The Pelican Brief

Forty-Four

Gray and Smith Keen sat alone in the conference room, reading the words in print. He was many years beyond the excitement of seeing his stories on the front page, but this one brought a rush with it. There had been none bigger. The faces were lined neatly across the top: Mattiece hugging the President, Coal talking importantly on the phone in an official White House photo, Velmano sitting before a Senate subcommittee, Wakefield cropped from a bar convention picture, Verheek smiling at the camera in an FBI release, Callahan from the yearbook, and Morgan in a photo taken from the video. Mrs. Morgan had consented. Paypur, the night police reporter, had told them about Wakefield an hour earlier. Gray was depressed about it. But he wouldn’t blame himself.

They began drifting in around 3 A.M. Krauthammer brought a dozen doughnuts, and promptly ate four of them while he admired the front page. Ernie DeBasio was next. Said he hadn’t slept any. Feldman arrived fresh and hyper. By four-thirty, the room was full and four televisions were going. CNN got it first, and within minutes the networks were live from the White House, which had no comment at the moment but Zikman would say something at seven.

With the exception of Wakefield’s death, there was nothing new initially. The networks bounced back and forth between the White House, the Supreme Court, and the news desks. They waited at the Hoover Building, which was very quiet at the moment. They flashed the photos from the papers. They couldn’t find Velmano. They speculated about Mattiece. CNN showed live footage of the Morgan house in Alexandria, but Morgan’s father-in-law kept the cameras off the property. NBC had a reporter standing in front of the building where White and Blazevich had offices, but he had nothing new. And though she wasn’t quoted in the story, there was no secret about the identity of the author of the brief. There was much speculation about Darby Shaw.

At seven, the room was packed and silent. The four screens were identical as Zikman walked nervously to the podium in the White House press room. He was tired and haggard. He read a short statement in which the White House admitted receiving the campaign money from a number of channels controlled by Victor Mattiece, but he emphatically denied any of the money was dirty. The President had met Mr. Mattiece only once, and that was when he was the Vice President. He had not spoken to the man since being elected President, and certainly did not consider him a friend, in spite of the money. The campaign had received over fifty million, and the President handled none of it. He had a committee for that. No one in the White House had attempted to interfere with the investigation of Victor Mattiece as a suspect, and any allegations to the contrary were flat wrong. Based on their limited knowledge, Mr. Mattiece no longer lived in this country. The President welcomes a full investigation into the allegations contained in the Post story, and if Mr. Mattiece was the perpetrator of these heinous crimes, then he must be brought to justice. This was simply a statement for the time being. A full press conference would follow. Zikman darted from the podium.

It was a weak performance by a troubled press secretary, and Gray was relieved. He suddenly found himself crowded, and needed fresh air. He found Smith Keen outside the door.

“Let’s go eat breakfast,” he whispered.

“Sure.”

“I need to run by my apartment too, if you don’t mind. I haven’t seen it in four days.”

They flagged a cab on Fifteenth, and enjoyed the crisp autumn air rushing in the open windows.

“Where’s the girl?” Keen asked.

“I have no idea. I last saw her in Atlanta, about nine hours ago. She said she was headed for the Caribbean.”

Keen was grinning. “I assume you’ll want a long vacation soon.”

“How’d you guess?”

“There’s a lot of work to be done, Gray. Right now we’re in the middle of the explosion, and the pieces start falling to earth very soon. You’re the man of the hour, but you must keep pushing. You must pick up the pieces.”

“I know my job, Smith.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got this faraway look in your eyes. It worries me.”

“You’re an editor. You get paid for worrying.”

They stopped at the intersection at Pennsylvania Avenue. The White House sat majestically before them. It was almost November, and the wind blew leaves across the lawn.