"Yes, Joan. Seven of them. Our records are a mess. Do you have their addresses and social security numbers? We need it for tax purposes. Sure. How long will it take? Fine. We have an office boy in the area. His name is Snowden, and he'll be there in thirty minutes. Thank you, Joan." Darby hung up and closed her eyes.
"Sandra Jernigan?" he said.
"I'm not good at lying," she said.
"You're wonderful. I guess I'm the office boy."
"You could pass for an office boy. You have an aging law school dropout look about you." And you're sort of cute, she thought to herself.
"I like the flannel shirt."
She took a long drink of cold coffee. "This could be a long day."
"So far, so good. I get the list, and meet you in the library. Right?"
"Yes. The placement office is on the fifth floor of the law school. I'll be in room 336. It's a small conference room on the third floor. You take a cab first. I'll meet you there in fifteen minutes."
"Yes, ma'am." Grantham was out the door. Darby waited five minutes, then left with her canvas bag.
The cab ride was short but slow in the morning traffic. Life on the lam was bad enough, but running and playing detective at the same time was too much. She'd been in the cab five minutes before she thought about being followed. And maybe that was good. Maybe a hard day as an investigative reporter would take her mind off Stump and the other tormentors. She would work today, and tomorrow, and by late Wednesday she would be on a beach.
They would start with the law school at Georgetown. If it was a dead end, they would try the one at George Washington. If there was time, they would try American University. Three strikes, and she was gone.
The cab stopped at McDonough Hall, at the grungy base of Capitol Hill. With her bag and flannel shirt, she was just one of many law students milling about before class. She took the stairs to the third level, and closed the door to the conference room behind her. The room was used for an occasional class and on campus job interviews. She spread her notes on the table, and was just another law student preparing for class.
Within minutes, Gray eased through the door. "Joan's a sweet lady," he said as he placed the list on the table. "Names, addresses, and social security numbers. Ain't that nice?"
Darby looked at the list and pulled a phone book from her bag. They found five of the names in the book. She looked at her watch. "It's five minutes after nine. I'll bet no more than half of these are in class at this moment. Some will have later classes. I'll call these five, and see who's at home. You take the two with no phone number, and get their class schedules from the registrar."
Gray looked at his watch. "Let's meet back here in fifteen minutes." He left first, then Darby. She went to the pay phones on the first level outside the classrooms, and dialed the number of James Maylor.
A male voice answered, "Hello."
"Is this Dennis Maylor?" she asked.
"No. I'm James Maylor."
"Sorry." She hung up. His address was ten minutes away. He didn't have a nine o'clock class, and if he had one at ten he would be home for another forty minutes. Maybe.
She called the other four. Two answered and she confirmed, and there was no answer at the other two.
Gray waited impatiently in the registrar's office on the third floor. A part-time student clerk was trying to find the registrar, who was somewhere in the back. The student informed him that she wasn't sure if they could give out class schedules. Gray said he was certain they could if they wanted to.
The registrar walked suspiciously around a corner. "May I help you?"
"Yes, I'm Gray Grantham with the Washington Post, and I'm trying to find two of your students, Laura Kaas and Michael Akers."
"Is there a problem?" she asked nervously.
"Not at all. Just a few questions. Are they in class this morning?" He was smiling, and it was a warm, trusting smile that he flashed usually at older women. It seldom failed him.
"Do you have an ID or something?"
"Certainly." He opened his wallet and slowly waved it at her, much like a cop who knows he's a cop and doesn't care to spell it out.
"Well, I really should talk to the dean, but - "
"Fine. Where's his office?"
"But he's not here. He's out of town."
"I just need their class schedules so I can find them. I'm not asking for home addresses or grades or transcripts. Nothing confidential or personal."
She glanced at the part-time student clerk, who sort of shrugged, like "What's the big deal?"
"Just a minute," she said, and disappeared around the corner.
Darby was waiting in the small room when he laid the computer printouts on the table. "According to these, Akers and Kaas should be in class right now," he said.
Darby looked at the schedules. "Akers has criminal procedure. Kaas has administrative law - both from nine to ten. I'll try to find them." She showed Gray her notes. "Maylor, Reinhart, and Wilson were at home. I couldn't get Ratliff and Linney."
"Maylor's the closest. I can be there in a few minutes."
"What about a car?" Darby asked.
"I called Hertz. It's supposed to be delivered to the Post parking lot in fifteen minutes."
Maylor's apartment was on the third floor of a warehouse converted for students and others on very low budgets. He answered the door shortly after the first knock. He spoke through the chain.
"Looking for James Maylor," Gray said like an old pal.
"That's me."
"I'm Gray Grantham with the Washington Post. I'd like to ask you a couple of very quick questions."
The door was unchained and opened. Gray stepped inside the two-room apartment. A bicycle was parked in the center, and took up most of the space.
"What's up?" Maylor asked. He was intrigued by this, and appeared eager to answer questions.
"I understand you clerked for White and Blazevich last summer."
"That's correct. For three months."
Gray scribbled on his notepad. "What section were you in?"
"International. Mostly grunt work. Nothing glamorous. A lot of research and rough drafting of agreements."
"Who was your supervisor?"
"No single person. There were three associates who kept me busy. The partner above them was Stanley Coopman."
Gray pulled a photograph from his coat pocket. It was Garcia on the sidewalk. "Do you recognize this face?"
Maylor held the picture and studied it. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Who is he?"
"He's a lawyer, I think with White and Blazevich."
"It's a big firm. I was stuck in the corner of one section. It's over four hundred lawyers, you know."
"Yeah, so I've heard. You're sure you haven't seen him?"
"Positive. They cover twelve floors, most of which I never went on."
Gray placed the photo in his pocket. "Did you meet any other clerks?"
"Oh. Sure. A couple from Georgetown that I already knew, Laura Kaas and JoAnne Ratliff. Two guys from George Washington, Patrick Franks and a guy named Vanlandingham; a girl from Harvard named Elizabeth Larson; a girl from Michigan named Amy MacGregor; and a guy from Emory named Moke, but I think they fired him. There are always a lot of clerks in the summer."
"You plan to work there when you finish?"
"I don't know. I'm not sure I'm cut out for the big firms."