John Grisham - The Brethren

"He must be watched. We cannot turn our backs. He is not the person we thought he was, and if we lose sight of him for one hour he might mail a letter, or buy another magazine:"

"We know We're doing the best we can."

"This is our highest domestic priority."

"I know"

"What about planting someone inside the prison?" Teddy asked. It was a new idea, one hatched by York within the past hour.

Deville rubbed his eyes and chewed his nails for a moment, then said, "I'll go to work on it.We'll have to pull strings we've never pulled before."

"How many prisoners are in the federal system?" York asked.

"One hundred thirty-five thousand, give or take." Deville said.

"Surely we could slip in another, couldn't we?"

"I'll give it a look."

"Do we have contacts at the Bureau of Prisons?"

"It's new territory, but we're working on it. We're using an old friend at justice. I'm optimistic."

Deville left them for a while. He'd get called back in an hour or so.York and Teddy would have another checklist of questions and thoughts and errands for him to tend to.

"I don't like the idea of searching his office on Capitol Hill." York said. "It's too risky. And besides, it would take a week. Those guys have a million files."

"I don't like it either." Teddy said softly.

"Let's get our guys in Documents to write a letter from Ricky to Lake. We'll wire the envelope, track it, maybe it will lead us to his file."

"That's an excellent idea. Tell Deville."

York made a note on a pad filled with many other notes, most of which had been scratched through. He scribbled to pass the time, then asked the question he'd been saving. "Will you confront him?"

"Not yet."

"When?"

"Maybe never. Let's gather the intelligence, learn all we can. He seems to be very quiet about his other life, perhaps it came about after his wife died.Who knows? Maybe he can keep it quiet"

"But he has to know that you know. Otherwise, he might take another chance. If he knows were always watching, he'll behave himself: Maybe:"

"Meanwhile the world's going to hell. Nuclear arms are bought and sold and sneaked across borders. We're tracking seven small wars with three more on the brink. A dozen new terrorist groups last month alone. Maniacs in the Middle East building armies and hoarding oil. And we sit here hour after hour plotting against three felonious judges who are at this very moment probably playing gin rummy."

"They're not stupid," York said.

"No, but they're clumsy. Their nets have snared the wrong person."

"I guess we picked the wrong person."

"No, they did."

The memo arrived by fax from the Regional Supervisor, Bureau of Prisons,Washington. It was directed to M. Emmitt Broon, the warden of Trumble. In terse but standard language the supervisor said he'd reviewed the logs from Trumble and was bothered by the number of visits by one Trevor Carson, attorney for three of the inmates. Lawyer Carson had reached the point of logging in almost every day.

While every inmate certainly had a constitutional right to meet with his attorney, the prison likewise had the power to regulate the traffic. Begirming immediately, attorney-client visits would be restricted to Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, between the hours of 3 and 6 P.M. Exceptions would be granted liberally for good cause shown.

The new policy would be utilized for a period of ninety days, after which time it would be reviewed.

Fine with the warden. He too had grown suspicious of Trevor's almost daily appearances. He'd questioned the front desk and the guards in a vain effort to determine what, exactly, was the nature of all this legal work. Link, the guard who usually escorted Trevor to the conference room, and who usually pocketed a couple of twenties on each visit, told the warden that the lawyer and Mr. Spicer talked about cases and appeals and such. "Just a bunch of law crap," Link said.

"And you always search his briefcase?" the warden had asked.

"Always," Link had replied.

Out of courtesy, the warden dialed the number of Mr. Trevor Carson in Neptune Beach. The phone was answered by a woman who said rudely, "Law office."

"Mr. Trevor Carson, please."

"Who's calling?"

"This is Emmitt Broon."

"Well, Mr. Broon, he's taking a nap right now"

"I see. Could you possibly wake him? I'm the warden at the federal prison at Trumble, and I need to speak with him."

"Just a minute."

He waited for a long time, and when she returned she said, "I'm sorry. I couldn't wake him up. Could I have him return your call?"

"No, thank you. I'll just fax him a note."

The idea of a reverse scam was hatched by York, while playing golf on a Sunday, and as his game progressed, occasionally on the fairways but more often in the sand and trees, the scheme grew and grew and became brilliant. He abandoned his pals after fourteen holes and called Teddy.

They would learn the tactics of their adversaries.

And they could divert attention away from Al Konyers. There was nothing to lose.

The letter was created by York, and assigned to one of the top forgers in Documents. The pen pal was christened Brant White, and the first note was handwritten on a plain, white, but expensive correspondence card.

Dear Ricky,

Saw your ad, liked it. I'm fifty-five, in great shape, and looking for more than a pen pal. My wife and I just bought a home in PalmValley, not far from Neptune Beach. We'll be down in three weeks, with plans to stay for two months.If interested, send photo. If I like what I see,then I'll give more details.

Brant

The return address was from Brant, PO. Box 88645, Upper Darby, PA 19082.

To save two or three days, a Philadelphia postmark was applied in Documents, and the letter was flown to Jacksonville where agent Klockner himself delivered it to Aladdin North's little box in the Neptune Beach post office. It was a Monday.

After his nap the following day, Trevor picked up the mail and headed west, out of Jacksonville, along the familiar route to Trumble. He was greeted by the same guards, Mackey and Vince, at the front door, and he signed the same logbook Rufus shoved in fiont of him. He followed Link into the visitors' area and to a corner where Spicer was waiting in one of the small attorney-conference rooms.

"I'm catchin some heat," Link said as they stepped into the room. Spicer did not look up. Trevor handed two twenties to Link, who took them in a flash.

"From who?" Trevor asked, opening his briefcase. Spicer was reading a newspaper.

"The warden."

"Hell, he's cut back on my visits. What else does he want?"

"Don't you understand?" Spicer said, without lowering the newspaper. "Link here is upset because he's not collecting as much. Right, Link?"

"You got that right. I don't know what kinda funny business you boys are runnin here, but if I tightened up on my inspections you'd be in trouble, wouldn't you?"

"You're being paid well," Trevor said.

"That's what you think."

"How much do you want?" Spicer said, staring at him now.

"A thousand a month, cash," he said, looking at Trevor. "I'll pick it up at your office."

"A thousand bucks and the mail doesn't get checked." Spicer said.

"Yep."

"And not a word to anybody."

"Yep."

"It's a deal. Now get outta here."

Link smiled at both of them and left the room. He positioned himself outside the door, and for the benefit of the closed-circuit cameras looked through the window occasionally.

Inside, the routine varied little. The exchange of mail happened first and took only a second. From a worn manila folder, the same one every tune, Joe Roy Spicer removed the outgoing letters and handed them to Trevor, who took the incoming mail from his briefcase and gave it to his client.