The Pelican Brief

Thirty-Four

It was Saturday morning, and the Queen was in Florida taking money from the rich, and it was clear and cool outside. He wanted to sleep late, then play golf whenever he woke up. But it was seven, and he was sitting at his desk wearing a tie, listening to Fletcher Coal suggest what they ought to do about this and about that. Richard Horton, the Attorney General, had talked to Coal, and now Coal was alarmed.

Someone opened the door and Horton entered alone. They shook hands and Horton sat across the desk. Coal stood nearby, and this really irritated the President.

Horton was dull but sincere. He was not dumb or slow, he just thought carefully about everything before he acted. He thought about each word before he said it. He was loyal to the President, and could be trusted for sound judgment.

“We are seriously considering a formal grand jury investigation into the deaths of Rosenberg and Jensen,” he announced gravely. “In light of what’s happened in New Orleans, we think this should be pursued immediately.”

“The FBI is investigating,” the President said. “They’ve got three hundred agents on the case. Why should we get involved?”

“Are they investigating the pelican brief?” Horton asked. He knew the answer. He knew Voyles was in New Orleans at this moment with hundreds of agents. He knew they had talked to hundreds of people, collected a pile of useless evidence. He knew the President had asked Voyles to back off, and he knew Voyles was not telling the President everything.

Horton had never mentioned the pelican brief to the President, and the fact that he even knew about the damned thing was exasperating. How many more knew about it? Probably thousands.

“They are pursuing all leads,” Coal said. “They gave us a copy of it almost two weeks ago, so we assume they’re pursuing it.”

Exactly what Horton expected out of Coal. “I feel strongly that the Administration should investigate this matter at once.” He spoke as though this was all memorized, and this irritated the President.

“Why?” asked the President.

“What if the brief is on target? If we do nothing, and the truth eventually surfaces, the damage will be irreparable.”

“Do you honestly believe there’s any truth to it?” the President asked.

“It’s awfully suspicious. The first two men who saw it are dead, and the person who wrote it has disappeared. It is perfectly logical, if one is so inclined, to kill Supreme Court Justices. There are no other compelling suspects. From what I hear, the FBI is baffled. Yes, it needs to be pursued.”

Horton’s investigations leaked worse than the White House basement, and Coal was terrified of this clown impaneling a grand jury and calling witnesses. Horton was an honorable man, but the Justice Department was filled with lawyers who talked too much.

“Don’t you think it’s a bit premature?” Coal asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Have you seen the papers this morning?” Coal asked.

Horton had glanced at the front page of the Post, and read the sports section. It was Saturday, after all. He had heard that Coal read eight newspapers before dawn, so he didn’t like this question.

“I’ve read a couple of them,” he said.

“I’ve looked at several,” Coal said modestly. “And there’s not a word anywhere about those two dead lawyers or the girl or Mattiece or anything related to the brief. If you start a formal investigation at this point, it’ll be front-page news for a month.”

“Do you think it will simply go away?” Horton asked Coal.

“It might. For obvious reasons, we hope so.”

“I think you’re optimistic, Mr. Coal. We don’t normally sit back and wait for the press to do our investigating.”

Coal grinned and almost laughed at this one. He smiled at the President, who shot him a quick look, and Horton started a slow burn.

“What’s wrong with waiting a week?” asked the President.

“Nothing,” shot Coal.

Just that quick the decision was made to wait a week, and Horton knew it. “Things could blow up in a week,” he said without conviction.

“Wait a week,” the President ordered. “We’ll meet here next Friday, and go from there. I’m not saying no, Richard, just wait seven days.”

Horton shrugged. This was more than he expected. He’d covered his rear. He would go straight to his office and dictate a lengthy memo detailing everything he could remember about this meeting, and his neck would be protected.

Coal stepped forward and handed him a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“More names. Do you know them?”

It was the bird-watcher list: four judges who were much too liberal for comfort, but Plan B called for radical environmentalists on the Court.

Horton blinked several times and studied it hard. “You must be kidding.”

“Check ’em out,” said the President.

“These guys are off-the-wall liberals,” Horton mumbled.

“Yes, but they worship the sun and moon, and trees and birds,” Coal explained helpfully.

Horton caught on, and suddenly smiled. “I see. Pelican lovers.”

“They’re almost extinct, you know,” the President said.

Coal headed for the door. “I wish they’d been wiped out ten years ago.”

She hadn’t called by nine when Gray arrived at his desk in the newsroom. He’d read the Times and there was nothing in it. He spread the New Orleans paper over the clutter and skimmed it. Nothing. They had reported all they knew. Callahan, Verheek, Darby, and a thousand unanswered questions. He had to assume the Times and maybe the Times-Picayune in New Orleans had seen the brief or heard about it, and thus knew of Mattiece. And he had to assume they were clawing like cats to verify it. But he had Darby, and they would find Garcia, and if Mattiece could be verified, they would do it.

At the moment, there was no alternative plan. If Garcia was gone or refused to help, they would be forced to explore the dark and murky world of Victor Mattiece. Darby would not last long at that, and he didn’t blame her. He was uncertain how long he would last.

Smith Keen appeared with a cup of coffee and sat on the desk. “If the Times had it, would they hold off until to morrow?”

Gray shook his head. “No. If they had more than the Times-Picayune, it would’ve run today.”

“Krauthammer wants to run what we’ve got. He thinks we can name Mattiece.”

“I don’t follow.”

“He’s leaning on Feldman. His angle is that we can run the whole story about Callahan and Verheek getting killed over this brief, which happens to name Mattiece who happens to be a friend of the President’s, without directly accusing Mattiece. He says we can be extremely cautious and make sure the story says Mattiece is named in the brief, but not named by us. And since the brief is causing all this death, then it has been verified to some extent.”

“He wants to hide behind the brief.”

“Exactly.”

“But it’s all speculation until it’s confirmed. Krauthammer’s losing it. Assume for a second that Mr. Mattiece is in no way involved with this. Completely innocent. We run the story with his name in it, and then what? We look like fools, and we get sued for the next ten years. I’m not writing the story.”

“He wants someone else to write it.”

“If this paper runs a pelican story not written by me, the girl is gone, okay. I thought I explained that yesterday.”

“You did. And Feldman heard you. He’s on your side, Gray, and I am too. But if this thing’s true, it’ll blow up in a matter of days. We all believe that. You know how Krauthammer hates the Times, and he’s afraid those bastards’ll run it.”

“They can’t run it, Smith. They may have a few more facts than the Times-Picayune, but they can’t name Mattiece. Look, we’ll verify before anyone. And when it’s nailed down, I’ll write the story with everyone’s name along with that cute little picture of Mattiece and his friend in the White House, and the fat lady will sing.”

“We? You said it again. You said, ‘We’ll verify it.’ ”

“My source and I, okay.” Gray opened a drawer and found the photo of Darby and the Diet Coke. He handed it to Keen, who admired it.

“Where is she?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I think she’s on her way here from New York.”

“Don’t get her killed.”

“We’re being very cautious.” Gray looked over both shoulders and leaned closer. “In fact, Smith, I think I’m being followed. I just wanted you to know.”

“Who might they be?”

“It came from a source at the White House. I’m not using my phones.”

“I’d better tell Feldman.”

“Okay. I don’t think it’s dangerous, yet.”

“He needs to know.” Keen jumped to his feet and disappeared.

She called within minutes. “I’m here,” she said. “I don’t know how many I’ve brought with me, but I’m here, and alive, for the moment.”

“Where are you?”

“Tabard Inn on N Street. I saw an old friend on Sixth Avenue yesterday. Remember Stump, who was grievously wounded on Bourbon Street? Did I tell you that story?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he’s walking again. A slight limp, but he was wandering around Manhattan yesterday. I don’t think he saw me.”

“Are you serious! That’s scary, Darby.”

“It’s worse than scary. I left six trails when I left last night, and if I see him in this city, limping along a sidewalk somewhere, I intend to surrender. I’ll walk up to him and turn myself in.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Say as little as possible, because these people have radar. I’ll play private eye for three days, and I’m out of here. If I live to see Wednesday morning, I’m on a plane to Aruba or Trinidad or someplace with a beach. When I die, I want to be on a beach.”

“When do we meet?”

“I’m thinking about that. I want you to do two things.”

“I’m listening.”

“Where do you park your car?”

“Close to my apartment.”

“Leave it there, and go rent another one. Nothing fancy, just a generic Ford or something. Pretend someone’s watching you through a rifle scope. Go to the Marbury Hotel in Georgetown and get a room for three nights. They’ll take cash — I’ve already checked. Do it under another name.”

Grantham took notes and shook his head.

“Can you sneak out of your apartment after dark?” she asked.

“I think so.”

“Do it, and take a cab to the Marbury. Have them deliver the rental car to you there. Take two cabs to the Tabard Inn, and walk into the restaurant at exactly nine tonight.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Bring clothes. Plan to be away from your apartment for at least three days. And plan to stay away from the office.”

“Really, Darby, I think the office is safe.”

“I’m not in the mood to argue. If you’re going to be difficult, Gray, I’ll simply disappear. I’m convinced I’ll live longer the sooner I get out of the country.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s a good boy.”

“I assume there’s a master plan rattling around somewhere in your brain.”

“Maybe. We’ll talk about it over dinner.”

“Is this sort of like a date?”

“Let’s eat a bite and call it business.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’m hanging up now. Be cautious, Gray. They’re watching.” She was gone.

She was sitting at table thirty-seven, in a dark corner of the tiny restaurant when he found her at exactly nine. The first thing he noticed was the dress, and as he walked to the table he knew the legs were under it but he couldn’t see them. Maybe later when she stood. He wore a coat and tie, and they were an attractive couple.

He sat close to her in the darkness so they could both watch the small crowd. The Tabard Inn appeared old enough to have served food to Thomas Jefferson. A rowdy crowd of Germans laughed and talked on the patio outside the restaurant. The windows were open and the air was cool, and for one brief moment it was easy to forget why they were hiding.

“Where’d you get the dress?”

“You like it?”

“It’s very nice.”

“I shopped a little this afternoon. Like most of my recent wardrobe, it’s disposable. I’ll probably leave it in the room the next time I flee for my life.”

The waiter was before them with menus. They ordered drinks. The restaurant was quiet and harmless.

“How’d you get here?” he asked.

“Around the world.”

“I’d like to know.”

“I took a train to Newark, a plane to Boston, a plane to Detroit, and a plane to Dulles. I was up all night, and twice I forgot where I was.”

“How could they follow that?”

“They couldn’t. I paid with cash, something I’m running out of.”

“How much do you need?”

“I’d like to wire some from my bank in New Orleans.”

“We’ll do it Monday. I think you’re safe, Darby.”

“I’ve thought that before. In fact, I felt very safe when I was getting on the boat with Verheek, except it wasn’t Verheek. And I felt very safe in New York. Then Stump waddled down the sidewalk, and I haven’t eaten since.”

“You look thin.”

“Thanks. I guess. Have you eaten here?” She looked at her menu.

He looked at his. “No, but I hear the food is great. You changed your hair again.” It was light brown, and there was a trace of mascara and blush. And lipstick.

“It’s going to fall out if I keep seeing these people.”

The drinks arrived, and they ordered.

“We expect something in the Times in the morning.” He would not mention the New Orleans paper because it had pictures of Callahan and Verheek. He assumed she’d seen it.

This didn’t seem to interest her. “Such as?” she asked, looking around.

“We’re not sure. We hate to get beat by the Times. It’s an old rivalry.”

“I’m not interested in that. I know nothing about journalism, and don’t care to learn. I’m here because I have one, and only one, idea about finding Garcia. And if it doesn’t work, and quickly, I’m out of here.”

“Forgive me. What would you like to talk about?”

“Europe. What’s your favorite place in Europe?”

“I hate Europe, and I hate Europeans. I go to Canada and Australia, and New Zealand occasionally. Why do you like Europe?”

“My grandfather was a Scottish immigrant, and I’ve got a bunch of cousins over there. I’ve visited twice.”

Gray squeezed the lime into his gin and tonic. A party of six entered from the bar and she watched them carefully. When she talked her eyes darted quickly around the room.

“I think you need a couple of drinks to relax,” Gray said.

She nodded but said nothing. The six were seated at a nearby table and began speaking in French. It was pleasant to hear.

“Have you ever heard Cajun French?” she asked.

“No.”

“It’s a dialect that’s rapidly disappearing, just like the wetlands. They say it cannot be understood by Frenchmen.”

“That’s fair. I’m sure the Cajuns can’t understand the French.”

She took a long drink of white wine. “Did I tell you about Chad Brunet?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He was a poor Cajun boy from Eunice. His family survived by trapping and fishing in the marshes. He was a very bright kid who attended LSU on a full academic scholarship, then was admitted to law school at Stanford, where he finished with the highest grade point average in the school’s history. He was twenty-one when he was admitted to the California bar. He could have worked for any law firm in the country, but he took a job with an environmental defense outfit in San Francisco. He was brilliant, a real legal genius who worked very hard and was soon winning huge lawsuits against oil and chemical companies. At the age of twenty-eight, he was a highly polished courtroom lawyer. He was feared by big oil and other corporate polluters.” She took a sip of wine. “He made a lot of money, and established a group to preserve the Louisiana wetlands. He wanted to participate in the pelican case, as it was known, but had too many other trial commitments. He gave Green Fund a lot of money for litigation expenses. Shortly before the trial started in Lafayette, he announced he was coming home to assist the Green Fund lawyers. There were a couple of stories about him in the New Orleans paper.”

“What happened to him?”

“He committed suicide.”

“What?”

“A week before the trial, they found him in a car with the engine running. A garden hose ran from the exhaust pipe into the front seat. Just another simple suicide from carbon monoxide poisoning.”

“Where was the car?”

“In a wooded area along Bayou Lafourche near the town of Galliano. He knew the area well. Some camping gear and fishing equipment were in the trunk. No suicide note. The police investigated, but found nothing suspicious. The case was closed.”

“This is incredible.”

“He had had some problems with alcohol, and had been treated by an analyst in San Francisco. But the suicide was a surprise.”

“Do you think he was murdered?”

“A lot of people do. His death was a big blow to Green Fund. His passion for the wetlands would’ve been potent in the courtroom.”

Gray finished his drink and rattled the ice. She inched closer to him. The waiter appeared with their dinner.