeton, Rolling Stone ran a scathing profile of what they called her college "Drug and Love Life." According to the article, two different guys claimed that Nora went down on them in the backseats of their cars while she was on Special K. Another source said she was doing coke; a third said it was heroin. Either way, based on the article, some horny little Internet-freak used Nora's full name--Eleanor--and wrote a haiku poem entitled "Knee-Sore Eleanor." A few million forwarded e-mails later, Nora gained her most notorious sobriquet--and her father saw his favorability numbers fall. When the story ran, President Hartson called up the editor of Rolling Stone and asked him to leave his daughter alone. From then on, they did. Hartson's numbers went back up. All was well. But the joke was already out there. And obviously, from the look on Nora's face, the damage had already been done.
    "I didn't mean anything," I insist, backing away from my unintended insult. "I just meant that your family gets the limo treatment. Motorcades. You know, other people drive you."
    Suddenly, Nora laughs. She has a sexy, hearty voice, but her laugh is all little girl.
    "What'd I say?"
    "You're embarrassed," she answers, amused. "Your whole face is red."
    I turn away. "I'm sorry . . ."
    "No, it's okay. That's really sweet of you. And it's even sweeter that you blushed. For once, I know it's real. Thank you, Michael."
    She said my name. For the first time tonight, she said my name. I turn back to her. "You're welcome. Now let's get out of here."
    Turning around on 14th Street and still searching for the small strip of land known as Adams Morgan, home to Washington's most overrated bars and best ethnic restaurants, we find ourselves weaving our way back from the direction we came. Surrounded by nothing but deserted buildings and dark streets, I start worrying. No matter how tough she is, the First Daughter of the United States shouldn't be in a neighborhood like this.
    When we reach the end of the block, though, we see our first indication of civilized life: Around the corner is a small crowd of people coming out of the only storefront in sight. It's a large brick building that looks like it's been converted into a two-story bar. In thick black letters, the word "Pendulum" is painted on a filthy white sign. A hip, midnight blue light surrounds the edges of the sign. Not at all my kind of place.
    Nora pulls into a nearby parking spot and turns off the ignition.
    "Here?" I ask. "The place is a rathole."
    "No, it's not. People are well dressed." She points to a man wearing camel-colored slacks and a tight black T-shirt. Before I can protest, she adds, "Let's go--for once, we're anonymous." She pulls a black baseball hat from the shoulder strap of her purse and lowers the brim over her eyes. It's a terrible disguise, but she says it works. Never been stopped yet.
    We pay ten