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.