Chapter 2, Episode 2

Doris Austin didn't report directly to the president, her official supervisor being Cory Metcalf, the Chief of Staff. But, as they say in Washington, she had the president's ear and therefore treated the president as her boss and often got her direction from him personally. Yet Cory was powerful because he was the president's number one gatekeeper, and if she really wanted something to happen at the White House, like a new program or a new policy, she had to work with Cory or he would put up obstacles. He was good at preventing things from happening; she wished he were better at making things happen.

When Doris got to her desk, Connie was waiting with the reports and the all-important talking points page: a single piece of paper with four or five bullets that summarized the data. When it came to polling, the art was in the interpretation, and Doris was the undisputed master. Even Cory deferred to Doris on this matter because she could not only analyze data, she could tell the president what it meant in a way that was meaningful to him. Cory, who had a knack for dryness, told people that Doris could "put the numbers in context" for the president. Cory had an annoying gift for downplaying whatever she did.

"What do we have today?" asked Doris, taking the report from Connie as she glided into the room and walked around her desk. She took the pages and parked her briefcase-on-wheels in one fluid motion. "Hmm. Where's the silver lining?"

Connie's face brightened. "The second bullet, the one about West Coast defense workers optimistic about jobs because they're getting lots of big defense contracts. That's good news, right?"

"Trouble is, he's not going to see that. He's going to zoom in on his disapproval ratings, and dissatisfaction over the war, and concern about the environment," said Doris. She managed contracts with several opinion-gathering organizations that surveyed citizens and businesses in all parts of the country on a daily basis. Doris received a different batch of data each day, driven by the hot topics of the moment. Lately, the president had been concerned about public attitudes toward the environment.

"See this." Doris held up a page. "Fifty-eight percent of voters in the midwest region think the president's party does not care about the environment. Ouch. And look at this one, sixty-one percent say that the president is soft on businesses when it comes to enforcing environmental regulations." Doris dropped her hands in frustration. "He's going to have a fit. There's no nice way to communicate those kinds of numbers."

"Are you saying there's no silver lining?"

"Not this time." Doris checked herself in the mirror and straightened her jacket. She also reached into her purse and withdrew a Ziploc bag containing two muffins. "But here's my ace in the hole: homemade muffins."

"Mmm. Did you bring any for the hired help?"

"Sorry. But I have an idea to share with you. I haven't told anyone yet, so don't breathe a word of it," said Doris.

Connie nodded in agreement. One of the things Doris liked about Connie is that she could use her as a sounding board for crazy ideas. She was loyal enough so that if the idea were truly kooky she wouldn't tell a soul.

"It's an idea for turning around the president's reputation on environmental issues," said Doris slowly.

"I'm listening," said Connie.

"Suppose we held an essay contest."

"An essay contest?"

"Right. A good old-fashioned essay contest for, say, high schoolers or middle schoolers. We give them a topic dealing with the environment, and then we select a winner, and the winner gets to come to Washington and meet the president."

"Good photo op: the president and a young student, working on environmental issues. You would have to choose the topic carefully," said Connie.

"Yes, that's key. But what's your initial reaction. Crazy? Unworkable? Don't let me make a fool of myself," said Doris, looking at Connie carefully. Since the moment she first interviewed Connie, Doris had the eerie sensation that her own daughter would have grown up to be like her. Doris and her husband had one child, Linda, who died of leukemia at age five. Frank never got over it. They lived out their entire adult lives with Linda's death clouding their marriage right up until Frank got sick. When he was dying he apologized. He admitted that they should have done something positive to move past Linda. But Doris was bitter at that point. Forty years was a lot of time to throw away and then say, 'I'm sorry.' When Connie came along, Doris was struck by the imagined similarities. Although Linda was only five when she died, Doris had a fantasy about how Linda was going to look and behave as an adult: dark hair, blue eyes, smart, curious about the world, open to people, warm. Connie was all of these things. To Doris, Connie was the grown-up version of Linda.

But she didn't dare tell Connie for fear of scaring her away. People can get uncomfortable if you are too personal at work, and Connie was too valuable to lose.

Now Doris waited a few seconds to judge Connie's response. This was time well invested in a job where you never had enough time. She had learned to read Connie's expressions. Connie was not good at acting; if Doris's idea was as appealing as last week's lunch, Connie would show it. But this time Connie's body language seemed positive.

"Hmm. Definitely not crazy. Definitely not unworkable. I kind of like it. Want me to jot down some ideas, you know, flesh it out a bit."

Doris relaxed. "You're a dear. Remind me to take you to lunch one day."

"When? After the next election? I'm still waiting for the last lunch you promised me."

"Okay, it'll be a fancy lunch, at Kinkead's."

"Now you have my undying loyalty."

Doris laughed and breezed out of the office. That's how meetings went sometimes: thirty seconds, standing around a desk, and then on to the next conversation. Some days were just a series of conversations, standing in the hall, around a desk or by the copier. She was amazed that major elements of national policy got worked out in such a hurry.

As Doris expected, Cory Metcalf hovered near the entrance to the Oval Office. He was the pit bull, and he liked his job.

His opening words were a shot across the bow. "Afternoon, Doris," he said.

"Are you implying that you never get caught in traffic? Chevy Chase isn't exactly around the corner."

He was a tall man who used his height to full advantage by standing close and glaring down at people. Doris didn't budge from her spot. This was a moment when being a woman was an advantage: Cory was reluctant to trespass into her personal space, he came close but not too close. There were boundaries he didn't want to cross. Doris knew it was not so much driven by courtesy as by an instinct for survival. She knew he regarded her as unpredictable, someone to be careful around because she had ties to the president that none of them had. She was among the innermost of the inner circle, practically a member of his immediate family. There was also the messy threat of sexual harassment complaints, which Doris would never resort to, but she dare didn’t tell him that. Cory was so paranoid about potential harassment charges from female staff that he was very careful not to make even accidental physical contact with any woman at the White House or in the Executive Office building next door.

"I leave at five o'clock in the morning," he said, standing arm's length from her.

"And you get home at ten o'clock in the evening. Does your wife ever get to see you?"

"On weekends. Maybe."

Doris looked at her watch. "Well, no use delaying any longer. Can I see Ziggy now?"

It was her answering shot across his bow. Ziggy was the president's nickname as a boy. At age five, his mother was a state governor while Doris's father, Henry Harrison, was the governor's press secretary. Doris was fifteen and she was christened the official state babysitter. She went to the governor's mansion after school and watched young Ziggy while trying to do her homework. In the summers, Doris and Ziggy spent whole days together, playing in the yard near the mansion. Doris eventually went to college and studied journalism and began working in public affairs jobs at various state agencies. Ziggy went on to high school, then college, then law school, worked for a time in the city prosecutor's office and then ran for his first political appointment on the city council. Doris helped him with press releases for his campaign, taking care to do it during her off hours, since she was a state employee at the time. She was always particular about rules, and Ziggy liked that. He won the election, the first of many to come in his rise to the presidency. Doris, and her father while he was still living, helped Ziggy with all of his campaigns, especially the national ones. Over time, Doris transitioned from journalism to polling, because she became very interested in figuring out how to accurately gauge public opinion on an issue. You couldn't trust columnists and commentators and experts, they all had an agenda, she knew for a fact, because many of them were her friends. On the other hand, the average citizen would be happy to simply tell you what he or she thought if you took the time to ask. By the time Ziggy won the presidency, Doris had established herself as an expert interpreter of opinion polls. Ziggy's confidence in her was absolute. And she was the only person on staff who ever called him Ziggy.

Cory stepped aside. There little parley was over. What a waste of time, thought Doris as she strode past him into the Oval Office.

Cory followed her in. It was standard procedure. Doris briefed the president on the latest polling results every morning, and if the president wanted to take any action he would give instructions to the chief of staff. Cory's job was to hear everything the president heard.

"Good morning, sir," said Doris. She made it a point to be formal while on duty. There was no benefit in appearing to use her old family ties to an advantage. On the other hand, a little touch of home never hurt. She placed the plastic bag of muffins on his desk. "I brought you some homemade muffins."

The president grinned. He almost never grinned in the morning. She saw, for an instant, the boy she had always known. "Trying to butter me up for the kill." He winked at Cory. "When Doris brings muffins, look out. It means public opinion is going to hell in a hand basket."

He was ordinarily not chatty during morning meetings. Instead, the president was, as Cory described it, in listening mode: absorbing information, processing it in his own unique way. The president could listen to presentations for three solid hours and remember almost every detail. When he gave instructions they were precise, and he remembered them. Pity the poor staffer who assumed the president had "forgotten all about" an assignment that had been given. The president demanded that everyone possess the same attention to detail as he did.

Fortunately, Doris was a detail person. She and Cory settled into chairs opposite the president. She started right into her report. Small talk was over. "On the positive side, sixty-five percent of factory workers on the west coast are optimistic about having continued work in the future. Of course, most of these workers are on defense contracts."

The president looked up and peered over his reading glasses. "War's hell, unless you're a defense contractor."

"Here's what I think is the most significant item today: in a survey of midwest households, sixty-one percent say that the president is soft on business when it comes to enforcing environmental regulations." She looked at him. "We have not been seeing that. This particular segment of the public has traditionally been pro-business. Now they are swinging the other way."

"How do you know the survey is not a fluke?" said Cory.

Doris had to be careful. This kind of report was potentially bad news because many of the party's top contributors were midwest businesses and utilities. "We certainly need to do repeat polling to validate these results. However, we had a follow-up question for corroboration. It was about concern for the environment. Fifty-eight percent of voters in this same region think the president's party does not care about the environment. That tracks with the first result."

"Why are you asking questions like that to begin with?" Cory asked. His lips were becoming tight. He was controlling his anger.

"That's a non-response," said Doris. "You don't simply stop asking questions because you don't like the answers. We need an action plan for sending the message that we care about the environment and we're not soft on business."

The president appeared to be paying no attention to the exchange between Doris and Cory, but they both new better. He was the ultimate multi-tasker; he could read and write and listen simultaneously; you were supposed to talk and discuss in front of him and not wait for an explicit response. Doris knew he was processing the arguments, so she chose her words carefully.

Cory kept very still, and kept his voice even. "But you might be raising red flags for nothing. This might be a non-issue."

"It is to people who don't want to hear this news," she said. "This is a bubbling volcano ready to blow up if we don't watch it."

"Doris, as you know, there is legislation working its way through Congress that will create a long list of tax breaks to energy companies and public utilities. We've gone on record as supporting it. In fact, we've been campaigning hard for Congress to pass it, because we feel it helps reduce our dependence on foreign energy."

"It helps reduce our dependence on foreign oil," said Doris. "It doesn't do a thing to reduce our dependence on fossil fuels."

"My point is that this kind of survey data seems to suggest that we shouldn't be supporting this bill."

"But we are, and that's a problem," said Doris.

Without looking up from his desk, the president said, "Got any ideas, Doris."

She took a deep breath. "Only one," she said.

They both waited, so she went on. "It would help to immediately send a message that we care about the environment, but things don't change overnight. The toughest challenges, like how to have inexpensive energy and make greater use of alternative fuels, take a long time to work out." She paused for a breath, but made it a point not to hurry. "I have an idea that might signal to the public that we're working on a partnership with citizens to find solutions to problems."

She paused again, then blurted out, "How about an essay contest?"

Cory looked stunned. "An essay contest?"

The president didn't look up from his paperwork, but she knew he was listening.

"Suppose we get a large slice of students, nationwide, like all ninth graders or eighth graders, and we have them write an essay about environmental priorities. Like, what sacrifices should society make in order to have solar energy?"

"Too technical," said Cory.

"Or, finding a balance between energy production and environmental preservation. Whatever it is, the theme would have a simple name that would look good on posters and sound good on radio. I don't know, something catchy, like..."

The president looked over his glasses, "... how about 'Everything In Balance' ?"

Cory twisted slightly toward the president. "But, Sir... an essay contest?"

Doris smiled, "That has a nice ring to it. 'Everything In Balance'. It captures our basic philosophy, how do we balance competing needs and desires."

Cory's impatience grew by the second. "Doris, I seriously doubt whether eighth or ninth graders can make any kind of meaningful contribution to such a complex scientific topic."

"It's not necessarily scientific," said Doris. "We're talking about lifestyles, sacrifices, priorities. This is judgmental. Every opinion counts, and we want fresh perspectives from young people who think out of the box."

The president basically ended the debate with, "Cory, pass this to Helen for action. I want a plan A.S.A.P."

Cory and Doris both knew that tone. The conversation was over, Cory had instructions. Helen was Helen Fontaine, Secretary of Education. She happened to be a good friend of Doris's, and Doris knew she could count on Helen for support. This plan was as good as a done deal. And Cory knew it.

They both stood up. "Thank you, sir," said Doris.

"Uh, Cory," said the president.

"Sir?"

"Could you send in some coffee to go with these muffins?"

Doris had to quickly swing around and head for the door in order to hide the smile on her face.

Chapter 2, Episode 1

Doris Austin went to work the same way every day. Her boss reminded her to change her routine once in a while; he wanted her to leave her house at different times, and follow different routes to work. But she didn't always listen. Instead, she was more concerned with not getting stuck in commuter traffic.

On this particular day she left her house in Alexandria, Virginia, at 5:55 am, drove her car through quiet residential streets, past fashionably old houses with dew-covered trees and lawns, and joined the crush of cars heading north to Washington, D.C. Alexandria is only a few miles from the District, but it's the last few miles for commuters who drive from as far south as Fredericksburg, forty miles away. All of the major arteries along the way carried their streams of traffic to the main north-south Interstate that took them to the most popular commuter destinations: the Pentagon, Capitol Hill, Downtown, Foggy Bottom, Georgetown, and many other locations that were home to tens of thousands of workers.

By leaving at her house at 5:55 (or triple nickel as her late husband would say; it was a term he learned in the Army), Doris expected to be on the highway no later than 6:02 or 6:03. Traffic was heavy at that time, but still moving smoothly. Twenty minutes later it would slow to a crawl due to the simple fact that the city could not accept all at once the mass of cars waiting to get into it. She had taken the Metro a few times, a bus took her from her house to the Braddock Road station, but then she had a significant walk from the Metro to her job. Because she worked in heels and a dress or skirt, she'd had to bring walking shoes for the walk from the Metro. Her boss didn't like her arriving at work in a skirt with walking shoes (he said it looked "goofy") so she'd had to slip back into her heels before going through the door. It was a cumbersome routine, so she drove her car.

The one thing Doris did not like about her commute was that it was unpredictable. There was always a chance that, no matter how early you left, you were going to get stuck in some kind of jam. This was one of those mornings. She knew it the moment she crested the hill that took her down the ramp to the highway and saw a solid mile of illuminated red brake lights. She was in for a later-than-usual arrival.

Doris pressed a single number on her cell phone. A man's voice answered. "Cory."

"It's Doris. Traffic is bad." There was a sigh. "He hates it when you aren't in his office when he arrives."

"Tell him to rent me a condo Downtown. I'll walk two blocks to work and be there at the crack of dawn."

"No, Doris. He's here at the crack of dawn. You have to be here before the crack of dawn."

"I'll make it up to him. Tell him I baked my special down home muffins: guaranteed high fat content."

"Thanks. I'm sure that plus a positive report on public confidence will make his day," said Cory.

"Hey, I can't work miracles," said Doris.

"Watch what you say, you never know who's listening to your call." Cory was always paranoid about leaks, but, on the other hand, it was his job to be paranoid about leaks.

"My cell phone's encrypted."

There was a sigh. "See you when you get here."

Doris closed her phone and dropped it in her purse. It was one of those mornings when you had to turn on the radio and relax. She tuned it to her favorite local public radio affiliate and listened to the familiar morning voices. For years there had been different morning voices, but there was a changing of the guard and the old voices were replaced by new voices, and eventually the new ones became familiar, if not entirely likeable. She caught the last half of the top-of-the-hour newscast. She missed the latest war news, which was just as well because it was never good. Now they were on domestic politics, always newsworthy in a midterm election year. Unfortunately, her boss didn't always like the news. Now they were on energy news. This was hot. There was a huge bill working its way through Congress that was going to give tax breaks and a rollback of regulations to coal and gas developers. The utilities backed it. The mining companies backed it. The public hated it. This was exactly the kind of thing that got her boss in trouble. He was still sticking to the lower-our-dependency-on-foreign-energy argument, but it was losing traction with the public. She sighed. The numbers weren't going to be good today. She was already thinking of what to say; she had gotten good over the past year at delivering bad news with wit and charm, and a cranberry muffin or two. But lately it had been nothing but bad news, and it was irritating him, and everybody on staff was in a bad mood. Especially Cory.

While Doris mulled over the issues of the day, the bumper-to-bumper traffic snaked along the Interstate. She hated being late. Fortunately, her assistant was a young college grad who shared a house with three other people on Capitol Hill. She was always at work early. Doris dialed her desk.

"Doris Austin's office," said Connie in her crisp voice. Doris liked the way Connie sounded on the phone; she knew it gave callers a positive impression of Doris. That's how it worked in Washington: people judged you by the way your staff answers the phone.

"I'm in traffic, but it's starting to move."

"Not to worry, I've already downloaded the spreadsheet from the polling company," said Connie.

"Have you looked at it yet?"

"Not yet."

"Okay. Run the standard report, and have it printed and ready for me. If there's more bad news, and there will be, I need some talking points. Try to find something positive."

"The silver lining?" asked Connie.

"It might not be silver, but at this point I would take very shiny aluminum."

Connie laughed. "It will be polished and ready when you get here."

Doris hung up. There was no one else to call. At one time she would have called her husband to tell him she was arriving to work late and would probably have to eat lunch at her desk instead of meeting him. They didn't meet often for lunch; they were both too busy. In fact, the joke was that they usually canceled lunch together. But that was before he got sick, and before the sudden and steady decline as the cancer took hold, and before he died. Two years, three months and a week ago.

Finally she approached the Pentagon, at which point she exited the Interstate for an artery that was also busy, but not as busy. As she passed the massive building on its western side she glanced over at it and imagined for the thousandth time her husband in his office on the E ring, the newly renovated E ring on the western side, and how he reluctantly retired from the Army in August 2001 saying, 'Just like the Army, as soon as I get a new office with a window they want me out of it.' But of course one month later a jetliner full of people crashed into that very office, through that very window. Her husband said a prayer of thanks to the Army and then went to work for a think tank on K Street for twice the salary he had been making as an Army colonel.

Not far beyond the Pentagon, Doris drove onto the Memorial Bridge and crossed the Potomac River into the District. It was her favorite part of the commute: the view from the bridge was peaceful and spectacular. Today, sun glistened off the dome of the Jefferson Memorial and turned the surface of the river a deep orange. The Lincoln Memorial was imposing as she sped past it toward Constitution Avenue. At 19th Street she turned left and drove to a special employee parking area. A guard waved her in, having recognized both her and her car instantly.

"Morning, Ma'am," he said cheerfully.

"Morning, Sonny," she said.

She parked and got out of her car and straightened her wool burgundy skirt and jacket while checking her reflection in the car window. Miraculously, she had not put on weight after her husband's death; she had heard of widows eating their grief away. The suit she wore still looked like it was tailored for her, even though she had bought it off the rack ten years ago. She wore light makeup, and her gray hair was short and easy to keep neat. Doris prided herself on looking good at work while spending minimal time getting ready in the morning. She knew the look that got you what you wanted in Washington: feminine, yet powerful. You had to look pretty while your body language said: "If you waste my time I'm going to bite your head off." Satisfied that she was ready for her daily entrance she gathered her large purse from the front seat and her briefcase-on-wheels from the trunk of the car.

At the gate to the compound, Doris made sure the badge hanging around her neck was displayed outwards: you never knew when there would be a new guard on duty. Besides, it was the rule: all badges displayed all the time. Today the guard was Frank, one of the old-timers.

"Morning, Doris," he said.

"Morning, Frank. Going to get wet today?" Frank could predict the weather better than any weather forecaster.

"Not today. High and dry."

She entered the compound and followed a sidewalk past a perfectly trimmed green lawn that was being watered by automatic sprinklers. She kept her eyes on the sprinklers: you had to if you didn't want to get your ankles soaked. Doris entered the side door of her building and again displayed her badge for a guard.

"Morning, Ms. Austin," said a young woman.

"Good morning, Heather," said Doris. It was important to know all the guards by name if possible; it made them feel like they were part of the team instead of part of the furniture.

Doris placed her purse and briefcase on a conveyor belt so it could pass through a metal detector, then she stepped through the pedestrian portal. It was the curse of modern times, she thought to herself: badges, metal detectors, controlled access. It hadn't always been that way in Washington. It was a people town: you got in where you needed by cultivating relationships and becoming known by the right people, especially among the career civil servants. Now there was an access roster and if you weren't on somebody's roster you couldn't go see them no matter who you were.

At last, Doris was at work. As usual, people hustled from one office to another. There was constant movement, no one sat down, if you sat down it meant you didn't have anything to do. But there was a rhythm to the place, and she could tell instinctively if anything was seriously wrong. There were always things wrong, but seriously wrong meant that all hell was breaking loose and the day was going to be dreadful. Today there was a little more stress in the air than usual. She could feel it as she walked down the hall to her office. People greeted her, but not really. They spoke words of greeting but their minds were on some crisis somewhere in the world, or on Capitol Hill. This was a place where you often spent your days moving from one crisis to another. Crisis management, her boss liked to say. He should know: he was the President of the United States, and this was the White House, 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.