“That’s all right,” said Bobby, though George was not sure he meant it. “This place is owned by the American people—they can look at it if they like.”

“This is my mother, Jacky Jakes,” George said.

Bobby shook her hand vigorously. “Mrs. Jakes, you have a fine son,” he said, turning on the charm, as he did whenever talking to a voter.

Jacky’s face had darkened with embarrassment, but she spoke without hesitation. “Thank you,” she said. “You have several—I was looking at them in this picture.”

“Four sons and three daughters. They’re all wonderful, and I speak with complete objectivity.”

They all laughed.

Bobby said: “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Jakes. Come and see us anytime.”

Though gracious, that was clearly a dismissal, and George and his mother left the room.

They walked along the corridor to the elevator. Jacky said: “That was embarrassing, but Bobby was kind.”

“It was also planned,” George said angrily. “Bobby’s never early for anything. Dennis deliberately misled us. He wanted to make me look uppity.”

His mother patted his arm. “If that’s the worst thing that happens today, we’ll be in good shape.”

“I don’t know.” George recalled Verena’s accusation, that his job was cosmetic. “Do you think my role here could be just to make Bobby look like he’s listening to Negroes when he’s not?”

Jacky considered. “Maybe.”

“I might do more good working for Martin Luther King in Atlanta.”

“I understand how you feel, but I think you should stay here.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

He saw her out of the building. “How is your apartment?” she said. “I have to see that next.”

“It’s great.” George had rented the top floor of a high, narrow Victorian row house in the Capitol Hill neighborhood. “Come over on Sunday.”

“So I can cook you dinner in your kitchen?”

“What a kind offer.”

“Will I meet your girlfriend?”

“I’ll invite Norine.”

They kissed good-bye. Jacky would get a commuter train to her home in Prince George’s County. Before she walked away she said: “Remember this. There are a thousand smart young men willing to work for Martin Luther King. But there’s only one Negro sitting in the office next to Bobby Kennedy’s.”

She was right, he thought. She usually was.

When he returned to the office he said nothing to Dennis, but sat at his desk and wrote a summary for Bobby of a report on school integration.

At five o’clock Bobby and his aides jumped into limousines for the short ride to the White House, where Bobby was scheduled to meet with the president. This was the first time George had been taken along to a White House meeting, and he wondered whether that was a sign that he was becoming more trusted—or just that the meeting was less important.

They entered the West Wing and went to the Cabinet Room. It was a long room with four tall windows on one side. Twenty or so dark-blue leather chairs stood around a coffin-shaped table. World-shaking decisions were made in this room, George thought solemnly.