The Pelican Brief

“Where was the car?”

“In a wooded area along Bayou Lafourche near the town of Galliano. He knew the area well. Some camping gear and fishing equipment were in the trunk. No suicide note. The police investigated, but found nothing suspicious. The case was closed.”

“This is incredible.”

“He had had some problems with alcohol, and had been treated by an analyst in San Francisco. But the suicide was a surprise.”

“Do you think he was murdered?”

“A lot of people do. His death was a big blow to Green Fund. His passion for the wetlands would’ve been potent in the courtroom.”

Gray finished his drink and rattled the ice. She inched closer to him. The waiter appeared, and they ordered.

The lobby of the Marbury Hotel was empty at 6 A.M. Sunday when Gray found a copy of the Times. It was six inches deep and weighed twelve pounds, and he wondered how much thicker they pla

But there was nothing. And the less he found, the faster he skimmed until he was down to sports and classifieds, and he stopped and sort of danced to the phone. He called Smith Keen, who was awake. “Have you seen it?” he asked.

“Ain’t it beautiful,” Keen said. “I wonder what happened.”

“They don’t have it, Smith. They’re digging like hell, but they don’t have it yet. Who did Feldman talk to?”

“He never says. But it was supposed to be reliable.” Keen was divorced and lived alone in an apartment not far from the Marbury.

“Are you busy?” Gray asked.

“Well, not exactly. It’s almost six-thirty on Sunday morning.”

“We need to talk. Pick me up outside the Marbury Hotel in fifteen minutes.”

“The Marbury Hotel?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain.”

“Ah, the girl. You lucky stiff.”

“I wish. She’s in another hotel.”

“Here? In Washington?”

“Yes. Fifteen minutes.”

“I’ll be there.”

Gray nervously sipped coffee from a paper cup and waited in the lobby. She’d made him paranoid, and he half expected thugs to be hiding on the sidewalk with automatic weapons. This frustrated him. He saw Keen’s Toyota ease by on M Street, and he walked quickly to it.

“What would you like to see?” Keen said as he drove away from the curb.

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a beautiful day. How about Virginia?”

“As you wish. Did you get kicked out of your apartment?”

“Not exactly. I’m following orders from the girl. She thinks like a field marshal, and I’m here because I was told to be here. I must stay until Tuesday, or until she gets jumpy and moves me again. I’m in room eight-thirty-three if you need me, but don’t tell anyone.”

“I assume you want the Post to pay for this,” Keen said with a smile.

“I’m not thinking about money right now. The same people who tried to kill her in New Orleans turned up in New York on Friday, or so she thinks. They have amazing talent in pursuit, and she’s being painfully cautious.”

“Well, if you’re being followed by someone, and she’s being followed by someone, then perhaps she knows what she’s doing.”

“Oh, listen, Smith, she knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s so good it’s scary, and she’s leaving here Wednesday morning for good. So we’ve got two days to find Garcia.”

“What if Garcia’s overrated? What if you find him and he won’t talk, or what if he knows nothing? Have you thought about that?”

“I’ve had nightmares about that. I think he knows something big. There’s a document or a piece of paper, something tangible, and he’s got it. He referred to it a time or two, and when I pressed him he wouldn’t admit it. But the day we were supposed to meet, he pla

“And if he won’t show it to you?”

“I’ll break his neck.”

They crossed the Potomac and cruised by Arlington Cemetery. Keen lit his pipe and cracked a window. “What if you can’t find Garcia?”

“Plan B. She’s gone and the deal’s off. Once she leaves the country, I have permission to do anything with the brief except use her name as a source. The poor girl is convinced she’s dead regardless of whether we get the story, but she wants as much protection as possible. I can never use her name, not even as the author of the brief.”

“Does she talk much about the brief?”

“Not the actual writing of it. It was a wild idea, she pursued it, and had almost dismissed it when bombs started going off. She’s sorry she wrote the damned thing. She and Callahan were really in love, and she’s loaded down with a lot of pain and guilt.”

“So what’s Plan B?”

“We attack the lawyers. Mattiece is too devious and slippery to penetrate without subpoenas and warrants and things we can’t dispense, but we know his lawyers. He’s represented by two big firms here in town, and we go after them. A lawyer or a group of them carefully analyzed the Supreme Court, and suggested the names of Rosenberg and Jensen. Mattiece wouldn’t know who to kill. So his lawyers told him. It’s a conspiracy angle.”

“But you can’t make them talk.”

“Not about a client. But if the lawyers are guilty, and we start asking questions, something’ll break. We’ll need a dozen reporters making a million phone calls to lawyers, paralegals, law clerks, secretaries, copy room clerks, everybody. We assault these bastards.”

Keen puffed his pipe and was noncommittal. “Who are the firms?”

“White and Blazevich, and Brim, Stearns, and Kidlow. Check our library on them.”

“I’ve heard of White and Blazevich. It’s a big Republican outfit.”

Gray nodded and sipped the last of his coffee.

“What if it’s another firm?” Keen asked. “What if the firm is not in Washington? What if the conspirators don’t break? What if there’s only one legal mind at work here and it belongs to a part-time paralegal in Shreveport? What if one of Mattiece’s in-house lawyers devised the scheme?”

“Sometimes you irritate the hell out of me. Do you know that?”

“These are valid questions. What if?”

“Then we go to Plan C.”

“And what’s that?”

“I don’t know yet. She hasn’t gotten that far.”

She had instructed him to stay off the streets and to eat in his room. He had a sandwich and fries in a bag, and was obediently walking to his room on the eighth floor of the Marbury. An Asian maid was pushing her cart near his room. He stopped at his door and pulled the key from his pocket.

“You forget something, sir?” the maid asked.

Gray looked at her. “I beg your pardon.”

“You forget something?”

“Well, no. Why?”

The maid took a step closer to him. “You just left, sir, and now you are back.”

“I left four hours ago.”

She shook her head and took another step for a closer look. “No, sir. A man left your room ten minutes ago.” She hesitated and studied his face intently. “But, sir, now I think it was another man.”

Gray glanced at the room number on the door. 833. He stared at the woman. “Are you certain another man was in this room?”

“Yes, sir. Just minutes ago.”

He panicked. He walked quickly to the stairs, and ran down eight flights. What was in the room? Nothing but clothes. Nothing about Darby. He stopped and reached into a pocket. The note with the Tabard I