The Pelican Brief

“I’ll think about it.”

“Call me in the morning.”

She stepped on the note when she opened her door. It said:

Darby, I’m on the patio. It’s urgent,

Gray.

She took a deep breath and crammed the note in her pocket. She locked the door, and followed the narrow, winding hallways to the lobby, then through the dark sitting room, by the bar, through the restaurant, and onto the patio. He was at a small table, partially hidden by a brick wall.

“Why are you here?” she demanded in a whisper as she sat close to him. He looked tired and worried.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“That’s not as important as why you’re here. You’re not supposed to come here unless I say so. What’s going on?”

He gave her a quick summary of his morning, from the first phone call to Smith Keen to the maid in the hotel. He’d spent the rest of the day darting all over the city in various cabs, almost eighty bucks’ worth of cabs, and he waited until dark to sneak into the Tabard Inn. He was certain he had not been followed.

She listened. She watched the restaurant and the entrance to the patio, and heard every word.

“I have no idea how anyone could find my room,” he said.

“Did you tell anyone your room number?”

He thought for a second. “Only Smith Keen. But he’d never repeat it.”

She was not looking at him. “Where were you when you told him your room number?”

“In his car.”

She shook her head slowly. “I distinctly told you not to tell anyone. Didn’t I?”

He would not answer.

“It’s all fun and games, isn’t it, Gray? Just another day at the beach. You’re a big stud reporter who’s had death threats before, but you’re fearless. The bullets will bounce off, won’t they? You and I can spend a few days here frolicking around town playing detective so you can win a Pulitzer and get rich and famous, and the bad guys aren’t really so bad because, hey, you’re Gray Grantham of the Washington Post and that makes you a mean son of a bitch.”

“Come on, Darby.”

“I’ve tried to impress upon you how dangerous these people are. I’ve seen what they can do. I know what they’ll do to me if they find me. But no, Gray, it’s all a game to you. Cops and robbers. Hide-and-seek.”

“I’m convinced, okay?”

“Listen, hotshot, you’d better be convinced. One more screwup and we’re dead. I’m out of lucky breaks. Do you understand?”

“Yes! I swear I understand.”

“Get a room here. Tomorrow night, if we’re alive, I’ll find you another small hotel.”

“What if this place is full?”

“Then you can sleep in my bathroom with the door closed.”

She was dead serious. He felt like a first-grader who’d just received his first spanking. They didn’t speak for five minutes.

“So how’d they find me?” he finally asked.

“I would assume the phones in your apartment are tapped, and your car is bugged. And I would assume Smith Keen’s car is also wired. These people are not amateurs.”

He spent the night in room 14 upstairs, but slept little. The restaurant opened at six, and he sneaked down for coffee, then sneaked back to his room. The inn was quaint and ancient, and had somehow been formed when three old townhouses were connected. Small doors and narrow hallways ran in all directions. The atmosphere was timeless.

It would be a long, tiresome day, but it would all be spent with her, and he looked forward to it. He’d made a mistake, a bad one, but she’d forgiven him. At precisely eight-thirty, he knocked on the door to room 1. She quickly opened it, then closed it behind him.

She was a law student again, with jeans and a flannel shirt. She poured him coffee, and sat at the small table where the phone was surrounded by notes from a legal pad.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked, but only out of courtesy.

“No.” He threw a copy of the Times on the bed. He’d already scanned it, and it was empty again.

Darby took the phone and punched the number of the Georgetown law school. She looked at him, and listened, then said, “Placement office, please.” There was a long pause. “Yes, this is Sandra Jernigan. I’m a partner with White and Blazevich here in town, and we’re having a problem with our computers. We’re trying to reconstruct some payroll records, and the accountants have asked me to ask you for the names of your students who clerked here last summer. I think there were four of them.” She listened for a second. “Jernigan. Sandra Jernigan,” she repeated. “I see. How long will it take?” A pause. “And your name is, Joan. Thank you, Joan.” Darby covered the receiver and breathed deeply. Gray watched intently, but with an admiring grin.

“Yes, Joan. Seven of them. Our records are a mess. Do you have their addresses and social security numbers? We need it for tax purposes. Sure. How long will it take? Fine. We have an office boy in the area. His name is Snowden, and he’ll be there in thirty minutes. Thank you, Joan.” Darby hung up and closed her eyes.

“Sandra Jernigan?” he said.

“I’m not good at lying,” she said.

“You’re wonderful. I guess I’m the office boy.”

“You could pass for an office boy. You have an aging law school dropout look about you.” And you’re sort of cute, she thought to herself.

“I like the flannel shirt.”

She took a long drink of cold coffee. “This could be a long day.”

“So far, so good. I get the list, and meet you in the library. Right?”

“Yes. The placement office is on the fifth floor of the law school. I’ll be in room 336. It’s a small conference room on the third floor. You take a cab first. I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Grantham was out the door. Darby waited five minutes, then left with her canvas bag.

The cab ride was short but slow in the morning traffic. Life on the lam was bad enough, but running and playing detective at the same time was too much. She’d been in the cab five minutes before she thought about being followed. And maybe that was good. Maybe a hard day as an investigative reporter would take her mind off Stump and the other tormentors. She would work today, and tomorrow, and by late Wednesday she would be on a beach.

They would start with the law school at Georgetown. If it was a dead end, they would try the one at George Washington. If there was time, they would try American University. Three strikes, and she was gone.

The cab stopped at McDonough Hall, at the grungy base of Capitol Hill. With her bag and flannel shirt, she was just one of many law students milling about before class. She took the stairs to the third level, and closed the door to the conference room behind her. The room was used for an occasional class and on campus job interviews. She spread her notes on the table, and was just another law student preparing for class.

Within minutes, Gray eased through the door. “Joan’s a sweet lady,” he said as he placed the list on the table. “Names, addresses, and social security numbers. Ain’t that nice?”

Darby looked at the list and pulled a phone book from her bag. They found five of the names in the book. She looked at her watch. “It’s five minutes after nine. I’ll bet no more than half of these are in class at this moment.