Page 2 of The First Gentleman

2

A thousand demonstrators, media people, and curious locals are crowded into the rain-slick parking lot.

The convoy is passing through the tall evergreens flanking the pavement leading up to the courthouse when I realize I left my umbrella in my car.

Too late.

Rockingham County has never drawn security like this.

Uniforms representing every law enforcement department in New Hampshire—from local cops to Fish and Game—are patrolling the courthouse steps.

On the roof there’s a detail of men and women in tactical gear and black baseball caps carrying sniper rifles.

They’re not even trying to hide.

That’s the job of their colleagues, posted in places nobody can see.

I hear someone calling my name: “Brea Cooke? That you?”

I look at the crowd.

Mostly white. No surprise; the Granite State is around 89 percent Caucasian.

It’s a situation I got used to as a Black student at Dartmouth, about two hours north.

Let’s just say it’s not unusual for me to stand out around here.

I turn around. “Ron Reynolds!”

Ron is a friendly face from the old days when he and my partner, Garrett Wilson, both reported for the Boston Globe.

He’s wearing his standard outfit—tan overcoat, khaki pants, and a tweed cap.

His big press pass is dangling around his neck.

I give him a quick hug.

“Guess we both forgot our umbrellas.”

A guy in a thick camo jacket jostles by us and flicks a finger at Ron’s press pass.

“Fake news!” the guy shouts.

Ron ignores him.

“So why are you here?” I ask.

“You could be in one of those gyms right now, dry and toasty. Probably getting a better view than this.”

“I get paid to get wet,” says Ron.

“Even if nothing happens.”

But something is happening.

I’ve been waiting for this day a long time.

I see flashing lights coming up the drive.

Two state police cars and three big black SUVs.

“It’s them!”

The lights are getting closer.

I’m in the middle of the crowd, but suddenly I feel as alone as I’ve ever felt in my life.

I close my eyes for a second.

My mind whispers, Garrett.

I blink hard. Not now!

I need to focus. Capture this scene for my book.

Our book. The one Garrett and I were working on together.

Until he…

Ron points to the courthouse steps.

“See the podium and the camera stands up there?”

I nod.

“What about them?”

“All for show. No way the Secret Service allows the president and First Gent to go through the front entrance.”

“The crowd won’t appreciate being tricked like that.”

“You’re right,” says Ron.

“They came to witness history.”

So did I.

The first time in history that a president’s spouse is going on trial for murder.