The Pelican Brief (35 page)

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. You’re sure you haven’t seen him?”

“Positive. They cover twelve floors, most of which I never went on.”

Gray placed the photo in his pocket. “Did you meet any other clerks?”

“Oh. Sure. A couple from Georgetown that I already knew, Laura Kaas and JoAnne Ratliff. Two guys from George Washington, Patrick Franks and a guy named Vanlandingham; a girl from Harvard named Elizabeth Larson; a girl from Michigan named Amy MacGregor; and a guy from Emory named Moke, but I think they fired him. There are always a lot of clerks in the summer.”

“You plan to work there when you finish?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m cut out for the big firms.”

Gray smiled and stuck the notepad in his rear pocket. “Look, you’ve been in the firm. How would I find this guy?”

Maylor pondered this for a second. “I assume you can’t go there and start asking around.”

“Good assumption.”

“And all you’ve got is the picture?”

“Yep.”

“Then I guess you’re doing the right thing. One of the clerks will recognize him.”

“Thanks.”

“Is the guy in trouble?”

“Oh no. He may have witnessed something. It’s
probably a long shot.” Gray opened the door. “Thanks again.”

________

Darby studied the fall listing of classes on the bulletin board across the lobby from the phones. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d do when the nine o’clock classes were over, but she was trying like hell to think of something. The bulletin board was exactly like the one at Tulane: class listings tacked neatly in a row; notices for assignments; ads for books, bikes, rooms, roommates, and a hundred other necessities stuck haphazardly about; announcements of parties, intramural games, and club meetings. A young woman with a backpack and hiking books stopped nearby and looked at the board. She was undoubtedly a student.

Darby smiled at her. “Excuse me. Would you happen to know Laura Kaas?”

“Sure.”

“I need to give her a message. Could you point her out?”

“Is she in class?”

“Yeah, she’s in administrative law under Ship, room 207.”

They walked and chatted in the direction of Ship’s admin law. The lobby was suddenly busy as four classrooms emptied. The hiker pointed to a tall, heavyset girl walking toward them. Darby thanked her, and followed Laura Kaas until the crowd thinned and scattered.

“Excuse me, Laura. Are you Laura Kaas?” The big girl stopped and stared. “Yes.”

This was the part she didn’t like: the lying. “I’m Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the
Washington Post
. Can I ask you a few questions?” She selected Laura Kaas first because she did not have a class at ten. Michael Akers did. She would try him at eleven.

“What about?”

“It’ll just take a minute. Could we step in here?” Darby was nodding and walking to an empty classroom. Laura followed slowly.

“You clerked for White and Blazevich last summer.”

“I did.” She spoke slowly, suspiciously.

Sara Jacobs fought to control her nerves. This was awful. “What section?”

“Tax.”

“You like tax, huh?” It was a weak effort at small talk.

“I did. Now I hate it.”

Darby smiled like this was the funniest thing she’d heard in years. She pulled a photo from her pocket, and handed it to Laura Kaas.

“Do you recognize this man?”

“No.”

“I think he’s a lawyer with White and Blazevich.”

“There are plenty of them.”

“Are you certain?”

She handed it back. “Yep. I never left the fifth floor. It would take years to meet everyone, and they come and go so fast. You know how lawyers are.”

Laura glanced around, and the conversation was over. “I really appreciate this,” Darby said.

“No problem,” Laura said on her way out the door.

________

At exactly ten-thirty, they met again in room 336. Gray had caught Ellen Reinhart in the driveway as she was leaving for class. She had worked in the litigation section under a partner by the name of Daniel O’Malley, and spent most of the summer in a class action trial in Miami. She was gone for two months, and spent little time in the Washington office. White and Blazevich had offices in four cities, including Tampa. She did not recognize Garcia, and she was in a hurry.

Judith Wilson was not at her apartment, but her roommate said she would return around one.

They scratched off Maylor, Kaas, and Reinhart. They whispered their plans, and split again. Gray left to find Edward Linney, who according to the list had clerked the past two summers at White and Blazevich. He was not in the phonebook, but his address was in Wesley Heights, north of Georgetown’s main campus.

At ten forty-five, Darby found herself loitering again in front of the bulletin board, hoping for another miracle. Akers was a male, and there were different ways to approach him. She hoped he was where he was supposed to be—in room 201 studying criminal procedure. She eased that way and waited a moment or two until the door opened and fifty law students emptied into the hall. She could never be a reporter. She could never walk up to strangers and start asking a bunch of questions. It was awkward and
uncomfortable. But she walked up to a shy-looking young man with sad eyes and thick glasses, and said, “Excuse me. Do you happen to know Michael Akers? I think he’s in this class.”

The guy smiled. It was nice to be noticed. He pointed at a group of men walking toward the front entrance. “That’s him, in the gray sweater.”

“Thanks.” She left him standing there. The group disassembled as it left the building, and Akers and a friend were on the sidewalk.

“Mr. Akers,” she called after him.

They both stopped and turned around, then smiled as she nervously approached them. “Are you Michael Akers?” she asked.

“That’s me. Who are you?”

“My name is Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the
Washington Post
. Can I speak to you alone?”

“Sure.” The friend took the hint and left.

“What about?” Akers asked.

“Did you clerk for White and Blazevich last summer?”

“Yes.” Akers was friendly and enjoying this.

“What section?”

“Real estate. Boring as hell, but it was a job. Why do you want to know?”

She handed him the photo. “Do you recognize this man? He works for White and Blazevich.”

Akers wanted to recognize him. He wanted to be helpful and have a long conversation with her, but the face did not register.

“Kind of a suspicious picture, isn’t it?” he said.

“I guess. Do you know him?”

“No. I’ve never seen him. It’s an awfully big firm. The partners wear name badges to their meetings. Can you believe it? The guys who own the firm don’t know each other. There must be a hundred partners.”

Eighty-one, to be exact. “Did you have a supervisor?”

“Yeah, a partner named Walter Welch. A real snot. I didn’t like the firm, really.”

“Do you remember any other clerks?”

“Sure. The place was crawling with summer clerks.”

“If I needed their names, could I get back with you?”

“Anytime. This guy in trouble?”

“I don’t think so. He may know something.”

“I hope they all get disbarred. A bunch of thugs, really. It’s a rotten place to work. Everything’s political.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, and turned away. He admired the rear view, and said, “Call me anytime.”

“Thanks.”

Darby, the investigative reporter, walked next door to the library building, and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor where the
Georgetown Law Journal
had a suite of crowded offices. She’d found the most recent edition of the
Journal
in the library, and noticed that JoAnne Ratliff was an assistant editor. She suspected most law reviews and law journals were much the same. The top students hung out there and prepared their scholarly articles and comments. They were superior to the rest of the students, and were a clannish bunch who appreciated their brilliant minds.
They hung out in the law journal suite. It was their second home.

She stepped inside and asked the first person where she might find JoAnne Ratliff. He pointed around a corner. Second door on the right. The second door opened into a cluttered workroom lined with rows of books. Two females were hard at work.

“JoAnne Ratliff,” Darby said.

“That’s me,” an older woman of maybe forty responded.

“Hi. My name is Sara Jacobs, and I’m working on a story for the
Washington Post
. Can I ask you a few quick questions?”

She slowly laid her pen on the table, and frowned at the other woman. Whatever they were doing was terribly important, and this interruption was a real pain in the ass. They were significant law students.

Darby wanted to smirk and say something smart. She was number two in her class, dammit!, so don’t act so high and mighty.

“What’s the story about?” Ratliff asked.

“Could we speak in private?”

They frowned at each other again.

“I’m very busy,” Ratliff said.

So am I, thought Darby. You’re checking citations for some meaningless article, and I’m trying to nail the man who killed two Supreme Court Justices.

“I’m sorry,” Darby said. “I promise I’ll just take a minute.”

They stepped into the hall. “I’m very sorry to disturb you, but I’m in sort of a rush.”

“And you’re a reporter with the
Post
?” It was more of a challenge than a question, and she was
forced to lie some more. She told herself she could lie and cheat and steal for two days, then it was off to the Caribbean and Grantham could have it.

“Yes. Did you work for White and Blazevich last summer?”

“I did. Why?”

Quickly, the photo. Ratliff took it and analyzed it.

“Do you recognize him?”

She shook her head slowly. “I don’t think so. Who is he?”

This bitch’ll make a fine lawyer. So many questions. If she knew who he was, she wouldn’t be standing in this tiny hallway acting like a reporter and putting up with this haughty legal eagle.

“He’s a lawyer with White and Blazevich,” Darby said as sincerely as possible. “I thought you might recognize him.”

“Nope.” She handed the photo back.

Enough of this. “Well, thanks. Again, sorry to bother.”

“No problem,” Ratliff said as she disappeared through the door.

________

She jumped into the new Hertz Pontiac as it stopped at the corner, and they were off in traffic. She had seen enough of the Georgetown Law School.

“I struck out,” Gray said. “Linney wasn’t home.”

“I talked to Akers and Ratliff, and both said no. That’s five of seven who don’t recognize Garcia.”

“I’m hungry. You want some lunch?”

“That’s fine.”

“Is it possible to have five clerks work three
months in a law firm and not one of them recognize a young associate?”

“Yeah, it’s not only possible, it’s very probable. This is a long shot, remember. Four hundred lawyers means a thousand people when you add secretaries, paralegals, law clerks, office clerks, copy room clerks, mail room clerks, all kinds of clerks and support people. The lawyers tend to keep to themselves in their own little sections.”

“Physically, are the sections on separate territory?”

“Yes. It’s possible for a lawyer in banking on the third floor to go weeks without seeing an acquaintance in litigation on the tenth floor. These are very busy people, remember.”

“Do you think we’ve got the wrong firm?”

“Maybe the wrong firm, maybe the wrong law school.”

“The first guy, Maylor, gave me two names of George Washington students who clerked there last summer. Let’s get them after lunch.” He slowed and parked illegally behind a row of small buildings.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“A block off Mount Vernon Square, downtown. The
Post
is six blocks that way. My bank is four blocks that way. And this little deli is just around the corner.”

They walked to the deli, which was filling fast with lunch traffic. She waited at a table by the window as he stood in line and ordered club sandwiches. Half the day had flown by, and though she didn’t enjoy this line of work, it was nice to stay busy and forget about the shadows. She wouldn’t be a reporter,
and at the moment a career in law looked doubtful. Not long ago, she’d thought of being a judge after a few years in practice. Forget it. It was much too dangerous.

Gray brought a tray of food and iced tea, and they began eating.

“Is this a typical day for you?” she asked.

“This is what I do for a living. I snoop all day, write the stories late in the afternoon, then dig until late at night.”

“How many stories a week?”

“Sometimes three or four, sometimes none. I pick and choose, and there’s little supervision. This is a bit different. I haven’t run one in ten days.”

“What if you can’t link Mattiece? What’ll you write about the story?”

“Depends on how far I get. We could’ve run that story about Verheek and Callahan, but why bother. It was a big story, but they had nothing to go with it. It scratched the surface and stopped.”

“And you’re going for the big bang.”

“Hopefully. If we can verify your little brief, then we’ll run one helluva story.”

“You can see the headlines, can’t you?”

“I can. The adrenaline is pumping. This will be the biggest story since—”

“Watergate?”

“No. Watergate was a series of stories that started small and kept getting bigger. Those guys chased leads for months and kept pecking away until the pieces came together. A lot of people knew different parts of the story. This, my dear, is very different. This is a much bigger story, and the truth is known only by
a very small group. Watergate was a stupid burglary and a bungled cover-up. These are masterfully planned crimes by very rich and smart people.”

“And the cover-up?”

“That comes next. After we link Mattiece to the killings, we run the big story. The cat’s out of the bag, and a half a dozen investigations will crank up overnight. This place will be shell-shocked, especially at the news that the President and Mattiece are old friends. As the dust is settling, we go after the Administration and try to determine who knew what and when.”