John Grisham - The Brethren

"Gentlemen." the warden announced with as much drama as he could muster, "you've just been pardoned by the President of the United States." He smiled warmly as if he were responsible for this good news.

They stared at their pardons, still in shock, still dizzy with a thousand questions, the biggest of which was, How in the world did Argrnw scoop the warden and show them the documents first?

"I don't know what to say," Spicer managed to mumble, then the other two mumbled something else.

The man from Justice said, "The President reviewed your cases, and he felt that you have served enough time. He feels very strongly that you have more to offer your country and your communities by once again becoming productive citizens."

They stared blankly at him. This fool didn't know they were about to assume new names and flee their country and their communities for at least two years? Who was on which side here?

And why was the President granting them clemency when they had enough dirt to destroy Aaron Lake, the man who was primed to defeat the Vice President? It was Lake who wanted them silenced, not the President? Right?

How could Lake convince the President to pardon them?

How could Lake convince the President to do anything, at this stage of the campaign?

They clutched their pardons and sat speechless, their faces drawn tight as the questions hammered away inside.

The man from the Bureau said, "You should feel honored. Clemency is very rare."

Yarber managed to acknowledge him with a quick nod, but even then he was thinking,Who's waiting for us on the outside?

"I think we're in shock," Beech said.

It was a first for Trumble, inmates so important that the President decided to pardon them. The warden was quite proud of the three, but uncertain as to how the moment should be commemorated. "When would you like to leave?" he asked, as if they might want to stick around for a party.

"Immediately," Spicer said.

"Very well. We'll drive you to Jacksonville."

"No thanks. We'll have someone pick us up."

"Okay, then, well, there's some paperwork."

"Make it quick." Spicer said.

They were each given a duffel bag to collect their things in. As they walked rather briskly across the grounds, all still very close together and in perfect step, with a guard trailing behind, Beech said, under his breath, "So who got us the damned pardons?"

"It wasn't Lake." Yarber said, just barely loud enough to be heard.

"Of course it wasn't Lake," Beech said. "The President wouldn't do a damned thing Aaron Lake asked him to."

They walked faster.

"What difference does it make?" Spicer asked.

"It doesn't make any sense," Yarber said.

"So what're you gonna do, Finn?" Spicer asked without looking. "Stay here for a few days and ponder the situation? And then if you figure out who's responsible for the pardon, then maybe you won't accept it? Gimme a break."

"Somebody else is behind this." Beech said.

"Then I love this somebody else, okay?" Spicer said. "I'm not sticking around to ask questions."

They ransacked their rooms in a mad rush, never slowing to say good-bye to anyone. Most of their friends were scattered around the camp anyway.

They had to hurry before the dream was over, or before the President changed his mind.

At eleven-fifteen, they walked through the front door of the administration building, the same door they'd each entered years ago, and waited on the hot sidewalk for their ride. None of the three looked back.

The van was driven by Wes and Chap, though they gave other names. They used so many.

Joe Roy Spicer lay down on the backseat, and covered his eyes with a forearm, determined not to see anything until he was far away. He wanted to cry and he wanted to scream, but he was numb with euphoria---sheer, uncut, unabashed euphoria. He hid his eyes and smiled a goofy smile. He wanted a beer and he wanted a woman, preferably his wife. He'd call her soon. The van was rolling now.

The suddenness of the release had them rattled. Most inmates count the days, and in doing so know with some measure of accuracy when the moment will come. And they know where they're going, and who's waiting for them there.

But the Brethren knew so little. And the few things they knew, they didn't really believe. The pardons were a hoax. The money was nothing but bait. They were being taken away to be slaughtered, same as poor Trevor. The van would stop any minute, and the two goons up front would search their bags, find their dirty files, then murder them in a roadside ditch.

Maybe. But, at the moment, they did not miss the safety of Trumble.

Finn Yarber sat behind the driver and watched the road ahead. He held his pardon, ready to present it to anyone who might stop them and tell them the dream was over. Next to him was Hadee Beech, who after a few minutes on the road began to cry, not loud, but with his eyes tightly closed and his lips quivering.

Beech had reason to cry. With almost eight and a half years to go, clemency meant more to him than to his two colleagues combined.

Not a word was uttered between Trumble and Jacksonville. As they approached the city, and the roads became wider and the traffic heavier, the three watched the scenery with great curiosity. People were driving, moving about. Planes overhead. Boats on the rivers.Things were normal again.

They inched through the traffic on Atlantic Boulevard, thoroughly enjoying every moment of the congestion. The weather was hot, the tourists were out, ladies with long bronze legs. They saw the seafood restaurants and bars with signs advertising cold beer and cheap oysters. When the street ended, the beach began, and they pulled under the veranda of the Sea Turtle. They followed one of their escorts through the lobby, where they caught a look or two because they were still dressed alike. Up to the fifth floor, and off the elevator before Chap said, "Your rooms are right here, these three." He was pointing down the hall. "Mr. Argrow would like to see you as soon as possible."

"Where is he?" Spicer asked.

Chap pointed again. "Over there, in the corner suite. He's waiting."

"Let's go." Spicer said, and they followed Chap into the corner, their duffel bags bouncing against one another.

Jack Argrow looked nothing like his brother. He was much shorter, and his hair was blond and wavy where his brother's was dark and thinning: It was just a casual observation, but the three noticed it and mentioned it later. He shook their hands quickly, but only to be polite. He was edgy and talked very fast. "How's my brother?" he asked.

"He's doing well," Beech said.

"We saw him this morning." Yarber added.

"I want him out of prison." Jack snapped, as if they'd put him there in the first place. "That's what I'll get outta this deal, you know. I'll get my brother out of prison."

They glanced at each other; nothing could be said.

"Have a seat." Argrow said. "Look, I don't know how or why I'm in the middle of this, you understand. It makes me very nervous. I'm here on behalf of Mr. Aaron Lake, a man I believe will be elected, and make a great President. I suppose I can then get my brother outta prison. But anyway, I've never met Mr. Lake. Some of his people approached me about a week ago, and asked me to get involved in a very secret and,delicate matter. That's why I'm here. It's a favor, okay? I don't know everything, you understand?" The sentences were clipped and rapid. He talked with his hands and his mouth, and he couldn't be still.

The Brethren offered no response, none was really expected.

Two hidden cameras captured the scene and sent it immediately to Langley, where Teddy, York, and Deville watched it on a wide screen in the bunker. The ex judges, now ex-inmates, looked like freshly released POW's, dazed and subdued, still in uniform, sdll in disbelief. They sat close together, watching Agent Lyter give a splendid performance.