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Former President Bill Clinton and Bestseling writer James Patterson first collaborated on the thriller set at the White House: “President Is Missing” and “Daughter of The President,” both #1 New York Times Bestseller. Now they have joined the army for their third novel, “First gentleman” (June 2 is to be published by Little, Brown & Company).
In his latest thriller, the President of the United States is re -election, while her husband prosecuted for murder.
Read a fraction below, and Do not miss the interview of Tracy Smith with James Patterson and Bill Clinton on “CBS Sunday Morning” on 1 June!
“The First Gentleman” by Bill Clinton and James Patterson
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Preface
President right administration
Year three: September
1
Brentwood, New Hampshire
The coal right is sitting on the back seat of a black up-and-up Chevy suburban, one of the three in a convoy, which is moving its way under the route 125 in the Cycost area of New Hampshire.
Two Green Green State Police Cruisers, Lights Flashing, are leading this no-frills motorcycle, scales below for the occasion. President Limosine – The Beast – Secret Service Countersault team, support personnel, news media vans and fully equipped ambulances have returned to the airport.
Three years after the election, the coal still pumped from looking at the traffic part like magic, even though he knows well that it is for the convenience and safety of the woman sitting next to her – his wife, the medaline parson right, the President of the United States.
He is just the first gentleman.
A light drizzle against the bulletproof windows. The agent grows to seventy with two-lane highway.
The President’s Chief of Staff Burton Pears says, “Two minutes out.” Pierce first prescription from the couple to a rear-faceing jump seat. He is yellow and severe, wearing many of his same gray suits. “The gray ghost,” employee calls him. The President shakes his head without looking.
Cole’s eye is studying as a convoy with Maddy to see confidential tickets on the page. He knows that those pages represent the biggest political gambling of his administration – Any Administration. He should have a phone and twisting weapon in the working oval office, but instead he is here with him. A powerful personal show of support.
Maddy put her briefing packet aside. Cole takes his hand and squeezes it.
She squeezes back. “Don’t worry,” she says. “Finally we are together, we can also get through it.”
The suburban police slows down to create a tough turn behind the escort. Now the convoy is moving at a speed of only forty miles per hour. On both sides of the route, the locals catch the painted painted painted with raw -handed.
We believe in you, coal!
Stay strong, coal!
Keep walking, coal!
He looks out through tinted side window. Almost game time. He can feel his muscles twitching, his focus narrowness, such as a tight end for New England, thrown him out before his knee. He recalls how tension will be constructed in the Patriots Locker Room and almost until the breaking point would be constructed until the team runs in light, and when the crowd’s cheers used to wash it on it, he thought, he thought, he thought, he thought, Yes, we are fine. We have found this.
but today?
Today he is not so certain.
The redbrick aspect of Rockingam County Courthouse is seen. The road has been rolled with police barricades with hundreds of people – probably Thousands – of the audience. Here, some signs have a different tone.
Small!
Demon!
Justice for Suzanne!
“Don’t worry about these people,” Maddy says. “They don’t know what they are talking about.”
“I don’t care about people on the road,” calls Cole. “I am worried about twelve people that are waiting inside me.”
As soon as the suburban slows down in a crawl, two women jump out of the front and open a long banner.
Kantwt Coal Wright! Send it directly to hell!
Thanks for such desiresCole thinks.
2
One thousand protesters, media people, and curious locals are crowded in rain-facial parking. The convoy is going through long evergreen, when I realize that I leave my umbrella in my car, I am flaunting the footpath going to the courtyard. Its very late.
Rockingam County has never protected this kind of protection. Every law in New Hampshire is patrolling in courthouse stages from local police to fish and sports representing every law enforcement department. Strategic gear and black baseball caps on the roof have an expansion of men and women, which carry sniper rifles. They are not even trying to hide. This is the job of their colleagues, posted in places that no one can see.
I heard someone calling my name: “Brew Cook? That you?”
I look at the crowd. Most white. No surprise; Granite state is about 89 percent Caucasian. This is a condition that I was made north about two hours north as a black student in Dartmouth. Suppose it is not uncommon for me to stand here and there.
I wander. “Ron Reynolds!”
Ron is a friendly face from the old days when he and my partner, Garat Wilson, reported to both Boston GlobeHe is wearing his standard organization – tan overcoat, khaki pants and a tweed cap. His big press pass is swinging around his neck.
I give him a quick hug. “Looks like we both forgot our umbrellas.”
A finger broom on a man and a press pass pass by us by us. “Fake news!” The man shouts. Ron ignores him.
“so why are you here?” i ask. “You can be in one of those gyms right now, dry and toast. Perhaps it’s getting a better view.”
“I am paid to be wet,” Ron says. “Even if nothing happens.”
But something is happening. I have been waiting for a long time this day. I see the glowing lights are coming on the drive. Two state police cars and three big black SUVs.
“These are those!”
The light is getting closer. I am in the middle of the crowd, but suddenly I feel alone as I have ever felt in my life.
I close my eyes for a second. My mind whispers, Grato,
I barely nap. Not now! I need to focus. Capture this scene for my book. Our Book. A gare and I were working together. until he …
Ron indicates the courthouse steps. “See the podium and the camera stands there?”
I nod. “what about them?”
“For all the shows. Any route allows the secret service President and the first Gent to pass through the front entrance.”
“The crowd will not appreciate the deception like this.”
“You are right,” says Ron. “They came into witness history.”
So I did it.
For the first time in history, a president’s spouse is prosecuted for murder.
3
The convoy creeps towards the entrance as the police push the mob back. In the middle, inside the six-day suburban, Cole rubbed his hands together. Pierce bows forward to his jump seat and says, “County Sheriff, State Soldiers, and Secret Service have made a way so that we can go around the back of the courtyard. As long as the crowd and the press hold the crowd, we will remain out and out of the sight.”
hidden awayCole thinks. “No,” he says quietly. “This is not going to happen.”
Peers take a nap. “Sorry?”
“I said no. The courthouse is going through the back of the signs that I am guilty, that I have something to hide. Pench. I am going to run the ball directly through the line of scripture.”
Suburban driveways move towards turnoff. Pierce is getting tasty. “Cole, plans are in place for days. It is best to reach the back from both security and PR approach.”
But the coal is firm. “We pass through the front door. This is the final.”
He turns to his wife. “Maddy, would you say a few words on the courtyard’s steps?”
This is a big question. Maddy does not need to tell the source of stress in her eyes. The conflict between being the leader of the independent world as Potus is a conflict between being his loving partner, his face.
Maddy sees her Chief of Staff. “Cole is perfect, Burton. We pass through the front entrance, hold the head high.”
“But, Ma’am, we are just about there. Arrangements have been made.”
The coal maddy sees the shift in the commander-in-chief mode. Cold. Crunchy. Decision “You have received a phone,” she says. “Make a new arrangement.”
4
They are going out! “Ron holds my sleeve.
Certainly, I listen to the slamming of heavy car doors and see the movement in front of the courthouse stages. The secret service is scratching to clear a way to the podium.
“It takes some brass!” Ron calls me over the growing noise.
A ring of dark suits surrounds President Wright and his wide-condensed husband.
The President runs extensive steps and pivotes for podium. The crowd moves forward. The police pushed back. Secret service agents look at the face of the face. And hands. Especially hands. In search of weapons.
The President squeezes her husband’s arm just before bending into the right microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, my dear friends, I will make it small and point.”
I have heard his voice echoed in parking. She stops after each phrase so that the words can be allowed to drown.
“I have full faith and belief in my husband’s innocence, and I believe that the good citizens of New Hampshire, who have been standing on my behalf for years, will also support their husbands during this time of crisis.”
The President changes and kisses his husband’s cheek, making it sure that cameras have a good angle. Then, as it has been thought later, she again steps for the mix and says, “I believe in our legal system, and I believe that justice will be done here.”
She takes her husband’s hand. The secret service team surrounds them. As a unit, they move to the courtyard doors.
“Quite performance,” says Rrenolds.
“It was a performance. Pure theater. They are not a couple – they are a drawn criminal enterprise.”
My wrath should surprise the ron. A second later, he left to gather quotes.
Once again, I am alone. I scan the public. Almost every man, woman and child are looking towards the courtyard, trying to get one last glimpse of the first couple.
Away from the parking lot, I present the exceptions alone: a man and a woman, looking at me directly.
I have seen these two before. My watchman.
Shame. Not again.
The crowd turns, and they disappear.
Around me, people are fucking and screaming, but their words are a blanket of white noise. My mind whispers again, GratoI hold my hand, half expects to see him reaching for me.
I fight tears back because reality hits the house.
The love of my life, Garat Wilson, is dead. And I believe that the man inside that courtyard is responsible for his death.
First gentleman.
He must have pulled the trigger too.
From Bill Clinton and James Patterson from “The First Gentleman”. Copyright © 2025 by James Patterson and William Jefferson Clinton. Reported with the permission of Little, Brown & Co., a division of the hatchhet book group. All rights reserved.
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