The Pelican Brief

“You can get a condo next to us, and we’ll have a ball.”

“Beautiful, beautiful. Just beautiful.”

The phone rang four times, the answering machine clicked on, the recorded voice echoed through the apartment, the beep, then no message. It rang again four times, same routine, and no message. A minute later it rang again, and Gray Grantham grabbed it from bed. He sat on a pillow, trying to focus.

“Who is it?” he asked in pain. There was no light coming through the window.

The voice on the other end was low and timid. “Is this Gray Grantham with the Washington Post?”

“It is. Who’s calling?”

Slowly, “I can’t give you my name.”

The fog lifted and he focused on the clock. It was five-forty. “Okay, forget the name. Why are you calling?”

“I saw your story yesterday about the White House and the nominees.”

“That’s good.” You and a million others. “Why are you calling me at this obscene hour?”

“I’m sorry. I’m on my way to work and stopped at a pay phone. I can’t call from home or the office.”

The voice was clear, articulate, and appeared to be intelligent. “What kind of office?”

“I’m an attorney.”

Great. Washington was home for half a million lawyers. “Private or government?”

A slight hesitation. “Uh, I’d rather not say.”

“Okay. Look, I’d rather be sleeping. Why, exactly, did you call?”

“I may know something about Rosenberg and Jensen.”

Grantham sat on the edge of the bed. “Such as—” A much longer pause. “Are you recording this?”

“No. Should I?”

“I don’t know. I’m really very scared and confused, Mr. Grantham. I prefer not to record this. Maybe the next call, okay?”

“Whatever you want. I’m listening.”

“Can this call be traced?”

“Possibly, I guess. But you’re at a pay phone, right? What difference does it make?”

“I don’t know. I’m just scared.”

“It’s okay. I swear I’m not recording and I swear I won’t trace it. Now, what’s on your mind?”

“Well, I think I may know who killed them.”

Grantham was standing. “That’s some pretty valuable knowledge.”

“It could get me killed. Do you think they’re following me?”

“Who? Who would be following you?”

“I don’t know.” The voice trailed off, as if he was looking over his shoulder.

Grantham was pacing by the bed. “Relax. Why don’t you tell me your name, okay? I swear it’s confidential.”

“Garcia.”

“That’s not a real name, is it?”

“Of course not, but it’s the best I can do.”

“Okay, Garcia. Talk to me.”

“I’m not certain, okay? But I think I stumbled across something at the office that I was not supposed to see.”

“Do you have a copy of it?”

“Maybe.”

“Look, Garcia. You called me, right. Do you want to talk or not?”

“I’m not sure. What will you do if I tell you something?”

“Check it out thoroughly. If we’re go

“Yeah. Can we talk later?”

“Of course. We can talk now.”

“I need to think about this. I haven’t eaten or slept in a week, and I’m not thinking rationally. I might call you later.”

“Okay, okay. That’s fine. You can call me at work at—”

“No. I won’t call you at work. Sorry I woke you.” He hung up. Grantham looked at the row of numbers on his phone and punched seven digits, waited, then six more, then four more. He scribbled a number on a pad by the phone, and hung up. The pay phone was on Fifteenth Street in Pentagon City.

Gavin Verheek slept four hours and woke up drunk. When he arrived at the Hoover Building an hour later, the alcohol was fading and the pain was settling in. He cursed himself and he cursed Callahan, who no doubt would sleep until noon and wake up fresh and alive and ready for the flight to New Orleans. They had left the restaurant when it closed at midnight, then hit a few bars and joked about catching a skin flick or two, but since their favorite movie house had been bombed they couldn’t. So they just drank until three or four.

He had a meeting with Director Voyles at eleven, and it was imperative to appear sober and alert. It would be impossible. He told his secretary to close the door, and explained to her that he had caught a nasty virus, maybe the flu, and he was to be left alone at his desk unless it was awfully damned important. She studied his eyes and seemed to sniff more than usual. The smell of beer does not always evaporate with sleep.

She left and closed the door behind her. He locked it. To make things equal, he called Callahan’s room, but no one answered.

What a life. His best friend earned almost as much as he did, but worked thirty hours in a busy week, and had his pick of pliant young things twenty years his junior. Then he remembered their grand plans for the week in St. Thomas, and the thought of Darby strolling along the beach. He would go, even if it caused a divorce.

A wave of nausea rippled through his chest and up his esophagus, and he quickly lay still on the floor. Cheap government carpet. He breathed deeply, and the pounding started at the top of his head. The plaster ceiling was not spi

His briefcase was within reach, and he carefully slid it next to him. He found the envelope inside with the morning paper. He opened it, unfolded the brief, and held it with both hands six inches above his face.

It was thirteen letter-sized pages of computer paper, all double-spaced with wide margins. He could handle it. Notes were scribbled in the margins by hand and whole sections were marked through. The words FIRST DRAFT were handwritten with a felt pen across the top. Her name, address, and phone number were typed on the cover sheet.

He would skim it for a few minutes while he was on the floor, then hopefully he would feel like sitting at the desk and going through the motions of being an important government lawyer. He thought of Voyles, and the pounding intensified.

She wrote well, in the standard, scholarly legal fashion of long sentences filled with large words. But she was clear. She avoided the double-talk and legal lingo most students strive so desperately for. She would never make it as an attorney employed by the United States Government.

Gavin had never heard of her suspect, and was certain it was not on anyone’s list. Technically, it was not a brief, but more of a story about a lawsuit in Louisiana. She told the facts succinctly, and made them interesting. Fascinating, really. He was not skimming.

The facts took four pages, then she filled the next three with brief histories of the parties. It dragged a bit here, but he kept reading. He was hooked. On page eight, the briefer whatever it was summarized the trial. On nine, it mentioned the appeal, and the final three pages laid an implausible trail to the removal of Rosenberg and Jensen from the Court. Callahan said she had already discarded this theory, and she appeared to lose steam at the end.

But it was highly readable. For a moment he had forgotten his current state of pain, and read thirteen pages of a law student’s brief while lying on the floor on dirty carpet with a million things to do.

There was a soft knock at the door. He slowly sat up, gingerly stood, and walked to the door. “Yes.”

It was the secretary. “I hate to bother. But the Director wants you in his office in ten minutes.”

Verheek opened the door. “What?”

“Yes, sir. Ten minutes.”

He rubbed his eyes and breathed rapidly. “What for?”

“I get demoted for asking those questions, sir.”