The Pelican Brief

“Look, we’re real proud of you. But you can’t go in, understand? Now just leave the papers with that nice lady over there, and the sun will come up tomorrow.” Grantham moved squarely in front of the door, and appeared ready for combat if the kid insisted.

“I’ll take those,” the secretary said. She took them, and the news aide left.

“Thanks!” Grantham said loudly again.

“I find you to be very rude,” she snapped.

“I said ‘Thanks.’” He tried to look hurt.

“You’re a real smartass.”

“Thanks!”

The door suddenly opened, and a voice called out, “Grantham.”

He smiled at her, and stepped inside. Jackson Feldman was standing behind his desk. The tie was down to the second button and the sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He was six-six, with no fat. At fifty-eight, he ran two marathons a year and worked fifteen hours a day.

Smith Keen was also standing, and holding the four-page outline of a story along with a copy of Darby’s handwritten reproduction of the pelican brief. Feldman’s copy was lying on the desk. They appeared dazed.

“Close the door,” Feldman said to Grantham.

Gray closed the door and sat on the edge of a table. No one spoke.

Feldman rubbed his eyes roughly, then looked at Keen. “Wow,” he finally said.

Gray smiled. “You mean that’s it. I hand you the biggest story in twenty years, and you are so moved you say ‘Wow.’”

“Where’s Darby Shaw?” Keen asked.

“I can’t tell you. It’s part of the deal.”

“What deal?” Keen asked.

“I can’t tell you that either.”

“When did you talk to her?”

“Last night, and again this morning.”

“And this was in New York?” Keen asked.

“What difference does it make where we talked? We talked, okay? She talked. I listened. I flew home. I wrote the outline. So what do you think?”

Feldman slowly folded his thin frame and sat deep in his chair. “How much does the White House know?”

“Not sure. Verheek told Darby that it was delivered to the White House one day last week, and at the time the FBI thought it should be pursued. Then for some reason, after the White House had it, the FBI backed off. That’s all I know.”

“How much did Mattiece give the President three years ago?”

“Millions. Virtually all of it through a myriad of PACs that he controls. This guy is very smart. He’s got all kinds of lawyers, and they figure out ways to fu

The editors were thinking slowly. They were stu

Feldman slowly picked up the papers clipped together and flipped through until he found the photograph of Mattiece and the President. He shook his head.

“It’s dynamite, Gray,” Keen said. “We just can’t run without a bunch of corroboration. Hell, you’re talking about the world’s greatest job of verifying. This is powerful stuff, son.”

“How can you do it?” Feldman asked.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“I’d like to hear them. You could get yourself killed with this.”

Grantham jumped to his feet, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “First, we’ll try to find Garcia.”

“We? Who’s we?” Keen asked.

“Me, okay? Me. I’ll try to find Garcia.”

“Is the girl in on this?” Keen asked.

“I can’t answer that. It’s part of the deal.”

“Answer the question,” Feldman said. “Look at where we are if she gets killed helping you with the story. It’s much too risky. Now where is she and what have you guys got pla

“I’m not telling where she is. She’s a source, and I always protect my sources. No, she’s not helping with the investigation. She’s just a source, okay?”

They stared at him in disbelief. They looked at each other, and finally Keen shrugged.

“Do you want some help?” Feldman asked.

“No. She insists on me doing it alone. She’s very scared, and you can’t blame her.”

“I got scared just reading the damned thing,” Keen said.

Feldman kicked back in his chair and crossed his feet on the desk. Size fourteens. He smiled for the first time. “You’ve got to start with Garcia. If he can’t be found, then you could dig for months on Mattiece and not put it together. And before you start digging on Mattiece, let’s have a long talk. I sort of like you, Grantham, and this is not worth getting killed over.”

“I see every word you write, okay?” Keen said.

“And I want a daily report, okay?” Feldman said.

“No problem.”

Keen walked to the glass wall and watched the madness in the newsroom. In the course of each day, the chaos came and went a half a dozen times. Things got crazy at five-thirty. The news was being written, and the second story conference was at six-thirty.

Feldman watched from his desk. “This could be the end of the slump,” he said to Gray without looking at him. “What’s it been, five, six years?”

“Try seven,” Keen said.

“I’ve written some good stories,” Gray said defensively.

“Sure,” Feldman said, still watching the newsroom. “But you’ve been hitting doubles and triples. The last grand slam was a long time ago.”

“There have been a lot of strikeouts too,” Keen added helpfully.

“Happens to all of us,” Gray said. “But this grand slam will be in the seventh game of the World Series.” He opened the door.

Feldman glared at him. “Don’t get hurt, and don’t allow her to get hurt. Understand?”

Gray smiled and left the office.

He was almost to Thomas Circle when he saw the blue lights behind him. The cop did not pass, but stayed on his bumper. He was oblivious to both the speed limit and his speedometer. It would be his third ticket in sixteen months.

He parked in a small lot next to an apartment house. It was dark, and the blue lights flashed in his mirrors. He rubbed his temples.

“Step out,” the cop demanded from the bumper.

Gray opened the door and did what he was told. The cop was black, and was suddenly smiling. It was Cleve. He pointed to the patrol car. “Get in.”

They sat in the car under the blue lights and stared at the Volvo. “Why do you do this to me?” Gray asked.

“We have quotas, Grantham. We have to stop so many white people and harass them. Chief wants to even things out. The white cops pick on i

“I suppose you’re go

“Only if you ask me to. Sarge can’t talk anymore.”

“I’m listening.”

“He smells something around the place. He’s caught a few strange looks, and he’s heard a thing or two.”

“Such as?”

“Such as they’re talking about you, and how much they need to know what you know. He thinks they might be listening.”

“Come on, Cleve. Is he serious?”

“He’s heard them talk about you and how you’re asking questions about the pelican something or other. You’ve got ‘em shook up.”

“What has he heard about this pelican thing?”

“Just that you’re hot on it, and they’re serious about it. These are mean and paranoid people, Gray. Sarge says to be careful where you go and who you talk to.”

“And we can’t meet anymore?”

“Not for a while. He wants to lay low, and run things through me.”

“We’ll do that. I need his help, but tell him to be careful. This is very touchy.”

“What is this pelican business?”

“I can’t say. But tell Sarge it could get him killed.”

“Not Sarge. He’s smarter than all of them over there.”

Gray opened the door and got out. “Thanks, Cleve.”

He turned off the blue lights. “I’ll be around. I’m working nights for the next six months, so I’ll try and keep an eye on you.”

“Thanks.”

Rupert paid for his ci