The Pelican Brief

by The Pelican Brief [lit]

  "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."

  "It was important. I'm leaving, okay?"

  The door to 22 opened, and Linney looked at them.

  "This your sister?" the guard demanded.

  Darby pleaded with her eyes.

  "Yeah, leave her alone," Linney said. "She's leaving."

  She exhaled and smiled at Linney. "Mom will be up this weekend."

  "Good," Linney said softly.

  The guard backed off, and Darby almost ran to the double doors. Grantham was preaching to the administrator about the cost of health care. She walked quickly through the doors, into the lobby, and was almost to the front door when the administrator spoke to her.

  "Miss! Oh, miss! Can I have your name?"

  Darby was out the front door, headed for the car. Grantham shrugged at the administrator, and casually left the building. They jumped in, and sped away.

  Garcia's last name is Morgan. Linney recognized him immediately, but he had trouble with the name. First name starts with a C." She was digging through her notes from Martindale-Hubbell. "Said he works in oil and gas on the ninth floor."

  Grantham was speeding away from Parklane. "Oil and gas!"

  "That's what he said." She found it. "Curtis D. Morgan, oil and gas section, age twenty-nine. There's another Morgan in litigation, but he's a partner and, let's see, he's fifty-one."

  "Garcia is Curtis Morgan," Gray said with relief. He looked at his watch. "It's a quarter till four. We'll have to hurry."

  "I can't wait."

  RUPERT PICKED THEM UP as they turned out o
f Parklane's driveway. The rented Pontiac was flying all over the street. He drove like an idiot just to keep up, then radioed ahead.

  MATTHEW BARR had never experienced a speedboat before, and after five hours of a bone-jarring voyage through the ocean he was soaked and in pain. His body was numb, and when he saw land he said a prayer, the first in decades. Then he resumed his nonstop cursing of Fletcher Coal.

  They docked at a small marina near a city that he believed to be Freeport. The captain had said something about Freeport to the man known as Larry when they left Florida. No other word was spoken during the ordeal. Larry's role in the journey was uncertain. He was at least six-six, with a neck as thick as a utility pole, and he did nothing but watch Barr, which was okay at first but after five hours became quite a nuisance.

  They stood awkwardly when the boat stopped. Larry was the first one out, and he motioned for Barr to join him. Another large man was approaching on the pier, and together they escorted Barr to a waiting van. The van was suspiciously short of windows.

  At this point, Barr preferred to say good-bye to his new pals, and simply disappear in the direction of Freeport. He'd catch a plane to D.C., and slap Coal the moment he saw his shining forehead. But he had to be cool. They wouldn't dare hurt him.

  The van stopped moments later at a small airstrip, and Barr was escorted to a black Lear. He admired it briefly before following Larry up the steps. He was cool and relaxed; just another job. After all, he was at one time one of the best CIA agents in Europe. He was an ex-Marine. He could take care of himself.

  He sat by himself in the cabin. The windows were covered, and this annoyed him. But he understood. Mr. Mattiece treasured his privacy, and Barr could certainly respect that. Larry and the other heavyweight were at the front of the cabin, flipping through magazines and completely ignoring him.

  Thirty minutes after takeoff, the Lear began its descent, and Larry lumbered toward him.

  "Put this on," he demanded as he handed over a thick, cloth blindfold. At this point, a rookie would panic. An amateur would start asking questions. But Barr had been blindfolded before, and while he was having serious doubts about this mission, he calmly took the blindfold and covered his eyes.

  THE MAN who removed the blindfold introduced himself as Emil, an assistant to Mr. Mattiece. He was a small, wiry type with dark hair and a thin mustache winding around the lip. He sat in a chair four feet away and lit a cigarette.

  "Our people tell us you are legitimate, sort of," he said with a friendly smile. Barr looked around the room. There were no walls, only windows in small panes. The sun was bright and pierced his eyes. A plush garden surrounded a series of fountains and pools outside the room. They were in the rear of a very large house.

  "I'm here on behalf of the President," Barr said.

  "We believe you." Emil nodded. He was undoubtedly a Cajun.

  "May I ask who you are?" Barr said.

  "I'm Emil, and that's enough. Mr. Mattiece is not feeling well. Perhaps you should leave your message with me."

  "I have orders to speak directly to him."

  "Orders from Mr. Coal, I believe." Emil never stopped smiling.

  "That's correct."

  "I see. Mr. Mattiece prefers not to meet you. He wants you to talk to me."

  Barr shook his head. Now, if push came to shove, if things got out of hand, then he would gladly talk to Emil if it was necessary. But for now, he would hold firm.

  "I am not authorized to talk to anyone but Mr. Mattiece," Barr said properly.

  "The smile almost disappeared. Emil pointed beyond the pools and fountains to a large gazebo-shaped building with tall windows from floor to ceiling. Rows of perfectly manicured shrubs and flowers surrounded it.Mr. Mattiece is in his gazebo. Follow me."

  They left the sun room and walked slowly around a wading pool. Barr had a thick knot in his stomach, but he followed his little friend as if this was simply another day at the office. The sound of falling water echoed through the garden. A narrow boardwalk led to the gazebo. They stopped at the door.

  "I'm afraid you must remove your shoes," Emil said with a smile. Emil was barefoot. Barr untied his shoes and placed them next to the door.

  "Do not step on the towels," Emil said gravely.

  "The towels?

  Emil opened the door for Barr, who stepped in alone. The room was perfectly round, about fifty feet in diameter. There were three chairs and a sofa, all covered with white sheets. Thick cotton towels were on the floor in perfect little trails around the room. The sun shone brightly through skylights. A door opened, and Victor Mattiece emerged from a small room.

  Barr froze and gawked at the man. He was thin and gaunt, with long gray hair and a dirty beard. He wore only a pair of white gym shorts, and walked carefully on the towels without looking at Barr.

  "Sit over there," he said, pointing at a chair. "Don't step on the towels."

  Barr avoided the towels and took his seat. Mattiece turned his'back and faced the windows. His skin was leathery and dark bronze. His bare feet were lined with ugly veins. His toenails were long and yellow. He was crazy as hell.

  "What do you want?" he asked quietly to the windows.

  "The President sent me."

  "He did not. Fletcher Coal sent you. I doubt if the President knows you're here."

  Maybe he wasn't crazy. He spoke without moving a muscle in his body.

  "Fletcher Coal is the President's chief of staff. He sent me."

  "I know about Coal. And I know about you. And I know about your little Unit. Now, what do you want?"

  "Information."

  "Don't play games with me. What do you want?"

  "Have you read the pelican brief?" Barr asked.

  The frail body did not flinch. "Have you read it?"

  "Yes," Barr answered quickly.

  "Do you believe it to be true?"

  "Perhaps. That's why I'm here."

  "Why is Mr. Coal so concerned about the pelican brief?"

  "Because a couple of reporters have wind of it. And if it's true, then we need to know immediately."

  "Who are these reporters?"

  "Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. He picked it up first, and he knows more than anyone. He's digging hard. Coal thinks he's about to run something."

  "We can take care of him, can't we?" Mattiece said to the windows. "Who's the other one?"

  "Rifkin with the Times."

  Mattiece still had not moved an inch. Barr glanced around at the sheets and towels. Yes, he had to be crazy. The place was sanitized and smelled of rubbing alcohol. Maybe he was ill.

  "Does Mr. Coal believe it to be true?"

  "I don't know. He's very concerned about it. That's why I'm here, Mr. Mattiece. We have to know."

  "What if it's true?"

  "Then we have problems."

  Mattiece finally moved. He shifted his weight to the right leg, and folded his arms across his narrow chest. But his eyes never moved. Sand dunes and sea oats were in the distance, but not the ocean.

  "Do you know what I think?" he said quietly.

  "What?"

  "I think Coal is the problem. He gave the brief to too many people. He handed it to the CIA. He allowed you to see it. This really disturbs me."

  Barr could think of no response. It was ludicrous to imply that Coal wanted to distribute the brief. The problem is you, Mattiece. You killed the justices. You panicked and killed Callahan. You're the greedy bastard who was not content with a mere fifty million.

  Mattiece turned slowly and looked at Barr. The eyes were dark and red. He looked nothing like the photo with the Vice President, but that was seven years ago. He'd aged twenty years in the last seven, and perhaps gone off the deep end along the way.

  "You clowns in Washington are to blame for this," he said, somewhat louder.

  Barr could not look at him. "Is it true, Mr. Mattiece? That's all I want to know."

  Behind Barr, a door opened without a sound. Larry, in his socks and avoiding th
e towels, eased forward two steps and stopped.

  Mattiece walked on the towels to a glass door, and opened it. He looked outside and spoke softly. "Of course it's true." He walked through the door, and closed it slowly behind him. Barr watched as the idiot shuffled along a sidewalk toward the sand dunes.