"In a lockbox at First Columbia. Morgan's wife gave me the key at five this morning. I've done nothing wrong. The pelican brief has been verified fully by an independent source."
"Run it," said Ernie DeBasio. "Run it with the biggest headline since NIXON RESIGNS."
Feldman stopped near Smith Keen. The two friends eyed each other carefully. "Run it," said Keen.
He turned to the lawyer. "Vince?"
"There's no question, legally. But I'd like to see the story after it's written."
"How long will it take to write it?" the editor asked Gray.
"The brief portion is already outlined. I can finish it up in an hour or so. Give me two hours on Morgan. Three at the most."
Feldman hadn't smiled since he shook hands with Darby. He paced to the other side of the room, and stood in Gray's face. "What if this tape's a hoax?"
"Hoax? We're talking dead bodies, Jackson. I've seen the widow. She's a real, live widow. This paper ran the story of his murder. He's dead. Even his law firm says he's dead. And that's him on the tape, talking about dying. I know that's him. And we talked to the notary public who witnessed his signature on the affidavit. She identified him." Gray was getting louder and looking around the room. "Everything he said verifies the pelican brief. Everything. Mattiece, the lawsuit, the assassinations. Then we've got Darby, the author of the brief. And more dead bodies, and they've chased her all over the country. There are no holes, Jackson. It's a story."
He finally smiled. "It's more than a story. Have it written by two. It's eleven now. Use this conference room and close the door." Feldman was pacing again.We'll meet here at exactly two and read the draft. Not a word."
The men stood and filed from the room, but not before each shook hands with Darby Shaw. They were uncertain whether to say congratulations or thanks or whatever, so they just smiled and shook her hand. She kept her seat.
When they were alone, Gray sat beside her and they held hands. The clean conference table was before them. The chairs were placed perfectly around it. The walls were white, and the room was lit by fluorescent lights and two narrow windows.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"I don't know. This is the end of the road, I guess. We made it."
"You don't sound too happy."
"I've had better months. I'm happy for you."
He looked at her. "Why are you happy for me?"
"You put the pieces together and it hits tomorrow. It's got Pulitzer written all over it."
"I hadn't thought about that."
"Liar."
"Okay, maybe once. But when you got off the elevator yesterday and told me Garcia was dead, I quit thinking about Pulitzers."
"It's not fair. I do all the work. We used my brains and looks and legs, and you get all the glory."
"I'll be glad to use your name. I'll credit you as the author of the brief. We'll put your picture on the front page, along with Rosenberg, Jensen, Mattiece, the President, Verheek, and"
"Thomas? Will his picture run with the story?"
"It's up to Feldman. He'll edit this one."
She thought about this, and said nothing.
"Well, Ms. Shaw, I've got three hours to write the biggest story of my career. A story that will shock the world. A story that could bring down a presidency. A story that will solve the assassinations. A story that will make me rich and famous."
"You'd better let me write it."
"Would you? I'm tired."
"Go get your notes. And some coffee."
* * *
THEY CLOSED THE DOOR and cleared the table. A news aide rolled in a PC with a printer. They sent him after a pot of coffee. Then some fruit. They outlined the story in sections, beginning with the assassinations, then the pelican case in south Louisiana, then Mattiece and his link to the President, then the pelican brief and all the havoc it created, Callahan, Verheek, then Curtis Morgan and his muggers, then White and Blazevich and Wakefield, Velmano, and Einstein. Darby preferred to write in longhand. She scaled down the litigation and the brief, and what was known of Mattiece. Gray took the rest, and typed out rough notes on the machine.
Darby was a model of organization, with notes neatly arranged on the table, and words carefully written on paper. He was a whirlwind of chaospapers on the floor, talking to the computer, printing random paragraphs that were discarded by the time they were on paper. She kept telling him to be quiet. This is not a law school library, he explained. This is a newspaper. You work with a phone in each ear and someone yelling at you.
At twelve-thirty, Smith Keen sent in food. Darby ate a cold sandwich and watched the traffic below. Gray was digging through campaign reports.
