The Pelican Brief by John Grisham Page A

law school.”
    “Ha! I told you so. You forget, dear, that I am a genius at constitutional law, and I knew immediately that Rosenberg and Jensen had nothing in common but black robes and death threats. The Nazis or Aryans or Kluxers or Mafia or some other group killed them because Rosenberg was Rosenberg, and because Jensen was the easiest target and somewhat of an embarrassment.”
    “Well, why don’t you call the FBI and share yourinsights with them? I’m sure they’re sitting by the phone.”
    “Don’t be angry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
    “You’re an ass, Thomas.”
    “Yes, but you love me, don’t you?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Can we still go to bed? You promised.”
    “We’ll see.”
    Callahan placed his glass on the table, and attacked her. “Look, baby. I’ll read your brief, okay. And then we’ll talk about it, okay. But I’m not thinking clearly right now, and I won’t be able to continue until you take my weak and trembling hand and lead me to your bed.”
    “Forget my little brief.”
    “Please, dammit, Darby, please.”
    She grabbed his neck and pulled him to her. They kissed long and hard, a wet, almost violent kiss.

11
________
    T HE COP stuck his thumb on the button next to the name of Gray Grantham, and held it down for twenty seconds. Then a brief pause. Then another twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds. He thought this was funny because Grantham was a night owl and had probably slept less than three or four hours, and now all this incessant buzzing echoing throughout his hallway. He pushed again and looked at his patrol car parked illegally on the curb under the streetlight. It was almost dawn, Sunday, and the street was empty. Twenty seconds. Pause. Twenty seconds.
    Maybe Grantham was dead. Or maybe he was comatose from booze and a late night on the town. Maybe he had someone’s woman up there and had no plans to answer the door. Pause. Twenty seconds.
    The mike crackled. “Who is it!”
    “Police!” answered the cop, who was black and emphasized the
po
in
police
just for the fun of it.
    “What do you want?” Grantham demanded.
    “Maybe I gotta warrant.” The cop was near laughter.
    Grantham’s voice softened, and he sounded wounded. “Is this Cleve?”
    “It is.”
    “What time is it, Cleve?”
    “Almost five-thirty.”
    “It must be good.”
    “Don’t know. Sarge didn’t say, you know. He just said to wake you up ’cause he wanted to talk.”
    “Why does he always want to talk before the sun comes up?”
    “Stupid question, Grantham.”
    A slight pause. “Yeah, I guess so. I presume he wants to talk right now.”
    “No. You got thirty minutes. He said be there at six.”
    “Where?”
    “There’s a little coffee shop on Fourteenth near the Trinidad Playground. It’s dark and safe, and Sarge likes it.”
    “Where does he find these places?”
    “You know, for a reporter you can ask the dumbest questions. The name of the place is Glenda’s, and I suggest you get going or you’ll be late.”
    “Will you be there?”
    “I’ll drop in, just to make sure you’re okay.”
    “I thought you said it was safe.”
    “It is safe, for that part of town. Can you find it?”
    “Yeah. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
    “Have a nice day, Grantham.”
    ________
    Sarge was old, very black, with a head full of brilliant white hair that sprang out in all directions. He wore thick sunglasses whenever he was awake, and most of his coworkers in the West Wing of the White House thought he was half blind. He held his head sideways and smiled like Ray Charles. He sometimes bumped into door facings and desks as he unloaded trash cans and dusted furniture. He walked slowly and gingerly as if counting his steps. He worked patiently, always with a smile, always with a kind word for anyone willing to give him one. For the most part he was ignored and dismissed as just another friendly, old, partially disabled black janitor.
    Sarge could