The Pelican Brief

by The Pelican Brief [lit]

  "Are you certain?"

  She handed it back. "Yep. I never left the fifth floor. It would take years to meet everyone, and they come and go so fast. You know how lawyers are."

  Laura glanced around, and the conversation was over. "I really appreciate this," Darby said.

  "No problem," Laura said on her way out the door.

  AT EXACTLY TEN-THIRTY, they met again in room 336. Gray had caught Ellen Reinhart in the driveway as she was leaving for class. She had worked in the litigation section under a partner by the name of Daniel O'Malley, and spent most of the summer in a class action trial in Miami. She was gone for two months, and spent little time in the Washington office. White and Blazevich had offices in four cities, including Tampa. She did not recognize Garcia, and she was in a hurry.

  Judith Wilson was not at her apartment, but her roommate said she would return around one.

  They scratched off Maylor, Kaas, and Reinhart. They whispered their plans, and split again. Gray left to find Edward Linney, who according to the list had clerked the past two summers at White and Blazevich. He was not in the phone book, but his address was in Wesley Heights, north of Georgetown's main campus.

  At ten forty-five, Darby found herself loitering again in front of the bulletin board, hoping for another miracle. Akers was a male, and there were different ways to approach him. She hoped he was where he was supposed to bein room 201 studying criminal procedure. She eased that way and waited a moment or two until the door opened and fifty law students emptied into the hall. She could never be a reporter. She could never walk up to strangers and start asking a bunch of questions. It was awkward and uncomfortable. But she walked up to a shy-looking young man with sad eyes and thick glasses, and said, "Excuse me. Do you happen to know Michael Akers? I think he's in this class."

  The guy smiled. It was nice to be noticed. He pointed at a group of men walking toward the front entrance. "That's him, in the gray sweater."

  "Thanks." She left him standing there. The group disassembled as it left the building, and Akers and a friend were on the sidewalk.

  "Mr. Akers," she called after him.

  They both stopped and turned around, then smiled as she nervously approached them. "Are you Michael Akers?" she asked.

  "That's me. Who are you?"

  "My name is Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I speak to you alone?"

  "Sure." The friend took the hint and left.

  "What about?" Akers asked.

  "Did you clerk for White and Blazevich last summer?"

  "Yes." Akers was friendly and enjoying this.

  "What section?"

  "Real estate. Boring as hell, but it was a job. Why do you want to know?"

  "She handed him the photo.Do you recognize this man? He works for White and Blazevich."

  Akers wanted to recognize him. He wanted to be helpful and have a long conversation with her, but the face did not register.

  "Kind of a suspicious picture, isn't it?" he said.

  "I guess. Do you know him?"

  No. I've never seen him. It's an awfully big firm. The partners wear name badges to their meetings. Can you believe it? The guys who own the firm don't know each other. There must be a hundred partners."

  "Eighty-one, to be exact.Did you have a supervisor?"

  "Yeah, a partner named Walter Welch. A real snot. I didn't like the firm, really."

  "Do you remember any other clerks?"

  "Sure. The place was crawling with summer clerks."

  "If I needed their names, could I get back with you?"

  "Anytime. This guy in trouble?"

  "I don't think so. He may know something."

  "I hope they all get disbarred. A bunch of thugs, really. It's a rotten place to work. Everything's political."

  "Thanks." She smiled, and turned away. He admired the rear view, and said, "Call me anytime."

  "Thanks."

  Darby, the investigative reporter, walked next door to the library building, and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor where the Georgetown Law Journal had a suite of crowded offices. She'd found the most recent edition of 'thejournal in the library, and noticed that JoAnne Ratliff was an assistant editor. She suspected most law reviews and law journals were much the same. The top students hung out there and prepared their scholarly articles and comments. They were superior to the rest of the students, and were a clannish bunch who appreciated their bril liant minds. They hung out in the law journal suite. It was their second home.

  She stepped inside and asked the first person where she might find JoAnne Ratliff. He pointed around a corner. Second door on the right. The second door opened into a cluttered workroom lined with rows of books. Two females were hard at work.

  "JoAnne Ratliff," Darby said.

  "That's me," an older woman of maybe forty responded.

  "Hi. My name is Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few quick questions?"

  She slowly laid her pen on the table, and frowned at the other woman. Whatever they were doing was terribly important, and this interruption was a real pain in the ass. They were significant law students.

 

 

  Darby wanted to smirk and say something smart. She was number two in her class, dammit!, so don't act so high and mighty.

  "What's the story about?" Ratliff asked.

  "Could we speak in private?"

  They frowned at each other again.

  "I'm very busy," Ratliff said.

  So am I, thought Darby. You're checking citations for some meaningless article, and I'm trying to nail the man who killed two Supreme Court Justices.

  "I'm sorry," Darby said. "I promise I'll just take a minute."

  They stepped into the hall. "I'm very sorry to disturb you, but I'm in sort of a rush."

  "And you're a reporter with the Post?" It was more of a challenge than a question, and she was forced to lie some more. She told herself she could lie and cheat and steal for two days, then it was off to the Caribbean and Grantham could have it.

  "Yes. Did you work for White and Blazevich last summer?"

  "I did. Why?"

  Quickly, the photo. Ratliff took it and analyzed it.

  "Do you recognize him?"

  She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. Who is he?"

  This bitch'll make a fine lawyer. So many questions. If she knew who he was, she wouldn't be standing in this tiny hallway acting like a reporter and putting up with this haughty legal eagle.

  "He's a lawyer with White and Blazevich," Darby said as sincerely as possible. "I thought you might recognize him."

  "Nope." She handed the photo back.

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

  "He's not in trouble, is he?"