The Greatest Course That Never Was

by J. Michael Veron

  As we returned to the hotel, we talked about a plan of action. We agreed that our next step was to find Stephen Moore. Moonlight then asked me how I thought Moore might react to our proposal for Bragg’s Point.

  “Hard to say. I would think he’d be pleased. It’s certainly consistent with the intent of the trust. The property’s not doing him any good just sitting there.”

  We both slept contentedly that night, and I looked forward to meeting Stephen Moore upon our return to Georgia.

  The flight back was far less eventful than the trip coming out. Moonlight still needed the assistance of a stiff drink to prepare him for time in the air, but we passed through security this time without incident.

  I had bought a golf magazine in the airport to read on the plane. After we were airborne, I showed Moonlight an article about Tiger Woods. I asked him if he’d ever seen anyone hit it consistently as far.

  “Distance just don’t impress me much anymore, Charley. Just ’bout anyone can buy distance these days. I’d like to have seen what Mr. Snead, Mr. Palmer, an’ Mr. Nicklaus would’ve done in their primes with all that hot equipment. Mr. Jones, too—he was really long back when he played.” He was quiet for a moment. “What does impress me ’bout young Woods is what I hear ’bout his short game. They say he knows how to make the ball behave ’round the greens. That’s somethin’ the great ones all had in common.” He paused before adding, “’Course, it’s a little early to put him in the same league as Mr. Jones an’ the others. Plenty a’ time for that.” He then turned away from me and went to sleep for the remainder of the flight.

  After arriving at Hartsfield in Atlanta, I promised Moonlight that I would try to locate Stephen Moore as soon as possible and arrange a meeting. I asked him if he wanted to be present, but he declined. Now that he was back in Georgia, Moonlight reassumed his old persona. We weren’t at Bragg’s Point anymore, and I suspect he had reservations about how a retired Augusta National caddie would be received by a prominent Atlantan.

  After Moonlight headed off to Augusta in his ancient Ford Falcon, I got in my almost-as-ancient Chevy and drove home to my apartment. It was a Sunday afternoon, and traffic was light. Once home, I quickly unpacked. At the bottom of my suitcase was the scorecard with my 73. I set it against the mirror on my dresser so that it would serve as a daily reminder of our mission. In my mind, I ticked off a list of things to do once we had secured Stephen Moore’s approval for our plan.

  First, I needed to inventory Moonlight’s memorabilia. By then, I knew that, contrary to his reputation at Phil’s, my friend wasn’t prone to exaggeration. Based upon his description of the contents of his house, I was pretty sure we would have more than enough artifacts to authenticate everything we had to say about Bragg’s Point.

  Next, I would call my old friend Brett Sullivan at the USGA. Brett was the curator of the USGA’s museum and was responsible for its exhibits. He had worked with me to put together the successful exhibit for Beau Stedman the year before. Brett was creative and energetic. Once I told him what we had, he could direct our efforts.

  I called Moonlight’s home early that evening to make certain that he had arrived safely. When I told him what I intended to do, he said he had already started going through his things from the course. He again asked me to call him with a report as soon as I spoke with Stephen Moore.

  After we hung up, I pulled out the telephone directory to see if there was a listing for Stephen Moore. There wasn’t. When we first discovered his name in the 1988 record, I was afraid we might have trouble locating him after so many years, and this confirmed my fears. Still, there hadn’t been anything in the courthouse records in Willits to indicate any change of address or designation of a new trustee, so I had been hopeful that Stephen Moore was still living in Atlanta.

  If that wasn’t the case, I didn’t have the money to conduct a nationwide search. I could use the Internet, of course, and we might turn up something there. Otherwise, there was a distinct possibility that we might not be able to find Stephen Moore.

  It then occurred to me that medicine was the kind of career that sometimes ran in families. P. Harvie Moore had been a physician. Maybe his son was, too. If so, that might have explained the absence of a residential phone listing. Most medical doctors didn’t publish their home telephone numbers.

  I turned to the yellow pages under “Physicians and Surgeons.” I blanched at the number of names. It seemed that Atlanta had over a thousand entries. The directory broke medicine down into its specialties, but that obviously wasn’t helpful. I didn’t know whether Stephen Moore was a doctor, much less what specialty he practiced if he was.

  I stayed in the front section, which listed all physicians. I got lucky; under the “M’s” was a listing for a Stephen R. Moore, M.D. I copied the number and resolved to call him the next morning.

  I got to work early the next day. For one thing, I was anxious to read whatever mail had accumulated while I was gone. But I was just as eager to make contact with Dr. Stephen Moore.

  Even though I arrived at the office before eight o’clock, Gloria had beaten me there. She certainly lived up to her reputation; when I saw her, she was already at her desk, organizing the mail and preparing her boss for the events of the day long before he arrived, which was typically around eight-thirty or nine.

  I couldn’t resist kidding her. “Do you sleep here?”

  She laughed. “Sometimes it feels like it.” She reached for her coffee. “How was your trip?”

  I must have looked surprised by the question. She smiled and added, “Mr. Guidry said you went to California.”

  I then remembered that I had gotten Emile Guidry’s permission to take the time off. I hadn’t gone into great detail about the reason for the trip—mainly because he hadn’t asked. I certainly didn’t want to get into it with Gloria, either.

  “Oh, it was fine. You know, you’ve seen one wedding…”

  She laughed. “Typical male reaction.”

  I retreated into my office. Although I wanted to called Dr. Moore right away, I figured his office wouldn’t be open just yet, so I kept myself busy reading the mail.

  I had only been out of the office a couple of days, but I was surprised at the amount of mail that had arrived in my absence. I shouldn’t have been. When Emile Guidry first congratulated me on choosing litigation as my specialty, he warned me that it was a booming area of law.

  “Times have changed, Charley. When I was just a little kid in the third grade in parochial school, we were playing baseball during recess one day when Bobby Tolbert, one of my classmates, was hurt. He had been playing catcher without a face mask, and he caught a foul tip right on the nose. Broke it in four places.”

  I winced.

  “Anyway, the school should never have let us play without protective gear. So Bobby’s father went out and bought the school a complete set of catcher’s equipment—face mask, chest protector, shin guards, the whole works—and donated it to the nuns so no one would get hurt again. Nowadays, most fathers would just sue the good sisters instead. Makes money for lawyers, but I’m not sure I like what it says about people.”

  After dictating replies to those letters that required them and checking my calendar to make sure that any hearings for which we received notices were correctly entered, I saw that it was nearly ten o’clock. Time to call Dr. Moore. I pulled out the scrap of paper with the telephone number and dialed it.

  A businesslike female voice answered crisply, “Cardiology Associates.”

  I asked for Dr. Moore. With most medical offices, speaking directly with a doctor on your first request is out of the question. Thus, I wasn’t surprised when, without hesitation, the receptionist said, “I’ll connect you with his nurse.”

  When the second female voice answered, I explained that I wasn’t a patient and wanted to speak to Dr. Moore about a personal matter. However, the nurse was well trained at screening deceptive sales calls and asked, “Are you a friend of Dr. Moore?”

 
; “No,” I said, “but I have something important to discuss with him.”

  She was undeterred. “Dr. Moore is with patients at the moment. May I tell him what this is about so that he can call you back?”

  I hadn’t wanted to declare the nature of my business, but I saw no other choice. If I refused, she would probably assume I was a stockbroker making a cold call, and Dr. Moore would never get my message or be inclined to return my call if he did.

  “Tell him it’s about the Bragg’s Point Charitable Trust.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  I said thank you, left my number, and hung up.

  I didn’t have to wait long. Within 30 minutes, our receptionist announced over my intercom that Dr. Stephen Moore was on the line.

  “Hello?”

  A rather unfriendly voice said curtly, “This is Dr. Moore returning your call.”

  I tried to explain in a warm and courteous fashion who I was and what my interest in Bragg’s Point was.

  Dr. Moore was unimpressed. “How is this any of your business?”

  I should have prepared myself for the possibility that the trustee might not share our enthusiasm for our project, but I was taken aback by his bluntness.

  “Well,” I said, trying not to stammer or sound uncertain, “we think it’s a wonderful part of golf history that should be made known to the world. Mr. Jones is long gone now, and there is no need to keep the place secret to protect him from curious onlookers.”

  I was going to say more, but the good doctor cut me off. “The property belongs to the trust. It is not a public corporation. You have no right to interfere.”

  “Dr. Moore, we certainly are not trying to interfere. What we are proposing is entirely in keeping with the purposes for which the trust was formed.”

  His tone indicated that he was losing what little patience he had for the conversation. “Look, by the end of the year, we’ll be able to sell the property, and that’s what we intend to do. It’s much too valuable just to sit there. We’ve already got a buyer who is very interested, so I’m afraid there’s not much I can do.”

  “But I thought the trust prohibited you from selling the property.”

  “I’ve got an opinion from a lawyer in California that says we can.”

  I knew from law school that restraints on alienation of property were disfavored under the law. Most courts refused to enforce them because they violated the public policy of keeping property in commerce. So what Dr. Moore said didn’t surprise me.

  I also knew that the trust provided that any proceeds from the sale of the property had to be devoted to promoting golf.

  “What do you plan to do with the money you get from selling Bragg’s Point?”

  “Mr.…Hunter, I think your name is?… I don’t see how that is any of your business. But if you must know, we will invest the proceeds to promote access to golf for the handicapped. The money will go to a nonprofit company that will design handicap-friendly courses and equipment. We believe that this more than satisfies the intent of the trust.”

  I had to admit, it was a laudable goal, certainly beyond criticism. Something told me to get more information. This might be my last opportunity to speak with Dr. Moore.

  “That sounds like a very worthwhile donation. What is the name of the company?”

  I had asked one question too many. “Now, Mr. Hunter, I’ve tried to be as accommodating as I could, but I really think that’s way beyond any possible interest you should have in our affairs. Good day, sir.”

  With that, he hung up the phone before I could say anything further.

  If Dr. Moore meant to discourage me, he really didn’t know much about lawyers, particularly those who have chosen trial work as their specialty. Perhaps I was being overly suspicious, but I took his arrogance to be a sign he was hiding something—and as an invitation to do a little investigating.

  Chapter 29

  MOST LAW FIRMS have frequent need for background information on people, whether they are witnesses, prospective jurors, or adverse parties in litigation. Some use their own resources to search public (and sometimes private) records to obtain vital information about an individual’s job, marital status, criminal record, property holdings, and virtually anything else they want to know. And that’s just what’s available at the courthouse.

  In this day and age, there’s not much in the way of human activity that doesn’t get recorded somewhere. Churches record their members, as do professional organizations. The government keeps close track of its citizens, too, and its records are available under the Freedom of Information Act.

  And that’s not all. Private investigators are remarkably resourceful. Since most people are creatures of habit, a few days’ worth of surveillance reveals a great deal about them.

  Investigators are especially useful in collections work, which was a large part of my caseload. They can track a debtor’s assets and tell you whether a case is worth pursuing. Once a judgment is obtained, they can help find property to seize in satisfaction of the judgment.

  In the course of working my collection files, I had gotten to know Frankie Johnson, an investigator and jack-of-all-trades whom Emile Guidry had told me about. Frankie knew his way around Atlanta. Like most private investigators, Frankie was also something of a character. He was only a few years older than me but acted and talked like he was 20 years my senior. Frankie had, as he liked to say, been around.

  He was also the kind of guy who lived hand-to-mouth. He was always hungry because money burned a hole in his pocket. Frankie wasn’t 30 years old, but was paying alimony to two exes and child support for a three-year-old daughter he adored.

  Because of these financial pressures, Frankie was deeply grateful whenever I called him to do an assets check on a debtor. He needed all the work he could get and would often call me just to see if I “had anything working.” Invariably, he would tell me he “owed” me “big-time” and that I should let him know if I ever needed a favor.

  It struck me that Frankie might be able to help me learn more about Dr. Stephen R. Moore, so I called him. I told Frankie that I needed to know everything he could find about Dr. Moore’s background and, in particular, about this new company for handicapped golf that he had referred to when we talked.

  “You got it, babe,” he said in the New Orleans accent he had never shaken despite having moved from the Ninth Ward to Atlanta when he was in high school. Frankie acted as if my request was easily fulfilled and promised to get back to me within a week.

  I dutifully reported both my tense conversation with Dr. Moore and my retention of Frankie Johnson to Moonlight. He seemed a little agitated that someone would stand in the way of his grand plan, but I assured him that I was doing all I could and that Frankie would have a lot to tell us soon.

  I had to admit that I was as anxious as Moonlight to find out about Dr. Moore, but I forced myself to be patient. As I had told Moonlight, no amount of hand-wringing would make things go faster.

  It must have been a slow week for Frankie, because he called me back that Friday, two days ahead of schedule.

  “Boy, have I got some news for you. I ain’t done, but I’ve learned some things already that I thought you should know.”

  “I can hardly wait to hear. Tell me what you have.”

  He laughed. “I got some stuff to show you. Can you see me today?”

  “Sure,” I told him. “Come in at two o’ clock.”

  “You got it,” he said, and hung up.

  I was distracted for most of the day until Frankie arrived promptly at two o’clock for our appointment. He was grinning from ear to ear when he walked into my office. In typical fashion, he was wearing an old blue blazer that looked like something from Goodwill and a garish purple-and-orange tie twisted in a knot that even a sailor couldn’t untangle.

  As he sat down, he boasted, “Nobody delivers like Frankie delivers. I done you some good, Charley. You knew I’d come through for you, didn’t you?”

  I ignore
d his rhetorical question. “Tell me what you got.”

  He pulled a small notepad from the inside pocket of his blazer. “For starters, your man went to Emory for medical school and then back to my neck of the woods for his residency in heart medicine at Tulane. He used to practice downtown with a large group but went with a new hospital over in Alpharetta about five years ago. He’s added two doctors to his own group, and they’re makin’ big bucks.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “He’s still at the address you gave me on Peachtree Cove.”

  “Doesn’t that give him a bit of a commute?”

  Frankie nodded. “Yeah, but think about it. He’s goin’ against the flow both ways. He leaves downtown for the ’burbs in the morning and heads back into Atlanta in the afternoon. No real traffic to speak of; it’s all headed in the opposite direction each way.” He paused a second, then winked. “Believe me, Cap, he ain’t gonna give up that Peachtree address.”

  I scratched my chin. “What else do you have?”

  “He’s a member at Peachtree Golf Club, you know, the one that your guy Jones founded.”

  I knew all about Peachtree. A couple of the lawyers in my firm belonged to it. It had a terrific course that had been designed mostly by Jones himself when he put the club together in 1948.

  Frankie wasn’t through. “He’s there almost every day. Stops by after work. Sometimes goes there for lunch. The guy must really like the place—or he likes rubbin’ elbows with people who’ve got more money than sense.” He immediately looked a little sheepish. “No offense. You probably go there, too.”

  I laughed. “None taken. I’m not in that league just yet.”

  Frankie looked at his notes. “He’s got a wife and two kids. Just your perfect little family. They go to some private school, I got the name here somewhere if you need it.”

  I waved my hand. “No, that’s okay.” I leaned forward in my chair. “Have you found out anything about that company I told you about—you know, the one he’s gonna give a bunch of money to? It’s supposed to do things for handicapped access to golf.”