John Grisham - The Brethren

"It's hard to believe a man like Aaron Lake would be renting a box so he could hide letters like these," Beech said.

"It's not the same Aaron Lake," Yarber said. "When he rented the box and began writing to Ricky, he was just a simple congressman, one of four hundred and thirty-five.You'd never heard of him. Now, things have changed dramatically"

"And that's exactly why he's trying to end the relationship." Spicer said. "Things are very different now. He has much more to lose."

The first step would be to get Trevor to investigate the post office box in Chevy Chase.

The second step was not as clear. They were concerned that Lake, and they assumed that Lake was Al and Al was Lake, might realize his screwup with the letters. He had tens of millions of dollars (a fact they had certainly not. overlooked), and he could easily use some of it to track down Ricky. Given the enormity of the stakes, Lake, if he did realize his mistake, would do almost anything to neutralize Ricky.

So they debated whether to write him a note, in which Ricky would beg Al not to slam the door like this. Ricky needed his friendship, nothing more, etc.

The purpose would be to give the impression that everything was fine, nothing out of the ordinary. They hoped Lake would read it and scratch his head and wonder to himself just where, exactly, did that damned card to Carol get off to.

Such a note was unwise, they decided, because someone else was also reading the letters. Until they knew who, they couldn't risk any more contact with Al.

They finished their coffee and walked to the cafeteria. They ate alone, cereal and fruit and yogurt, healthy stuff because they would now live again on the outside. They walked four smoke-free laps together, at a leisurely pace, then returned to their chamber to finish the morning deep in thought.

Poor Lake. He was scrambling from one state to the next with fifty people in tow, late for three engagements at once, a dozen aides whispering in both ears. He had no time to think for himself.

And the Brethren had all day, hours upon hours to sit with their thoughts and their schemes. It was not an equal match.

There were two types of phones at Trumble; secured and unsecured. In theory, all calls made on unsecured lines were taped and subject to review by little elves in a booth somewhere who did nothing but listen to a million hours of useless chatter. In reality, about half the calls were actually taped, at random, and only about 5 percent were ever heard by anybody working for the prison. Not even the federal government could hire enough elves to handle all the listening.

Drug dealers had been known to direct their gangs from unsecured lines. Mafia bosses had been known to order hits on their rivals. The odds were very high against getting caught.

The secured lines were fewer in number, and by law could not be wired for surveillance. The secured calls went only to lawyers, and always with a guard posted nearby.

When Spicer's turn finally came to make a secured call, the guard had drifted away.

"Law office," came the rude hello from the free world.

"Yes, this is Joe Roy Spicer, calling from the Trumble prison, and I need to speak with Trevor."

"He's asleep:"

It was 1:30 P.M. "Then wake the sonofabitch up,"

Spicer growled.

"Hang on."

"Would you please hurry? I'm on a prison phone."

Joe Roy glanced around and wondered, not for the first time, what kind of lawyer they'd crawled in bed with.

"Why are you calling?" were Trevor's first words.

"Never mind. Wake your ass up and get to work. We need something done quickly"

By now, the rental across from Trevor's office was buzzing. This was the fast call firm Trumble.

"What is it?"

"We need a box checked out. Quickly. And we want you to go supervise it. Don't leave until it's finished."

Why me.

"Just do it, darnmit, okay? This could be the biggest one yet."

"Where is it?"

"Chevy Chase, Maryland. Write this down. Al Konyers, Box 455, Mailbox America, 39380 Western Avenue, Chevy Chase. Be very careful because this guy could have some friends, and there's a good chance someone else is already watching the box. Take some cash and hire a couple of good investigators."

"I'm pretty busy around here."

"Yeah, sorry I woke you up. Do it now, Trevor. Leave today. And don't come back until you know who rented the box."

"All right, all right."

Spicer hung up, and Trevor put his feet back on his desk and appeared to return to his nap. But he was just contemplating matters. A moment later he yelled for Jan to check the flights to Washington.

In fourteen years as a field supervisor, Klockner had never seen so many people watch one person do so little. He made a quick call to Deville at Langley, and the rental sprang into action. It was time for the Wes and Chap show.

Wes walked across the street and entered the creaking and peeling door of Mr. L. Trevor Carson, Attorney and Counselor-at-Law Wes was dressed in khakis and a pullover knit, loafers, no socks, and when Jan offered him her customary sneer she couldn't tell if he was a native or a tourist. "What can I do for you?" she asked.

"I really need to see Mr. Carson." Wes said with an air of desperation.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked, as if her boss was so busy she couldn't keep track of his meetings.

"Well, no, it's sort of an emergency."

"He's very busy." she said, and Wes could almost hear the laughter from the rental.

"Please, I've got to talk to him."

She rolled her eyes and didn't budge. "What kind of matter is it?"

"I've just buried my wife." he said, on the verge of tears, and Jan finally cracked a bit. "I'm very sorry," she said. Poor guy.

"She was killed in a car wreck on I-95, just north of Jacksonville."

Jan was standing now and wishing she'd made fresh coffee. "I'm so sorry." she said. "When did this happen?"

"Twelve days ago. A friend recommended Mr. Carson."

Not much of a friend, she wanted to say. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked, putting the top on her nail polish. Twelve days ago, she thought. Like all good legal secretaries, she read the newspapers with a keen eye on the accidents. Who knows, one might walk in the door.

Never Trevor's door. Until now.

"No, thanks." Wes said. "She was hit by a Texaco truck. The driver was drunk."

"Oh my god!" she exclaimed, hand over her mouth. Even Trevor could handle this one.

Serious money, big fees, right here in the reception area, and that fool back there snoring off his lunch.

"He's in a deposition." she said. "Let me see if I can disturb him. Please have a seat." She wanted to lock the front door so he couldn't escape.

"The name's Yates. Yates Newman," he said, trying to help her.

"Oh yes," she said, racing down the hall. She knocked politely on Trevor's door, then stepped inside. "Wake up, asshole!" she hissed through clenched teeth, loud enough for Wes to hear up front.

"What is it?" Trevor said, standing, ready for a fistfight. He wasn't sleeping after all. He'd been reading an old People.

"Surprise! You have a client."

"Who is it?"

"A man whose wife got run over by a Texaco truck twelve days ago. He wants to see you right now"

"He's here?"

"Yep. Hard to believe, isn't it? Three thousand lawyers in Jacksonville and this poor guy falls through the cracks. Said a friend recommended you."

"What'd you tell him?"

"I told him he needed to find new friends."

"No, really, what did you tell him?"

"That you're in a deposition."

"I haven't had a deposition in eight years. Send him back."

"Be cool. I'll make him some coffee. Act like you're finishing some important stuff back here. Why don't you straighten this place up?"