The Matlock Paper (15 page)

“Jason Greenberg gets two points.”

“However,” continued the federal man without acknowledging Matlock’s interruption, “the contents of the second envelope must be delivered verbatim. You are to read it thoroughly—
should it be necessary
—and if it’s acceptable, you’ve got to acknowledge that by your signature.”

“This gets better and better. Am I running for the Senate?”

“No, you’re just running.… I’ll start as instructed.” Greenberg glanced at the unfolded paper and then looked across at Matlock. “The man at Lumumba Hall named Julian Dunois—alias Jacques Devereaux, Jésus Dambert, and probably several others we don’t know about—is a legal strategist for the Black Left militants. The term
legal strategist
covers everything from court manipulations to agent provocateur. When involved with the former, he uses the name of Dunois, the latter—any number of aliases. He operates out of unusual places geographically. Algiers, Marseilles, the Caribbean—including Cuba—and, we suspect, Hanoi and probably Moscow. Perhaps even Peking. In the States he has a regular, bona fide law office in upper Harlem and a West Coast affiliate in San Francisco.… He’s generally in the background, but wherever he’s in evidence, bad news usually follows. Needless to say, he’s on the attorney general’s list of undesirables, and these days that’s not respectable any longer.…”

“These days,” broke in Matlock, “that includes almost everyone to the left of AT&T.”

“No comment. To continue. The surfacing of Dunois in this operation adds a dimension not anticipated—a new aspect not considered before. It goes beyond domestic lawbreakers and enters the area of international crime and/
or
subversion.
Or
a combination of
both
. In light of the fact that drugs were used on you, your apartment broken into and ripped apart, your friend, Miss Ballantyne, indirectly threatened—and don’t kid yourself, that’s what it was—in light of all this, the recommendation is as follows. You
withdraw from any further participation in this investigation. Your involvement is beyond the realm of reasonable risk.” Greenberg dropped the paper on the counter and took several swallows of his drink. Matlock swung his legs slowly back and forth in front of the cabinet beneath him. “What say you, in the docket?” asked Greenberg.

“I’m not sure. It seems to me you’re not finished.”

“I’d like to be. Right here. The summary’s accurate, and I think you should agree with the recommendation. Pull out, Jim.”

“Finish first. What’s the other letter? The one I’m supposed to read verbatim?”

“It’s only necessary if you reject the recommendation. Don’t reject it. I’m not instructed to lean that way, so that’s off the record.”

“You know damned well I’m going to reject it, so why waste time?”

“I
don’t
know that. I don’t want to
believe
that.”

“There’s no way out.”

“There are counter explanations I can activate in an hour. Get you off the hook, out of the picture.”

“Not any longer.”

“What? Why?”

“That’s
my
pathetic story. So you’d better continue.”

Greenberg searched Matlock’s eyes for an explanation, found none, and so picked up the second envelope and opened it.

“In the unlikely and ill-advised event that you reject our recommendation to cease and desist, you must understand that you do so against the express wishes of the Justice Department. Although we will offer whatever protection we can—as we would any citizen—you act under your own responsibility. We cannot
be held liable for any injuries or inconveniences of any nature.”

“Is that what it says?”

“No, that’s
not
what it says, but that’s what it means,” said Greenberg, unfolding the paper. “It’s much simpler and even more inclusive. Here.” The federal agent handed Matlock the letter.

It was a statement signed by an assistant attorney general with a separate line on the left for Matlock’s signature.

“What the hell are you talking about? This says that I agree to pull out.”

“You’d make a lousy lawyer. Don’t buy a bicycle on time before talking to me.”

“What?”

“Nowhere! No
where
does your signing this little stinkpot say you
agree
to retire from the scene. Only that Justice
requested
you to.”

“Then why in hell should I sign it?”

“Excellent question. You may buy a bicycle.… You sign it if, as you say, you reject the recommendation to pull out.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Matlock slipped down from the edge of the sink and threw the paper across the counter next to Greenberg. “I may not know law but I know language. You’re talking in contradictions!”

“Only on the surface.… Let me ask you a question. Say you continue playing undercover agent. Is it conceivable that you may want to ask for help? An emergency, perhaps?”

“Of course. Inevitable.”

“You get no help whatsoever without that letter going back signed.… Don’t look at
me!
I’ll be replaced in a matter of days. I’ve been in the area too long already.”

“Kind of hypocritical, isn’t it? The only way I can count on any assistance—any protection—is to sign a statement that says I won’t need it.”

“It’s enough to send me into private practice.… There’s a new term for this sort of thing these days. It’s called ‘hazardless progress.’ Use whatever—
who
ever—you can. But don’t take the blame if a
game plan
gets fucked up. Don’t be responsible.”

“And I jump without a parachute if I don’t sign.”

“I told you. Take some free advice—I’m a good lawyer. Quit. Forget it. But
forget it
.”

“And I told
you
—I can’t.”

Greenberg reached for his drink and spoke softly. “No matter what you do, it’s not going to bring your brother out of his grave.”

“I know that.” Matlock was touched, but he answered firmly.

“You might prevent other younger brothers but you probably won’t. In either case, someone else can be recruited from professional ranks. I hate like hell to admit it, but Kressel was right. And if we don’t get this conference—this convocation of peddlers in a couple of weeks—there’ll be others.”

“I agree with everything you say.”

“Then why hesitate? Pull out.”

“Why?… I haven’t told you
my
pathetic little story, that’s why. Remember? You had priority, but I’ve still got my turn.”

“So tell.”

And Matlock told him. Everything he knew about Lucas Herron—legend, giant, the “grand old bird” of Carlyle. The terror-stricken skeleton who had run into his personal forest. The wail of the single word: “Nimrod.” Greenberg listened, and the longer Matlock talked, the sadder Jason Greenberg’s eyes became. When Matlock finished, the federal agent drank the last of his drink and morosely nodded his head in slow motion.

“You spelled out everything for him, didn’t you? You couldn’t come to
me
, you had to go to
him
. Your campus saint with a bucket of blood in his hands.… Loring was right. We had to reach a conscience-stricken amateur.… Amateurs in front of us and amateurs behind us. At least I’ll say this for you. You got a conscience. That’s more than I can say for the rear flank.”

“What should I do?”

“Sign the stinkpot.” Greenberg picked up the Justice Department letter from the counter and handed it to Matlock. “You’re going to need help.”

Patricia Ballantyne preceded Matlock to the small side table at the far end of the Cheshire Cat. The drive out had been strained. The girl had hammered away—quietly, acidly—at Matlock’s cooperating with the government, in particular and specifically the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She claimed not to be reacting to a programmed liberal response; there was simply too much overwhelming evidence that such organizations had brought the country ten steps from its own particular police state.

She knew firsthand. She’d witnessed the anguished aftermath of one FBI exercise and knew it wasn’t isolated.

Matlock held her chair as she sat down, touching her shoulders as she did so. Touching, reaffirming, lessening the imagined hurt. The table was small, next to a window, several feet from a terrace that soon—in late May—would be in use for outside dining. He sat across from her and took her hand.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I’m doing. I think it has to be done. I’m not a hero and I’m not a fink. I’m not asked to be heroic, and the information they want ultimately will help a lot of people. People who need help—desperately.”

“Will those people
get
help? Or will they simply be prosecuted? Instead of hospitals and clinics … will they find themselves in jail?”

“They’re not interested in sick kids. They want the ones who make them sick. So do I.”

“But in the process, the kids get hurt.” A statement.

“Some may be. As few as possible.”

“That’s contemptible.” The girl took her hand away from Matlock’s. “It’s so condescending. Who makes
those
decisions? You?”

“You’re beginning to sound like a one-track tape.”

“I’ve
been
there. It’s not pleasant.”

“This is entirely different. I’ve met just two men; one … left. The other’s Greenberg. They’re not your nightmares from the fifties. Take my word for that.”

“I’d like to.”

The manager of the Cheshire Cat approached the table. “There’s a telephone call for you, Mr. Matlock.”

Matlock felt a twinge of pain in his stomach. It was the nerves of fear. Only one person knew where he was—Jason Greenberg.

“Thanks, Harry.”

“You can take it by the reservations desk. The phone’s off the hook.”

Matlock got out of his chair and looked briefly at Pat. In the months and months of their going out together, from restaurants to parties to dinners, he had never received a telephone call, had never been interrupted that way. He saw that realization in her eyes. He walked rapidly away from the table to the reservations desk.

“Hello?”

“Jim?” It
was
Greenberg, of course.

“Jason?”

“Sorry to bother you. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

“What is it, for heaven’s sake?”

“Lucas Herron’s dead. He committed suicide about an hour ago.”

The pain in Matlock’s stomach suddenly returned. It wasn’t a twinge this time, but instead a sharp blow that left him unable to breathe. All he could see in front of his eyes was the picture of the staggering,
panicked old man running across the manicured lawn and disappearing into the dense foliage bordering his property. And then the wailing sound of a sob and the name of Nimrod whispered in hatred.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m all right.” For reasons he could not fathom, Matlock’s memory focused on a small, black-framed photograph. It was an enlarged snapshot of a dark-haired, middle-aged infantry officer with a weapon in one hand, a map in the other, the face lean and strong, looking up toward the high ground.

A quarter of a century ago.

“You’d better get back to your apartment.…” Greenberg was issuing an order, but he had the sense to be gentle about it.

“Who found him?”

“My man. No one else knows yet.”

“Your man?”

“After our talk, I put Herron under surveillance. You get to spot the signs. He broke in and found him.”

“How?”

“Cut his wrists in the shower.”

“Oh, Christ! What have I done?”

“Cut that out! Get back here. We’ve got people to reach.… Come on, Jim.”

“What can I tell Pat?” Matlock tried to find his mind but it kept wandering back to a helpless, frightened old man.

“As little as possible. But hurry.”

Matlock replaced the receiver and took several deep breaths. He searched his pockets for cigarettes and remembered that he’d left them at the table.

The table. Pat. He had to go back to the table and think of something to say.

The truth. Goddamn it, the
truth
.

He made his way around two antique pillars toward the far end of the room and the small side table by the window. In spite of his panic, he felt a degree of relief and knew it was because he had decided to be honest with Pat. God knew he had to have someone other than Greenberg and Kressel to talk to.

Kressel! He was supposed to have gone to Kressel’s house at seven. He’d forgotten all about it!

But in an instant Sam Kressel went out of his thoughts. He saw the small side table by the window and there was no one there.

Pat was gone.

“No one saw her leave?” Greenberg followed a frustrated Matlock into the living room from the foyer. Sam Kressel’s voice could be heard from the bedroom, shouting excitedly into a telephone. Matlock took notice of it, his attention split in too many areas.

“That’s Sam in there, isn’t it?” he asked. “Does he know about Herron?”

“Yes. I called him after I talked to you.… What about the waitresses? Did you ask them?”

“Of course, I did. None of them were sure. It was busy. One said she thought she might have gone to the ladies’ room. Another hinted, s’help me, hinted, that she might have been the girl who left with a couple from another table.”