"No." He threw a copy of the Times on the bed. He'd already scanned it, and it was empty again.
Darby took the phone and punched the number of the Georgetown law school. She looked at him, and listened, then said, "Placement office, please." There was a long pause. "Yes, this is Sandra Jernigan. I'm a partner with White and Blazevich here in town, and we're having a problem with our computers. We're trying to reconstruct some payroll records, and the accountants have asked me to ask you for the names of your students who clerked here last summer. I think there were four of them." She listened for a second. "Jernigan. Sandra Jernigan," she repeated. "I see. How long will it take?" A pause. "And your name is, Joan. Thank you, Joan." Darby covered the receiver and breathed deeply. Gray watched intently, but with an admiring grin.
"Yes, Joan. Seven of them. Our records are a mess. Do you have their addresses and social security numbers? We need it for tax purposes. Sure. How long will it take? Fine. We have an office boy in the area. His name is Snowden, and he'll be there in thirty minutes. Thank you, Joan." Darby hung up and closed her eyes.
"Sandra Jernigan?" he said.
"I'm not good at lying," she said.
"You're wonderful. I guess I'm the office boy."
"You could pass for an office boy. You have an aging law school dropout look about you." And you're sort of cute, she thought to herself.
"I like the flannel shirt."
She took a long drink of cold coffee. "This could be a long day."
"So far, so good. I get the list, and meet you in the library. Right?"
"Yes. The placement office is on the fifth floor of the law school. I'll be in room 336. It's a small conference room on the third floor. You take a cab first. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, ma'am." Grantham was out the door. Darby waited five minutes, then left with her canvas bag.
The cab ride was short but slow in the morning traffic. Life on the lam was bad enough, but running and playing detective at the same time was too much. She'd been in the cab five minutes before she thought about being followed. And maybe that was good. Maybe a hard day as an investigative reporter would take her mind off Stump and the other tormentors. She would work today, and tomorrow, and by late Wednesday she would be on a beach.
They would start with the law school at Georgetown. If it was a dead end, they would try the one at George Washington. If there was time, they would try American University. Three strikes, and she was gone.
The cab stopped at McDonough Hall, at the grungy base of Capitol Hill. With her bag and flannel shirt, she was just one of many law students milling about before class. She took the stairs to the third level, and closed the door to the conference room behind her. The room was used for an occasional class and on campus job interviews. She spread her notes on the table, and was just another law student preparing for class.
Within minutes, Gray eased through the door. "Joan's a sweet lady," he said as he placed the list on the table. "Names, addresses, and social security numbers. Ain't that nice?"
Darby looked at the list and pulled a phone book from her bag. They found five of the names in the book. She looked at her watch. "It's five minutes after nine. I'll bet no more than half of these are in class at this moment. Some will have later classes. I'll call these five, and see who's at home. You take the two with no phone number, and get their class schedules from the registrar."
Gray looked at his watch. "Let's meet back here in fifteen minutes." He left first, then Darby. She went to the pay phones on the first level outside the classrooms, and dialed the number of James Maylor.
A male voice answered, "Hello."
"Is this Dennis Maylor?" she asked.
"No. I'm James Maylor."
"Sorry." She hung up. His address was ten minutes away. He didn't have a nine o'clock class, and if he had one at ten he would be home for another forty minutes. Maybe.
She called the other four. Two answered and she confirmed, and there was no answer at the other two.
Gray waited impatiently in the registrar's office on the third floor. A part-time student clerk was trying to find the registrar, who was somewhere in the back. The student informed him that she wasn't sure if they could give out class schedules. Gray said he was certain they could if they wanted to.
The registrar walked suspiciously around a corner. "May I help you?"
"Yes, I'm Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and I'm trying to find two of your students, Laura Kaas and Michael Akers."
"Is there a problem?" she asked nervously.
"Not at all. Just a few questions. Are they in class this morning?" He was smiling, and it was a warm, trusting smile that he flashed usually at older women. It seldom failed him.
"Do you have an ID or something?"
"Certainly." He opened his wallet and slowly waved it at her, much like a cop who knows he's a cop and doesn't care to spell it out.
"Well, I really should talk to the dean, but - "
"Fine. Where's his office?"
"But he's not here. He's out of town."
"I just need their class schedules so I can find them. I'm not asking for home addresses or grades or transcripts. Nothing confidential or personal."
She glanced at the part-time student clerk, who sort of shrugged, like "What's the big deal?"
"Just a minute," she said, and disappeared around the corner.
Darby was waiting in the small room when he laid the computer printouts on the table. "According to these, Akers and Kaas should be in class right now," he said.
Darby looked at the schedules. "Akers has criminal procedure. Kaas has administrative law - both from nine to ten. I'll try to find them." She showed Gray her notes. "Maylor, Reinhart, and Wilson were at home. I couldn't get Ratliff and Linney."
"Maylor's the closest. I can be there in a few minutes."
"What about a car?" Darby asked.
"I called Hertz. It's supposed to be delivered to the Post parking lot in fifteen minutes."
Maylor's apartment was on the third floor of a warehouse converted for students and others on very low budgets. He answered the door shortly after the first knock. He spoke through the chain.
"Looking for James Maylor," Gray said like an old pal.
"That's me."
"I'm Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. I'd like to ask you a couple of very quick questions."
The door was unchained and opened. Gray stepped inside the two-room apartment. A bicycle was parked in the center, and took up most of the space.
"What's up?" Maylor asked. He was intrigued by this, and appeared eager to answer questions.
"I understand you clerked for White and Blazevich last summer."
"That's correct. For three months."
Gray scribbled on his notepad. "What section were you in?"
"International. Mostly grunt work. Nothing glamorous. A lot of research and rough drafting of agreements."
"Who was your supervisor?"
"No single person. There were three associates who kept me busy. The partner above them was Stanley Coopman."
Gray pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. It was Garcia on the sidewalk. "Do you recognize this face?"
Maylor held the picture and studied it. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Who is he?"
"He's a lawyer, I think with White and Blazevich."
"It's a big firm. I was stuck in the corner of one section. It's over four hundred lawyers, you know."
"Yeah, so I've heard. You're sure you haven't seen him?"
"Positive. They cover twelve floors, most of which I never went on."
Gray placed the photo in his pocket. "Did you meet any other clerks?"
"Oh. Sure. A couple from Georgetown that I already knew, Laura Kaas and JoAnne Ratliff. Two guys from George Washington, Patrick Franks and a guy named Vanlandingham; a girl from Harvard named Elizabeth Larson; a girl from Michigan named Amy MacGregor; and a guy from Emory named Moke, but I think they fired him. There are always a lot of clerks in the summer."
"You plan to work there when you finish?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure I'm cut out for the big firms."
Gray smiled and stuck the notepad in his rear pocket. "Look, you've been in the firm. How would I find this guy?"
Maylor pondered this for a second. "I assume you can't go there and start asking around."
"Good assumption."
"And all you've got is the picture?"
"Yep."
"Then I guess you're doing the right thing. One of the clerks will recognize him."
"Thanks."
"Is the guy in trouble?"
"Oh no. He may have witnessed something. It's probably a long shot." Gray opened the door. "Thanks again."
Darby studied the fall listing of classes on the bulletin board across the lobby from the phones. She wasn't exactly sure what she'd do when the nine o'clock classes were over, but she was trying like hell to think of something. The bulletin board was exactly like the one at Tulane - class listings tacked neatly in a row; notices for assignments; ads for books, bikes, rooms, roommates, and a hundred other necessities stuck haphazardly about; announcements of parties, intramural games, and club meetings. A young woman with a backpack and hiking books stopped nearby and looked at the board. She was undoubtedly a student.
Darby smiled at her. "Excuse me. Would you happen to know Laura Kaas?"
"Sure."
"I need to give her a message. Could you point her out?"
"Is she in class?"
"Yeah, she's in administrative law under Ship, room 207."
They walked and chatted in the direction of Ship's admin law. The lobby was suddenly busy as four classrooms emptied. The hiker pointed to a tall, heavyset girl walking toward them. Darby thanked her, and followed Laura Kaas until the crowd thinned and scattered.
"Excuse me, Laura. Are you Laura Kaas?" The big girl stopped and stared. "Yes."
This was the part she didn't like - the lying. "I'm Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few questions?" She selected Laura Kaas first because she did not have a class at ten. Michael Akers did. She would try him at eleven.
"What about?"
"It'll just take a minute. Could we step in here?" Darby was nodding and walking to an empty classroom. Laura followed slowly.
"You clerked for White and Blazevich last summer."
"I did." She spoke slowly, suspiciously.
Sara Jacobs fought to control her nerves. This was awful. "What section?"
"Tax."
"You like tax, huh?" It was a weak effort at small talk.
"I did. Now I hate it."
Darby smiled like this was the funniest thing she'd heard in years. She pulled a photo from her pocket, and handed it to Laura Kaas.
"Do you recognize this man?"
"No."
"I think he's a lawyer with White and Blazevich."
"There are plenty of them."
"Are you certain?"
She handed it back. "Yep. I never left the fifth floor. It would take years to meet everyone, and they come and go so fast. You know how lawyers are."
Laura glanced around, and the conversation was over. "I really appreciate this," Darby said.
"No problem," Laura said on her way out the door.
At exactly ten-thirty, they met again in room 336. Gray had caught Ellen Reinhart in the driveway as she was leaving for class. She had worked in the litigation section under a partner by the name of Daniel O'Malley, and spent most of the summer in a class action trial in Miami. She was gone for two months, and spent little time in the Washington office. White and Blazevich had offices in four cities, including Tampa. She did not recognize Garcia, and she was in a hurry.
Judith Wilson was not at her apartment, but her roommate said she would return around one.
They scratched off Maylor, Kaas, and Reinhart. They whispered their plans, and split again. Gray left to find Edward Linney, who according to the list had clerked the past two summers at White and Blazevich. He was not in the phone book, but his address was in Wesley Heights, north of Georgetown's main campus.
At ten forty-five, Darby found herself loitering again in front of the bulletin board, hoping for another miracle. Akers was a male, and there were different ways to approach him. She hoped he was where he was supposed to be - in room 201 studying criminal procedure. She eased that way and waited a moment or two until the door opened and fifty law students emptied into the hall. She could never be a reporter. She could never walk up to strangers and start asking a bunch of questions. It was awkward and uncomfortable. But she walked up to a shy-looking young man with sad eyes and thick glasses, and said, "Excuse me. Do you happen to know Michael Akers? I think he's in this class."
The guy smiled. It was nice to be noticed. He pointed at a group of men walking toward the front entrance. "That's him, in the gray sweater."
"Thanks." She left him standing there. The group disassembled as it left the building, and Akers and a friend were on the sidewalk.
"Mr. Akers," she called after him.
They both stopped and turned around, then smiled as she nervously approached them. "Are you Michael Akers?" she asked.
"That's me. Who are you?"
"My name is Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I speak to you alone?"
"Sure." The friend took the hint and left.
"What about?" Akers asked.
"Did you clerk for White and Blazevich last summer?"
"Yes." Akers was friendly and enjoying this.
"What section?"
"Real estate. Boring as hell, but it was a job. Why do you want to know?"
She handed him the photo. "Do you recognize this man? He works for White and Blazevich."
Akers wanted to recognize him. He wanted to be helpful and have a long conversation with her, but the face did not register.
"Kind of a suspicious picture, isn't it?" he said.
"I guess. Do you know him?"
"No. I've never seen him. It's an awfully big firm. The partners wear name badges to their meetings. Can you believe it? The guys who own the firm don't know each other. There must be a hundred partners."
"Eighty-one, to be exact. Did you have a supervisor?"
"Yeah, a partner named Walter Welch. A real snot. I didn't like the firm, really."
"Do you remember any other clerks?"
"Sure. The place was crawling with summer clerks."
"If I needed their names, could I get back with you?"
"Anytime. This guy in trouble?"
"I don't think so. He may know something."
"I hope they all get disbarred. A bunch of thugs, really. It's a rotten place to work. Everything's political."
"Thanks." She smiled, and turned away. He admired the rear view, and said, "Call me anytime."
"Thanks."
Darby, the investigative reporter, walked next door to the library building, and climbed the stairs to the fifth floor where the Georgetown Law Journal had a suite of crowded offices. She'd found the most recent edition of the Journal in the library, and noticed that JoAnne Ratliff was an assistant editor. She suspected most law reviews and law journals were much the same. The top students hung out there and prepared their scholarly articles and comments. They were superior to the rest of the students, and were a clannish bunch who appreciated their brilliant minds. They hung out in the law journal suite. It was their second home.
She stepped inside and asked the first person where she might find JoAnne Ratliff. He pointed around a corner. Second door on the right. The second door opened into a cluttered workroom lined with rows of books. Two females were hard at work.
"JoAnne Ratliff," Darby said.
"That's me," an older woman of maybe forty responded.
"Hi. My name is Sara Jacobs, and I'm working on a story for the Washington Post. Can I ask you a few quick questions?"
She slowly laid her pen on the table, and frowned at the other woman. Whatever they were doing was terribly important, and this interruption was a real pain in the ass. They were significant law students.
Darby wanted to smirk and say something smart. She was number two in her class, dammit!, so don't act so high and mighty.
"What's the story about?" Ratliff asked.
"Could we speak in private?"
They frowned at each other again.
"I'm very busy," Ratliff said.
So am I, thought Darby. You're checking citations for some meaningless article, and I'm trying to nail the man who killed two Supreme Court Justices.
"I'm sorry," Darby said. "I promise I'll just take a minute."
They stepped into the hall. "I'm very sorry to disturb you, but I'm in sort of a rush."
"And you're a reporter with the Post?" It was more of a challenge than a question, and she was forced to lie some more. She told herself she could lie and cheat and steal for two days, then it was off to the Caribbean and Grantham could have it.
"Yes. Did you work for White and Blazevich last summer?"
"I did. Why?"
Quickly, the photo. Ratliff took it and analyzed it.
"Do you recognize him?"
She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so. Who is he?"
This bitch'll make a fine lawyer. So many questions. If she knew who he was, she wouldn't be standing in this tiny hallway acting like a reporter and putting up with this haughty legal eagle.
"He's a lawyer with White and Blazevich," Darby said as sincerely as possible. "I thought you might recognize him."
"Nope." She handed the photo back.
