Arthur Caan, junior reporter for the White House, is going on another coffee run for the imperious Press Secretary, Jeanine Scaledros. He had gone to Harvard, gotten his masters and graduated as the valedictorian. Despite his extensive experience reporting with reporting crises, he was stuck in line at a coffee shop. He stayed in the White House, and thought if he stayed long enough, he would eventually get an important job. He jokingly said to himself, “If only something bad happened, then I’d have something to report on.”
~
After I got screened and entered the press room, no one said anything. I squeezed my way past Jeanine who was talking to the Chief of Staff and a group of reporters arguing passionately about events in the middle east. However, I have one friend in the the “Hate House,” as I liked to call it, in Gavin Nergy. After I settled in, Gavin slid his creaking rolling chair over to my desk, attracting several judging glares from his fellow senior reporters. “Hey Arthur, how was your conversation with Blaise (the president)?” Gavin jested.
“Oh you know, just talked about how I do nothing and need a promotion,” I dryly responded.
“You’ll get there,” he smiled, as he rolled his way back to his desk.
As I went to grab lunch for the “extremely busy” reporters, I walked past the vice president, Alexander Gregor. He was talking into a very old phone, only capable of calling. However, he seemed… suspicious. He furtively glanced around, looking for important people. So his eyes, of course, browsed over me. I suddenly got very excited. This could be the scandal I had been searching for! I tried to look nondescript as I walked by. Once his eyes were away from me, I hid behind a marble pillar and listened very carefully. “… I can’t… You know they would never go for that… Can you just handle it?… Fine… Meet at the Monument at eight o’clock tonight.” And with that, the flip phone slammed shut. As he purposefully strode away, his eyes still had a nervous look as they roved the hallway.
During the car ride to the restaurant, I wondered about the call. Was the vice president doing something wrong? I decided that if I went to the Washington Monument, it would be extremely out of line-verging on stalking Gregor. However, I didn't want to give up what could be my one chance to write a major story. After tossing the idea  around in my head for almost an hour, I returned to the Hate House with the decision to let it go. Once I delivered the more important people’s lunch, I excitedly talked to Gavin and explained my situation.
“Arthur, you can’t let this this go!”
“Come on, he wouldn't be doing anything wrong: he’s the vice president!”
“We all know of his Russian dealings, and you aren't doing anything wrong.”
“Doesn’t it seem stalker-ish?”
“No, you can possibly be doing it for the safety of the Republic! And if you are accused of stalking him, that can be your excuse! Seems like the perfect (almost) crime.”
“Alright, fine. I’ll check it out. But if nothing happens or seems weird, I’m dropping it.”
“Good luck; could be huge!”
As I perused the news on my computer, a fellow junior reporter and Harvard graduate, Clara Parks, said concernedly, “Have something on your mind? You look kind of troubled.”
“Um…” I thought about telling her about what I was planning to do later tonight, and how I might need someone to accompany me on my potential journey. Ultimately, I tried to nonchalantly say, “Could I talk to you in the hall?”
Once we got to a slightly secluded corner in the hallway, I explained the events that transpired in a low voice, wary of someone listening. “So, that’s what I am planning to do. You in?”
Clara immediately responded, “Of course! In fact, one of my close friends is a private detective and could loan me some of his spy gear. Meet at the north side of the Monument at 7:30?”
“Sounds good, see you there.”
Finally, the fated hour arrived. I quickly strode towards our rendezvous, my teeth clacking because of the biting cold, which explained the lack of people at the Washington Monument. I quickly noticed Clara sitting on a bench. She spotted me and waved me over and motioned to the pile of gadgets she had piled on the bench. “Here are the things my friend gave me. There is audio scrambler that can end any phone calls within 50 feet, this weird suction looking device that amplifies sound and allows us to hear better; it also can record audio! Oh and I also brought night goggles and some pens that have audio recorders hidden inside. I took the liberty of placing one under every bench here. I know we can’t use it in a court, but it could help us plan our next move.”
“Clara, thats amazing, thanks so much. Now, we wait…”
After several minutes of anxiousness and sweaty palms, we saw Gregor sit on a bench. We both scrambled to get our night goggles and waited with heavy breaths. A minute later, a rather pale person appeared. He was wearing a trench coat and had a pocket just the right size to conceal a gun. Clara and I looked at each other, worried that we had gotten ourselves into something larger than we had anticipated.
As we quickly realized we could not hear a word, Clara pulled out her noise amplifier and two pairs of headphones. “Hello again,” said the vice president with an obviously fake confident overtone.
“Gregor,” the man in the coat said distastefully.
“Are your men ready for the sixteenth? I will not do what you requested for botched treason.”
“My side is perfectly ready, it is your side I’m worried about. Can you guarantee our guy will be where he needs to be?”
“Yes,” Gregor said with a hint of regret.
“I will… Wait. What’s this?”
As we saw the man pick up our pen, deep rooted panic blossomed inside my chest. I whispered urgently, “We need to go. Now!”
We got up and scampered back to our separate cars, with Clara whispering, “Talk at the office tomorrow.”
~
The Russian menacingly spoke, “Someone’s on to us. I’ll have my troops watching everything: White House communications, street cameras, and everything in between. We will catch them, and they will die.” Meanwhile, Andrew and Clara slept soundly, thinking they had gotten away.
~
Finally, towards the end of the day, I got a chance to plan our next move with Clara. “Hey, so when do you want to talk?” I said, trying to be as vague as possible.
“How about tonight at… 9:00? I know a place we can meet. I’ll page you the location later. Do you have the recording?”
“Yeah I have it. See you then!”
As I pulled up to an office complex, I started to get a foreboding feeling that we were way in over our heads. We arrived at about the same time and met each other in front of the building. “You ready?” I said, knowing that what we decided today would alter the Republic for many years to come.
“Definitely.” she declared.
Once we got inside, we sat down in some conference room in the back and set down all our evidence on the table. We reviewed the tape from the sound amplifier and pondered about the implications of it. “What’s on the sixteenth?” she mused.
With sudden realization, I gasped. “The President is going to speak at some conference hall nearby! They are planning an assassination!”
“We need to write a story - get the message out there. And get it out quickly, we have three days until the conference,” I said.
“There isn't enough evidence though. Um, we could show the recording to other reporters at the White House, have other reporters tackle this. We’d have a larger chance of exposing the vice president than just us.”
“Okay, so, we leak the recording, get it out to the public. Safe, its going to work.”
“Arthur, we will do this, we will be fine, and we will expose Gregor for what he is,” Clara said resolutely, “I’m gonna go, need to get home. See you tomorrow!”
“Sounds good Clara, we can do this,” I said with a smile.
I cleaned up a bit, shuffled my papers together and grabbed the amplifier. I looked outside the window and almost in slow motion, I saw her body jolt twice and crumple to the ground with her limbs strewn awkwardly around. I went to rush out, until I saw the two snipers on top of the opposite building, ruining my hopes that I could call 911 or do something to help my new friend. Deep, dark, deadly red bloomed outward from her chest through her shirt. She shakily reached her hand out towards my direction and mouthed, “Go,” as blood dribbled out of the side of her mouth. With her face towards me, I saw the color seep out of her skin and the light fade from her eyes. I let out a horrified gasp and stumbled back inside the conference room, leaving her bleeding out in the middle of the street like roadkill. As I tried to comprehend what happened, my only thought was, I brought her into this. I killed her.
I hid out in the conference room overnight, feeling like there was a ticking bomb inside my chest. The next day, I dared to walk to my car. I tried to surreptitiously walk, but I couldn't help but start running for fear of getting shot to death! I wrenched open my car door and slammed down in my seat. I sped out of that complex and drove straight to my house. On the ride there, I hurriedly called Gavin. “Gavin, pick up, pick up… Gavin!” I hurriedly explained the events that had just transpired. “What should I do?”
“Well… There isn't really anything you can do. I’m one of the reporters at the conference so I will check things out, make sure things are okay but you don't have enough evidence to do anything, unfortunately.”
“Clara was shot!”
“Shootings aren't proof of the vice president’s treason.”
After we went back and forth for a while, I finally said, “You’re right, I guess. Thanks anyways, Gavin. Tell me if you see anything.”
On the other side of the line, I heard a screeching sound, a crash, and then terrifying static.
As I slowly walked into his hospital room, it felt almost surreal. First Clara, and now Gavin gets in a car crash. Such needless violence. However, Gavin was going to be “okay.” I had to stay focused, there was a job to be done. I looked around his room and spotted his bag that he always took the the office with him. I spotted his White House security clearance badge clamped to the side. Furtively glancing around, I grabbed the badge and shoved it into my pocket. I hustled out of the hospital, having a very rough journey ahead of me.
That day, I never went to the Hate House. I went to my house to go over my audacious plan. I needed to save the President. I would enter the hall using Gavin’s badge, take my alleged senior reporter seat close to where the speech would be given. And after that, I hoped some door would open or some opportunity would arise for me to do something after those two steps occurred. Once I kept thinking through my plot, I realized that my plan almost assured my destruction. Clara’s gone, Gavin’s in the hospital, and I am going to die.
One day before the conference, I walked in again to the White House, going through the same routine. This time, however, I had no one to greet, say hello to. So, I just sat down alone. When Jeanine inquired, “Where’s Gavin?”
“He’s sick,” I lied. With a curt nod, she dipped out of the room. For the next day and a half, I just went through the motions, going to work, going home. And then, on the hallowed hour, I set out for the conference hall. I walked out, clutching Gavin’s badge tightly in my hand. When I went to pass security, I held out the badge in such a way that my fingers covered his photo but left the barcode on the bottom exposed. With a grunt, the guard said, “Next.”
As I went to take my seat, I attracted several wondering looks from a few reporters who were actually invited to this event. Thankfully, no one said anything and I took my seat in silence. Finally, the lights dimmed and the President strode out, arms linked with the First Lady with a spotlight focused on him. They disengaged as he stood in front of a wooden pedestal, beaming at the crowd in front of him. While he talked on, I had my eyes peeled for any unusual movement. There, in the back, wreathed in shadows. I spotted four distinct ripples of movement, and saw three circles appear faintly, exposed by light reflecting off of what I suspected to be barrels of sniper rifles.
I barely realized what I was doing as I raced out of my seat and tackled the President. I saw blood spurt out of his forearm and the First Lady grab her stomach and collapse. Strangely, a strange pain manifested in my torso. I fell to the ground, thump thump, I saw a hole in Jeanine’s head appear, thump thump, red crowds around the edges of my vision, thump thump, I barely noticed when I was hoisted up and carried outside into a helicopter. Thump thump, and all is dark.
When I finally came to, my first thought was, Blaise is alive. Next, I realized, I’m alive. With that thought, I again drifted into unconsciousness. For the next few days, I wandered between dreams and reality. I yelled, “Just let me die, let me die!” Thinking, If I just drifted away, if I just let go, things would be better. Later, a syringe filled with red was removed from my arm, accompanied a voice saying, “How can he possibly be alive?”
  I thought I heard the President shout, “You have to save them!” in front of a group of terrified doctors. Later, I saw Gregor come in to my room and shoot me in the head, and then fall through the floor. Once, I observed my room from outside, looking down at my almost unrecognizable emaciated body. Gavin was seated in a chair nearby, head in his hands. A few dark periods later, I notice a doctor yelling, scalpel in hand, “I need blood now, he’s flatlining!”
When I finally regained my senses, a week had passed. As I sat up, I noticed a doctor looking at a reading on a nearby monitor. With a startled look, he said, “You’re up? Good,” as he rushed out of the room. Feeling slightly miffed, I directed my gaze towards the ceiling, futilely trying to keep my mind off the pain in my abdomen and the fact that Clara was dead.
A few minutes later, the President, walked in, dressed in a suit. I went to sit up fully and salute, but collapsed back down, exhausted. He graciously thanked me for saving his life and how he was glad that Gregor would pay for killing Jeanine and his wife. Eventually, he said, “I would like you to be my new vice president.” In my mind, I was thrilled! No more lowly journalism, no more bottom feeding for a scrap of a story. But then I thought, what would Clara do?
I deflected his question saying, “I’ll need to think about that…” trailing off.
Looking almost incredulous, he said, “All right Arthur, have your decision ready tomorrow!” And with that, he walked out, leaving me to my thoughts
When he came back tomorrow, I felt as if I had reached my decision. “So, what’s it going to be?” he said, thinking he knew my response.
After my day of introspection, I responded briefly, “No.” In reaction, the President’s eyebrows almost flew upwards off his head. “However,” I continued, “I would like to be the new Press Secretary. I would make the entire body more efficient, get rid of reporter positions and just do generi-”
The President cut me off, “Of course you can have the position!” he said, “You saved my life, and have journalism experience. Even though you’d be a great v.p., you’ll be a even greater Press Secretary.”
~
I snapped at a reporter, “You should’ve done that yesterday! Get out of my sight.” I saw Gavin walk up, still limping from his car crash.
“Are you the new Jeanine?” he simply stated. I was turning into the person I had hated the most. Once he pulled my head out from the clouds, I resolved to make the White House Press, not the Hate House Press, better. I would give reporters more independence, abolish positions: give everyone the same job. No junior reporter and senior reporter rivalry, just a group of intelligent scholars trying to get the truth out. I would do as Clara would have wanted.
In response, I firmly said, “Not anymore.”