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Former President Bill Clinton and author of the best sales of James Patterson previously collaborated on the excitement in the White House: “The President is missing” and “the daughter of the president”, both of whom are the best New York Times. They have now joined their third novel, “The first man” (It will be published on June 2 by Little, Brown & Co.).
In the latest excitement, the President of the United States nominated for his re -election while her husband stands for a trial for murder.
Read an excerpt below, and Do not miss the Triss Smith interview with James Patterson and Bill Clinton “Sunday morning” June 1!
“The First Man” of Bill Clinton and James Patterson
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introduction
Head of Wright Department
Third year: September
1
Brentwood, New Hampshire
Cole Wright sits in the back seat of the Black Archive Chefy Supban cars, one of three in a convoy to accelerate its road to the bottom of the 125th road in the Seacoast area in New Hampshire.
Two of the Dark Green State Police, the spotlight, lead this procession without marriage, and they reduce this occasion. The presidential Limozine – the monster – returned to the airport, alongside the Secret Service Counsaut team, support staff, news media trucks, and a fully equipped ambulance.
After three years of elections, Cole is still pumped from a traffic vision like magic, although he is well aware that for the sake of comfort and safety for the woman sitting next to him – his wife, Madeleine Parson Wright, President of the United States.
He is just a noble man.
A slight spray is split against bullet -resistant windows. The agent accelerates to seventy along the high -high highway.
“Two minutes.” Pears sits in a back leap seat from the first spouses. He is pale and dangerous, wearing one of his many identical gray suits. “Graduate Ghost”, the employees call it. The president’s gestures without looking at.
Cole looks to see the secret stamps on the pages he reads material and reads the convoy. He knows that these pages represent the largest political gamble to manage – from any administration. It should be in the Oval Office working on phones and wrapping weapons, but instead here. A strong personal offer to support.
Madi puts the briefing package aside. Cole takes her hand and presses her.
It presses again. “Don’t worry,” she says. “After all we passed together, we can go beyond this too.”
The suburbs slow down to achieve a difficult turn behind the police accompany. Now the caravan moves in only forty miles per hour. On both sides of the path, the local population keeps hand -drawn raw signs.
We believe in you, Cole!
Stay strong, Cole!
Continue move, Cole!
He looks through the colored side window. The game time is almost. His muscles can feel hesitant and focus, as in his days as a narrow end of the New England – before the blown knee forced him to go out. He remembers how tension in the Patriot Treasury room will build and build to almost the collapse point until the team ran out to light, and when he washed the crowd chants, he thought,, Yes, we are fine. We got this.
But today?
Today is not sure.
The red interface was faced at the Rocingham Provincial Court. Line the road with hundreds of police pills – perhaps Thousands – From the spectators. Here, some signs have a different tone.
Screw!
Monster!
Justice for Susan!
“Don’t worry about these people,” said Maadi. “They don’t know what they are talking about.”
“People do not care on the road,” says Cole. “I am concerned about the twelve people waiting for me inside.”
When the suburbs slow down, two women jump in the front and a long banner.
Call Wright condemnation! Send it directly to hell!
Thanks for the kind desiresCole believes.
2
Those who demonstrated and local media personnel and residents are crowded in a parking lot for steady cars. The caravan passes through the long green ever -greenery that surrounds the platform leading to the court when I realized that I left an umbrella in my car. It is too late.
Rocingham’s province has not attracted any security like this. The uniform that represents each law enforcement in New Hampshire – from local police officers to fish and the game – they take patrols in the court’s steps. On the roof, there are details of men and women in tactical equipment and black pespol caps carrying sniper rifles. They do not even try to hide. This is the function of their colleagues, which was published in places that no one can see.
I hear someone calling my name: “Brea Cooke? What are you?”
I look at the crowd. Mostly white. Granite’s surprise is not about 89 percent of the Caucasus. It is a situation that I used to as a black student in Dartmouth, about two hours north. Let’s just say that it is not unusual for me to highlight here.
I turn away. “Ron Reynolds!”
Ron is a friendly face since the old days when he and my partner, Jarret Wilson, informed him Boston Globe. He is wearing his usual clothes – Tan coat, khaki pants, and a trusteeship. The big press pass around its neck.
Give him a fast hug. “I think we have forgotten our umbrellas.”
A man in a thick Kamu jacket wanders by us and finger finger in the Ron Press Pass. “Fake news!” The man screams. Ron ignores it.
“Why are you here?” Ask. “It can be in one of those gyms at the present time, dry and enjoyable. Perhaps getting a better vision than this.”
“I receive salaries to wet,” says Ron. “Even if nothing happened.”
But something happens. I was waiting for this day for a long time. I see the flashing lights come in the drive. Two state police cars and three large black SUVs.
“They are!”
The lights are approaching. I am in the middle of the crowd, but suddenly I feel lonely as I felt in my life.
Close my eyes for a second. My mind whispered, Garrett.
I am very flashing. not now! I need to focus. Pick this scene to my book. our book. I and I and Garrett were working together. until …
Ron refers to the court’s steps. “See the platform and the camera stands there?”
I am a gesture. “What about them?”
“Everything is for display. The secret service of the president and the first cent does not allow going to the front entrance.”
“The crowd will not be deceived like this.”
“You are right,” says Ron. “They came to see history.”
And so did I
The first time on the date of the president’s husband has tried for murder.
3
The caravan crawls towards the entrance while the policemen pushed the crowds back. Inside the suburb of six tons in the middle, Cole rubbed his hands together nervously. Pears tends forward in the jump seat and says: “The mayor of the province, the state forces, and the secret service are a path so that we can circumvent the back of the court. By the time when the crowd and the press pick up, we will be inside and outside.”
HideoutCole believes. “No,” he says quietly. “This will not happen.”
Pierce walked. “Excuse me?”
“I said no. Entering the back of the court’s references that I am guilty, and I have something to hide it.
The suburbs move towards the transfer of the corridor. Pierce gets a test. “Cole, the plans were in place for several days. It is better to arrive across the back of each point of view and public relations.”
But Cole is firm. “We go through the front door. This is final.”
He resorted to his wife. “Madi, will you say a few words on the steps of the court?”
It is great. Physical does not need to be told about the source of tension in her eyes. The conflict between being his loving partner while working as Botus, the leader of the free world, is engraved on her face.
Madi is seen by the chief of staff. “Cole is right, Berton. We go across the front entrance, the heads are high.”
“But madam, we are only there. The arrangements have been made.”
Cole sees a physical transformation into the position of the supreme leader. amazing. crisp. crucial. “You have a phone,” she says. “Make new arrangements.”
4
They go out! Ron holds my sleeves.
Certainly, I hear criticism of heavy cars doors and see the movement at the forefront of the court’s steps. The secret service is scrambling to wipe a road to the platform.
“This takes some copper!” Ron calls me above the increasing noise.
An episode of dark claims is surrounded by President Wright and her husband’s wide shoulder.
The president goes on the wide and axis steps to the platform. The crowd rises forward. Police officers are pushing back. The secret service agents watch the sea of faces. And hands. Especially hands. Looking for weapons.
President Wright presses her husband’s arm before she tends to microphones. “My ladies and pillow, my dear friends, I will make this short and to this point.”
I hear its sound via the car park. It stops temporarily after every phrase to let the words drown in it.
“I have a complete faith and confidence in my husband’s innocence, and I am confident that the righteous citizens in New Hampshire, who stood beside me over the years, will support my husband during this time of the crisis.”
The president turns and accepts her husband’s cheek, making sure that the cameras have a good angle. Then, as if it was after thinking, it ascends to the microphones again and says: “I believe in our legal system, and I am sure that justice will be accomplished here.”
She takes her husband’s hand. The secret service team surrounds them. As a unit, they follow the steps to the doors of the court.
“Wonderful performance,” says Reynolds.
“It was fine. The pure theater. They are not a couple – they are a curse criminal institution.”
My Balah Ron should be surprised. Later, he goes to collect quotes.
Again, I am alone. I wipe the masses. Almost every man, a woman and a child looks at the court, in an attempt to obtain a final overview of the first two couple.
On the far side of the car park, I discovered the only exceptions: a man and a woman, looking at me directly.
I have seen these two before. Watch.
the curse. Not again.
The crowd changes, and disappears.
Whoever is around me, people ignore and scream, but their words are a blanket of white noise. Once again, my mind whispered, Garrett. Hold my hand, half I expect to see it arrives for me.
I return to tears with reality to the home.
Love of my life, Garrett Wilson, has died. And I think the man inside that court is responsible for his death.
The first man.
Perhaps he has pulled the trigger.
From “First Man” by Bill Clinton and James Patterson. Copyright © 2025 by James Patterson and William Jefferson Clinton. It was reprinted with the permission of Little and Brown and Company, a section of the Hachette Book Group collection. All rights reserved.
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