The Pelican Brief

The motorcade moved quietly out of downtown. He was due for a speech at College Park in an hour, and he relaxed in his limo with his jacket off, reading the words Mabry had put together. He shook his head and wrote in the margins. On a normal day, this would be a pleasant drive out of the city to a beautiful campus for a light little speech, but it wasn’t working out. Coal was seated next to him in the limo.

The Chief of Staff routinely avoided these trips. He treasured the moments the President was out of the White House and he had the run of the place. But they needed to talk.

“I’m tired of Mabry’s speeches,” the President said in frustration. “They’re all sounding the same. I swear I gave this one last week at the Rotary convention.”

“He’s the best we’ve got, but I’m exploring,” Coal said without looking up from his memo. He’d read the speech, and it wasn’t that bad. But Mabry had been writing for six months, and the ideas were stale and Coal wanted to fire him anyway.

The President glanced at Coal’s memo. “What’s that?”

“The short list.”

“Who’s left?”

“Siler-Spence, Watson, and Calderon.” Coal flipped a page.

“That’s just great, Fletcher. A woman, a black, and a Cuban. Whatever happened to white men? I thought I said I wanted young white men. Young, tough, conservative judges with impeccable credentials and years to live. Didn’t I say that?”

Coal kept reading. “They have to be confirmed, Chief.”

“We’ll get ‘em confirmed. I’ll twist arms until they break, but they’ll be confirmed. Do you realize that nine of every ten white men in this country voted for me?”

“Eighty-four percent.”

“Right. So what’s wrong with white men?”

“This is not exactly patronage.”

“The hell it’s not. It’s patronage pure and simple. I reward my friends, and I punish my enemies. That’s how you survive in politics. You dance with the ones that brought you. I can’t believe you want a female and a black. You’re getting soft, Fletcher.”

Coal flipped another page. He’d heard this before. “I’m more concerned with reelection,” he said quietly.

“And I’m not? I’ve appointed so many Asians and Hispanics and women and blacks you’d think I was a Democrat. Hell, Fletcher, what’s wrong with white people? Look, there must be a hundred good, qualified, conservative judges out there, right? Why can’t you find just two, only two, who look and think like I do?”

“You got ninety percent of the Cuban vote.”

The President tossed the speech in a seat and picked up the morning’s Post. “Okay, let’s go with Calderon. How old is he?”

“Fifty-one. Married, eight kids, Catholic, poor background, worked his way through Yale, very solid. Very conservative. No warts or skeletons, except he was treated for alcoholism twenty years ago. He’s been sober since. A teetotaller.”

“Has he ever smoked dope?”

“He denies it.”

“I like him.” The President was reading the front page.

“So do I. Justice and FBI have checked his underwear, and he’s very clean. Now, do you want Siler-Spence or Watson?”

“What kind of name is Siler-Spence? I mean, what’s wrong with these women who use hyphens? What if her name was Skowinski, and she married a guy named Levondowski? Would her little liberated soul insist she go through life as F. Gwendolyn Skowinski-Levondowski? Give me a break. I’ll never appoint a woman with a hyphen.”

“You already have.”

“Who?”

“Kay Jones-Roddy, ambassador to Brazil.”

“Then call her home and fire her.”

Coal managed a slight grin and placed the memo on the seat. He watched the traffic through his window. They would decide on number two later. Calderon was in the bag, and he wanted Linda Siler-Spence, so he would keep pushing the black and force the President to the woman. Basic manipulation.

“I think we should wait another two weeks before a

“Whatever,” the President mumbled as he read a story on page one. He would a

“Judge Watson is a very conservative black judge with a reputation for toughness. He would be ideal.”

“I don’t know,” the President mumbled as he read about Gavin Verheek.

Coal had seen the story on page two. Verheek was found dead in a room at the Hilton in New Orleans under strange circumstances. According to the story, official FBI was in the dark and had nothing to say about why Verheek was in New Orleans. Voyles was deeply saddened. Fine, loyal employee, etc.

The President flipped through the paper. “Our friend Grantham has been quiet.”

“He’s digging. I think he’s heard of the brief, but just can’t get a handle on it. He’s called everyone in town, but doesn’t know what to ask. He’s chasing rabbits.”

“Well, I played golf with Gminski yesterday,” the President said smugly. “And he assures me everything’s under control. We had a real heart-to-heart talk over eighteen holes. He’s a horrible golfer, couldn’t stay out of the sand and water. It was fu

Coal had never touched a golf club, and hated the idle chatter about handicaps and such. “Do you think Voyles is investigating down there?”

“No. He gave me his word he would not. Not that I trust him, but Gminski didn’t mention Voyles.”

“How much do you trust Gminski?” Coal asked with a quick glance and frown at the President.

“None. But if he knew something about the pelican brief, I think he would tell me—” The President’s words trailed off, and he knew he sounded naive.

Coal grunted his disbelief.

They crossed the Anacostia River and were in Prince Georges County. The President picked up the speech and looked out his window. Two weeks after the killings, and the ratings were still above fifty percent. The Democrats had no visible candidate out there making noise. He was strong and getting stronger. Americans were tired of dope and crime, and noisy minorities getting all the attention, and liberal idiots interpreting the Constitution in favor of criminals and radicals. This was his moment. Two nominations to the Supreme Court at the same time. It would be his legacy.

He smiled to himself. What a wonderful tragedy.

The taxi stopped abruptly at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second, and Gray, doing exactly what he was told, paid quickly and jumped out with his bag. The car behind was honking and flipping birds, and he thought how nice it was to be back in New York City.

It was almost 5 P.M., and the pedestrians were thick on Fifth, and he figured that was precisely what she wanted. She had been specific. Take this flight from National to La Guardia. Take a cab to the Vista Hotel in the World Trade Center. Go to the bar, have a drink, maybe two, watch your rear, then after an hour catch a cab to the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second. Move quickly, wear sunglasses, and watch for everything because if he was being followed he could get them killed.

She made him write it all down. It was a bit silly, a bit of overkill, but she had a voice he couldn’t argue with. Didn’t want to, really. She was lucky to be alive, she said, and she would take no more chances. And if he wanted to talk to her, then he would do exactly as he was told.

He wrote it down. He fought the crowd and walked as fast as possible up Fifth to Fifty-ninth to the Plaza, up the steps and through its lobby, then out onto Central Park South. No one could follow him. And if she was this cautious, no one could follow her.

The sidewalk was packed along Central Park South, and as he neared Sixth Avenue he walked even faster. He was keyed up, and regardless of how restrained he tried to be, he was terribly excited about meeting her. On the phone she had been cool and methodical, but with a trace of fear and uncertainty. She was just a law student, she said, and she didn’t know what she was doing, and she would probably be dead in a week if not sooner, but anyway this was the way the game would be played. Always assume you’re being followed, she said. She had survived seven days of being chased by bloodhounds, so please do as she said.