She sounded harried. The winning team had gone into full, victorious transition mode, and word had quickly gotten around the office that Ryland had tapped her to help manage the process. Every campaign donor, staffer, and intern within a five-hundred-mile radius was stopping by to congratulate her—and drop off a résumé. The fourth time we were interrupted by someone who popped in unannounced and just wanted “thirty seconds” of her time, I told her to lock the door and turn off her office lights until we were able to finish our conversation. “Maybe they’ll think you’ve gone to lunch.” Jenna groaned. “I can’t get anything done! I bought a door sign that says, ‘Don’t Even Think About Knocking: History Being Made.’ Didn’t help.” “Funny, but too subtle,” I said. “Get a Doberman, one with really big teeth. Let’s wrap this up before somebody else comes barging in. Now, before you forward any of those résumés for the slots in the DOJ, be sure to—” “Run them by Joe Feeney,”
