The Pelican Brief

Enough of this. "Well, thanks. Again, sorry to bother."



"No problem," Ratliff said as she disappeared through the door.



She jumped into the new Hertz Pontiac as it stopped at the corner, and they were off in traffic. She had seen enough of the Georgetown Law School.



"I struck out," Gray said. "Linney wasn't home."



"I talked to Akers and Ratliff, and both said no. That's five of seven who don't recognize Garcia."



"I'm hungry. You want some lunch?"



"That's fine."



"Is it possible to have five clerks work three months in a law firm and not one of them recognize a young associate?"



"Yeah, it's not only possible, it's very probable. This is a long shot, remember. Four hundred lawyers means a thousand people when you add secretaries, paralegals, law clerks, office clerks, copy room clerks, mail room clerks, all kinds of clerks and support people. The lawyers tend to keep to themselves in their own little sections."



"Physically, are the sections on separate territory?"



"Yes. It's possible for a lawyer in banking on the third floor to go weeks without seeing an acquaintance in litigation on the tenth floor. These are very busy people, remember."



"Do you think we've got the wrong firm?"



"Maybe the wrong firm, maybe the wrong law school."



"The first guy, Maylor, gave me two names of George Washington students who clerked there last summer. Let's get them after lunch." He slowed and parked illegally behind a row of small buildings.



"Where are we?" she asked.



"A block off Mount Vernon Square, downtown. The Post is six blocks that way. My bank is four blocks that way. And this little deli is just around the corner."



They walked to the deli, which was filling fast with lunch traffic. She waited at a table by the window as he stood in line and ordered club sandwiches. Half the day had flown by, and though she didn't enjoy this line of work, it was nice to stay busy and forget about the shadows. She wouldn't be a reporter, and at the moment a career in law looked doubtful. Not long ago, she'd thought of being a judge after a few years in practice. Forget it. It was much too dangerous.



Gray brought a tray of food and iced tea, and they began eating.



"Is this a typical day for you?" she asked.



"This is what I do for a living. I snoop all day, write the stories late in the afternoon, then dig until late at night."



"How many stories a week?"



"Sometimes three or four, sometimes none. I pick and choose, and there's little supervision. This is a bit different. I haven't run one in ten days."



"What if you can't link Mattiece? What'll you write about the story?"



"Depends on how far I get. We could've run that story about Verheek and Callahan, but why bother? It was a big story, but they had nothing to go with it. It scratched the surface and stopped."



"And you're going for the big bang."



"Hopefully. If we can verify your little brief, then we'll run one helluva story."



"You can see the headlines, can't you?"



"I can. The adrenaline is pumping. This will be the biggest story since - "



"Watergate?"



"No. Watergate was a series of stories that started small and kept getting bigger. Those guys chased leads for months and kept pecking away until the pieces came together. A lot of people knew different parts of the story. This, my dear, is very different. This is a much bigger story, and the truth is known only by a very small group. Watergate was a stupid burglary and a bungled cover-up. These are masterfully planned crimes by very rich and smart people."



"And the cover-up?"



"That comes next. After we link Mattiece to the killings, we run the big story. The cat's out of the bag, and a half a dozen investigations will crank up overnight. This place will be shell-shocked, especially at the news that the President and Mattiece are old friends. As the dust is settling, we go after the Administration and try to determine who knew what and when."



"But first, Garcia."



"Ah, yes. I know he's out there. He's a lawyer in this city, and he knows something very important."



"What if we stumble across him, and he won't talk?"



"We have ways."



"Such as?"



"Torture, kidnapping, extortion, threats of all types."



A burly man with a contorted face was suddenly beside the table. "Hurry up!" he yelled. "You're talkin' too much!"



"Thanks, Pete," Gray said without looking up. Pete was lost in the crowd, but could be heard yelling at another table. Darby dropped her sandwich.



"He owns the place," Gray explained. "It's part of the ambience."



"How charming. Does it cost extra?"



"Oh no. The food's cheap, so he depends on volume. He refuses to serve coffee because he doesn't want socializing. He expects us to eat like refugees and get out."



"I'm finished."



Gray looked at his watch. "It's twelve-fifteen. We need to be at Judith Wilson's apartment at one. Do you want to wire the money now?"



"How long will it take?"



"We can start the wire now, and pick the money up later."



"Let's go."



"How much do you want to wire?"



"Fifteen thousand."



Judith Wilson lived on the second floor of a decaying old house filled with two-room student apartments. She was not there at one, and they drove around for an hour. Gray became a tour guide. He drove slowly by the Montrose Theatre, still boarded and burned out. He showed her the daily circus at Dupont Circle.



They were parked on the street at two-fifteen when a red Mazda stopped in the narrow driveway. "There she is," Gray said, and got out. Darby stayed in the car.



He caught Judith near the front steps. She was friendly enough. They chatted, he showed her the photo, she looked at it for a few seconds and began shaking her head. Moments later he was in the car.



"Zero for six," he said.



"That leaves Edward Linney, who probably is our best shot because he clerked there two summers."



They found a pay phone at a convenience store three blocks away, and Gray called Linney's number. No answer. He slammed the phone down and got in the car. "He wasn't at home at ten this morning, and he's not at home now."



"Could be in class," Darby said. "We need his schedule. You should've picked it up with the others."



"You didn't suggest it then."



"Who's the detective here? Who's the big-shot investigative reporter with the Washington Post? I'm just a lowly ex-law student who's thrilled to be sitting here in the front seat watching you operate."



What about the backseat? he almost said. "Whatever. Where to?"



"Back to the law school," she said. "I'll wait in the car while you march in there and get Linney's class schedule."



"Yes, ma'am."



A different student was behind the desk in the registrar's office. Gray asked for the class schedule for Edward Linney, and the student went to look for the registrar. Five minutes later, the registrar walked slowly around the corner and glared at him.



He flashed the smile. "Hi, remember me? Gray Grantham with the Post. I need another class schedule."



"The dean says no."



"I thought the dean was out of town."



"He is. The assistant dean says no. No more class schedules. You've already gotten me in a lot of trouble."



"I don't understand. I'm not asking for personal records."



"The assistant dean says no."



"Where is the assistant dean?"



"He's busy."



"I'll wait. Where's his office?"



"He'll be busy for a long time."



"I'll wait for a long time."



She dug in and folded her arms. "He will not allow you to have any more class schedules. Our students are entitled to privacy."



"Sure they are. What kind of trouble have I caused?"



"Well, I'll just tell you."



"Please do."



The student clerk eased around the corner and disappeared.



"One of the students you talked to this morning called White and Blazevich, and they called the assistant dean, and the assistant dean called me and said no more class schedules will be given to reporters."



"Why should they care?"



"They care, okay? We've had a long relationship with White and Blazevich. They hire a lot of our students."



Gray tried to look pitiful and helpless. "I'm just trying to find Edward Linney. I swear he's not in trouble. I just need to ask him a few questions."



She smelled victory. She had backed down a reporter from the Post, and she was quite proud. So offer him a crumb. "Mr. Linney is no longer enrolled here. That's all I can say."



He backed toward the door, and mumbled, "Thanks."



He was almost to the car when someone called his name. It was the student from the registrar's office.



"Mr. Grantham," he said as he ran to him. "I know Edward. He's sort of dropped out of school for a while. Personal problems."



"Where is he?"



"His parents put him in a private hospital. He's being detoxified."



"Where is it?"



"Silver Spring. A place called Parklane Hospital."



"How long's he been there?"



"About a month."



Grantham shook his hand. "Thanks. I won't tell anyone you told me."



"He's not in trouble, is he?"



"No. I promise."



They stopped at the bank, and Darby left with fifteen thousand in cash. Carrying the money scared her. Linney scared her. White and Blazevich suddenly scared her.



Parklane was a detox center for the rich, or for those with expensive insurance. It was a small building, surrounded by trees and sitting alone a half mile off the highway. This might be difficult, they decided.



Gray entered the lobby first, and asked the receptionist for Edward Linney.



"He is a patient here," she said rather officially.



He used his best smile. "Yes. I know he is a patient. They told me at the law school that he was a patient. What room is he in?"



Darby entered the lobby and strolled to the water fountain for a very long drink.



"He's in room 22, but you can't see him."



"They told me at the law school I could see him."



"And who might you be?"



He was so friendly. "Gray Grantham, with the Washington Post. They told me at the law school I could ask him a couple of questions."



"I'm sorry they told you that. You see, Mr. Grantham, we run this hospital, and they run their law school."



Darby picked up a magazine and sat on a sofa.



His smile faded considerably, but was still there. "I understand that," he said, still courteous. "Could I see the administrator?"



"Why?"



"Because this is a very important matter, and I must see Mr. Linney this afternoon. If you won't allow it, then I have to talk to your boss. I will not leave here until I speak to the administrator."



She gave him her best go-to-hell look, and backed away from the counter. "Just a moment. You may have a seat."



"Thank you."



She left and Gray turned to Darby. He pointed to a set of double doors that appeared to lead to the only hallway. She took a deep breath, and walked quickly through them. They opened into a large junction from which three sterile corridors branched out. A brass plate pointed to rooms 18 through 30. It was the center wing of the hospital, and the hall was dark and quiet with thick, industrial carpet and floral wallpaper.



This would get her arrested. She would be tackled by a large security guard or a heavy nurse and taken to a locked room where the cops would rough her up when they arrived, and her sidekick out there would stand and watch helplessly as they led her away in shackles. Her name would be in the paper, the Post, and Stump, if he was literate, would see it, and they'd get her.



As she crept along by these closed doors, the beaches and pina coladas seemed unreachable. The door to number 22 was closed and had the names Edward L. Linney and Dr. Wayne McLatchee tacked on it. She knocked.



The administrator was more of an ass than the receptionist. But then, he was paid well for it. He explained they had strict policies about visitation. These were very sick and delicate people, his patients, and they had to protect them. And their doctors, who were the finest in their field, were very strict about who could see the patients. Visitation was allowed only on Saturdays and Sundays, and even then only a carefully selected group of people, usually just family and friends, could sit with the patients, and then only for thirty minutes. They had to be very strict.



These were fragile people, and they certainly could not withstand interrogation by a reporter, regardless of how grave the circumstances.



Mr. Grantham asked when Mr. Linney might be discharged. Absolutely confidential, the administrator exclaimed. Probably when the insurance expired, suggested Mr. Grantham, who was talking and stalling and halfway expecting to hear loud and angry voices coming from behind the double doors.



This mention of insurance really agitated the administrator. Mr. Grantham asked if he, the administrator, would ask Mr. Linney if he would answer two questions from Mr. Grantham, and the whole thing would take less than thirty seconds.



Out of the question, snapped the administrator. They had strict policies.



A voice answered softly, and she stepped into the room. The carpet was thicker and the furniture was made from wood. He sat on the bed in a pair of jeans, no shirt, reading a thick novel. She was struck by his good looks.



"Excuse me," she said warmly as she closed the door behind her.



"Come in," he said with a soft smile. It was the first nonmedical face he'd seen in two days. What a beautiful face. He closed the book.



She walked to the end of the bed. "I'm Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post."



"How'd you get in?" he asked, obviously glad she was in.



"Just walked. Did you clerk last summer for White and Blazevich?"



"Yes, and the summer before. They offered me a job when I graduate. If I graduate."



She handed him the photo. "Do you recognize this man?"



He took it and smiled. "Yeah. His name is, uh, wait a minute. He works in the oil and gas section on the ninth floor. What's his name?"



Darby held her breath.



Linney closed his eyes hard and tried to think. He looked at the photo, and said, "Morgan. I think his name is Morgan. Yep."



"His last name is Morgan?"



"That's him. I can't remember his first name. It's something like Charles, but that's not it. I think it starts with a C."



"And you're certain he's in oil and gas?" Though she couldn't remember the exact number, she was certain there was more than one Morgan at White and Blazevich.



"Yeah."



"On the ninth floor?"



"Yeah. I worked in the bankruptcy section on the eighth floor, and oil and gas covers half of eight and all of nine."



He handed the photo back.



"When are you getting out?" she asked. It would be rude to run from the room.



"Next week, I hope. What's this guy done?"



"Nothing. We just need to talk to him." She was backing away from the bed. "I have to run. "Thanks. And good luck."



"Yeah. No problem."



She quietly closed the door behind her, and scooted toward the lobby. The voice came from behind her.



"Hey! You! What're you doing?"



Darby turned and faced a tall, black security guard with a gun on his hip. She looked completely guilty.



"What're you doing?" he demanded again as he backed her into the wall.



"Visiting my brother," she said. "And don't yell at me again."



"Who's your brother?"



She nodded at his door. "Room 22."



"You can't visit right now. This is off limits."