The Broker by John Grisham

ancient brass plate, they would reopen from 4:00 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. What kind of place closes from noon to four?
    The bars weren’t closed, just empty. He finally mustered the courage to sneak into one. He pulled up a stool, held his breath, and said the word “Birra” when the bartender got close.
    The bartender shot something back, waited for a response, and for a split second Joel was tempted to bolt. But he saw the tap, pointed at it as if it was perfectly clear what he wanted, and the bartender reached for an empty mug.
    The first beer in six years. It was cool, heavy, tasty, and he savored every drop. A soap opera rattled from a television somewhere at the end of the bar. He listened to it from time to time, understood not a single word, and worked hard to convince himself that he could master the language. As he was making the decision to leave and drift back to his hotel, he looked through the front window.
    Stennett walked by.
    Joel ordered another beer.

7
    THE BACKMAN AFFAIR HAD BEEN CLOSELY CHRONICLED by Dan Sandberg, a veteran of The Washington Post . In 1998, he’d broken the story about certain highly classified papers leaving the Pentagon without authorization. The FBI investigation that soon followed kept him busy for half a year, during which he filed eighteen stories, most of them on the front page. He had reliable contacts at the CIA and the FBI. He knew the partners at Backman, Pratt & Bolling and had spent time in their offices. He hounded the Justice Department for information. He’d been in the courtroom the day Backman hurriedly pled guilty and disappeared.
    A year later he’d written one of two books about the scandal. His sold a respectable 24,000 copies in hardback, the other about half of that.
    Along the way, Sandberg built some key relationships. One in particular grew into a valuable, if quite unexpected, source. A month before Jacy Hubbard’s death, Carl Pratt, then very much under indictment, as were most of the senior partners of the firm, had contactedSandberg and arranged a meeting. They eventually met more than a dozen times while the scandal ran its course, and in the ensuing years had become drinking buddies. They sneaked away at least twice a year to exchange gossip.
    Three days after the pardon story first broke, Sandberg called Pratt and arranged a meeting at their favorite place, a college bar near Georgetown University.
    Pratt looked awful, as if he’d been drinking for days. He ordered vodka; Sandberg stuck with beer.
    “So where’s your boy?” Sandberg asked with a grin.
    “He’s not in prison anymore, that’s for sure.” Pratt took a near lethal slug of the vodka and smacked his lips.
    “No word from him?”
    “None. Not me, not anyone at the firm.”
    “Would you be surprised if he called or stopped by?”
    “Yes and no. Nothing surprises me with Backman.” More vodka. “If he never set foot in D.C. again, I wouldn’t be surprised. If he showed up tomorrow and announced the opening of a new law firm, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
    “The pardon surprised you.”
    “Yes, but that wasn’t Backman’s deal, was it?”
    “I doubt it.” A coed walked by and Sandberg gave her a look. Twice-divorced, he was always on the prowl. He sipped his beer and said, “He can’t practice law, can he? I thought they yanked his license.”
    “That wouldn’t stop Backman. He’d call it ‘government relations’ or ‘consulting’ or something else. It’s lobbying, that’s his speciality, and you don’t need a license for that. Hell, half the lawyers in this city couldn’t find the nearest courthouse. But they can damned sure find Capitol Hill.”
    “What about clients?”
    “It’s not gonna happen. Backman ain’t coming back to D.C. Unless you’ve heard something different?”
    “I’ve heard nothing. He vanished. Nobody at the prison is talking. I can’t get a word from the penal folks.”
    “What’s your theory?” Pratt asked, then drained his glass