Christie Stallworth’s motorcade returned to the grounds of
the Naval Observatory hurriedly with lights flashing passing through all of the
intersections en route northwestward along Massachusetts Ave without
obstruction regardless of the string of red traffic lights they
encountered. Second Lady
Stallworth’s driver kept pace with the leading Secret Service vehicle at a
distance no further than eight feet between bumpers. The two vehicles traveled as if in harmonious rhythm at a
consistent sixty miles-an-hour pace weaving between street lanes in a rigidly
tandem demonstration of professional driving passing vehicle after vehicle full
of inquisitive motorists attempting to catch a glimpse of the motorcade’s
occupants as they lawfully yielded to the their passing. The SUVs speed and blackened windows
prevented any disclosure of the identity of the VIP occupants within to
external eyes. Inside her vehicle,
Christie had fully reassembled herself in both make-up and attire. She lowered the privacy partition that
separated her from her Secret Service driver and security detail lead while
turning down the volume on the rear satellite radio she had been blaring to
herself along the ride home.
“Bring me around back to the kitchen entrance. Thanks,” she
instructed without any concern that her request nor her extramarital jaunt
would be judged by either of the two agents.
The motorcade turned into the Naval Observatory compound
through the main gate and proceeded along the entry drive up toward the Vice
President’s mansion. It passed the formal entrance used to greet the many powerful
guests that arrived for countless dinners and galas hosted by the Second
couple. After turning past the
northeast corner of the mansion the lead vehicle slowed and turned left at a
fork in the driveway while Mrs. Stallworth’s vehicle viered off on the right
fork toward the rear service entrance of the building. It stopped directly in front of a wide
staircase that led up to a rear entrance to the first floor kitchen.
Passing through the steel galley-ways that ordered the
layout of the industrial-sized production facility with ease and confidence
that comes with repetitive behavior, Christie hailed to the head steward and
ordered a drink to be delivered to the family’s personal quarters. Her lips faintly cracked into a smile
of self-delight in her ability to sneak off and back again before her husband
could return for the night. She knew
the Vice President would return momentarily, though having beaten him home, she
also knew she would not have to explain her absence.
Christie passed through the large first floor parlor rooms and up the grand staircase to reach
the residence above. Upon entry
she was greeted by the warmth and pleasant aroma of a crackling fire in the
reading room to her right where she chose to stage herself to await her
husband’s return. The head steward
knocked then entered the residence delivering Christie the martini she
requested exactly as she ordered every night.
Upon the stewards departure, Christie took advantage of her
solitude and removed the special package she had been given by Jon-E back in
the motel and discreetly hid it behind a set of leather-bound, first-edition
Lewis Carroll novels that were centered on the fourth shelf up from the floor
to the right of the hearty stone fireplace. The package would be as safe from discovery here as it would
be anywhere else within the residence quarters. She knew her husband to never be inclined to read unless he
was commanded to do so, so the novels made for a perfect hiding place in plain
sight that she could monitor with ease.
If the contents of that package were to be discovered, she knew that it
would result in a comprehensive criminal investigation that could bring down
many, if not the very most powerful political figure in the United States.
If you tell one person, you’ve told one too many, she thought
to herself compartmenting her secret within her mind.
