Morgan hid the copy in a law book in the library on the ninth floor. He was shocked at Wakefield's paranoia and hysterics. Before he left that afternoon, he precisely arranged the articles and papers in his desk and on his shelves. The next morning, he checked them. Someone had gone through his desk during the night.
Morgan became very careful. Two days later, he found a tiny screwdriver behind a book on his credenza. Then he found a small piece of black tape wadded up and dropped in his trash can. He assumed his office was wired and his phones were bugged. He caught suspicious looks from Wakefield. He saw Velmano in Wakefield's office more than usual.
Then Justices Rosenberg and Jensen were killed. There was no doubt in his mind it was the work of Mattiece and his associates. The memo did not mention Mattiece, but it referred to a "client." Wakefield had no other clients. And no one client had as much to gain from a new Court as Mattiece.
The last paragraph of the affidavit was frightening. On two occasions after the assassinations, Morgan knew he was being followed. He was taken off the pelican case. He was given more work, more hours, more demands. He was afraid of being killed. If they would kill two justices, they would kill a lowly associate.
He signed it under oath before Emily Stanford, a notary public. Her address was typed under her name.
"Sit tight. I'll be right back," Gray said as he opened his door and jumped out. He dodged cars and dashed across E Street. There was a pay phone outside a bakery. He punched Smith Keen's number and looked at his rented car parked haphazardly across the street.
"Smith, it's Gray. Listen carefully and do as I say. I've got another source on the pelican brief. It's big, Smith, and I need you and Krauthammer in Feldman's office in fifteen minutes."
"What is it?"
"Garcia left a farewell message. We have one more stop, and we're coming in."
"We? The girl's coming in?"
"Yes. Get a TV with a VCR in the conference room. I think Garcia wants to talk to us."
"He left a tape?"
"Yes. Fifteen minutes."
"Are you safe?"
"I think so. I'm just nervous as hell, Smith." He hung up and ran back to the car.
* * *
MS. STANFORD owned a court reporting service on Vermont. She was dusting the bookshelves when Gray and Darby walked in. They were in a hurry.
"Are you Emily Stanford?" he asked.
"Yes. Why?"
He showed her the last page of the affidavit. "Did you notarize this?"
"Who are you?"
"Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. Is this your signature?"
"Yes. I notarized it."
Darby handed her the photograph of Garcia, now Morgan, on the sidewalk. "Is this the man who signed the affidavit?" she asked.
"This is Curtis Morgan. Yes. That's him."
"Thank you," Gray said.
"He's dead, isn't he?" Ms. Stanford asked. "I saw it in the paper."
"Yes, he's dead," Gray said. "Did you by chance read this affidavit?"
"Oh no. I just witnessed his signature. But I knew something was wrong."
"Thank you, Ms. Stanford." They left as fast as they'd come.
* * *
THE THIN MAN hid his shiny forehead under a ragged fedora. His pants were rags and his shoes were torn, and he sat in his ancient wheelchair in front of the Post and held a sign proclaiming him to be HUNGRY AND HOMELESS. He rolled his head from shoulder to shoulder as if the muscles in his neck had collapsed from hunger. A paper bowl with a few dollars and coins was in his lap, but it was his money. Maybe he could do better if he was blind.
He looked pitiful, sitting there like a vegetable, rolling his head, wearing green Kermit the Frog sunglasses. He watched every move on the street.
He saw the car fly around the corner and park illegally. The man and the woman jumped out, and ran toward him. He had a gun under the ragged quilt, but they were moving too fast. And there were too many people on the sidewalk. They entered the Post building.
He waited a minute, then rolled himself away.
* * *
SMITH KEEN was pacing and fidgeting in front of Feldman's office door as the secretary looked on. He saw them weaving hurriedly down the aisle between the rows of desks. Gray was leading and holding her hand. She was definitely attractive, but he would appreciate it later. They were breathless.
"Smith Keen, this is Darby Shaw," Gray said between breaths.
They shook hands. "Hello," she said, looking around at the sprawling newsroom.
"My pleasure, Darby. From what I hear, you are a remarkable woman."
"Right," Grantham said. "We can chitchat later."
"Follow me," Keen said, and they were off again. "Feldman wanted to use the conference room." They cut across the cluttered newsroom, and walked into a plush room with a long table in the center of it. It was full of men who were talking but immediately shut up when she walked in. Feldman closed the door.
"He reached for her hand.I'm Jackson Feldman, executive editor. You must be Darby."
"Who else?" Gray said, still breathing hard.
