jg.thepelicanbrief-第4节

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Darby　dominated　these　lectures；　and　Callahan　wanted　a　broader　participation。
　　
　　〃Why　do　you　suppose　Rosenberg　is　sympathetic？〃　he　asked　the　class。
　　
　　〃He　loves　dope　pushers。〃　It　was　Sallinger；　wounded　but　trying　to　rally。　Callahan　placed　a　premium　on　class　discussion。　He　smiled　at　his　prey；　as　if　to　wele　him　back　to　the　bloodletting。
　　
　　〃You　think　so；　Mr。　Sallinger？〃
　　
　　〃Sure。　Dope　pushers；　child　fondlers；　gunrunners；　terrorists。　Rosenberg　greatly　admires　these　people。　They　are　his　weak　and　abused　children；　so　he　must　protect　them。〃　Sallinger　was　trying　to　appear　righteously　indignant。
　　
　　〃And；　in　your　learned　opinion；　Mr。　Sallinger；　what　should　be　done　with　these　people？〃
　　
　　〃Simple。　They　should　have　a　fair　trial　with　a　good　lawyer；　then　a　fair；　speedy　appeal；　then　punished　if　they　are　guilty。〃　
　　
　　Sallinger　was　perilously　close　to　sounding　like　a　law…and…order　right…winger；　a　cardinal　sin　among　Tulane　law　students。　
　　
　　Callahan　folded　his　arms。　〃Please　continue。〃　
　　
　　Sallinger　smelled　a　trap；　but　plowed　ahead。　There　was　nothing　to　lose。　〃I　mean；　we've　read　case　after　case　where　Rosenberg　has　tried　to　rewrite　the　Constitution　to　create　a　new　loophole　to　exclude　evidence　to　allow　an　obviously　guilty　defendant　to　go　free。　It's　almost　sickening。　He　thinks　all　prisons　are　cruel　and　unusual　places；　so　therefore；　under　the　Eighth　Amendment；　all　prisoners　should　go　free。　Thankfully；　he's　in　the　minority　now；　a　shrinking　minority。〃
　　
　　〃You　like　the　direction　of　the　Court；　do　you；　Mr。　Sallinger？〃　Callahan　was　at　once　smiling　and　frowning。
　　
　　〃Damned　right　I　do。〃
　　
　　〃Are　you　one　of　those　normal；　red…blooded；　patriotic；　middle…of…the…road　Americans　who　wish　the　old　bastard　would　die　in　his　sleep？〃　
　　
　　There　were　a　few　chuckles　around　the　room。　It　was　safer　to　laugh　now。　Sallinger　knew　better　than　to　answer　truthfully。　〃I　wouldn't　wish　that　on　anyone；〃　he　said；　almost　embarrassed。
　　
　　Callahan　was　pacing　again。　〃Well；　thank　you；　Mr。　Sallinger。　I　always　enjoy　your　ments。　You　have；　as　usual；　provided　us　with　the　layman's　view　of　the　law。〃
　　
　　The　laughter　was　much　louder。　Sallinger's　cheeks　flushed　and　he　sank　in　his　seat。　
　　
　　
　　Callahan　did　not　smile。　〃I　would　like　to　raise　the　intellectual　level　of　this　discussion；　okay。　Now；　Ms。　Shaw；　why　is　Rosenberg　sympathetic　to　Nash？〃
　　
　　〃The　Second　Amendment　grants　the　people　the　right　to　keep　and　bear　arms。　To　Justice　Rosenberg；　it　is　literal　and　absolute。　Nothing　should　be　banned。　If　Nash　wants　to　possess　an　AK…47；　or　a　hand　grenade；　or　a　bazooka；　the　state　of　New　Jersey　cannot　pass　a　law　prohibiting　it。〃
　　
　　〃Do　you　agree　with　him？〃
　　
　　〃No；　and　I'm　not　alone。　It's　an　eight…to…one　decision。　No　one　followed　him。〃
　　
　　〃What's　the　rationale　of　the　other　eight？〃
　　
　　〃It's　obvious；　really。　The　states　have　pelling　reasons　to　prohibit　the　sale　and　possession　of　certain　types　of　arms。　The　interests　of　the　state　of　New　Jersey　outweigh　the　Second　Amendment　rights　of　Mr。　Nash。　Society　cannot　allow　individuals　to　own　sophisticated　weaponry。〃　
　　
　　Callahan　watched　her　carefully。　Attractive　female　law　students　were　rare　at　Tulane；　but　when　he　found　one　he　moved　in　quickly。　Over　the　past　eight　years；　he　had　been　quite　successful。　Easy　work；　for　the　most　part。　The　women　arrived　at　law　school　liberated　and　loose。　Darby　had　been　different。　He　first　spotted　her　in　the　library　during　the　second　semester　of　her　first　year；　and　it　took　a　month　to　get　her　to　dinner。
　　
　　〃Who　wrote　the　majority　opinion？〃　he　asked　her。
　　
　　〃Runyan。〃
　　
　　〃And　you　agree　with　him？〃
　　
　　〃Yes。　It's　an　easy　case；　really。〃
　　
　　〃Then　what　happened　to　Rosenberg？〃
　　
　　〃I　think　he　hates　the　rest　of　the　Court。〃
　　
　　〃So　he　dissents　just　for　the　hell　of　it。〃
　　
　　〃Often；　yes。　His　opinions　are　being　more　indefensible。　Take　Nash。　For　a　liberal　like　Rosenberg；　the　issue　of　gun　control　is　easy。　He　should　have　written　the　majority　opinion；　and　ten　years　ago　he　would　have。　In　Fordice　v。　Oregon；　a　1977　case；　he　took　a　much　narrower　interpretation　of　the　Second　Amendment。　His　inconsistencies　are　almost　embarrassing。〃　
　　
　　Callahan　had　forgotten　Fordice。　〃Are　you　suggesting　Justice　Rosenberg　is　senile？〃　
　　
　　Much　like　a　punch…drunk　fighter；　Sallinger　waded　in　for　the　final　round。　〃He's　crazy　as　hell；　and　you　know　it。　You　can't　defend　his　opinions。〃
　　
　　〃Not　always；　Mr。　Sallinger；　but　at　least　he's　still　there。〃
　　
　　〃His　body's　there；　but　he's　brain…dead。〃
　　
　　〃He's　breathing；　Mr。　Sallinger。〃
　　
　　〃Yeah；　breathing　with　a　machine。　They　have　to　pump　oxygen　up　his　nose。〃
　　
　　〃But　it　counts；　Mr。　Sallinger。　He's　the　last　of　the　great　judicial　activists；　and　he's　still　breathing。〃
　　
　　〃You'd　better　call　and　check；〃　Sallinger　said　as　his　words　trailed　off。　He'd　said　enough。　No；　he'd　said　too　much。　He　lowered　his　head　as　the　professor　glared　at　him。　He　hunkered　down　next　to　his　notebook；　and　started　wondering　why　he'd　said　all　that。　
　　
　　Callahan　stared　him　down；　then　began　pacing　again。　It　was　indeed　a　bad　hangover。　
　　
　　*　　*　　*
　　
　　AT　LEAST　he　looked　like　an　old　farmer；　with　straw　hat；　clean　bib　overalls；　neatly　pressed　khaki　workshirt；　boots。　He　chewed　tobacco　and　spat　in　the　black　water　beneath　the　pier。　He　chewed　like　a　farmer。　His　pickup；　though　of　recent　model；　was　sufficiently　weathered　and　had　a　dusty…road　look　about　it。　North　Carolina　plates。　It　was　a　hundred　yards　away；　parked　in　the　sand　at　the　other　end　of　the　pier。　
　　
　　It　was　midnight　Monday；　the　first　Monday　in　October；　and　for　the　next　thirty　minutes　he　was　to　wait　in　the　dark　coolness　of　the　deserted　pier；　chewing　pensively；　resting　on　the　railing　while　staring　intently　at　the　sea。　He　was　alone；　as　he　knew　he　would　be。　It　was　planned　that　way。　This　pier　at　this　hour　was　always　deserted。　The　headlights　of　an　occasional　car　flickered　along　the　shoreline；　but　the　headlights　never　stopped　at　this　hour。　
　　
　　He　watched　the　red　and　blue　channel　lights　far　from　shore。　He　checked　his　watch　without　moving　his　head。　The　clouds　were　low　and　thick；　and　it　would　be　difficult　to　see　it　until　it　was　almost　to　the　pier。　It　was　planned　this　way。　
　　
　　The　pickup　was　not　from　North　Carolina；　and　neither　was　the　farmer。　The　license　plates　had　been　stolen　from　a　wrecked　truck　at　a　scrap　yard　near　Durham。　The　pickup　had　been　stolen　in　Baton　Rouge。　The　farmer　was　not　from　anywhere；　and　per　formed　none　of　the　thievery。　He　was　a　pro；　and　so　someone　else　did　the　dirty　little　deeds。　
　　
　　Twenty　minutes　into　the　wait；　a　dark　object　floated　in　the　direction　of　the　pier。　A　quiet；　muffled　engine　hummed　and　grew　louder。　The　object　became　a　small　craft　of　some　sort　with　a　camouflaged　silhouette　crouching　low　and　working　the　motor。　The　farmer　moved　not　an　inch　in　anticipation。　The　humming　stopped　and　the　black　rubber　raft　stalled　in　the　calm　water　thirty　feet　from　the　pier。　There　were　no　headlights　ing　or　going　along　the　shore。　
　　
　　The　farmer　carefully　placed　a　cigarette　between　his　lips；　lit　it；　puffed　twice；　then　thumped　it　down；　halfway　to　the　raft。
　　
　　〃What　kind　of　cigarette？〃　the　man　on　the　water　asked　upward。　He　could　see　the　outline　of　the　farmer　on　the　railing；　but　not　the　face。
　　
　　〃Lucky　Strike；〃　the　farmer　answered。　These　passwords　made　for　such　a　silly　game。　How　many　other　black　rubber　rafts　could　be　expected　to　drift　in　from　the　Atlantic　and　pinpoint　this　ancient　pier　at　this　precise　hour？　Silly；　but　oh　so　important。
　　
　　〃Luke？〃　came　the　voice　from　the　boat。
　　
　　〃Sam；〃　replied　the　farmer。　The　name　was　Khamel；　not　Sam；　but　Sam　would　do　for　the　next　five　minutes　until　Khamel　parked　his　raft。　
　　
　　Khamel　did　not　answer；　was　not　required　to；　but　quickly　started　the　engine　and　guided　the　raft　along　the　edge　of　the　pier　to　the　beach。　Luke　followed　from　above。　They　met　at　the　pickup　without　a　handshake。　Khamel　placed　his　black　Adidas　gym　bag　between　them　on　the　seat；　and　the　truck　started　along　the　shoreline。　
　　
　　Luke　drove　and　Khamel　smoked；　and　both　did　a　perfect　job　of　ignoring　each　other。　Their　eyes　did　not　dare　meet。　With　Khamel's　heavy　beard；　dark　glasses；　and　black　turtleneck；　his　face　was　ominous　but　impossible　to　identify。　Luke　did　not　want　to　see　it。　Part　of　his　assignment；　in　addition　to　receiving　this　stranger　from　the　sea；　was　to　refrain　from　looking　at　him。　It　was　easy；　really。　The　face　was　wanted　in　nine　countries。　
　　
　　Across　the　bridge　at　Manteo；　Luke　lit　another　Lucky　Strike　and　determined　they　had　met　before。　It　had　been　a　brief　but　precisely　timed　meeting　at　the　airport　in　Rome；　five　or　six　years　earlier；　as　best　he　could　remember。　There　had　been　no　introductions。　It　took　place　in　a　restroom。　Luke；　then　an　impeccably　tailored　American　executive；　had　placed　an　eelskin　attache　case　next　to　the　wall　next　to　the　washbasin　where　he　slowly　rinsed　his　hands；　and　suddenly　it　was　gone。　He　caught　a　glimpse　of　the　manthis　Khamel；　he　was　now　certainin　the　mirror。　Thirty　minutes　later；　the　attache　case　exploded　between　the　legs　of　the　British　ambas