John Grisham: The Broker

Moving against the rush hour traffic, he was at Penn Station in forty-five minutes. He bought an Amtrak ticket to D.C., and at 7:00 left New York for Washington.

The taxi parked on Brandywine Street in northwest Washington. It was almost eleven, and most of the fine homes were dark. Backman spoke to the driver, who was already reclining and ready for a nap.

Mrs. Pratt was in bed and struggling with sleep when she heard the doorbell. She grabbed her robe and hurried down the stairs. Her husband slept in the basement most nights, mainly because he snored but also because he was drinking too much and suffering from insomnia. She presumed he was there now.

“Who is it?” she asked through the intercom.

“Joel Backman,” came the answer, and she thought it was a prank.

“Who?”

“Donna, it’s me, Joel. I swear. Open the door.”

She peeped through the hole in the door and did not recognize the stranger. “Just a minute,” she said, then ran to the basement where Carl was watching the news. A minute later he was at the door, wearing a Duke sweat suit and holding a pistol.

“Who is it?” he demanded through the intercom.

“Carl, it’s me, Joel. Put the gun down and open the door.”

The voice was unmistakable. He opened the door and Joel Backman walked into his life, an old nightmare back for more. There were no hugs, no handshakes, hardly a smile. The Pratts quietly examined him because he looked so different — much thinner, hair darker and shorter, strange clothing. He got a “What are you doing here?” from Donna.

“That’s a good question,” he said coolly. He had the advantage of planning. They were caught completely off guard. “Will you put that gun down?”

Pratt put the gun on a side table.

“Have you talked to Neal?” Backman asked.

“All day long.”

“What’s going on, Carl?” Donna asked.

“I don’t really know.”

“Can we talk? That’s why I’m here. I don’t trust phones anymore.”

“Talk about what?” she demanded.

“Could you make us some coffee, Donna?” Joel asked pleasantly.

“Hell no.”

“Scratch the coffee.”

Carl had been rubbing his chin, assessing things. “Donna, we need to talk in private. Old law firm stuff. I’ll give you the rundown later.”

She shot them both a look that clearly said, Go straight to hell, then stomped back up the stairs. They stepped into the den. Carl said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes, something strong.”

He went to a small wet bar in a corner and poured single malts — doubles. He handed Joel a drink and without the slightest effort at a smile said, “Cheers.”

“Cheers. It’s good to see you, Carl.”

“I bet it is. You weren’t supposed to see anyone for another fourteen years.”

“Counting the days, huh?”

“We’re still cleaning up after you, Joel. A bunch of good folks got hurt. I’m sorry if Donna and I aren’t exactly thrilled to see you. I can’t think of too many people in this town who’d like to give you a hug.”

“Most would like to shoot me.”

Carl gave a wary look over at the pistol.

“I can’t worry about that,” Backman continued. “Sure, I’d like to go back and change some things, but I don’t have that luxury. I’m running for my life now, Carl, and I need some help.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get involved.”

“I can’t blame you. But I need a favor, a big one. Help me now, and I promise I’ll never show up on your doorstep again.”

“I’ll shoot the next time.”

“Where’s Senator Clayburn? Tell me he’s still alive.”

“Yes, very much so. And you caught some luck.”

“What?”

“He’s here, in D.C.”

“Why?”

“Hollis Maples is retiring, after a hundred years in the Senate. They had a bash for him tonight. All the old boys are in town.”

“Maples? He was drooling in his soup ten years ago.”

“Well, now he can’t see his soup. He and Clayburn were as tight as ticks.”

“Have you talked to Clayburn?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“It might be a tough one, Joel. He didn’t like the sound of your name. Something about being shot for treason.”

“Whatever. Tell him he can broker a deal that will make him feel like a real patriot.”

“What’s the deal?”

“I have the software, Carl. The whole package. Picked it up this morning from a vault in a bank in Zurich where it’s been sitting for more than six years. You and Clayburn come to my room in the morning, and I’ll show it to you.”

“I really don’t want to see it.”

“Yes you do.”

Pratt sucked down two ounces of scotch. He walked back to the bar and refilled his glass, took another toxic dose, then said, “When and where?”

“The Marriott on Twenty-second Street. Room five-twenty Nine in the morning.”

“Why Joel? Why should I get involved?”

“A favor to an old friend.”

“I don’t owe you any favors. And the old friend left a long time ago.”

“Please, Carl. Bring in Clayburn, and you’ll be out of the picture by noon tomorrow. I promise you’ll never see me again.”

“That is very tempting.”

He asked the driver to take his time. They cruised through Georgetown, along K Street, with its late-night restaurants and bars and college hangouts all packed with people living the good life. It was March 22 and spring was coming. The temperature was around sixty-five and the students were anxious to be outside, even at midnight.

The cab slowed at the intersection of I Street and 14th and Joel could see his old office building in the distance on New York Avenue. Somewhere in there, on the top floor, he’d once ruled his own little kingdom, with his minions running behind him, jumping at every command. It was not a nostalgic moment. Instead he was filled with regret for a worthless life spent chasing money and buying friends and women and all the toys a serious big shot could want. They drove on, past the countless office buildings, government on one side, lobbyists on the other.

He asked the driver to change streets, to move on to more pleasant sights. They turned onto Constitution and drove along the Mall, past the Washington Monument. His youngest child, Anna Lee, had begged him for years to take her for a springtime walk along the Mall, like the other kids in her class. She wanted to see Mr. Lincoln and spend a day at the Smithsonian. He’d promised and promised until she was gone. Anna Lee was in Denver now, he thought, with a child he’d never seen.

As the dome of the Capitol drew nearer, Joel suddenly had enough. This little trip down memory lane was depressing. The memories in his life were too unpleasant.

“Take me to the hotel,” he said.

Neal made the first pot of coffee, then stepped outside onto the cool bricks of the patio and admired the beauty of an early-spring daybreak.

If his father had indeed arrived back in D.C., he would not be asleep at six-thirty in the morning. The night before, Neal had coded his new phone with the numbers of the Washington hotels, and as the sun came up he started with the Sheraton. No Giovanni Ferro. Then the Marriott.

“One moment, please,” the operator said, then the phone to the room began ringing. “Hello,” came a familiar voice.

“Marco, please,” Neal said.

“Marco here. Is this the Grinch?”

“It is.”

“Where are you right now?”

“Standing on my patio, waiting for the sun.”

“And what type of phone are you using?”

“It’s a brand-new Motorola that I’ve kept in my pocket since I bought it yesterday.”

“You’re sure it’s secure.”