The Pelican Brief

“Professionals. Haven’t you read the papers?”

“Of course. But who’s behind the professionals?”

“I don’t know. After last night, the unanimous choice seems to be the Underground Army.”

“But you’re not convinced.”

“No. There have been no arrests. I’m not convinced.”

“And you’ve got some obscure suspect unknown to the rest of the country.”

“I had one, but now I’m not so sure. I spent three days tracking it down, even summarized it all real nice and neat in my little computer, and printed out a thin rough draft of a brief which I have now discarded.”

Callahan stared at her. “You’re telling me you skipped classes for three days, ignored me, worked around the clock playing Sherlock Holmes, and now you’re throwing it away.”

“It’s over there on the table.”

“I can’t believe this. While I sulked around in loneliness all week, I knew it was for a worthy cause. I knew my suffering was for the good of the country because you would peel away the onion and tell me tonight or perhaps tomorrow who done it.”

“It can’t be done, at least not with legal research. There’s no pattern, no common thread in the murders. I almost burned up the computers at the law school.”

“Ha! I told you so. You forget, dear, that I am a genius at constitutional law, and I knew immediately that Rosenberg and Jensen had nothing in common but black robes and death threats. The Nazis or Aryans or Kluxers or Mafia or some other group killed them because Rosenberg was Rosenberg, and because Jensen was the easiest target and somewhat of an embarrassment.”

“Well, why don’t you call the FBI and share your insights with them? I’m sure they’re sitting by the phone.”

“Don’t be angry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

“You’re an ass, Thomas.”

“Yes, but you love me, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can we still go to bed? You promised.”

“We’ll see.”

Callahan placed his glass on the table, and attacked her. “Look, baby. I’ll read your brief, okay? And then we’ll talk about it, okay? But I’m not thinking clearly right now, and I won’t be able to continue until you take my weak and trembling hand and lead me to your bed.”

“Forget my little brief.”

“Please, dammit, Darby, please.”

She grabbed his neck and pulled him to her. They kissed long and hard, a wet, almost violent kiss.

The cop stuck his thumb on the button next to the name of Gray Grantham, and held it down for twenty seconds. Then a brief pause. Then another twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. He thought this was fu

Maybe Grantham was dead. Or maybe he was comatose from booze and a late night on the town. Maybe he had someone’s woman up there and had no plans to answer the door. Pause. Twenty seconds.

The mike crackled. “Who is it!”

“Police!” answered the cop, who was black and emphasized the po in police just for the fun of it.

“What do you want?” Grantham demanded.

“Maybe I gotta warrant.” The cop was near laughter.

Grantham’s voice softened, and he sounded wounded. “Is this Cleve?”

“It is.”

“What time is it, Cleve?”

“Almost five-thirty.”

“It must be good.”

“Don’t know. Sarge didn’t say, you know. He just said to wake you up ‘cause he wanted to talk.”

“Why does he always want to talk before the sun comes up?”

“Stupid question, Grantham.”

A slight pause. “Yeah, I guess so. I presume he wants to talk right now.”

“No. You got thirty minutes. He said be there at six.”

“Where?”

“There’s a little coffee shop on Fourteenth near the Trinidad Playground. It’s dark and safe, and Sarge likes it.”

“Where does he find these places?”

“You know, for a reporter you can ask the dumbest questions. The name of the place is Glenda’s, and I suggest you get going or you’ll be late.”

“Will you be there?”

“I’ll drop in, just to make sure you’re okay.”

“I thought you said it was safe.”

“It is safe, for that part of town. Can you find it?”

“Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Have a nice day, Grantham.”

Sarge was old, very black, with a head full of brilliant white hair that sprang out in all directions. He wore thick sunglasses whenever he was awake, and most of his coworkers in the West Wing of the White House thought he was half blind. He held his head sideways and smiled like Ray Charles. He sometimes bumped into door facings and desks as he unloaded trash cans and dusted furniture. He walked slowly and gingerly as if counting his steps. He worked patiently, always with a smile, always with a kind word for anyone willing to give him one. For the most part he was ignored and dismissed as just another friendly, old, partially disabled black janitor.

Sarge could see around corners. His territory was the West Wing, where he had been cleaning for thirty years now. Cleaning and listening. Cleaning and seeing. He picked up after some terribly important people who were often too busy to watch their words, especially in the presence of poor old Sarge.

He knew which doors stayed open, and which walls were thin, and which air vents carried sound. He could disappear in an instant, then reappear in a shadow where the terribly important people could not see him.

He kept most of it to himself. But from time to time, he fell heir to a juicy bit of information that could be pieced together with another one, and Sarge would make the judgment call that it should be repeated. He was very careful. He had three years until retirement, and he took no chances.

No one ever suspected Sarge of leaking stories to the press. There were usually enough big mouths within any White House to lay blame on each other. It was hilarious, really. Sarge would talk to Grantham at the Post, then wait excitedly for the story, then listen to the wailing in the basement when the heads rolled.

He was an impeccable source, and he talked only to Grantham. His son Cleve, the cop, arranged the meetings, always at odd hours at dark and inconspicuous places. Sarge wore his sunglasses. Grantham wore the same with a hat or cap of some sort. Cleve usually sat with them and watched the crowd.

Grantham arrived at Glenda’s a few minutes after six, and walked to a booth in the rear. There were three other customers. Glenda herself was frying eggs on a grill near the register. Cleve sat on a stool watching her.

They shook hands. A cup of coffee had been poured for Grantham.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“No problem, my friend. Good to see you.” Sarge had a raspy voice that was difficult to suppress with a whisper. No one was listening.

Grantham gulped coffee. “Busy week at the White House.”

“You could say that. Lot of excitement. Lot of happiness.”

“You don’t say.” Grantham could not take notes at these meetings. It would be too obvious, Sarge said when he laid the ground rules.

“Yes. The President and his boys were elated with the news of Justice Rosenberg. This made them very happy.”

“What about Justice Jensen?”

“Well, as you noticed, the President attended the memorial service, but did not speak. He had pla

“Who wrote the eulogy?”

“The speechwriters. Mainly Mabry. Worked on it all day Thursday, then he backed out.”

“He also went to Rosenberg’s service.”