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."
Coal had never touched a golf club, and hated the idle chatter about handicaps and such. "Do you think Voyles is investigating down there?"
"No. He gave me his word he would not. Not that I trust him, but Gminski didn't mention Voyles."
"How much do you trust Gminski?" Coal asked with a quick glance and frown at the President.
"None. But if he knew something about the pelican brief, I think he would tell me - " The President's words trailed off, and he knew he sounded naive.
Coal grunted his disbelief.
They crossed the Anacostia River and were in Prince Georges County. The President picked up the speech and looked out his window. Two weeks after the killings, and the ratings were still above fifty percent. The Democrats had no visible candidate out there making noise. He was strong and getting stronger. Americans were tired of dope and crime, and noisy minorities getting all the attention, and liberal idiots interpreting the Constitution in favor of criminals and radicals. This was his moment. Two nominations to the Supreme Court at the same time. It would be his legacy.
He smiled to himself. What a wonderful tragedy.
The taxi stopped abruptly at the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second, and Gray, doing exactly what he was told, paid quickly and jumped out with his bag. The car behind was honking and flipping birds, and he thought how nice it was to be back in New York City.
It was almost 5 P.M., and the pedestrians were thick on Fifth, and he figured that was precisely what she wanted. She had been specific. Take this flight from National to La Guardia. Take a cab to the Vista Hotel in the World Trade Center. Go to the bar, have a drink, maybe two, watch your rear, then after an hour catch a cab to the corner of Fifth and Fifty-second. Move quickly, wear sunglasses, and watch for everything because if he was being followed he could get them killed.
She made him write it all down. It was a bit silly, a bit of overkill, but she had a voice he couldn't argue with. Didn't want to, really. She was lucky to be alive, she said, and she would take no more chances. And if he wanted to talk to her, then he would do exactly as he was told.
He wrote it down. He fought the crowd and walked as fast as possible up Fifth to Fifty-ninth to the Plaza, up the steps and through its lobby, then out onto Central Park South. No one could follow him. And if she was this cautious, no one could follow her.
The sidewalk was packed along Central Park South, and as he neared Sixth Avenue he walked even faster. He was keyed up, and regardless of how restrained he tried to be, he was terribly excited about meeting her. On the phone she had been cool and methodical, but with a trace of fear and uncertainty. She was just a law student, she said, and she didn't know what she was doing, and she would probably be dead in a week if not sooner, but anyway this was the way the game would be played. Always assume you're being followed, she said. She had survived seven days of being chased by bloodhounds, so please do as she said.
She said to duck into the St. Moritz at the corner of Sixth, and he did. She had reserved a room for him under the name of Warren Clark. He paid cash for the room, and rode the elevator to the ninth floor. He was to wait. Just sit and wait, she'd said.
He stood in the window for an hour and watched Central Park grow dark. The phone rang.
"Mr. Clark?" a female asked.
"Uh, yes."
"It's me. Did you arrive alone?"
"Yes. Where are you?"
"Six floors up. Take the elevator to the eighteenth, then walk down to the fifteenth. Room 1520."
"Okay. Now?"
"Yes. I'm waiting."
He brushed his teeth again, checked his hair, and ten minutes later was standing before room 1520. He felt like a sophomore on his first date. He hadn't had butterflies this bad since high school football.
But he was Gray Grantham of the Washington Post, and this was just another story and she was just another woman, so grab the reins, buddy.
He knocked, and waited. "Who is it?"
"Grantham," he said to the door.
The bolt clicked, and she opened the door slowly. The hair was gone, but she smiled, and there was the cover girl. She shook his hand firmly. "Come in."
She closed and bolted the door behind him. "Would you care for a drink?" she asked.
"Sure, what do you have?"
"Water, with ice."
"Sounds great."
She walked into a small sitting room where the television was on with no sound. "In here," she said. He set his bag on the table, and took a seat on the sofa. She was standing at the bar, and for a quick second he admired the jeans. No shoes. Extra-large sweatshirt with the collar to one side where a bra strap peeked through.
She handed him the water, and sat in a chair by the door.
"Thanks," he said.
"Have you eaten?" she asked.
"You didn't tell me to."
She chuckled at this. "Forgive me. I've been through a lot. Let's order room service."
He nodded and smiled at her. "Sure. Anything you want is fine with me."
"I'd love a greasy cheeseburger with fries and a cold beer."
"Perfect."
She picked up the phone and ordered the food. Grantham walked to the window and watched the lights crawling along Fifth Avenue.
"I'm twenty-four. How old are you?" She was on the sofa now, sipping ice water.
He took the chair nearest to her. "Thirty-eight. Married once. Divorced seven years and three months ago. No children. Live alone with a cat. Why'd you pick the St. Moritz?"
"Rooms were available, and I convinced them it was important to pay with cash and present no identification. Do you like it?"
"It's fine. Sort of past its prime."
"This is not exactly a vacation."
"It's fine. How long do you think we might be here?"
She watched him carefully. He'd published a book six years earlier on HUD scandals, and though it didn't sell she'd found a copy in a public library in New Orleans. He looked six years older than the photo on the dust jacket, but he was aging nicely with a touch of gray over the ears.
"I don't know how long you'll stay," she said. "My plans are subject to change by the minute. I may see a face on the street and fly to New Zealand."
"When did you leave New Orleans?"
"Monday night. I took a cab to Baton Rouge, and that would have been easy to follow. I flew to Chicago, where I bought four tickets to four different cities, including Boise, where my mother lives. I jumped on the plane to La Guardia at the last moment. I don't think anyone followed."
"You're safe."
"Maybe for the moment. We'll both be hunted when this story is published. Assuming it's published."
Gray rattled his ice and studied her. "Depends on what you tell me. And it depends on how much can be verified from other sources."
"The verification is up to you. I'll tell you what I know, and from there you're on your own."
"Okay. When do we start talking?"
"After dinner. I'd rather do it on a full stomach. You're in no hurry, are you?"
"Of course not. I've got all night, and all day tomorrow, and the next day and the next. I mean, you're talking about the biggest story in twenty years, so I'll hang around as long as you'll talk to me."