The Pelican Brief

“Run it,” said Ernie DeBasio. “Run it with the biggest headline since NIXON RESIGNS.”

Feldman stopped near Smith Keen. The two friends eyed each other carefully. “Run it,” said Keen.

He turned to the lawyer. “Vince?”

“There’s no question, legally. But I’d like to see the story after it’s written.”

“How long will it take to write it?” the editor asked Gray.

“The brief portion is already outlined. I can finish it up in an hour or so. Give me two hours on Morgan. Three at the most.”

Feldman hadn’t smiled since he shook hands with Darby. He paced to the other side of the room, and stood in Gray’s face. “What if this tape’s a hoax?”

“Hoax? We’re talking dead bodies, Jackson. I’ve seen the widow. She’s a real, live widow. This paper ran the story of his murder. He’s dead. Even his law firm says he’s dead. And that’s him on the tape, talking about dying. I know that’s him. And we talked to the notary public who witnessed his signature on the affidavit. She identified him.” Gray was getting louder and looking around the room. “Everything he said verifies the pelican brief. Everything. Mattiece, the lawsuit, the assassinations. Then we’ve got Darby, the author of the brief. And more dead bodies, and they’ve chased her all over the country. There are no holes, Jackson. It’s a story.”

He finally smiled. “It’s more than a story. Have it written by two. It’s eleven now. Use this conference room and close the door.” Feldman was pacing again. “We’ll meet here at exactly two and read the draft. Not a word.”

The men stood and filed from the room, but not before each shook hands with Darby Shaw. They were uncertain whether to say congratulations or thanks or whatever, so they just smiled and shook her hand. She kept her seat.

When they were alone, Gray sat beside her and they held hands. The clean conference table was before them. The chairs were placed perfectly around it. The walls were white, and the room was lit by fluorescent lights and two narrow windows.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

“I don’t know. This is the end of the road, I guess. We made it.”

“You don’t sound too happy.”

“I’ve had better months. I’m happy for you.”

He looked at her. “Why are you happy for me?”

“You put the pieces together and it hits tomorrow. It’s got Pulitzer written all over it.”

“I hadn’t thought about that.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, maybe once. But when you got off the elevator yesterday and told me Garcia was dead, I quit thinking about Pulitzers.”

“It’s not fair. I do all the work. We used my brains and looks and legs, and you get all the glory.”

“I’ll be glad to use your name. I’ll credit you as the author of the brief. We’ll put your picture on the front page, along with Rosenberg, Jensen, Mattiece, the President, Verheek, and—”

“Thomas? Will his picture run with the story?”

“It’s up to Feldman. He’ll edit this one.”

She thought about this, and said nothing.

“Well, Ms. Shaw, I’ve got three hours to write the biggest story of my career. A story that will shock the world. A story that could bring down a presidency. A story that will solve the assassinations. A story that will make me rich and famous.”

“You’d better let me write it.”

“Would you? I’m tired.”

“Go get your notes. And some coffee.”

They closed the door and cleared the table. A news aide rolled in a PC with a printer. They sent him after a pot of coffee. Then some fruit. They outlined the story in sections, begi

Darby was a model of organization, with notes neatly arranged on the table, and words carefully written on paper. He was a whirlwind of chaos—papers on the floor, talking to the computer, printing random paragraphs that were discarded by the time they were on paper. She kept telling him to be quiet. This is not a law school library, he explained. This is a newspaper. You work with a phone in each ear and someone yelling at you.

At twelve-thirty, Smith Keen sent in food. Darby ate a cold sandwich and watched the traffic below. Gray was digging through campaign reports.

She saw him. He was leaning on the side of a building across Fifteenth Street, and he would not have been suspicious except he had been leaning on the side of the Madison Hotel an hour earlier. He was sipping something from a tall Styrofoam cup, and watching the front entrance to the Post. He wore a black cap, denim jacket, and jeans. He was under thirty. And he just stood there staring across the street. She nibbled on her sand wich, and watched him for ten minutes. He sipped from his cup and never moved.

“Gray, come here, please.”

“What is it?” He walked over. She pointed to the man with the black cap.

“Watch him carefully,” she said. “Tell me what he’s doing.”

“He’s drinking something, probably coffee. He’s leaning on the side of that building, and he’s watching this building.”

“What’s he wearing?”

“Denim from head to toe, and a black cap. Looks like boots. What about it?”

“I saw him an hour ago standing over there by the hotel. He was sort of hidden by that telephone van, but I know it was him. Now he’s over there.”

“So?”

“So for the past hour, at least, he’s been moving around doing nothing but watching this building.”

Gray nodded. This was no time for a smart comment. The guy looked suspicious, and she was concerned. She’d been tracked for two weeks now, from New Orleans to New York, and now maybe to Washington, and she knew more about being followed than he did.

“What’re you saying, Darby?”

“Give me one good reason why this man, who obviously is not a street bum, would be doing this.”

The man looked at his watch, and walked slowly along the sidewalk until he was gone. Darby looked at her watch.

“It’s exactly one,” she said. “Let’s check every fifteen minutes, okay?”

“Okay. I doubt if it’s anything,” he said, trying to be comforting. It didn’t work. She sat at the table, and looked at the notes.

He watched her and slowly returned to the computer.

Gray typed furiously for fifteen minutes, then walked back to the window. Darby watched him carefully. “I don’t see him,” he said.

He did see him at one-thirty. “Darby,” he said, pointing to the spot where she’d first seen him. She looked out the window, and slowly focused on the man with the black cap. Now he had a dark green windbreaker, and he was not facing the Post. He watched his boots, and every ten seconds or so glanced at the front entrance. This made him all the more suspicious, but he was partially hidden behind a delivery truck. The Styrofoam cup was gone. He lit a cigarette. He glanced at the Post, then watched the sidewalk in front of it.

“Why do I have this knot in my stomach?” Darby said.

“How could they follow you? It’s impossible.”

“They knew I was in New York. That seemed impossible at the time.”

“Maybe they’re following me. I’ve been told they were watching. That’s what the guy’s doing. Why should he know you’re here? The dude’s following me.”

“Maybe,” she said slowly.

“Have you seen him before?”

“They don’t introduce themselves.”

“Look. We’ve got thirty minutes, and they’re back in here with knives to carve up our story. Let’s finish it, then we can watch dude out there.”

They returned to their work. At one forty-five, she stood in the window again, and the man was gone. The printer was rattling the first draft, and she began proofing.