The Pelican Brief

by The Pelican Brief [lit]

  Talk turned to other matters.

  "The Chiefs ticked off at you, Glenn," said the clerk from Duke. They called him by his first name in chambers. "Justice" was such an awkward title.

  Glenn rubbed his eyes. "What else is new?"

  "One of his clerks wanted me to know that the Chief and the FBI are worried about your safety. Says you're not cooperating, and the Chiefs rather disturbed. He wanted me to pass it along." Everything was passed along through the clerks' network. Everything.

  "He's supposed to be worried. That's his job."

  "He wants to assign two more Fibbies as bodyguards, and they want access to your apartment. And the FBI wants to drive you to and from work. And they want to restrict your travel."

  "I've already heard this."

  "Yeah, we know. But the Chiefs clerk said the Chief wants us to prevail upon you to cooperate with the FBI so that they can save your life."

  "I see."

  "And so we're just prevailing upon you."

  "Thanks. Go back to the network and tell the Chiefs clerk that you not only prevailed upon me but you raised all sorts of hell with me and that I appreciated all of your prevailing and hell-raising, but it went in one ear and out the other. Tell them Glenn considers himself a big boy."

  "Sure, Glenn. You're not afraid, are you?"

  "Not in the least."

  HOMAS CALLAHAN was one of Tulane's more popular professors, primarily because he refused to schedule classes before 11 A.M. He drank a lot, as did most of his students, and for him the first few hours of each morning were needed for sleep, then resuscitation. Nine and ten o'clock classes were abominations. He was also popular because he was coolfaded jeans, tweed jackets with well-worn elbow patches, no socks, no ties. The liberal-chic-academic look. He was forty-five, but with dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses he could pass for thirty-five, not that he gave a damn how old he looked. He shaved once a week, when it started itching; and when the weather was cool, which was seldom in New Orleans, he would grow a beard. He had a history of closeness with female students.

  He was also popular because he taught constitutional law, a most unpopular course but a required one. Due to his sheer brilliance and coolness he actually made con law interesting. No one else at Tulane could do this. No one wanted to, really, so the students fought to sit in con law under Callahan at eleven, three mornings a week.

  Eighty of them sat behind six elevated rows and whispered as Callahan stood in front of his desk and cleaned his glasses. It was exactly five after eleven, still too early, he thought.

  "Who understands Rosenberg's dissent in Nash v. New Jersey?" All heads lowered and the room was silent. Must be a bad hangover. His eyes were red. When he started with Rosenberg it usually meant a rough lecture. No one volunteered. Nash? Callahan looked slowly, methodically around the room, and waited. Dead silence.

  The doorknob clicked loudly and broke the tension. The door opened quickly and an attractive young female in tight washed jeans and a cotton sweater slid elegantly through it and sort of glided along the wall to the third row, where she deftly maneuvered between the crowded seats until she came to hers and sat down. The guys on the fourth row watched in admiration. The guys on the fifth row strained for a peek. For two brutal years now, one of the few pleasures of law school had been to watch as she graced the halls and rooms with her long legs and baggy sweaters. There was a fabulous body in there somewhere, they could tell. But she was not one to flaunt it. She was just one of the gang, and adhered to the law school dress code of jeans and flannel shirts and old sweaters and oversized khakis. What they wouldn't give for a black leather miniskirt.

  She flashed a quick smile at the guy seated next to her, and for a second Callahan and his Nash question were forgotten. Her dark red hair fell just to the shoulders. She was that perfect little cheerleader with the perfect teeth and perfect hair that every boy fell in love with at least twice in high school. And maybe at least once in law school.

  Callahan was ignoring this entry. Had she been a first-year student, and afraid of him, he might have ripped into her and screamed a few times. "You're never late for court!" was the old standby law professors had beaten to death.

  But Callahan was not in a screaming mood, and Darby Shaw was not afraid of him, and for a split second he wondered if anyone knew he was sleeping with her. Probably not. She had insisted on absolute secrecy.

  "Has anyone read Rosenberg's dissent in Nash v. New Jersey?" Suddenly, he had the spotlight again, and there was dead silence. A raised hand could mean constant grilling for the next thirty minutes. No volunteers. The smokers on the back row fired up their cigarettes. Most of the eighty scribbled aimlessly on legal pads. All heads were bowed. It would be too obvious and risky to flip through the casebook and find Nash; too late for that. Any movement might attract attention. Someone was about to be nailed.

  Nash was not in the casebook. It was one of a dozen minor cases Callahan had hurriedly mentioned a week ago, and now he was anxious to see if anyone had read it. He was famous for this. His final exam covered twelve hundred cases, a thousand of which were not in the casebook. The exam was a nightmare, but he was really a sweetheart, a soft grader, and it was a rare dumbass who flunked the course.

  He did not appear to be a sweetheart at this moment. He looked around the room. Time for a victim. "How about it, Mr. Sallinger? Can you explain Rosenberg's dissent?"

  Instantly from the fourth row, Sallinger said: "No sir."

  "I see. Might that be because you haven't read Rosenberg's dissent?"

  "It might. Yes sir."

  Callahan glared at him. The red eyes made the arrogant scowl all the more menacing. Only Sallinger saw it though; since everyone else was glued to their legal pads. "And why not?"

  "Because I try not to read dissents. Especially Rosenberg's."

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Sallinger had opted to fight back, but he had no ammo.

  "Something against Rosenberg, Mr. Sallinger?"

  Callahan revered Rosenberg. Worshiped him. Read books about the man and his opinions. Studied him. Even dined with him once.

  Sallinger fidgeted nervously. "Oh no, sir. I just don't like dissents."

  There was a bit of humor in Sallinger's responses, but not a smile was cracked. Later, over a beer, he and his buddies would roar with laughter when it was told and retold about Sallinger and his distaste for dissents, especially Rosenberg's. But not now.

  "I see. Do you read majority opinions?"

  Hesitation. Sallinger's feeble attempt at sparring was about to cause humiliation.Yes sir. Lots of them."

  "Great. Explain, then, if you will, the majority opinion in Nash v. New Jersey."

  Sallinger had never heard of Nash, but he would now remember it for the rest of his legal career. "I don't think I've read that one."

  So you don't read dissents, Mr. Sallinger, and now we learn that you also neglect majorities. What do you read, Mr. Sallinger, romance novels, tabloids?"

  There was some extremely light laughter from behind the fourth row, and it came from students who felt obligated to laugh but at the same time did not wish to call attention to themselves.

  Sallinger, red-faced, just stared at Callahan.

  "Why haven't you read the case, Mr. Sallinger?" Callahan demanded.

  "I don't know. I, uh, just missed it, I guess."

  Callahan took it well. "I'm not surprised. I mentioned it last week. Last Wednesday, to be exact. It'll be on the final exam. I don't understand why you would ignore a case that you'll see on the final." Callahan was pacing now, slowly, in front of his desk, staring at the students. "Did anyone bother to read it?"

  Silence. Callahan stared at the floor, and allowed the silence to sink in. All eyes were down, all pens and pencils frozen. Smoke billowed from the back row.

  Finally, slowly, from the fourth seat on the third row, Darby Shaw lifted her hand slightly, and the class breathed a collective sigh of relief. She had saved them again. It was sort of expected of
her. Number two in their class and within striking distance of number one, she could recite the facts and holdings and concurrences and dissents and majority opinions to virtually every case Callahan could spit at them. She missed nothing. The perfect little cheerleader had graduated magna cum laude with a degree in biology, and planned to graduate magna cum laude with a degree in law, and then make a nice living suing chemical companies for trashing the environment.

  Callahan stared at her in mock frustration. She had left his apartment three hours earlier after a long night of wine and law. But he had not mentioned Nash to her.

  "Well, well, Ms. Shaw. Why is Rosenberg upset?"

  "He thinks the New Jersey statute violates the Second Amendment." She did not look at the professor.

  "That's good. And for the benefit of the rest of the class, what does the statute do?"

  "Outlaws semiautomatic machine guns, among other things."

  "Wonderful. And just for fun, what did Mr. Nash possess at the time of his arrest?"

  "An AK-47 assault rifle."

  "And what happened to him?"

  "He was convicted, sentenced to three years, and appealed." She knew the details.

  "What was Mr. Nash's occupation?"

  "The opinion wasn't specific, but there was mention of an additional charge of drug trafficking. He had no criminal record at the time of his arrest."

  "So he was a dope pusher with an AK-47. But he has a friend in Rosenberg, doesn't he?"

  "Of course." She was watching him now. The tension had eased. Most eyes followed him as he paced slowly, looking around the room, selecting another victim. More often than not, Darby dominated these lectures, and Callahan wanted a broader participation.

  "Why do you suppose Rosenberg is sympathetic?" he asked the class.

  "He loves dope pushers." It was Sallinger, wounded but trying to rally. Callahan placed a premium on class discussion. He smiled at his prey, as if to welcome him back to the bloodletting.

  "You think so, Mr. Sallinger?"

  "Sure. Dope pushers, child fondlers, gunrunners, terrorists. Rosenberg greatly admires these people. They are his weak and abused children, so he must protect them." Sallinger was trying to appear righteously indignant.

  "And, in your learned opinion, Mr. Sallinger, what should be done with these people?"

  "Simple. They should have a fair trial with a good lawyer, then a fair, speedy appeal, then punished if they are guilty."

  Sallinger was perilously close to sounding like a law-and-order right-winger, a cardinal sin among Tulane law students.

  Callahan folded his arms. "Please continue."

  Sallinger smelled a trap, but plowed ahead. There was nothing to lose. "I mean, we've read case after case where Rosenberg has tried to rewrite the Constitution to create a new loophole to exclude evidence to allow an obviously guilty defendant to go free. It's almost sickening. He thinks all prisons are cruel and unusual places, so therefore, under the Eighth Amendment, all prisoners should go free. Thankfully, he's in the minority now, a shrinking minority."

  "You like the direction of the Court, do you, Mr. Sallinger?" Callahan was at once smiling and frowning.

  "Damned right I do."

  "Are you one of those normal, red-blooded, patriotic, middle-of-the-road Americans who wish the old bastard would die in his sleep?"

  There were a few chuckles around the room. It was safer to laugh now. Sallinger knew better than to answer truthfully. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone," he said, almost embarrassed.

  Callahan was pacing again. "Well, thank you, Mr. Sallinger. I always enjoy your comments. You have, as usual, provided us with the layman's view of the law."

  The laughter was much louder. Sallinger's cheeks flushed and he sank in his seat.

 

  Callahan did not smile. "I would like to raise the intellectual level of this discussion, okay. Now, Ms. Shaw, why is Rosenberg sympathetic to Nash?"

  "The Second Amendment grants the people the right to keep and bear arms. To Justice Rosenberg, it is literal and absolute. Nothing should be banned. If Nash wants to possess an AK-47, or a hand grenade, or a bazooka, the state of New Jersey cannot pass a law prohibiting it."

  "Do you agree with him?"

  "No, and I'm not alone. It's an eight-to-one decision. No one followed him."

  "What's the rationale of the other eight?"

  "It's obvious, really. The states have compelling reasons to prohibit the sale and possession of certain types of arms. The interests of the state of New Jersey outweigh the Second Amendment rights of Mr. Nash. Society cannot allow individuals to own sophisticated weaponry."

  Callahan watched her carefully. Attractive female law students were rare at Tulane, but when he found one he moved in quickly. Over the past eight years, he had been quite successful. Easy work, for the most part. The women arrived at law school liberated and loose. Darby had been different. He first spotted her in the library during the second semester of her first year, and it took a month to get her to dinner.

  "Who wrote the majority opinion?" he asked her.

  "Runyan."

  "And you agree with him?"

  "Yes. It's an easy case, really."

  "Then what happened to Rosenberg?"

  "I think he hates the rest of the Court."

  "So he dissents just for the hell of it."

  "Often, yes. His opinions are becoming more indefensible. Take Nash. For a liberal like Rosenberg, the issue of gun control is easy. He should have written the majority opinion, and ten years ago he would have. In Fordice v. Oregon, a 1977 case, he took a much narrower interpretation of the Second Amendment. His inconsistencies are almost embarrassing."

  Callahan had forgotten Fordice. "Are you suggesting Justice Rosenberg is senile?"

  Much like a punch-drunk fighter, Sallinger waded in for the final round. "He's crazy as hell, and you know it. You can't defend his opinions."

  "Not always, Mr. Sallinger, but at least he's still there."

  "His body's there, but he's brain-dead."

  "He's breathing, Mr. Sallinger."

  "Yeah, breathing with a machine. They have to pump oxygen up his nose."

  "But it counts, Mr. Sallinger. He's the last of the great judicial activists, and he's still breathing."

  "You'd better call and check," Sallinger said as his words trailed off. He'd said enough. No, he'd said too much. He lowered his head as the professor glared at him. He hunkered down next to his notebook, and started wondering why he'd said all that.

  Callahan stared him down, then began pacing again. It was indeed a bad hangover.

  AT LEAST he looked like an old farmer, with straw hat, clean bib overalls, neatly pressed khaki workshirt, boots. He chewed tobacco and spat in the black water beneath the pier. He chewed like a farmer. His pickup, though of recent model, was sufficiently weathered and had a dusty-road look about it. North Carolina plates. It was a hundred yards away, parked in the sand at the other end of the pier.

  It was midnight Monday, the first Monday in October, and for the next thirty minutes he was to wait in the dark coolness of the deserted pier, chewing pensively, resting on the railing while staring intently at the sea. He was alone, as he knew he would be. It was planned that way. This pier at this hour was always deserted. The headlights of an occasional car flickered along the shoreline, but the headlights never stopped at this hour.

  He watched the red and blue channel lights far from shore. He checked his watch without moving his head. The clouds were low and thick, and it would be difficult to see it until it was almost to the pier. It was planned this way.

  The pickup was not from North Carolina, and neither was the farmer. The license plates had been stolen from a wrecked truck at a scrap yard near Durham. The pickup had been stolen in Baton Rouge. The farmer was not from anywhere, and per formed none of the thievery. He was a pro, and so someone else did the dirty little deeds.

  Twenty minutes into the wait, a dark object floated in the dire
ction of the pier. A quiet, muffled engine hummed and grew louder. The object became a small craft of some sort with a camouflaged silhouette crouching low and working the motor. The farmer moved not an inch in anticipation. The humming stopped and the black rubber raft stalled in the calm water thirty feet from the pier. There were no headlights coming or going along the shore.

  The farmer carefully placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, puffed twice, then thumped it down, halfway to the raft.