Paul appeared to be deep in thought. I knew how important it was not to disrupt a lawyer’s concentration as he wrestled with a legal problem, so I turned to leave, figuring I would check with him later or send him an interoffice E-mail that he could answer at his leisure.
My movement apparently caught his attention, and Paul quickly took off his reading glasses and stood up. “Don’t leave, Charley. I need a break anyway.”
He pointed to his messy desk. “Some of the new tax rules on my favorite generation-skipping trust provisions are impossible to understand, and the publishing services are no help. Everybody’s got a theory about what the Service is gonna do, but no one knows for sure.”
He suddenly smiled as he realized that I had no idea what he was talking about. Pointing to a chair in front of his desk, he said, “Sit down and tell me what I can do for you.”
I explained the situation to Paul as best I could and asked him if he would work with me on this project. I warned him that it was pretty much a pro bono kind of deal.
Watkins waved his hand and said, “Bobby Jones was a member of this firm. That has meant a great deal to us over the years. Still brings us a lot of business. We owe his memory that much.”
After we talked about the issues in the case a bit more, Paul gave me a copy of a petition that he had filed the previous year challenging a trustee’s proposed disposition of trust assets. “Use this as a form. It’s pretty current.” He winked at me. “I won this case, so the form is good luck. Just change it to fit the facts of your case. I’ll look it over after you finish the first draft.”
I thanked him and left. As I walked back to my office, I was grateful for the sense of camaraderie that existed at Butler & Yates. It was a good feeling to work at a place where the lawyers so willingly assisted one another. I knew that wasn’t the case everywhere, and I was beginning to like my new law firm more and more.
Paul Watkins was a perfect example of this unselfish work ethic. He had just made partner the year before and was no doubt pushing himself to log as many billable hours as he could to impress his new partners. Each year, his percentage of the profits (called “points”) would be increased if he continued to show high levels of production.
Although most law firms paid lip service to the notion of “pro bono” work (short for “pro bono publico,” which is Latin meaning “for the public good”), they really discouraged it by expecting all lawyers to bill large numbers of hours. That wasn’t the case at Butler & Yates, at least not if Paul Watkins’s attitude was any indication.
Paul’s involvement immediately raised my confidence in our case several degrees. Paul graduated from Harvard Law School with top honors and then obtained his Master of Laws in Taxation from NYU Law School, which had the premier tax program in the country. He really knew his stuff and, unlike most tax lawyers, understood litigation and thought like a trial lawyer. It was a deadly combination.
I spent the remainder of the afternoon preparing a draft of a petition on behalf of Francis Moore against his brother seeking an injunction against the proposed sale of the property. My work would have been much more difficult were it not for the form Paul Watkins had given me. I had to make certain that our petition included allegations about Stephen Moore’s status, why the court had jurisdiction, the specifics of how Moore was violating the trust, and why we were entitled to the court’s intervention to stop the sale. By following Watkins’s form, I was confident I wouldn’t leave anything out; it was a ready-made checklist. The last thing we wanted was for Stephen Moore to delay a hearing by filing technical objections to our petition.
I had what I felt was a polished draft by early evening. I printed a copy and left it in Paul Watkins’s chair so that he would see it first thing in the morning.
By the time I left the office, it was nearly eight o’clock. At that hour, traffic was minimal, and it took only 15 minutes instead of the usual 30 to get home to my apartment, where I popped one of those delectable frozen dinners in the microwave as soon as I walked in the door. The great thing about eating so late was that your hunger made even the worst kind of food taste good.
While I waited, I noticed that the light on my answering machine was flashing. That was unusual; most people who wanted to reach me called at the office or sent an E-mail. I rarely had any messages on the answering machine.
I punched the button and soon heard a familiar voice.
“Hello, buddy, it’s Ken Cheatwood. I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls. It’s been a month since I started here, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of work they’ve given me.” He laughed, mainly because he knew I wasn’t going to buy that excuse. Most judicial clerkships were pretty leisurely experiences.
“Okay, that may not be true. Actually, I’ve been taking advantage of late daylight to play a lot of golf after work. By the time I get home, it’s usually too late to do anything but eat and go to bed.”
It was my turn to laugh. What my buddy really meant was that, after drinking beer and chasing the ladies, it was too late to think about calling me or anyone else.
“Anyway, call me so we can catch up. I want to know about life as a lawyer at Butler & Yates. Do they treat their associates as well as their law clerks?”
The beep on the machine signaling the end of the message coincided with the one on the microwave telling me that my food was ready. The excitement from hearing from my good friend displaced my hunger at the moment, so I dialed the number he had left.
No answer. That figured. This time it was my turn to leave a message. I gave him my work number and E-mail address and told him to contact me the next day.
Cheatwood and I had become fast friends during the two summers we clerked together at Butler & Yates. He liked the place as much as I did, and I was fairly sure that he was going to join the firm when he finished his clerkship with the Eleventh Circuit.
Ken Cheatwood was an unusual guy. A scratch player, he had attended Oklahoma State on a golf scholarship, where he had played for Coach Mike Holder on a national championship team.
By his own admission, my friend had been a fairly indifferent student, majoring in political science in name only. His academic performance belied his considerable intellectual acumen, however. He was really a student of golf and had collected a remarkable library of golf literature and reference works. I had learned a great deal about the game and its traditions from Cheatwood, and he had been instrumental in helping me bring out the Beau Stedman story. Ken possessed great people skills and instincts that had helped persuade some of the powers that be at the firm to let me pursue the story that I had first discovered in some of Jones’s old discarded and forgotten files.
According to Cheatwood, he came to law after shooting 80 on the final day of Q-School and missing his Tour card for the fourth straight year. He couldn’t stand the thought of another year bouncing around the minitours, so he signed up for the LSAT the next day. He scored in the top 3% of all test takers and was accepted at Emory Law School—not coincidentally, he was fond of pointing out, the same law school that Bobby Jones had attended before leaving early to take (and pass) the Georgia bar exam.
I had missed my good friend. Ironically, he was my closest connection with my new law firm and a good part of the reason I chose to accept its offer of permanent employment. I really liked the idea of our practicing together and was disappointed when he took the clerkship, even though it only meant a delay of a year before he would join me at the firm.
I was looking forward to visiting with him the next day.
I was up early and in the office before eight in the morning. Of course, Gloria was already there, and I could smell the coffee she had made. I helped myself to a cup even though the coffee in Georgia paled in comparison to the stuff I was used to in New Orleans. The joke was that they tarred the roads in Louisiana with leftover coffee. Some people didn’t like it so strong, but I came to enjoy the taste of the chicory and the jolt it gave me from the very first cup.
As I waited for the mail to be distributed, I checked my computer and saw that I had an E-mail message waiting. I clicked it on, and there was a note from Cheatwood. It had been posted late last night, probably when he finally got home from a party somewhere. He just wanted to let me know that he got my message and would be calling today.
Marty, our young runner, brought me the mail, and I busied myself for the next half hour or so looking through it. Half was junk mail; the rest was routine stuff. There were no fires to put out.
I decided to check with Paul Watkins to see what he thought of my draft petition. The unwritten protocol was that senior lawyers buzzed junior lawyers on the intercom, but not vice versa; junior lawyers usually went to senior lawyers’ offices when they wished to see them.
I headed down the hall past Emile Guidry’s office to where Paul’s was located. He was just coming out of his office. Seeing me, he smiled and said, “Oh, I was just coming to find you.” Holding out the petition, he said, “This is good. I made a couple of suggestions. Take a look at them and see what you think. Then run it in final form.”
I thanked him and started to head back to my office. Over my shoulder, I heard him say, “I put signature lines for both of our names. It lets them know we mean business.”
There was no doubt that having a partner’s signature on the petition would enhance our credibility. In lending his name to the lawsuit, Paul was also letting me know that his support for what we were doing was more than token. He was serious about participating, and I was pleased to no end to have him aboard.
Chapter 33
I ADOPTED ALL of the changes that Paul Watkins had proposed, and not simply out of deference to him. Each of his suggestions definitely improved my work product, and I marveled at how a gifted lawyer like Paul could raise the quality of a pleading in such a dramatic fashion with the mere stroke of a pen.
Everything was done by lunchtime. I wanted to have the final version ready for Francis Moore when he arrived at two o’clock. We made a copy for service on the defendant and an extra one for our client.
Moonlight arrived in time to go to lunch with me. He was wearing the old Hogan cap he had on the first day I met him, and he seemed as pleased to see me as I was to see him. He seemed a little nervous, but I expected as much under the circumstances.
I knew Moonlight wouldn’t go for any fancy food, so I took him to a great sandwich place about a block from the office called Scelfo’s. The owners were from Louisiana, and it was the only place I had found that had genuine New Orleans-style po-boys.
During my three years at Tulane, I hadn’t been fond of the humidity and mosquitoes in New Orleans, but the food was another matter. Whether it was the fancy cuisine at Antoine’s in the Quarter or the po-boys at Ye Olde College Inn uptown on Carrollton, there wasn’t another place on earth that could feed you as well as the Crescent City—or anywhere else in south Louisiana for that matter. Emile Guidry and I were the only two people in the firm who truly understood the delights of boudin, fried oysters, and boiled crawfish.
Of course, the food at Scelfo’s was a little more exotic than Moonlight was used to. As a result, I couldn’t talk him into having a fried soft shell crab po-boy like the one I had ordered. He stuck with the plain roast beef.
After I doctored my sandwich with Tabasco, we settled down to business. I explained to Moonlight that the petition had been prepared and would be filed as soon as Francis Moore approved it. Moore would be the plaintiff, or the person who was filing the lawsuit. His brother would be the defendant, or the person who was being sued.
He took it all in without saying much. After he finished the first half of his sandwich, he took a sip of soda and said, “Ya’ think he’ll do it?”
I assumed that he was referring to whether Francis Moore would approve the suit. “I think so. He doesn’t seem to have any real reluctance about it.”
He then started on the second half of his po-boy, retreating again into his own thoughts.
I was having trouble gauging Moonlight’s mood. He hadn’t said much since he had arrived, as if he was either guarding against disappointment or was afraid of saying something that would jinx us.
We spent the rest of lunch talking more about his collection of Bragg’s Point memorabilia than anything else. After we were done, we went back to the office, and I showed Moonlight the petition. I knew that he wouldn’t understand much of it, but it was physical evidence that we were going forward with our plan.
Francis Moore arrived promptly at two o’clock. I had reserved a small conference room with nicer appointments than those hidden by the clutter in my still-disorganized office. After depositing Moonlight there, I went to the reception area to greet the client I had yet to meet in person.
When I entered our waiting room, I encountered a distinguished-looking man who appeared to be about 60 years of age. He was perhaps six feet tall, which was around my height, and had an attractive tan indicating that he was more than a weekend golfer. His hair was more gray than anything but was full, and he appeared to be energetic. His lightweight tan wool suit fit him well. Francis Moore stood and smiled easily as I approached and extended my hand.
“Mr. Moore, I’m Charley Hunter. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person at last.”
He shook my hand. “Charley, I feel the same way.”
As we walked to the conference room, I told Moore that there was someone there I wanted him to meet. When we walked in, Moonlight stood up.
“Mr. Moore, this is Moonlight McIntyre. He was the caddie at Bragg’s Point who brought all of this to me.”
Moore extended his hand. “And he was a caddie at Augusta, too.” He smiled warmly. “I know all about Seamus McIntyre. He’s a legend at the club.”
Moonlight beamed at the recognition. I was puzzled, though; if Moore had known about Moonlight, why hadn’t Moonlight known about him?
“Do you guys know each other?”
Moore shook his head. “I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Mr. McIntyre before, but I feel I know him by reputation.” Looking at Moonlight, he said, “You must’ve retired before I ever got the chance to have you on my bag.”
Moonlight nodded. “Once my Social Security started, I cut back. Some a’ the old-timers at the club would call me out, but other than that I didn’t work so much.”
As we waited for a tray of coffee, Moonlight and I told Francis how we had gotten to that point. He listened attentively, but I got the sense that it was more out of politeness than anything else. He seemed more interested in getting to know us than the story.
I soon learned the reason. Francis Moore knew a whole lot more about the story than he had let on. After we had talked for 20 minutes or so, and I had explained some of the more mysterious aspects of our visit to Bragg’s Point, he walked over to the tray that had been left in the corner of the conference room and poured himself a second cup of coffee. After taking his first sip, he walked back over, sat down, and said, “Maybe I can clear up some of the confusion for you.”
Moore then proceeded to explain how his father had kept him involved in the Bragg’s Point Charitable Trust for a number of years, in fact long before he passed the torch to Stephen. “After what happened at Augusta, Dad didn’t want Stephen to feel passed over again, so he appointed him as the next trustee. But he wanted me to watch over things, too. Without saying so, I’m not sure he was completely confident that Stephen would handle things right.”
Moonlight grunted something about selling to the Japs.
Moore continued. “Anyway, I’ve been looking over his shoulder for years without him knowing it.” He laughed. “I doubt that Stephen’s even been out there since the first time my Dad took him. He’s not much into golf history or tradition. But I’ve been out there at least once a year, and I have people who look after the place.”
It clicked immediately. So I had seen people out there after all.
“Did these people know we were coming?”
He smiled in a misc
hievous way. “Yes, they did.”
“So you had them prepare the course for us to play?”
He nodded. “It’s not hard to find people to do that. I just asked the superintendent at Augusta to locate some reputable people out there. They’ve been tending the property for years, basically keeping the grass under control and killing weeds. It was easy to get them to set the course up for you.”
I still couldn’t understand. “How’d you know we were coming?”
He took another drink of coffee and put the cup down. “Augusta’s a small town. When you went there looking for Moonlight, you asked a lot of questions. On my next trip to the club, I heard a couple of the caddies talking about it. And I heard them mention your name and Moonlight’s name. It was pretty easy to put two and two together. You were on to Bragg’s Point.”
He stood up and walked to the window. “I probably wouldn’t have thought of it on my own, because I tend to avoid anything that brings me into conflict with my brother. I didn’t want to be the one to make it public because my father wouldn’t have wanted me to. But I figured, if you were going to bring the story to the USGA like you did with Stedman, there was nothing I could do—or wanted to do—to stop you.”
That still didn’t explain how he knew we were going to the course. He smiled again when I pressed him on it.
“Moonlight told a couple of his caddie friends he would be leaving for a few days. It got back to me.”
He saw from my expression that I was surprised at how closely our movement had been followed. Explaining further, he said, “I told you, Augusta is a small place. Given what was going on, I figured I knew where he was headed. I had someone call to make an appointment to see you during that time, and he was told you would be out of town. That clinched it. I called out to California and told them to get things ready.”
The Greatest Course That Never Was Page 22