Page 25 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 21

The White House

T he phone on Maddy’s desk rings and rings.

Maddy finally picks up.

“Yes?”

“Madam President, Jessica Martin from the Post is here for her appointment.”

“Very good,” says Maddy.

“Have someone escort her to the study.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Maddy hangs up, pushes away from the Resolute desk, and walks to the door that opens into the president’s study.

It’s much smaller than the Oval Office, with a low wooden desk, bookcases, and three chairs.

A coffee service sits at one end of the desk.

Maddy eases down into one of the chairs and thinks about the advice she’s gotten from former presidents.

There’s a consistent thread: Compartmentalize; approach problems one at a time; once a decision is made, never look back.

A knock on the door.

“Come in,” says Maddy.

And always, always, focus on the big issues.

Don’t major in the minor, like tracking who’s using the White House tennis court or fretting over criticism in a column written by someone who doesn’t have all the facts.

Maddy walks over to the door as it opens.

A young male aide says, “Madam President, Jessica Martin of the Washington Post .”

Maddy smiles.

“As if we’ve never met.” The president extends her hand.

The reporter returns her firm grip.

“Thanks for coming, Jessica.”

“Thanks for the invitation, Madam President.”

“Come, come in,” says Maddy as the aide leaves, closing the door behind him.

Martin is in her fifties with short blond hair.

She’s wearing a flannel skirt and jacket with flat, sensible shoes.

She shrugs off a large shoulder bag as she enters.

“Two chairs,” says the president.

“One for you, and one for your bag. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Martin sits, and the president pours coffee from a carafe into a cup with the presidential seal on it.

She passes it over. “Cream, sugar, Splenda, whatever you need is right here.”

Martin takes the cup in both hands.

“Black is fine, Madam President. Thank you.”

Maddy pours a cup for herself, then takes a seat opposite the reporter.

“First time in the study, Jessica?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What do you think of the room?”

Martin takes a sip of her coffee.

“It’s smaller than I expected, ma’am.”

“I think it’s cozy,” says Maddy.

“A nice place to duck out of the Oval for some quiet time, to focus on an issue, solve a problem, or get a short nap after a long night.”

“I hope I’m not a problem, Madam President,” says Martin.

“I hope so too,” says Maddy.

Martin puts her cup down on the coffee-service tray and reaches into her shoulder bag.

She pulls out an iPad, flips it open, and balances it on her knees.

Maddy puts her coffee cup on a coaster on the desk and places her feet flat on the floor.

Small talk is over. She can see Martin shifting into reporter mode.

“Madam President, as I told Burton Pearce, we’re preparing to run a story about changes your administration is planning to make to entitlement programs, including Social Security and Medicare. Drastic changes.”

Maddy lifts her chin.

“Jessica?”

“Madam President?”

“Here are the ground rules for our little chat, beginning at this moment. Everything I say going forward is off the record. It’s not to be used on background or as coming from ‘an anonymous official in the White House’ or ‘someone close to the president’ or any combination thereof. To be blunt, what I say here stays here.”

Martin closes her iPad.

“Then why the invitation?”

“So that you can hear what I have to say, and so I can convince you to delay publishing anything about the rumors you’ve heard.”

“Madam President, with all due respect, that’s a tall order.”

“That’s because we’re dealing with very high stakes,” says Maddy, “and I’m appealing to you as a citizen first and a journalist second.”

“Madam President, you know that’s not how it works.”

“I’m hoping you can make an exception this time,” says Maddy.

“There have been a number of cases where journalists agreed to keep some news confidential, like impending military operations or the location or condition of hostages being held overseas.”

“Madam President, those were issues of national security,” says Martin.

“You can’t tell me that making changes to entitlement programs is in the same realm.”

“Really?” Maddy opens a desk drawer, removes a sheet of paper, passes it over to Jessica.

It’s an old black-and-white photograph of an elderly couple in a street in an unidentifiable city pushing a wheelbarrow full of banknotes.

“That’s Opa and Oma in a small German town going out to do their shopping with a wheelbarrow full of marks. This was right at the end of the First World War. Inflation at the time was running at three hundred and twenty percent a month. A month ! The postwar German government eventually collapsed, and you know where that led.”

Martin nods with a grim expression.

“I do. It led to Adolf Hitler.”

Maddy leans forward.

“Believe me, Jessica, what we’re wrangling with is definitely an issue of national security.”

Jessica Martin gives her a skeptical look.

“But Madam President, previous administrations have issued the same warning—”

Maddy interrupts.

“And every one of them knew they were just putting off the pain. Well, the time has come, Jessica. Hard but necessary decisions need to be made.”

“What kind of decisions, Madam President? Off the record.”

“I can’t tell you that now, Jessica. I’m just asking you not to scare people, people like your own parents, by running just part of the story.”

Martin puts her iPad back into her bag.

“I want an exclusive.”

Maddy nods.

“Deal.”

“A day before the announcement.”

“One hour,” the president counters.

“The world’s too wired for me to give you a day.”

“All right, one hour,” Martin responds.

“I also want an exclusive interview with you and key members of your group and a timeline of your decisions.”

“Agreed, but all embargoed until the announcement is made.”

“I can live with that, Madam President.”

“But one more point,” says Maddy.

“Starting today, if even a hint of our discussion or any rumors about this legislative package appears in the Post, it will have a chilling effect between this administration and your newspaper. And when I say chilling, I’m talking absolute zero. No more interviews, no sources, no rides on Air Force One.”

“I understand, Madam President.”

“I’m sure you do,” says Maddy.

She opens a desk drawer and pulls out a slip of currency with blue markings.

“We usually give visitors to the White House a souvenir of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” she says.

“I’m going to give you this instead. That’s a one-hundred-trillion-dollar banknote from Zimbabwe. That’s trillion . With a t. It’s currently trading on the currency market for forty cents American.”

“I get the point, Madam President,” says Martin.

She tucks the bill into her bag.

“I wish you luck. And I’ll be waiting for your call.”