But the memory of her scornful rebuff stung Cam like a burn. And women were still rejecting him. Even Stephanie Maple, who was not beautiful at all, had turned him down on the night of Nixon’s victory. Later, when they both came to Washington to work, Stephanie had at last agreed to go to bed with Cam; but she had ended the romance after one night, which in a way was worse.

Cam knew he was tall and awkward, but so was his father, who apparently had never had trouble attracting women. Cam had talked to his mother about this indirectly. “How come you fell for Dad?” he had said. “He’s not handsome or anything.”

“Oh, but he was so nice,” she had said.

Cam had no idea what she was talking about.

He arrived at the Department of Justice and entered the high Great Hall with its art deco aluminum light fixtures. He anticipated no problem with the authorization: the attorney general, John Mitchell, was a Nixon crony, and had been Nixon’s campaign manager in 1968.

The elevator’s aluminum door opened. Cam got in and pressed the button for the fifth floor.

• • •

In ten years in the Washington bureaucracy, Maria had learned to be watchful. Her office was in the corridor leading to the attorney general’s suite of rooms, and she kept her door open, so that she could see who came and went. She was especially alert on the day after the broadcast of the edition of This Day based on her leak. She knew there would be an explosive reaction from the White House, and she was waiting to see what form it would take.

As soon as she saw one of John Ehrlichman’s aides go by, she jumped out of her chair.

“The attorney general is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed,” she said, catching him up. She had seen him before. He was an awkward, gangling white boy, tall and thin, his shoulders like a wire coat hanger for his suit. She knew the type: he would be clever and naïve at the same time. She put on her most friendly smile. “Perhaps I can do something for you?”

“It’s not the kind of thing that can be discussed with a secretary,” he said irritably.

Maria’s antennae quivered. She sensed danger. But she pretended to be eager to help. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not a secretary,” she said. “I’m an attorney. My name is Maria Summers.”

He clearly had difficulty with the concept of a black woman lawyer. “Where did you study?” he asked skeptically.

He probably expected her to name an obscure Negro college, so she took pleasure in saying casually: “Chicago Law.” But she could not resist asking: “How about you?”

“I’m not a lawyer,” he admitted. “I majored in Russian at Berkeley. Cam Dewar.”

“I’ve heard of you. You work for John Ehrlichman. Why don’t we talk in my office?”

“I’ll wait for the attorney general.”