The Pelican Brief

Four

The first lady was on the West Coast attending a series of five-thousand-dollars-a-plate breakfasts where the rich and pretentious gladly shucked out the money for cold eggs and cheap champagne, and the chance to be seen and maybe photographed with the Queen, as she was known. So the President was sleeping alone when the phone rang. In the great tradition of American Presidents, he had in years past thought of keeping a mistress. But now it seemed so non-Republican. Besides, he was old and tired. He often slept alone when the Queen was at the White House.

He was a heavy sleeper. It rang twelve times before he heard it. He grabbed it and stared at the clock. Four-thirty A.M. He listened to the voice, jumped to his feet, and eight minutes later was in the Oval Office. No shower, no tie. He stared at Fletcher Coal, his chief of staff, and sat properly behind his desk.

Coal was smiling. His perfect teeth and bald head were shining. Only thirty-seven, he was the boy wonder who four years earlier had rescued a failing campaign and placed his boss in the White House. He was a guileful manipulator and a nasty henchman who had cut and clawed his way through the inner circle until he was now second in command. Many viewed him as the real boss. The mere mention of his name terrified lowly staffers.

“What happened?” the President asked slowly.

Coal paced in front of the President’s desk. “Don’t know much. They’re both dead. Two FBI agents found Rosenberg around 1 A.M. Dead in bed. His nurse and a Supreme Court policeman were also murdered. All three shot in the head. A very clean job. While the FBI and D.C. police were investigating, they got a call that Jensen had been found dead in some queer club. They found him a couple of hours ago. Voyles called me at four, and I called you. He and Gminski should be here in a minute.”

“Gminski?”

“The CIA should be included, at least for now.”

The President folded his hands behind his head and stretched. “Rosenberg is dead.”

“Yes. Quite. I suggest you address the nation in a couple of hours. Mabry is working on a rough draft. I’ll finish it. Let’s wait until daylight, at least seven. If not, it’ll be too early and we’ll lose much of our audience.”

“The press—”

“Yes. It’s out. They filmed the ambulance crew rolling Jensen into the morgue.”

“I didn’t know he was gay.”

“Not much doubt about it now. This is the perfect crisis, Mr. President. Think of it. We didn’t create it. It’s not our fault. No one can blame us. And the nation will be shocked into some degree of solidarity. It’s rally around the leader time. It’s just great. No downside.”

The President sipped a cup of coffee and stared at the papers on his desk. “And I’ll get to restructure the Court.”

“That’s the best part. It’ll be your legacy. I’ve already called Duvall at Justice and instructed him to contact Horton and begin a preliminary list of nominees. Horton gave a speech in Omaha last night, but he’s flying in now. I suggest we meet with him later this morning.”

The President nodded with his customary approval of Coal’s suggestions. He allowed Coal to sweat the details. He had never been a detail man himself. “Any suspects?”

“Not yet. I don’t know, really. I told Voyles that you would expect a briefing when he arrived.”

“I thought someone said the FBI was protecting the Supreme Court.”

Coal smiled wider and chuckled. “Exactly. The egg is on Voyles’ face. It’s quite embarrassing, really.”

“Great. I want Voyles to get his share of the blame. Take care of the press. I want him humiliated. Then maybe we can run his ass off.”

Coal loved this thought. He stopped pacing and scribbled a note on his legal pad. A security guard knocked on the door, then opened it. Directors Voyles and Gminski entered together. The mood was suddenly somber as all four shook hands. The two sat before the President’s desk as Coal took his customary position standing near a window, to the side of the President. He hated Voyles and Gminski, and they hated him. Coal thrived on hatred. He had the President’s ear, and that was all that mattered. He would become quiet for a few minutes. It was important to allow the President to take charge when others were present.

“I’m very sorry you’re here, but thanks for coming,” the President said. They nodded grimly and acknowledged this obvious lie. “What happened?”

Voyles spoke quickly and to the point. He described the scene at Rosenberg’s home when the bodies were found. At 1 A.M. each night, Sergeant Ferguson routinely checked in with the agents sitting in the street. When he didn’t show, they investigated. The killings were very clean and professional. He described what he knew about Jensen. Broken neck. Strangulation. Found by another character in the balcony. No one saw anything, evidently. Voyles was not as gruff and blunt as usual. It was a dark day for the Bureau, and he could feel the heat coming. But he’d survived five Presidents, and he could certainly outmaneuver this idiot.

“The two are obviously related,” the President said, staring at Voyles.

“Maybe. Certainly looks that way, but—”

“Come on, Director. In two hundred and twenty years, we’ve assassinated four Presidents, two or three candidates, a handful of civil rights leaders, couple of governors, but never a Supreme Court Justice. And now, in one night, within two hours, two are assassinated. And you’re not convinced they’re related?”

“I didn’t say that. There must be a link somewhere. It’s just that the methods were so different. And so professional. You must remember, we’ve had thousands of threats against the Court.”

“Fine. Then who are your suspects?”

No one cross-examined F. Denton Voyles. He glared at the President. “It’s too early for suspects. We’re still gathering evidence.”

“How’d the killer get into Rosenberg’s place?”

“No one knows. We didn’t watch him go in, you understand? Evidently, he was there for some time, hiding in a closet or an attic, maybe. Again, we weren’t invited. Rosenberg refused to allow us into his home. Ferguson routinely inspected the place each afternoon when the Justice arrived from work. It’s still too early, but we’ve found no evidence of the murderer. None, except three bodies. We’ll have ballistics and autopsies by late this afternoon.”

“I want to see them here as soon as you have them.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“I also want a short list of suspects by 5 P.M. today. Is that clear?”

“Certainly, Mr. President.”

“And I would like a report on your security and where it broke down.”

“You’re assuming it broke down.”

“We have two dead judges, both of whom were being protected by the FBI. I think the American people deserve to know what went wrong, Director. Yes, it broke down.”

“Do I report to you, or the American people?”

“You report to me.”

“And then you call a press conference and report to the American people, right?”

“Are you afraid of the scrutiny, Director?”

“Not one bit. Rosenberg and Jensen are dead because they refused to cooperate with us. They were very much aware of the danger, yet they couldn’t be bothered. The other seven are cooperating, and they’re still alive.”

“For the moment. We’d better check. They’re dropping like flies.” The President smiled at Coal, who snickered and almost sneered at Voyles. Coal decided it was time to speak. “Director, did you know Jensen was hanging around such places?”

“He was a grown man with a lifetime appointment. If he chose to dance naked on tables we couldn’t stop him.”

“Yes sir,” Coal said politely. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

Voyles breathed deeply and looked away. “Yes. We suspected he was a homosexual, and we knew he liked certain movie houses. We have neither the authority nor the desire, Mr. Coal, to divulge such information.”

“I want those reports by this afternoon,” the President said. Voyles was watching a window, listening but not responding. The President looked at Robert Gminski, director of the CIA. “Bob, I want a straight answer.”

Gminski tightened and frowned. “Yes sir. What is it?”

“I want to know if these killings are in any way linked to any agency, operation, group, whatever, of the United States Government.”

“Come on! Are you serious, Mr. President! That’s absurd.” Gminski appeared to be shocked, but the President, Coal, even Voyles, knew anything was possible these days at the CIA.

“Dead serious, Bob.”

“I’m serious too. And I assure you we had nothing to do with it. I’m shocked you would even think it. Ridiculous!”

“Check it out, Bob. I want to be damned certain. Rosenberg did not believe in national security. He made thousands of enemies in intelligence. Just check it out, okay.”

“Okay, okay.”

“And I want a report by five today.”

“Sure. Okay. But it’s a waste of time.”

Fletcher Coal moved to the desk next to the President. “I suggest we meet here at five this afternoon, gentlemen. Is that agreeable?”

They both nodded and stood. Coal escorted them to the door without a word. He closed it.

“You handled it real well,” he said to the President. “Voyles knows he’s vulnerable. I smell blood. We’ll go to work on him with the press.”

“Rosenberg is dead,” the President repeated to himself. “I just can’t believe it.”

“I’ve got an idea for television.” Coal was pacing again, very much in charge. “We need to cash in on the shock of it all. You need to appear tired, as if you were up all night handling the crisis. Right? The entire nation will be watching, waiting for you to give details and to reassure. I think you should wear something warm and comforting. A coat and tie at 7 A.M. may seem a bit rehearsed. Let’s relax a little.”

The President was listening intently. “A bathrobe?”

“Not quite. But how about a cardigan and slacks? No tie. White button-down. Sort of the grandfather image.”

“You want me to address the nation in this hour of crisis in a sweater?”

“Yes. I like it. A brown cardigan with a white shirt.”

“I don’t know.”

“The image is good. Look, Chief, the election is a year from next month. This is our first crisis in ninety days, and what a wonderful crisis it is. The people need to see you in something different, especially at seven in the morning. You need to look casual, down-home, but in control. It’ll be worth five, maybe ten points in the ratings. Trust me, Chief.”

“I don’t like sweaters.”

“Just trust me.”

“I don’t know.”