The Pelican Brief (43 page)

“I appreciate that.”

Feldman picked up a copy of the draft and handed it to Voyles, who took it gingerly. Lewis leaned over, and they immediately started reading. “We’ll step outside,” Feldman said. “Take your time.” He and Keen left the office, and closed the door. The agents moved closer.

Feldman and Keen walked across the newsroom to the conference door. Two large security guards stood in the hall. Gray and Darby were alone inside when they entered.

“You need to call White and Blazevich,” Feldman said.

“Waiting on you.”

They picked up the extensions. Krauthammer was gone for the moment, and Keen handed his phone to Darby. Gray punched the numbers.

“Marty Velmano, please,” Gray said. “Yes, this is
Gray Grantham with the
Washington Post
, and I need to speak to him. It’s very urgent.”

“One moment, please,” the secretary said.

A moment passed, and another secretary was on the phone. “Mr. Velmano’s office.”

Gray identified himself again, and asked for her boss.

“He’s in a meeting,” she said.

“So am I,” Gray said. “Go to the meeting, tell him who I am, and tell him his picture will be on the front page of the
Post
at midnight tonight.”

“Well, yes sir.”

Within seconds, Velmano said, “Yes, what’s going on?”

Gray identified himself for the third time, and explained about the recorder.

“I understand,” Velmano snapped.

“We’re running a story in the morning about your client, Victor Mattiece, and his involvement in the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen.”

“Great! We’ll sue your ass for the next twenty years. You’re out in left field, buddy. We’ll own the
Post.
”

“Yes sir. Remember, I’m recording this.”

“Record all you want! You’ll be named as a defendant. This will be great! Victor Mattiece will own the
Washington Post
! This is fabulous!”

Gray shook his head in disbelief at Darby. The editors smiled at the floor. This was about to be very funny.

“Yes sir. Have you heard of the pelican brief? We have a copy.”

Dead silence. Then a distant grunt, like the last gasp of a dying dog. Then more silence.

“Mr. Velmano. Are you there?”

“Yes.”

“We also have a copy of a memo you sent to Sims Wakefield, dated September 28, in which you suggest your client’s position will be greatly improved if Rosenberg and Jensen are removed from the Court. We have a source that tells us this idea was researched by one called Einstein, who sits in a library on the sixth floor, I believe.”

Silence.

Gray continued. “We have the story ready to run, but I wanted to give you the chance to comment. Would you care to comment, Mr. Velmano?”

“I have a headache.”

“Okay. Anything else?”

“Will you run the memo word for word?”

“Yes.”

“Will you run my picture?”

“Yes. It’s an old one from a Senate hearing.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“I notice you’ve waited until five o’clock. An hour earlier, and we could’ve run to court and stopped this damned thing.”

“Yes sir. It was planned that way.”

“You son of a bitch.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t mind ruining people, do you?” His voice trailed off, and he was almost pitiful. What a marvelous quote. Gray had mentioned the recorder twice, but Velmano was too shocked to remember it.

“No sir. Anything else?”

“Tell Jackson Feldman the lawsuit will be filed at nine in the morning, just as soon as the courthouse opens.”

“I’ll do that. Do you deny you wrote the memo?”

“Of course.”

“Do you deny the existence of the memo?”

“It’s a fabrication.”

“There’s no lawsuit, Mr. Velmano, and I think you know it.”

Silence, then, “You son of a bitch.”

The phones clicked, and they were listening to the dial tone. They smiled at each other in disbelief.

“Don’t you want to be a journalist, Darby?” Smith Keen asked.

“Oh, this is fun,” she said. “But I was almost mugged twice yesterday. No, thanks.”

Feldman stood and pointed to the recorder. “I wouldn’t use any of that.”

“But I sort of liked the part about ruining lives. And what about the lawsuit threats?” Gray asked.

“You don’t need it, Gray. The story takes up the entire front page now. Maybe later.”

There was a knock at the door. It was Krauthammer. “Voyles wants to see you,” he said to Feldman.

“Bring him in here.”

Gray stood quickly and Darby walked to the window. The sun was fading and the shadows were falling. Traffic inched along the street. There was no sign of Stump and his band of confederates, but they were there, no doubt waiting on darkness, no doubt plotting one last effort to kill her, either for prevention or revenge. Gray said he had a plan to exit the
building without gunfire after the deadline. He wasn’t specific.

Voyles entered with K. O. Lewis. Feldman introduced them to Gray Grantham, and to Darby Shaw. Voyles walked to her, smiling and looking up. “So you’re the one who started all this,” he said in an attempt at admiration. It didn’t work.

She instantly despised him. “I think it was Mattiece,” she said coolly. He turned away and took off the trench coat.

“Can we sit?” he asked in general.

They sat around the table—Voyles, Lewis, Feldman, Keen, Grantham, and Krauthammer. Darby stood by the window.

“I have some comments for the record,” Voyles announced, taking a sheet of paper from Lewis. Gray began taking notes.

“First, we received a copy of the pelican brief two weeks ago today, and submitted it to the White House on the same day. It was personally delivered by the deputy director, K. O. Lewis, to Mr. Fletcher Coal, who received it with our daily summary to the White House. Special agent Eric East was present during the meeting. We thought it raised enough questions to be pursued, but it was not pursued for six days, until Mr. Gavin Verheek, special counsel to the director, was found murdered in New Orleans. At that time, the FBI immediately began a full-scale investigation of Victor Mattiece. Over four hundred agents from twenty-seven offices have taken part in the investigation, logging over eleven thousand hours, interviewing over six hundred people, and going to five foreign countries. The investigation is
continuing in full force at this time. We believe Victor Mattiece to be the prime suspect in the assassinations of Justices Rosenberg and Jensen, and at this time we are attempting to locate him.”

Voyles folded the paper and handed it back to Lewis.

“What will you do if you find Mattiece?” Grantham asked.

“Arrest him.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“We’ll have one soon.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“Frankly, no. We’ve been trying to locate him for a week, with no success.”

“Did the White House interfere with your investigation of Mattiece?”

“I’ll discuss it off the record. Agreed?”

Gray looked at the executive editor. “Agreed,” Feldman said.

Voyles stared at Feldman, then Keen, then Krauthammer, then Grantham. “We’re off the record, right? You cannot use this under any circumstances. Do we understand this?”

They nodded and watched him carefully. Darby was watching too.

Voyles looked suspiciously at Lewis. “Twelve days ago, in the Oval Office, the President of the United States asked me to ignore Victor Mattiece as a suspect. In his words, he asked me to back off.”

“Did he give a reason?” asked Grantham.

“The obvious. He said it would be very embarrassing and seriously damage his reelection efforts. He felt there was little merit to the pelican brief, and
if it was investigated, then the press would learn of it, and he would suffer politically.”

Krauthammer listened with his mouth open. Keen stared at the table. Feldman hung on every word.

“Are you certain?” Gray asked.

“I recorded the conversation. I have a tape, which I will not allow anyone to hear unless the President first denies this.”

There was a long silence as they admired this mean little bastard and his tape recorder. A tape!

Feldman cleared his throat. “You just saw the story. There was a delay by the FBI from the time it had the brief until it began its investigation. This must be explained in the story.”

“You have my statement. Nothing more.”

“Who killed Gavin Verheek?” Gray asked.

“I will not talk about the specifics of the investigation.”

“But do you know?”

“We have an idea. But that’s all I’ll say.”

Gray glanced around the table. It was obvious Voyles had nothing else to say now, and everyone relaxed at the same time. The editors savored the moment.

Voyles loosened his tie, and almost smiled. “This is off the record, of course, but how did you guys find out about Morgan, the dead lawyer?”

“I will not discuss the specifics of the investigation,” Gray said with a wicked grin. They all laughed.

“What do you do now?” Krauthammer asked Voyles.

“There’ll be a grand jury by noon tomorrow. Quick indictments. We’ll try to find Mattiece, but it’ll
be difficult. We have no idea where he is. He’s spent most of the past five years in the Bahamas, but owns homes in Mexico, Panama, and Paraguay.” Voyles glanced at Darby for the second time. She was leaning against the wall by the window, hearing it all.

“What time does the first edition come off the press?” Voyles asked.

“They roll off all night, starting at ten-thirty,” said Keen.

“Which edition will this story run in?”

“Late City, a few minutes before midnight. It’s the largest edition.”

“Will it have Coal’s picture on the front?”

Keen looked at Krauthammer, who looked at Feldman. “I guess it should. We’ll quote you as saying the brief was personally delivered to Fletcher Coal, who we’ll also quote as saying Mattiece gave the President four point two million. Yes, I think Mr. Coal should have his face on the front, along with everyone else.”

“I think so too,” Voyles said. “If I have a man here at midnight, can I pick up a few copies of it?”

“Certainly,” Feldman said. “Why?”

“Because I want to personally deliver it to Coal. I want to knock on his door at midnight, see him in his pajamas, and flash the paper in his face. Then I want to tell him I’ll be back with a grand jury subpoena, and shortly after that I’ll be back with an indictment. And shortly after that, I’ll be back with the handcuffs.”

He said this with such pleasure it was frightening.

“I’m glad you don’t carry a grudge,” Gray said. Only Smith Keen thought it was funny.

“Do you think he’ll be indicted?” Krauthammer asked innocently.

Voyles glanced at Darby again. “He’ll take the fall for the President. He’d volunteer for a firing squad to save his boss.”

Feldman checked his watch and pushed away from the table.

“Could I ask a favor?” Voyles asked.

“Certainly. What?”

“I’d like to spend a few minutes alone with Ms. Shaw. That is, if she doesn’t mind.”

Everyone looked at Darby, who shrugged her approval. The editors and K. O. Lewis stood in unison and filed out of the room. Darby took Gray’s hand and asked him to stay. They sat opposite Voyles at the table.

“I wanted to talk in private,” Voyles said, looking at Gray.

“He stays,” she said. “It’s off the record.”

“Very well.”

She beat him to the punch. “If you plan to interrogate me, I won’t talk without an attorney present.”

He was shaking his head. “Nothing like that. I was just wondering what’s next for you.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because we can help.”

“Who killed Gavin?”

Voyles hesitated. “Off the record.”

“Off the record,” said Gray.

“I’ll tell you who we think killed him, but first tell me how much you talked to him before he died.”

“We talked several times over the weekend. We
were supposed to meet last Monday, and leave New Orleans.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“Sunday night.”

“And where was he?”

“In his room at the Hilton.”

Voyles breathed deeply, and looked at the ceiling. “And you discussed with him the meeting on Monday?”

“Yes.”

“Had you met him before?”

“No.”

“The man who killed him was the same man you were holding hands with when he lost his brains.”

She was afraid to ask. Gray did it for her. “Who was that?”

“The great Khamel.”

She choked and covered her eyes, and tried to say something. But it wouldn’t work.

“This is rather confusing,” Gray said, straining to be rational.

“Rather, yes. The man who killed Khamel is a contract operative hired independently by the CIA. He was on the scene when Callahan was killed, and I think he made contact with Darby.”

“Rupert,” she said quietly.

“That’s not his real name, of course, but Rupert’ll do. He’s probably got twenty names. If it’s who I think it is, he’s a British chap who’s very reliable.”

“Do you have any idea how confusing this is?” she asked.

“I can imagine.”

“Why was Rupert in New Orleans? Why was he following her?” Gray asked.

“It’s a very long story, and I don’t know all of it. I try to keep my distance from the CIA, believe me. I have enough to worry about. It goes back to Mattiece. A few years ago, he needed some money to move along his grand scheme. So he sold a piece of it to the Libyan government. I’m not sure if it was legal, but enter the CIA. Evidently they watched Mattiece and the Libyans with a great deal of interest, and when the litigation sprang up, the CIA monitored it. I don’t think they suspected Mattiece in the Supreme Court killings, but Bob Gminski was handed a copy of your little brief just a few hours after we delivered a copy to the White House. Fletcher Coal gave it to him. I have no idea who Gminski told of the brief, but the wrong words hit the wrong ears, and twenty-four hours later, Mr. Callahan is dead. And you, my dear, were very lucky.”

“Then why don’t I feel lucky?” she said.