"Sounds like it. When do I get this long story?"
"When can you come to New York?"
"I can be there by noon."
"That's a little quick. Let's plan on tomorrow. I'll call you at this time tomorrow with instructions. You must be careful, Grantham."
He admired the jeans and the smile on the corkboard. "It's Gray, okay? Not Grantham."
"Whatever. There are some powerful people afraid of what I know. If I tell you, it could kill you. I've seen the bodies, okay, Gray? I've heard bombs and gunshots. I saw a man's brains yesterday, and I have no idea who he was or why he was killed, except that he knew about the pelican brief. I thought he was my friend. I trusted him with my life, and he was shot in the head in front of fifty people. As I watched him die, it occurred to me that perhaps he was not my friend. I read the paper this morning, and I realize he was definitely not my friend."
"Who killed him?"
"We'll talk about it when you get here."
"Okay, Darby."
"There's one small point to cover. I'll tell you everything I know, but you can never use my name. I've already written enough to get at least three people killed, and I'm quite confident I'll be next. But I don't want to ask for more trouble. I shall always be unidentified, okay, Gray?"
"It's a deal."
"I'm putting a lot of trust in you, and I'm not sure why. If I ever doubt you, I'll disappear."
"You have my word, Darby. I swear."
"I think you're making a mistake. This is not your average investigative job. This one could get you killed."
"By the same people who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?"
"Yes."
"Do you know who killed Rosenberg and Jensen?"
"I know who paid for the killings. I know his name. I know his business. I know his politics."
"And you'll tell me tomorrow?"
"If I'm still alive." There was a long pause as both thought of something appropriate.
"Perhaps we should talk immediately," he said.
"Perhaps. But I'll call you in the morning."
Grantham hung up, and for a moment admired the slightly blurred photo of this very beautiful law student who was convinced she was about to die. For a second he succumbed to thoughts of chivalry and gallantry and rescue. She was in her early twenties, liked older men, according to the photo of Callahan, and suddenly she trusted him to the exclusion of all others. He would make it work. And he would protect her.
The motorcade moved quietly out of downtown. He was due for a speech at College Park in an hour, and he relaxed in his limo with his jacket off, reading the words Mabry had put together. He shook his head and wrote in the margins. On a normal day, this would be a pleasant drive out of the city to a beautiful campus for a light little speech, but it wasn't working out. Coal was seated next to him in the limo.
The Chief of Staff routinely avoided these trips. He treasured the moments the President was out of the White House and he had the run of the place. But they needed to talk.
"I'm tired of Mabry's speeches," the President said in frustration. "They're all sounding the same. I swear I gave this one last week at the Rotary convention."
"He's the best we've got, but I'm exploring," Coal said without looking up from his memo. He'd read the speech, and it wasn't that bad. But Mabry had been writing for six months, and the ideas were stale and Coal wanted to fire him anyway.
The President glanced at Coal's memo. "What's that?"
"The short list."
"Who's left?"
"Siler-Spence, Watson, and Calderon." Coal flipped a page.
"That's just great, Fletcher. A woman, a black, and a Cuban. Whatever happened to white men? I thought I said I wanted young white men. Young, tough, conservative judges with impeccable credentials and years to live. Didn't I say that?"
Coal kept reading. "They have to be confirmed, Chief."
"We'll get 'em confirmed. I'll twist arms until they break, but they'll be confirmed. Do you realize that nine of every ten white men in this country voted for me?"
"Eighty-four percent."
"Right. So what's wrong with white men?"
"This is not exactly patronage."
"The hell it's not. It's patronage pure and simple. I reward my friends, and I punish my enemies. That's how you survive in politics. You dance with the ones that brought you. I can't believe you want a female and a black. You're getting soft, Fletcher."
Coal flipped another page. He'd heard this before. "I'm more concerned with reelection," he said quietly.
"And I'm not? I've appointed so many Asians and Hispanics and women and blacks you'd think I was a Democrat. Hell, Fletcher, what's wrong with white people? Look, there must be a hundred good, qualified, conservative judges out there, right? Why can't you find just two, only two, who look and think like I do?"
"You got ninety percent of the Cuban vote."
The President tossed the speech in a seat and picked up the morning's Post. "Okay, let's go with Calderon. How old is he?"
"Fifty-one. Married, eight kids, Catholic, poor background, worked his way through Yale, very solid. Very conservative. No warts or skeletons, except he was treated for alcoholism twenty years ago. He's been sober since. A teetotaller."
"Has he ever smoked dope?"
"He denies it."
"I like him." The President was reading the front page.
"So do I. Justice and FBI have checked his underwear, and he's very clean. Now, do you want Siler-Spence or Watson?"
"What kind of name is Siler-Spence? I mean, what's wrong with these women who use hyphens? What if her name was Skowinski, and she married a guy named Levondowski? Would her little liberated soul insist she go through life as F. Gwendolyn Skowinski-Levondowski? Give me a break. I'll never appoint a woman with a hyphen."
"You already have."
"Who?"
"Kay Jones-Roddy, ambassador to Brazil."
"Then call her home and fire her."
Coal managed a slight grin and placed the memo on the seat. He watched the traffic through his window. They would decide on number two later. Calderon was in the bag, and he wanted Linda Siler-Spence, so he would keep pushing the black and force the President to the woman. Basic manipulation.
"I think we should wait another two weeks before announcing them," he said.
"Whatever," the President mumbled as he read a story on page one. He would announce them when he got ready, regardless of Coal's timetable. He was not yet convinced they should be announced together.
"Judge Watson is a very conservative black judge with a reputation for toughness. He would be ideal."
"I don't know," the President mumbled as he read about Gavin Verheek.
Coal had seen the story on page two. Verheek was found dead in a room at the Hilton in New Orleans under strange circumstances. According to the story, official FBI was in the dark and had nothing to say about why Verheek was in New Orleans. Voyles was deeply saddened. Fine, loyal employee, etc.
The President flipped through the paper. "Our friend Grantham has been quiet."
"He's digging. I think he's heard of the brief, but just can't get a handle on it. He's called everyone in town, but doesn't know what to ask. He's chasing rabbits."
"Well, I played golf with Gminski yesterday," the President said smugly. "And he assures me everything's under control. We had a real heart-to-heart talk over eighteen holes. He's a horrible golfer, couldn't stay out of the sand and water. It was funny, really."