John Grisham: The Broker

“I did.”

“Anyway, I had no choice but to take the fall. It became a badge of honor for me. I pled guilty so all charges would be dropped against my son and my partners. President Morgan figured this out. That’s why I was pardoned. I deserved it.”

Another wafer, another mouthful of gold, another slurp of Krug to wash it all down. He was pacing back and forth, jacket off now, a man with many burdens to unload. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Enough about the past, Dan. Let’s talk about tomorrow. Look at that White House over there. Have you ever been there for a state dinner, black tie, marine color guard, slinky ladies in beautiful gowns?”

“No.”

Backman was standing in the window, gazing at the White House. “Twice I’ve done that,” he said with a trace of sadness. “And I’ll be back. Give me two, maybe three years, and one day they’ll hand deliver a thick invitation, heavy paper, gold embossed lettering: The President and First Lady request the honor of your presence...”

He turned and looked smugly at Sandberg. “That’s power, Dan. That’s what I live for.”

Good copy, but not exactly what Sandberg was after. He jolted the broker back to reality with a sharp “Who killed Jacy Hubbard?”

Backman’s shoulders dropped and he walked to the ice bucket for another round. “It was a suicide, Dan, plain and simple. Jacy was humiliated beyond belief. The feds destroyed him. He just couldn’t handle it.”

“Well, you’re the only person in town who believes it was a suicide.”

“And I’m the only person who knows the truth. Print that, would you.”

“I will.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“Frankly, Mr. Backman, your past is much more interesting than your future. I have a pretty good source that tells me that you were pardoned because the CIA wanted you released, that Morgan caved under pressure from Teddy Maynard, and that they hid you somewhere so they could watch and see who nailed you first.”

“You need new sources.”

“So you deny—”

“I’m here!” Backman spread his arms so Sandberg could see everything. “I’m alive! If the CIA wanted me dead, then I’d be dead.” He swallowed some champagne, and said, “Find a better source. You want some eggs? They’re getting cold.”

“No thanks.”

Backman scooped a large serving of scrambled eggs onto a small plate and ate them as he moved around the room, from window to window, never too far away from his view of the White House. “They’re pretty good, got truffles.”

“No thanks. How often do you have this for breakfast?”

“Not often enough.”

“Did you know Bob Critz?”

“Sure, everybody knew Critz. He’d been around as long as I had.”

“Where were you when he died?”

“San Francisco, staying with a friend, saw it on the news. Really sad. What’s Critz got to do with me?”

“Just curious.”

“Does this mean you’re out of questions?”

Sandberg was flipping back through his notes when the phone rang again. It was Ollie this time, and Backman would have to call him back.

“I have a photographer downstairs,” Sandberg said. “My editor would like some photos.”

“Of course.”

Joel put on his jacket, checked his tie, hair, and teeth in a mirror, then had another scoop of caviar while the photographer arrived and unloaded some gear. He fiddled with the lighting while Sandberg kept the recorder on and tossed up a few questions.

The best shot, according to the photographer, but also one that Sandberg thought was quite nice, was a wide one of Joel on the burgundy leather sofa, with a portrait on the wall behind him. He posed for a few by the window, trying to get the White House in the distance.

The phone kept ringing, and Joel finally ignored it. Neal was supposed to call back every five minutes in the event a call went unanswered, ten if Joel picked up. After twenty minutes of shooting, the phone was driving them crazy.

The broker was a busy man.

The photographer finished, collected his gear, and left. Sandberg hung around for a few minutes, then finally headed for the door. As he was leaving he said, “Look, Mr. Backman, this will be a big story tomorrow, no doubt about that. But just so you know, I don’t buy half the crap you’ve told me today.”

“Which half?”

“You were guilty as hell. So was Hubbard. He didn’t kill himself, and you ran to prison to save your ass. Maynard got you pardoned. Arthur Morgan didn’t have a clue.”

“Good. That half is not important.”

“What is?”

“The broker is back. Make sure that’s on the front page.”

Maureen was in a much better mood. Her day off had never been worth a thousand bucks. She escorted Mr. Backman to a private parlor in the rear, away from the gaggle of ladies getting worked on in the front of the salon. Together, they studied colors and shades, and finally selected one that would be easy to maintain. To her, “maintain” meant the hope of $1,000 every five weeks.

Joel really didn’t care. He’d never see her again.

She turned the white into gray and added enough brown to take five years off his face. Vanity was not at stake here.

Youth didn’t matter. He just wanted to hide.

His last guests in the suite made him cry. Neal, the son he hardly knew, and Lisa, the daughter-in-law he’d never met, handed him Carrie, the two-year-old granddaughter he’d only dreamed about. She cried too, at first, but then settled down as her grandfather walked her around and showed her the White House just over there. He walked her from window to window, from room to room, bouncing her and chatting away as if he’d had experience with a dozen grandkids. Neal took more photos, but these were of a different man. Gone was the flashy suit; he was wearing chinos and a plaid button-down. Gone were the bluster and arrogance; he was a simple grandfather clinging to a beautiful little girl.

Room service delivered a late lunch of soups and salads. They enjoyed a quiet family meal, Joel’s first in many, many years. He ate with only one hand because the other balanced Carrie on his knee, which never stopped its steady bounce.

He warned them of tomorrow’s story in the Post , and explained the motives behind it. It was important for him to be seen in Washington, and in the most visible way possible. It would buy him some time, confuse everyone who might still be looking for him. It would create a splash, and be talked about for days, long after he was gone.

Lisa wanted answers as to how much danger he was in, and Joel confessed that he wasn’t sure. He would drop out for a while, move around, always being careful. He’d learned a lot in the past two months.

“I’ll be back in a few weeks,” he said. “And I’ll drop in from time to time. Hopefully, after a few years things will be safer.”

“Where are you going now?” Neal asked.

“I’m taking the train to Philly, then I’ll catch a flight to Oakland. I would like to visit my mother. It would be nice if you’d drop her a card. I’ll take my time, eventually end up somewhere in Europe.”

“Which passport will you use?”

“Not the ones I got yesterday.”

“What?”

“I’m not about to allow the CIA to monitor my movements. Barring an emergency, I’ll never use them.”

“So how do you travel?”

“I have another passport. A friend loaned it to me.”

Neal gave him a look of suspicion, as if he knew what “friend” meant. Lisa missed it, though, and little Carrie picked that moment to relieve herself. Joel was quick to hand her to her mother.

While Lisa was in the bathroom changing the diaper, Joel lowered his voice and said, “Three things. First, get a security firm to sweep your home, office, and cars. You might be surprised. It’ll cost about ten grand, and it must be done. Second, I’d like for you to locate an assisted-living place somewhere close to here. My mother, your grandmother, is stuck out there in Oakland with no one to check on her. A good place will cost three to four thousand a month.”