The Pelican Brief (34 page)

She memorized names until she knew more about White and Blazevich than anyone outside the firm. She eased into the darkness and caught a cab to the hotel.

________

Matthew Barr went to New Orleans, where he met with a lawyer who instructed him to fly to a certain hotel in Fort Lauderdale. The lawyer was vague about what would happen at the hotel, but Barr checked in Sunday night and found a room waiting for him. A note at the desk said he would receive a call in the early A.M.

He called Fletcher Coal at home at ten, and briefed him on the journey so far.

Coal had other things on his mind. “Grantham’s gone crazy. He and a guy named Rifkin with the
Times
are making calls everywhere. They could be deadly.”

“Have they seen the brief?”

“I don’t know if they’ve seen it, but they’ve heard of it. Rifkin called one of my aides at home yesterday and asked what he knew about the pelican brief. The aide knew nothing, and got the impression Rifkin knew even less. I don’t think he’s seen it, but we can’t be certain.”

“Damn, Fletcher. We can’t keep up with a bunch of reporters. Those guys make a hundred phone calls a minute.”

“Just two. Grantham and Rifkin. You’ve already got Grantham wired. Do the same for Rifkin.”

“Grantham’s wired, but he’s using neither the phone in his apartment nor the one in his car. I called
Bailey from the airport in New Orleans. Grantham hasn’t been home in twenty-four hours, but his car’s still there. They called and knocked on his door. He’s either dead in the apartment, or he sneaked out last night.”

“Maybe he’s dead.”

“I don’t think so. We were following, and so were the Fibbies. I think he got wind of it.”

“You must find him.”

“He’ll turn up. He can’t get too far away from the newsroom on the fifth floor.”

“I want Rifkin wired too. Call Bailey tonight and get it started, okay?”

“Yes sir,” Barr said.

“What do you think Mattiece would do if he thought Grantham had the story and was about to spread it across the front page of the
Washington Post
?” Coal asked.

Barr stretched on the hotel bed and closed his eyes. Months ago he had made the decision never to cross Fletcher Coal. He was an animal.

“He’s not afraid of killing people, is he?” Barr said.

“Do you think you’ll see Mattiece tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. These guys are very secretive. They speak in hushed tones behind closed doors. They’ve told me little.”

“Why do they want you in Fort Lauderdale?”

“I do not know, but it’s much closer to the Bahamas. I think I’m going there tomorrow, or perhaps he’s coming here. I just don’t know.”

“Perhaps you should exaggerate the Grantham angle. Mattiece will snuff out the story.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Call me in the morning.”

________

She stepped on the note when she opened her door. It said:
Darby, I’m on the patio. It’s urgent, Gray
. She took a deep breath and crammed the note in her pocket. She locked the door, and followed the narrow, winding hallways to the lobby, then through the dark sitting room, by the bar, through the restaurant, and onto the patio. He was at a small table, partially hidden by a brick wall.

“Why are you here?” she demanded in a whisper as she sat close to him. He looked tired and worried.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“That’s not as important as why you’re here. You’re not supposed to come here unless I say so. What’s going on?”

He gave her a quick summary of his morning, from the first phone call to Smith Keen to the maid in the hotel. He’d spent the rest of the day darting all over the city in various cabs, almost eighty bucks’ worth of cabs, and he waited until dark to sneak into the Tabard Inn. He was certain he had not been followed.

She listened. She watched the restaurant and the entrance to the patio, and heard every word.

“I have no idea how anyone could find my room,” he said.

“Did you tell anyone your room number?”

He thought for a second. “Only Smith Keen. But he’d never repeat it.”

She was not looking at him. “Where were you when you told him your room number?”

“In his car.”

She shook her head slowly. “I distinctly told you not to tell anyone. Didn’t I?”

He would not answer.

“It’s all fun and games, isn’t it, Gray? Just another day at the beach. You’re a big stud reporter who’s had death threats before, but you’re fearless. The bullets will bounce off, won’t they? You and I can spend a few days here frolicking around town playing detective so you can win a Pulitzer and get rich and famous, and the bad guys aren’t really so bad because, hey, you’re Gray Grantham of the
Washington Post
and that makes you a mean son of a bitch.”

“Come on, Darby.”

“I’ve tried to impress upon you how dangerous these people are. I’ve seen what they can do. I know what they’ll do to me if they find me. But no, Gray, it’s all a game to you. Cops and robbers. Hide-and-seek.”

“I’m convinced, okay?”

“Listen, hotshot, you’d better be convinced. One more screwup and we’re dead. I’m out of lucky breaks. Do you understand?”

“Yes! I swear I understand.”

“Get a room here. Tomorrow night, if we’re alive, I’ll find you another small hotel.”

“What if this place is full?”

“Then you can sleep in my bathroom with the door closed.”

She was dead serious. He felt like a first-grader who’d just received his first spanking. They didn’t speak for five minutes.

“So how’d they find me?” he finally asked.

“I would assume the phones in your apartment are tapped, and your car is bugged. And I would assume Smith Keen’s car is also wired. These people are not amateurs.”

36
________

HE SPENT THE NIGHT in room 14 upstairs, but slept little. The restaurant opened at six, and he sneaked down for coffee, then sneaked back to his room. The inn was quaint and ancient, and had somehow been formed when three old townhouses were connected. Small doors and narrow hallways ran in all directions. The atmosphere was timeless.

It would be a long, tiresome day, but it would all be spent with her, and he looked forward to it. He’d made a mistake, a bad one, but she’d forgiven him. At precisely eight-thirty, he knocked on the door to room 1. She quickly opened it, then closed it behind him.

She was a law student again, with jeans and a flannel shirt. She poured him coffee, and sat at the small table where the phone was surrounded by notes from a legal pad.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, but only out of courtesy.

“No.” He threw a copy of the
Times
on the bed. He’d already scanned it, and it was empty again.

Darby took the phone and punched the number of
the Georgetown law school. She looked at him, and listened, then said, “Placement office, please.” There was a long pause. “Yes, this is Sandra Jernigan. I’m a partner with White and Blazevich here in town, and we’re having a problem with our computers. We’re trying to reconstruct some payroll records, and the accountants have asked me to ask you for the names of your students who clerked here last summer. I think there were four of them.” She listened for a second. “Jernigan. Sandra Jernigan,” she repeated. “I see. How long will it take?” A pause. “And your name is, Joan. Thank you, Joan.” Darby covered the receiver and breathed deeply. Gray watched intently, but with an admiring grin.

“Yes, Joan. Seven of them. Our records are a mess. Do you have their addresses and social security numbers? We need it for tax purposes. Sure. How long will it take? Fine. We have an office boy in the area. His name is Snowden, and he’ll be there in thirty minutes. Thank you, Joan.” Darby hung up and closed her eyes.

“Sandra Jernigan?” he said.

“I’m not good at lying,” she said.

“You’re wonderful. I guess I’m the office boy.”

“You could pass for an office boy. You have an aging law school dropout look about you.” And you’re sort of cute, she thought to herself.

“I like the flannel shirt.”

She took a long drink of cold coffee. “This could be a long day.”

“So far, so good. I get the list, and meet you in the library. Right?”

“Yes. The placement office is on the fifth floor of
the law school. I’ll be in room 336. It’s a small conference room on the third floor. You take a cab first. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grantham was out the door. Darby waited five minutes, then left with her canvas bag.

The cab ride was short but slow in the morning traffic. Life on the lam was bad enough, but running and playing detective at the same time was too much. She’d been in the cab five minutes before she thought about being followed. And maybe that was good. Maybe a hard day as an investigative reporter would take her mind off Stump and the other tormentors. She would work today, and tomorrow, and by late Wednesday she would be on a beach.

They would start with the law school at Georgetown. If it was a dead end, they would try the one at George Washington. If there was time, they would try American University. Three strikes, and she was gone.

The cab stopped at McDonough Hall, at the grungy base of Capitol Hill. With her bag and flannel shirt, she was just one of many law students milling about before class. She took the stairs to the third level, and closed the door to the conference room behind her. The room was used for an occasional class and on-campus job interviews. She spread her notes on the table, and was just another law student preparing for class.

Within minutes, Gray eased through the door. “Joan’s a sweet lady,” he said as he placed the list on the table. “Names, addresses, and social security numbers. Ain’t that nice.”

Darby looked at the list and pulled a phone book from her bag. They found five of the names in the book. She looked at her watch. “It’s five minutes after
nine. I’ll bet no more than half of these are in class at this moment. Some will have later classes. I’ll call these five, and see who’s at home. You take the two with no phone number, and get their class schedules from the registrar.”

Gray looked at his watch. “Let’s meet back here in fifteen minutes.” He left first, then Darby. She went to the pay phones on the first level outside the classrooms, and dialed the number of James Maylor.

A male voice answered, “Hello.”

“Is this Dennis Maylor?” she asked.

“No. I’m James Maylor.”

“Sorry.” She hung up. His address was ten minutes away. He didn’t have a nine o’clock class, and if he had one at ten he would be home for another forty minutes. Maybe.

She called the other four. Two answered and she confirmed, and there was no answer at the other two.

Gray waited impatiently in the registrar’s office on the third floor. A part-time student clerk was trying to find the registrar, who was somewhere in the back. The student informed him that she wasn’t sure if they could give out class schedules. Gray said he was certain they could if they wanted to.

The registrar walked suspiciously around a corner. “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m Gray Grantham with the
Washington Post
, and I’m trying to find two of your students, Laura Kaas and Michael Akers.”

“Is there a problem?” she asked nervously.

“Not at all. Just a few questions. Are they in class this morning?” He was smiling, and it was a warm,
trusting smile that he flashed usually at older women. It seldom failed him.

“Do you have an ID or something?”

“Certainly.” He opened his wallet and slowly waved it at her, much like a cop who knows he’s a cop and doesn’t care to spell it out.

“Well, I really should talk to the dean, but—”

“Fine. Where’s his office?”

“But he’s not here. He’s out of town.”

“I just need their class schedules so I can find them. I’m not asking for home addresses or grades or transcripts. Nothing confidential or personal.”

She glanced at the part-time student clerk, who sort of shrugged, like “What’s the big deal?” “Just a minute,” she said, and disappeared around the corner.

Darby was waiting in the small room when he laid the computer printouts on the table. “According to these, Akers and Kaas should be in class right now,” he said.

Darby looked at the schedules. “Akers has criminal procedure. Kaas has administrative law; both from nine to ten. I’ll try to find them.” She showed Gray her notes. “Maylor, Reinhart, and Wilson were at home. I couldn’t get Ratliff and Linney.”

“Maylor’s the closest. I can be there in a few minutes.”

“What about a car?” Darby asked.

“I called Hertz. It’s supposed to be delivered to the
Post
parking lot in fifteen minutes.”

________

Maylor’s apartment was on the third floor of a warehouse converted for students and others on very low
budgets. He answered the door shortly after the first knock. He spoke through the chain.

“Looking for James Maylor,” Gray said like an old pal.

“That’s me.”

“I’m Gray Grantham with the
Washington Post
. I’d like to ask you a couple of very quick questions.”

The door was unchained and opened. Gray stepped inside the two-room apartment. A bicycle was parked in the center, and took up most of the space.

“What’s up?” Maylor asked. He was intrigued by this, and appeared eager to answer questions.

“I understand you clerked for White and Blazevich last summer.”

“That’s correct. For three months.”

Gray scribbled on his notepad. “What section were you in?”

“International. Mostly grunt work. Nothing glamorous. A lot of research and rough drafting of agreements.”

“Who was your supervisor?”

“No single person. There were three associates who kept me busy. The partner above them was Stanley Coopman.”

Gray pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. It was Garcia on the sidewalk. “Do you recognize this face?”

Maylor held the picture and studied it. He shook his head. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

“He’s a lawyer, I think with White and Blazevich.”

“It’s a big firm. I was stuck in the corner of one section. It’s over four hundred lawyers, you know.”