The First Gentleman

PROLOGUE
President Wright Administration
Year Three: September

•••

1
Brentwood, New Hampshire

Cole Wright is sitting in the rear seat of a black up-armored Chevy Suburban, one of three in a convoy speeding its way down Route 125 in the Seacoast Region of New Hampshire.

Two dark green state police cruisers, lights flashing, are leading this no-frills motorcade, scaled down for the occasion. The presidential limousine — the Beast — is back at the airport, along with the Secret Service counterassault team, support personnel, news media vans, and a fully equipped ambulance.

Three years after the election, Cole still gets pumped from seeing traffic part like magic, even though he’s well aware that it’s for the convenience and safety of the woman sitting beside him — his wife, Madeline Parson Wright, the president of the United States.

He’s just the First Gentleman.

A light drizzle spatters against the bulletproof windows. The agent accelerates to seventy along the two-lane highway.

“Two minutes out,” says Burton Pearce, the president’s chief of staff. Pearce perches in a rear-facing jump seat across from the First Couple. He’s pale and serious, wearing one of his many identical gray suits. “The Gray Ghost,” staffers call him. The president nods without looking up.

Cole glances over to see the confidential stamps on the pages Maddy is reading as the convoy hums along. He knows those pages represent the biggest political gamble of her administration — of any administration. She should be in the Oval Office working the phones and twisting arms, but instead she’s here with him. A powerful personal show of support.

Maddy puts her briefing packet aside. Cole takes her hand and squeezes it.

She squeezes back. “Don’t worry,” she says. “After all we’ve been through together, we can get through this too.”

The Suburban slows down to make a hard turn behind the police escort. Now the convoy is moving at just forty miles per hour. On both sides of the route, locals hold up crude hand-painted placards.

WE BELIEVE IN YOU, COLE!
STAY STRONG, COLE!
KEEP MOVING, COLE!

He looks out through the tinted side window. Almost game time. He can feel his muscles twitching, his focus narrowing, just like in his days as a tight end for New England — before the blown knee forced him out. He remembers how the tension in the Patriots locker room would build and build almost to the breaking point until the team ran out into the light, and when the cheers of the crowd washed over him, he’d think, Yeah, we’re okay. We’ve got this.

But today?

Today he’s not so sure.

The redbrick facade of the Rockingham County courthouse comes into view. The road is lined with police barricades holding back hundreds — maybe thousands— of onlookers. Up here, some of the signs have a different tone.

SCUM!
MONSTER!
JUSTICE FOR SUZANNE!

“Don’t worry about these people,” says Maddy. “They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“I don’t care about the people on the road,” says Cole. “I’m worried about the twelve people waiting for me inside.”

As the Suburban slows to a crawl, two women jump out in front and unspool a long banner.

CONVICT COLE WRIGHT! SEND HIM STRAIGHT TO HELL!

Thanks for the kind wishes, Cole thinks.

•••

2

A thousand demonstrators, media people, and curious locals are crowded into the rain-slick parking lot. The convoy is passing through the tall evergreens flanking the pavement leading up to the courthouse when I realize I left my umbrella in my car. Too late.

Rockingham County has never drawn security like this. Uniforms representing every law enforcement department in New Hampshire — from local cops to Fish and Game — are patrolling the courthouse steps. On the roof there’s a detail of men and women in tactical gear and black baseball caps carrying sniper rifles. They’re not even trying to hide. That’s the job of their colleagues, posted in places nobody can see.

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 the Boston 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. Our book. 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.”

Cole sees Maddy shift into commander-in-chief mode. Cool. Crisp. Decisive. “You’ve got a phone,” she says. “Make new arrangements.”

•••

4

They’re getting out!” Ron grabs my sleeve.

Sure enough, I hear the slamming of heavy car doors and see movement at the front of the courthouse steps. The Secret Service is scrambling to clear a path to the podium.

“That takes some brass ones!” Ron calls to me above the rising noise.

A ring of dark suits surrounds President Wright and her broad-shouldered husband.

The president walks up the wide steps and pivots to the podium. The crowd surges forward. Cops push back. Secret Service agents watch the sea of faces. And hands. Especially the hands. Looking for weapons.

President Wright squeezes her husband’s arm just before she leans into the microphones. “Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, I will make this short and to the point.”

I hear her voice echo across the parking lot. She pauses after each phrase to let the words sink in.

“I have full faith and confidence in my husband’s innocence, and I trust that the good citizens of New Hampshire, who have stood by my side over the years, will also support my husband during this time of crisis.”

The president turns and kisses her husband’s cheek, making sure the cameras have a good angle. Then, as if it’s an afterthought, she steps up to the mics again and says, “I believe in our legal system, and I’m confident justice will be done here.”

She takes her husband’s hand. The Secret Service team surrounds them. As a unit, they walk up the steps to the courthouse doors.

“Quite a performance,” says Reynolds.

“It was a performance all right. Pure theater. They’re not a couple — they’re a damn criminal enterprise.”

My outburst must surprise Ron. A second later, he heads off to gather quotes.

Once again, I’m alone. I scan the masses. Almost every man, woman, and child is looking toward the courthouse, trying to get one last glimpse of the First Couple.

On the far side of the parking lot, I spot the lone exceptions: a man and a woman, looking straight at me.

I’ve seen these two before. My watchers.

Damn. Not again.

The crowd shifts, and they disappear.

All around me, people are chattering and yelling, but their words are a blanket of white noise. Again my mind whispers, Garrett. I hold out my hand, half expecting to see him reaching for me.

I fight back the tears as reality hits home.

The love of my life, Garrett Wilson, is dead. And I believe the man inside that courthouse is responsible for his death.

The First Gentleman.

He might even have pulled the trigger.