Page 2 of The First Gentleman

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 theBoston 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.Ourbook. 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.

3

The convoy crawls toward the entrance as cops push the crowds back. Inside the six-ton Suburban in the middle, Cole rubs his hands together nervously. Pearce leans forward in his jump seat and says, “The county sheriffs, state troopers, and Secret Service have carved out a path so we can go around to the rear of the courthouse. By the time the crowd and the press catch on, we’ll be inside and out of sight.”

Hidden away,Cole thinks. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s not going to happen.”

Pearce blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said no. Going in through the rear of the courthouse signals that I’m guilty, that I have something to hide. Screw that. I’m going to run the ball straight through the line of scrimmage.”

The Suburban moves toward the driveway turnoff. Pearce is getting testy. “Cole, plans have been in place for days. Best to arrive via the rear from both a safety and PR viewpoint.”

But Cole is firm. “We go through the front door. That’s final.”He turns to his wife. “Maddy, will you say a few words on the courthouse steps?”

It’s a big ask. Maddy doesn’t need to tell him the source of the tension in her eyes. The conflict between being his loving partner while serving as POTUS, leader of the free world, is etched on her face.

Maddy looks at her chief of staff. “Cole is right, Burton. We go through the front entrance, heads held high.”

“But, ma’am, we’re just about there. Arrangements have been made.”

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