The Pelican Brief Read Online Free PDF Page A

I want all the money waiting for me when I arrive.”
    “It will be there, if the job is finished.”
    Khamel smiled to himself. “The job will be finished, Mr. Sneller, by midnight. That is, if your information is correct.”
    “As of now it is correct. And no changes are expected today. Our people are in the streets. Everything is in the two briefcases: maps, diagrams, schedules, the tools, and articles you requested.”
    Khamel glanced at the briefcases behind him. He rubbed his eyes with his right hand. “I need a nap,” he mumbled into the phone. “I haven’t slept in twenty hours.”
    Sneller could think of no response. There was plenty of time, and if Khamel wanted a nap, then Khamel could have a nap. They were paying him ten million.
    “Would you like something to eat?” Sneller asked awkwardly.
    “No. Call me in three hours, at precisely ten-thirty.” He placed the receiver on the phone, and stretched across the bed.
    ________
    The streets were clear and quiet for day two of the fall term. The justices spent their day on the bench listening to lawyer after lawyer argue complex and quite dull cases. Rosenberg slept through most of it. He came to life briefly when the attorney general from Texas argued that a certain death-row inmate should be given medication to make him lucid before being lethally injected. If he’s mentally ill, how can he be executed? Rosenberg asked incredulously. Easy, said the AG from Texas, his illness can be controlled with medication. So just give him a little shot to make him sane, then give him another shot to kill him. It could all be very nice and constitutional. Rosenberg harangued and bitched for a brief spell, then lost steam. His little wheelchair sat much lower than the massive leather thrones of his brethren. He looked rather pitiful. In years past he was a tiger, a ruthless intimidator who tied even the slickest lawyers in knots. But no more. He began to mumble, and then faded away. The AG sneered at him, and continued.
    During the last oral argument of the day, a lifeless desegregation case from Virginia, Rosenberg begansnoring. Chief Runyan glared down the bench, and Jason Kline, Rosenberg’s senior clerk, took the hint. He slowly pulled the wheelchair backward, away from the bench, and out of the courtroom. He pushed it quickly through the back hallway.
    The Justice regained consciousness in his office, took his pills, and informed his clerks he wanted to go home. Kline notified the FBI, and moments later Rosenberg was wheeled into the rear of his van, parked in the basement. Two FBI agents watched. A male nurse, Frederic, strapped the wheelchair in place, and Sergeant Ferguson of the Supreme Court police slid behind the wheel of the van. The Justice allowed no FBI agents near him. They could follow in their car, and they could watch his townhouse from the street, and they were lucky to get that close. He didn’t trust cops, and he damned sure didn’t trust FBI agents. He didn’t need protection.
    On Volta Street in Georgetown, the van slowed and backed into a short driveway. Frederic the nurse and Ferguson the cop gently rolled him inside. The agents watched from the street in their black government-issue Dodge Aries. The lawn in front of the townhome was tiny and their car was a few feet from the front door. It was almost 4 P.M.
    After a few minutes, Ferguson made his mandatory exit and spoke to the agents. After much debate, Rosenberg had acquiesced a week earlier and allowed Ferguson to quietly inspect each room upstairs and down upon his arrival in the afternoons. Then Ferguson had to leave, but could return at exactly 10 P.M. and sit outside the rear door until exactly 6 A.M. Noone but Ferguson could do it, and he was tired of the overtime.
    “Everything’s fine,” he said to the agents. “I guess I’ll be back at ten.”
    “Is he still alive?” one of the agents asked. Standard question.
    “Afraid so.” Ferguson looked tired as he walked to the