It was one of the personal “tricks” the speech therapist had given him: Reassure yourself before a meeting that you look fantastic, hon, then you can proceed with confidence. Her precise, motherly voice rang in his ears as he took a slow, deep breath. The nearby Secret Service agent was probably choking back a laugh, he thought, not daring to glance in his direction. “Jed, come on,” said Jerrod Hale, the President’s chief of staff, spotting him through the doorway. “They’ve already started.” “Yes, sir, I’m sorry.” Jed started inside with his head down, then heard the therapist’s advice again: Head up, stride with purpose! You belong where you’re going. Even if it’s the Oval office, she might have added—and undoubtedly would have if she’d known that his job as a deputy to the National Security Advisor often brought him here. He hadn’t told her what his job was, and it appeared that the anonymous benefactor who arranged for his speech lessons hadn’t told her.
