The Pelican Brief

Forty-One

Smith Keen was pacing and fidgeting in front of Feldman’s office door as the secretary looked on. He saw them weaving hurriedly down the aisle between the rows of desks. Gray was leading and holding her hand. She was definitely attractive, but he would appreciate it later. They were breathless.

“Smith Keen, this is Darby Shaw,” Gray said between breaths.

They shook hands. “Hello,” she said, looking around at the sprawling newsroom.

“My pleasure, Darby. From what I hear, you are a remarkable woman.”

“Right,” Grantham said. “We can chitchat later.”

“Follow me,” Keen said, and they were off again. “Feldman wanted to use the conference room.” They cut across the cluttered newsroom, and walked into a plush room with a long table in the center of it. It was full of men who were talking but immediately shut up when she walked in. Feldman closed the door.

He reached for her hand. “I’m Jackson Feldman, executive editor. You must be Darby.”

“Who else?” Gray said, still breathing hard.

Feldman ignored him and looked around the table. He pointed. “This is Howard Krauthammer, managing editor; Ernie DeBasio, assistant managing editor/foreign; Elliot Cohen, assistant managing editor/national; and Vince Litsky, our attorney.”

She nodded politely and forgot each name as she heard it. They were all at least fifty, all in shirtsleeves, all deeply concerned. She could feel the tension.

“Give me the tape,” Gray said.

She took it from her bag and handed it to him. The television and VCR were at the end of the room on a portable stand. He pushed the tape into the VCR. “We got this twenty minutes ago, so we haven’t seen it.”

Darby sat in a chair against the wall. The men inched toward the screen and waited for an image.

On a black screen was the date — October 12. Then Curtis Morgan was sitting at a table in a kitchen. He held a switch that evidently worked the camera.

“My name is Curtis Morgan, and since you’re watching this, I’m probably dead.” It was a helluva first sentence. The men grimaced and inched closer.

“Today is October 12, and I’m doing this at my house. I’m alone. My wife is at the doctor. I should be at work, but I called in sick. My wife knows nothing about any of this. I’ve told no one. Since you’re watching this, you’ve also seen this. [He holds up the affidavit.] This is an affidavit I’ve signed, and I plan to leave it with this video, probably in a safe deposit box in a bank downtown. I’ll read the affidavit, and discuss other things.”

“We’ve got the affidavit,” Gray said quickly. He was standing against the wall next to Darby. No one looked at him. They were glued to the screen. Morgan slowly read the affidavit. His eyes darted from the pages to the camera, back and forth, back and forth.

It took him ten minutes. Each time Darby heard the word pelican, she closed her eyes and slowly shook her head. It had all come down to this. It was a bad dream. She tried to listen.

When Morgan finished the affidavit, he laid it on the table, and looked at some notes on a legal pad. He was comfortable and relaxed. He was a handsome kid who looked younger than twenty-nine. He was at home, so there was no tie. Just a starched white button-down. White and Blazevich was not an ideal place to work, he said, but most of the four hundred lawyers were honest and probably knew nothing about Mattiece. In fact, he doubted if many besides Wakefield, Velmano, and Einstein were involved in the conspiracy. There was a partner named Jarreld Schwabe who was sinister enough to be involved, but Morgan had no proof. (Darby remembered him well.) There was an ex-secretary who’d quit abruptly a few days after the assassinations. Her name was Miriam LaRue, and she’d worked in the oil and gas section for eighteen years. She might know something. She lives in Falls Church. Another secretary whom he would not name had told him she overheard a conversation between Wakefield and Velmano, and the topic was whether he, Morgan, could be trusted. But she just heard bits and pieces. They treated him differently after the memo was found on his desk. Especially Schwabe and Wakefield. It was as if they wanted to throw him up against the wall and threaten his life if he told of the memo, but they couldn’t do it because they weren’t sure he’d seen it. And they were afraid to make a big deal out of it. But he’d seen it, and they were almost certain he’d seen it. And if they conspired to kill Rosenberg and Jensen, well, hell, he was just an associate. He could be replaced in seconds.

Litsky the lawyer shook his head in disbelief. The numbness was wearing off, and they moved a bit in their seats.

Morgan commuted by car, and twice he was trailed. Once during lunch, he saw a man watching him. He talked about his family for a while, and started to ramble. It was apparent he’d run out of hard news. Gray handed the affidavit and the memo to Feldman, who read it and passed it to Krauthammer, who passed it on.

Morgan finished with a chilling farewell: “I don’t know who will see this tape. I’ll be dead, so it won’t really matter, I guess. I hope you use this to nail Mattiece and his sleazy lawyers. But if the sleazy lawyers are watching this tape, then you can all go straight to hell.”

Gray ejected the tape. He rubbed his hands together and smiled at the group. “Well, gentlemen, did we bring you enough verification, or do you want more?”

“I know those guys,” Litsky said, dazed. “Wakefield and I played tennis a year ago.”

Feldman was up and walking. “How’d you find Morgan?”

“It’s a long story,” Gray said.

“Give me a real short version.”

“We found a law student at Georgetown who clerked for White and Blazevich last summer. He identified a photograph of Morgan.”

“How’d you get the photograph?” Litsky asked.

“Don’t ask. It doesn’t go with the story.”

“I say run the story,” Krauthammer said loudly.

“Run it,” said Elliot Cohen.

“How’d you learn he was dead?” Feldman asked.

“Darby went to White and Blazevich yesterday. They broke the news.”

“Where was the video and affidavit?”

“In a lockbox at First Columbia. Morgan’s wife gave me the key at five this morning. I’ve done nothing wrong. The pelican brief has been verified fully by an independent source.”

“Run it,” said Ernie DeBasio. “Run it with the biggest head line since NIXON RESIGNS.”

Feldman stopped near Smith Keen. The two friends eyed each other carefully. “Run it,” said Keen.

He turned to the lawyer. “Vince?”

“There’s no question, legally. But I’d like to see the story after it’s written.”

“How long will it take to write it?” the editor asked Gray.

“The brief portion is already outlined. I can finish it up in an hour or so. Give me two hours on Morgan. Three at the most.”

Feldman hadn’t smiled since he shook hands with Darby. He paced to the other side of the room, and stood in Gray’s face. “What if this tape’s a hoax?”

“Hoax? We’re talking dead bodies, Jackson. I’ve seen the widow. She’s a real, live widow. This paper ran the story of his murder. He’s dead. Even his law firm says he’s dead. And that’s him on the tape, talking about dying. I know that’s him. And we talked to the notary public who witnessed his signature on the affidavit. She identified him.” Gray was getting louder and looking around the room. “Everything he said verifies the pelican brief. Everything. Mattiece, the lawsuit, the assassinations. Then we’ve got Darby, the author of the brief. And more dead bodies, and they’ve chased her all over the country. There are no holes, Jackson. It’s a story.”

He finally smiled. “It’s more than a story. Have it written by two. It’s eleven now. Use this conference room and close the door.” Feldman was pacing again. “We’ll meet here at exactly two and read the draft. Not a word.”

The men stood and filed from the room, but not before each shook hands with Darby Shaw. They were uncertain whether to say congratulations or thanks or whatever, so they just smiled and shook her hand. She kept her seat.

When they were alone, Gray sat beside her and they held hands. The clean conference table was before them. The chairs were placed perfectly around it. The walls were white, and the room was lit by fluorescent lights and two narrow windows.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I don’t know. This is the end of the road, I guess. We made it.”

“You don’t sound too happy.”

“I’ve had better months. I’m happy for you.”

He looked at her. “Why are you happy for me?”

“You put the pieces together and it hits tomorrow. It’s got Pulitzer written all over it.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe once. But when you got off the elevator yesterday and told me Garcia was dead, I quit thinking about Pulitzers.”

“It’s not fair. I do all the work. We used my brains and looks and legs, and you get all the glory.”

“I’ll be glad to use your name. I’ll credit you as the author of the brief. We’ll put your picture on the front page, along with Rosenberg, Jensen, Mattiece, the President, Verheek, and—”

“Thomas? Will his picture run with the story?”

“It’s up to Feldman. He’ll edit this one.”

She thought about this, and said nothing.

“Well, Ms. Shaw, I’ve got three hours to write the biggest story of my career. A story that will shock the world. A story that could bring down a presidency. A story that will solve the assassinations. A story that will make me rich and famous.”

“You’d better let me write it.”

“Would you? I’m tired.”

“Go get your notes. And some coffee.”

They closed the door and organized their notes. A news aide rolled in a PC with a printer. They sent him after a pot of coffee. Then some fruit. They outlined the story in sections, beginning with the assassinations, then the pelican case in south Louisiana, then Mattiece and his link to the President, then the pelican brief and all the havoc it created, Callahan, Verheek, then Curtis Morgan and his muggers, then White and Blazevich and Wakefield, Velmano, and Einstein. Darby preferred to write in longhand. She scaled down the litigation and the brief, and what was known of Mattiece. Gray took the rest, and typed out rough notes on the machine.

Darby was a model of organization, with notes neatly arranged on the table, and words carefully written on paper. He was a whirlwind of chaos — papers on the floor, talking to the computer, printing random paragraphs that were discarded by the time they were on paper. She kept telling him to be quiet. This is not a law school library, he explained. This is a newspaper. You work with a phone in each ear and someone yelling at you.

At twelve-thirty, Smith Keen sent in food. Darby ate a cold sandwich and watched the traffic below. Gray was digging through campaign reports.

She saw him. He was leaning on the side of a building across Fifteenth Street, and he would not have been suspicious except he had been leaning on the side of the Madison Hotel an hour earlier. He was sipping something from a tall Styrofoam cup, and watching the front entrance to the Post. He wore a black cap, denim jacket, and jeans. He was under thirty. And he just stood there staring across the street. She nibbled on her sandwich, and watched him for ten minutes. He sipped from his cup and never moved.

“Gray, come here, please.”

“What is it?” He walked over. She pointed to the man with the black cap.

“Watch him carefully,” she said. “Tell me what he’s doing.”

“He’s drinking something, probably coffee. He’s leaning on the side of that building, and he’s watching this building.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“Denim from head to toe, and a black cap. Looks like boots. What about it?”

“I saw him an hour ago standing over there by the hotel. He was sort of hidden by that telephone van, but I know it was him. Now he’s over there.”

“So?”

“So for the past hour, at least, he’s been moving around doing nothing but watching this building.”

Gray nodded. This was no time for a smart comment. The guy looked suspicious, and she was concerned. She’d been tracked for two weeks now, from New Orleans to New York, and now maybe to Washington, and she knew more about being followed than he did.

“What’re you saying, Darby?”

“Give me one good reason why this man, who obviously is not a street bum, would be doing this.”

The man looked at his watch, and walked slowly along the sidewalk until he was gone. Darby looked at her watch.

“It’s exactly one,” she said. “Let’s check every fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Okay. I doubt if it’s anything,” he said, trying to be comforting. It didn’t work. She sat at the table, and looked at the notes.

He watched her and slowly returned to the computer.

Gray typed furiously for fifteen minutes, then walked back to the window. Darby watched him carefully. “I don’t see him,” he said.

He did see him at one-thirty. “Darby,” he said, pointing to the spot where she’d first seen him. She looked out the window, and slowly focused on the man with the black cap. Now he had a dark green windbreaker, and he was not facing the Post. He watched his boots, and every ten seconds or so glanced at the front entrance. This made him all the more suspicious, but he was partially hidden behind a delivery truck. The Styrofoam cup was gone. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the Post, then watched the sidewalk in front of it.

“Why do I have this knot in my stomach?” Darby said.

“How could they follow you? It’s impossible.”

“They knew I was in New York. That seemed impossible at the time.”

“Maybe they’re following me. I’ve been told they were watching. That’s what the guy’s doing. Why should he know you’re here? The dude’s following me.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly.

“Have you seen him before?”

“They don’t introduce themselves.”

“Look. We’ve got thirty minutes, and they’re back in here with knives to carve up our story. Let’s finish it, then we can watch dude out there.”

They returned to their work. At one forty-five, she stood in the window again, and the man was gone. The printer was rattling the first draft, and she began proofing.

The editors read with their pencils. Litsky the lawyer read for sheer pleasure. He seemed to enjoy it more than the others.

It was a long story, and Feldman was busy cutting like a surgeon. Smith Keen scribbled in the margins. Krauthammer liked what he saw.

They read slowly in silence. Gray proofed it again. Darby was at the window. Dude was back again, now wearing a navy blazer with the jeans. It was cloudy and in the sixties, and he was sipping from the cup. He huddled over it to stay warm. He took a drink, looked at the Post, looked at the street, and back to the cup. He was in front of a different building, and at exactly two-fifteen he began looking north along Fifteenth.

A car stopped on his side of the street. The rear door opened, and there he was. The car sped away, and he looked around. Limping ever so slightly, Stump walked casually to the man with the black cap. They spoke for seconds, then Stump walked south to the intersection of Fifteenth and L. Dude stayed in place.

She glanced around the room. They were immersed in the story. Stump was out of sight, so she couldn’t show him to Gray, who was reading and smiling. No, they were not watching the reporter. They were waiting on the girl.

And they had to be desperate. They were standing on the street hoping somehow a miracle would happen and the girl would emerge from the building, and they could take her out. They were scared. She was inside spilling her guts and waving copies of that damned brief. Tomorrow morning the game would be over. Somehow they had to stop her. They had their orders.

She was in a room full of men, and suddenly she was not safe.

Feldman finished last. He slid his copy to Gray. “Minor stuff. Should take about an hour. Let’s talk phone calls.”

“Just three, I think,” Gray said. “The White House, FBI, and White and Blazevich.”

“You only named Sims Wakefield at the firm. Why?” asked Krauthammer.

“Morgan fingered him the most.”

“But the memo is from Velmano. I think he should be named.”

“I agree,” said Smith Keen.

“Me too,” said DeBasio.

“I wrote his name in,” Feldman said. “We’ll get Einstein later. Wait until four-thirty or five before you call the White House and White and Blazevich. If you do it sooner, they may go nuts and run to court.”

“I agree,” said Litsky the lawyer. “They can’t stop it, but they can try. I’d wait until five before I called them.”

“Okay,” Gray said. “I’ll have it reworked by three-thirty. Then I’ll call the FBI for their comment. Then the White House, then White and Blazevich.”

Feldman was almost out the door. “We’ll meet again here at three-thirty. Stay close to your phones.”

When the room was empty again, Darby locked the door and pointed to the window. “You’ve heard me mention Stump?”

“Don’t tell me.”

They scanned the street below.

“Afraid so. He met with our little friend, then disappeared. I know it was him.”

“I guess I’m off the hook.”

“I guess you are. I really want to get out of here.”

“We’ll think of something. I’ll alert our security. You want me to tell Feldman?”

“No. Not yet.”

“I know some cops.”

“Great. And they can just walk up and beat the hell out of him.”

“These cops’ll do it.”

“They can’t bother these people. What are they doing wrong?”

“Just planning murder.”

“How safe are we in this building?”

Gray thought a moment. “Let me tell Feldman. We’ll get two security guards posted by this door.”

“Okay.”

Feldman approved the second draft at three-thirty, and Gray was given the green light to call the FBI. Four phones were brought to the conference room, and the recorder was plugged in. Feldman, Smith Keen, and Krauthammer listened on extensions. Gray called Phil Norvell, a good acquaintance and sometime source, if there was such a thing within the Bureau. Norvell answered his own line.

“Phil, Gray Grantham with the Post.”

“I think I know who you’re with, Gray.”

“I’ve got the recorder on.”

“Must be serious. What’s up?”

“We’re running a story in the morning detailing a conspiracy in the assassinations of Rosenberg and Jensen. We’re naming Victor Mattiece, an oil speculator, and two of his lawyers here in town. We also mention Verheek, not in the conspiracy, of course. We believe the FBI knew about Mattiece early on, but refused to investigate at the urging of the White House. We wanted to give you guys a chance to comment.”

There was no response on the other end.

“Phil, are you there?”

“Yes. I think so.”

“Any comment?”

“I’m sure we will have a comment, but I’ll have to call you back.”

“We’re going to press soon, so you need to hurry.”

“Well, Gray, this is a shot in the ass. Could you hold it a day?”

“No way.”

Norvell paused. “Okay. Let me see Mr. Voyles, and I’ll call you back.”

“Thanks.”

“No, thank you, Gray. This is wonderful. Mr. Voyles will be thrilled.”

“We’re waiting.” Gray punched a button and cleared the line. Keen turned off the recorder.

They waited eight minutes, and Voyles himself was on the line. He insisted on speaking to Jackson Feldman. The recorder was back on.

“Mr. Voyles?” Feldman said warmly. The two had met many times, so the “mister” was unnecessary.

“Call me Denton, dammit. Look, Jackson, what’s your boy got? This is crazy. You guys are jumping off a cliff. We’ve investigated Mattiece, still investigating him, and it’s too early to move on him. Now, what’s your boy got?”

“Does the name Darby Shaw mean anything?” Feldman grinned at her when he asked the question. She was standing against the wall.

Voyles was slow to respond. “Yes,” he said simply.

“My boy has the pelican brief, Denton, and I’m sitting here looking at Darby Shaw.”

“I was afraid she was dead.”

“No. She’s very much alive. She and Gray Grantham have confirmed from another source the facts set forth in the brief. It’s a large story, Denton.”

Voyles sighed deeply, and threw in the towel. “We are pursuing Mattiece as a suspect,” he said.

“The recorder’s on, Denton, be careful.”

“Well, we need to talk. I mean, man to man. I may have some deep background for you.”

“You’re welcome to come here.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

The editors were terribly amused at the idea of the great F. Denton Voyles hopping in his limo and rushing to the Post. They had watched him for years, and knew he was a master at cutting his losses. He hated the press, and this willingness to talk on their turf and under their gun meant only one thing — he would point the finger at someone else. And the likely target was the White House.

Darby had no desire to meet the man. Her thoughts were on escape. She could point at the man in the black cap, but he’d been gone for thirty minutes now. And what could the FBI do? They had to catch him first, then what? Charge him with loitering and planning an ambush? Torture him and make him tell all? They probably wouldn’t believe her.

She had no desire to deal with the FBI. She didn’t want their protection. She was about to take a trip, and no one would know where to. Maybe Gray. Maybe not.

He punched the number for the White House, and they picked up the extensions. Keen turned on the recorder.

“Fletcher Coal, please. This is Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and it’s very urgent.”

He waited. “Why Coal?” Keen asked.

“Everything has to be cleared through him,” Gray said with his hand over the receiver.

“Says who?”

“Says a source.”

The secretary returned with the message that Mr. Coal was on his way. Please hold. Gray was smiling. The adrenaline was pumping.

Finally, “Fletcher Coal.”

“Yes, Mr. Coal. Gray Grantham at the Post. I am recording the conversation. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

“Is it true you have issued a directive to all White House personnel, except the President, to the effect that all communications with the press must first be cleared by you?”

“Absolutely untrue. The press secretary handles those matters.”

“I see. We’re running a story in the morning which, in summary, verifies the facts set forth in the pelican brief. Are you familiar with the pelican brief?”

Slowly, “I am.”

“We have confirmed that Mr. Mattiece contributed in excess of four million dollars to the President’s campaign three years ago.”

“Four million, two hundred thousand, all through legal channels.”

“We also believe the White House intervened and attempted to obstruct the FBI investigation into Mr. Mattiece, and we wanted your comment, if any.”

“Is this something you believe, or is it something you intend to print?”

“We are trying to confirm it now.”

“And who do you think will confirm it for you?”

“We have sources, Mr. Coal.”

“Indeed you do. The White House emphatically denies any involvement with this investigation. The President asked to be apprised as to the status of the entire investigation after the tragic deaths of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, but there has been no direct or indirect involvement from the White House into any aspect of the investigation. You have received some bad information.”

“Does the President consider Victor Mattiece a friend?”

“No. They met on one occasion, and as I stated, Mr. Mattiece was a significant contributor, but he is not a friend of the President.”

“He was the largest contributor, though, wasn’t he?”

“I cannot confirm that.”

“Any other comment?”

“No. I’m sure the press secretary will address this in the morning.”

They hung up and Keen turned off the recorder. Feldman was on his feet rubbing his hands together. “I’d give a year’s pay to be in the White House right now,” he said.

“He’s cool, isn’t he?” Gray said with admiration.

“Yeah, but his cool ass is now sitting deep in boiling water.”