Page 26 of The First Gentleman

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 thePost,it will have a chilling effect between this administration and your newspaper. And when I saychilling,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’strillion. With at.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.”

CHAPTER

22

Dartmouth College

On the border of the green, I’m sitting against one of the big oak trees soaking up some especially bright winter sun while finishing a takeout burger from Murphy’s, one of my favorite campus hangouts. One of Garrett’s too. In fact, it’s where we went on our second date. Before ending up back in my bed in Richardson Hall.

This morning, I kissed Garrett goodbye in the rental-car parking lot and headed over to the office of the underground student newspaper. The visit was a dead end—until a staffer told me that the back issues were in a collection at the Rauner Library.

I flashed my alumni ID card, and the student behind the desk pointed me toward the student newspaper archive. Some intrepid librarian had amassed printed copies of every back issue. While the reporters for the official campus newspaper, theDartmouth,were governed by the same libel laws that professional journalists had to adhere to, the underground paper pushed the envelope,even investigating stories about campus crimes that otherwise went unreported.

I scanned the bylines of stories about blizzards and protests and new buildings and sports—and campus dramas. Maddy Parson’s and Cole Wright’s names came up frequently. So did Burton Pearce’s. I lingered over a photo of Cole from the homecoming game, his teammates clustered around him. From what Judd Peyton told us, the rape would have happened that night. But the story never ran. Which reporter was threatened? And what did he or she know?

When I was done, I had twenty-nine student reporters to follow up on. Names that are now on a list on my laptop along with notes for my call script.

After lunch, I return to the library and set up my computer in a carrel where I can make calls. I start working my way through Google, Facebook, LinkedIn—my first-resort sites for tracking strangers down. Before long, I’ve got contact info for nearly all the names on my list.

My phone buzzes with a text from Garrett: Will be in Beantown by 1. Followed by four heart emojis. I emoji him back and add, Be careful! His reply: You worry too much.

He’s right. I do. Especially about him.

Back to my list. First up, Colin Abrams, currently a producer for an Omaha television station. I call the number for him listed on the website and get lucky.

“This is Colin Abrams.”

I launch into my spiel. “Hi, Mr. Abrams, my name is Brea Cooke. I’m a Dartmouth alum working on a book about incidents that happened on campus about twenty years ago.”

Nothing from the other end. Then: “And why did you call me?”

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