The Pelican Brief

“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 phone book, 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.