by Webb Hubbell
GINGER
SNAPS
GINGER
SNAPS
• A N O V E L •
Webb Hubbell
Copyright © 2014 by Webb Hubbell
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
TO COME
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Interior design by Neuwirth & Assoicates, Inc.
Cover Design by Michael Short
To:
Suzy, Will and Jake, Mary and Allen, Lila,
Rebecca, Frances, and George
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The story is set in Little Rock, Arkansas. Although I know all of its schools, parks, and neighborhoods, lovers of Little Rock (of which I am definitely one) shouldn’t expect to recognize its topography, or to find the Russell Robinson Courthouse, City Park, Butler Field, the Armitage Hotel, the Kavanaugh Home, or Ben’s. They also shouldn’t believe that the fictional characters or events have any connection with reality—they exist only in the imagination of the author and his readers.
FRIDAY
April 18, 2014
1
AN AXE CRASHED through the solid oak front door. Nelson, the big Calico cat who lay sprawled on the sofa, enjoying the warmth of the April sun, flew up the stairs, his paws barely touching the floor. Not even a ten-year-old could mistake the dozen men who charged into the house. Wearing dark blue flak jackets with blaring yellow DEA initials, the agents entered with guns extended. Fanning throughout the house, they played their clichéd parts, calling out “all clear” or “area secure.” Two guys in suits brought up the rear.
The agents soon tired of the game and took up the real job of tagging, packing, and boxing almost every single item in the house — the art, the silver, the dishes, the knick-knacks, even the lady’s lingerie and nightgowns. They took detailed photographs of each item they didn’t or couldn’t box up: the crystal chandelier in the dining room, the marble fireplace, the designer window treatments, even the Thermidor appliances in the newly renovated kitchen. They gave up on the cat, who had found refuge behind the old chimney in the attic’s cedar closet.
Curiously, several agents were rooting around in the back garden pulling up all the plants and stuffing them into pre-labeled bags. They followed the same procedure for the hundreds of seedlings in the flower shed. Under an old tarp in the garage they found a reconditioned Austin-Healy 3000 and a 1961 F-100 pick-up. A tow truck and a moving van arrived and, within a couple of hours, the house, garage, and shed were almost empty except for the dishes in the sink, the seasonings and cereal boxes on the pantry ledge, and one terrified cat. The yard and house were cordoned off with bright yellow tape, isolated by brusque signs informing all comers that the old house was now the property of the U.S. Government.
Assistant U.S. Attorney Richard Bullock, one of the two suits, frowned. “Is all this necessary? Really? An axe through the door, carting off all their furniture and underwear—aren’t we going a bit too far?”
U.S. Attorney Wilbur “Dub” Blanchard grinned like a kid in a candy store. He had all but begged the marshals to let him swing the axe.
“Professor Stewart is a threat to our nation’s security. He doesn’t deserve to be treated gently. We’re sending a message to would-be terrorists.”
“It’s me you’re talking to, not the press,” Bullock cautioned. “You sound like you believe your own bullshit.”
“Of course I believe it,” Dub said with a smirk. “Stewart smells as bad as any Middle Eastern jihadist. And your job, Mr. Bullock, is to help me convince everyone, especially the press, of exactly that fact.” Of course, Blanchard had leaked the bust to the press; reporters and cameramen were already in place on the front lawn, gravely informing the public of the developing situation.
Bullock didn’t respond. He was worried his boss’s ego might compromise an airtight case and a financial windfall for the U.S. Government.
At about the same time, three armed agents in full battle gear barged into a chemistry classroom at the University of Arkansas-Little Rock, shoved the professor to the floor and handcuffed him. A pair of more appropriately dressed agents were politely explaining to the University’s President that the school’s most distinguished professor had been arrested, and that his office, computer, and chemistry labs were off-limits.
His students sat in stunned silence as one of the agents pressed a gun barrel against Dr. Douglas Stewart’s head and read him his rights. For a moment, time seemed to stop.
“Do you understand these rights? Can you hear me?” the agent shouted, and the balloon of silence burst. The room filled with the noise of slamming books, scraping chairs, and a general rush to the door. Stewart’s voice came through loud and clear.
“Of course I can hear you. I want my lawyer. I want to speak to Jack Patterson.”
2
MICKI LAWRENCE HAD spent the night with Dr. Eric Masterson. Eric didn’t have rounds this morning so she slid out of bed quietly, slipped into her running clothes, and jogged off the front porch into the still quiet, tree-lined streets of Little Rock. Last night’s thunderstorm had cleared the air of pollen, and she soaked in the cool spring air and the fresh smell of greening lawns and trees.
As she picked up the pace, she didn’t notice a black Infiniti slowing down a block behind her. The driver, a skinny man on the long side of forty with a bad comb-over, the kind of a man parents warn children about, sat low in the seat, but not so low he couldn’t keep Micki in his sights, admiring her stride. A “Mr. Smith” had recently hired him, although he’d never met him in person. He figured from Smith’s accent that the man was Oriental, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t care if the man was another Osama, as long as he got paid.
He leaned forward a little as he watched her run—short sun-bleached hair, broad shoulders, tanned legs that seemed never to end. The man allowed himself a smile, a little gurgle of anticipation. “This job could be fun.”
Micki broke into a full sprint when her office came into sight. Sweat poured down her face, and her shirt was soaking wet.
HER OFFICE—A TWO-STORY home in the Quapaw Quarter, Little Rock’s historic district, was a turn-of-the-century Victorian that a real estate agency had restored. Azaleas and dogwoods now in April’s full bloom adorned the property. When the Quarter’s tax breaks expired and the real estate bust hit, the agency happily sold Micki the property for her solo law practice. The neighborhood wasn’t thrilled with her criminal clientele, but they much preferred the daily comings and goings to an unoccupied building.
Micki entered through the rear door. She had transformed one of the back offices into her personal space, complete with a day bed, an updated bathroom with a shower, and assorted exercise equipment. She kept a full array of clothes in the closet. The door to this room was the only one in the building equipped with a heavy-duty deadbolt. One chilly morning she had found a homeless man sleeping in her lobby. The alarm was still set, and no one could figure out how he had gotten in. She didn’t take any chances after
that.
She relaxed under the tingle of the high-pressure shower as she washed away the sweat and what remained of Eric’s scent. They’d met a few months ago at a Pepsi 10K and quickly discovered a mutual love of running, cycling, and full body massages. Now she kept several pairs of shoes and other clothes at his house in Hillcrest, and she’d cleared out a closet at her ranch just outside of town for his things. As the shower did its work, Micki mused about their relationship, trying to imagine where it might lead. They’d had their first major tiff a couple of weeks ago because she’d gone out for a beer with her former boss and friend, Sam Pagano, the Pulaski County prosecutor. She’d turned his tantrum into a night of athletic sex, but even good sex couldn’t shake her resentment. His possessiveness left a bad aftertaste.
It didn’t take Micki long to get ready for the workday. She slipped into a pair of jeans and made coffee in the little kitchen down the hall. Unless she was going to court, she simply dried her hair with a towel, not bothering with make-up. She grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge and walked into the former living room that now served as her office. Her antique desk faced a large bay window, and the old fireplace and comfortable furnishings were warm and inviting. Debbie Natrova, her office manager, always made sure the flowers on her desk were fresh, either from the farmers market or Kroger, depending on the season.
First thing every morning Micki read her e-mail and texts and listened to her voice messages. Then she unlocked the front door and picked up the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, always in the same place on her porch, the result of a generous December tip. After she’d scanned the entire paper, including the funnies, she turned her attention to the day’s schedule. This morning she’d seen nothing of great interest, and so far none of her clients had left a message. Unless an emergency walked in, she looked forward to leaving the office early. She had plenty to do at the ranch while Eric worked the weekend shift at the ER.
Debbie bustled in the front door. Debbie’s dark red hair came from a bottle, but the short bob suited her round face and small pouty lips. She wore heavy eye make-up and blush, and the fabric of her flowery jersey top stretched tight across her ample chest, a look left over from her former occupation. Her short skirt revealed–well, it was way too short in Micki’s opinion. Micki knew she couldn’t change Debbie’s heavy Eastern European accent, but she was determined to change her sense of style.
Debbie had literally dropped on her doorstep not long after Micki left the public defender’s office. She had arrived in the States when she was barely sixteen, intent on becoming a pastry chef, confident she would meet the perfect man and realize the American dream. Her parents were skeptical, but grew to trust the man who promised to make her dreams come true. She spoke English fairly well and longed for adventure, ready for new freedoms in a new country. Her sponsor, Novak, greeted her warmly and treated her well at first, buying her clothes and make-up, even sending her to a hair stylist for a new look. He had put her to work busing tables in one of his nightclubs, promising a promotion after she learned the ropes. It didn’t take long for her to discover what “the ropes” meant–a heroin addiction and serving more than drinks to customers. One rainy spring morning Micki found Debbie curled up on the front stoop of her old office downtown, beaten and barely alive, clutching a matchbook with Micki’s name and number scrawled inside. She couldn’t resist thinking that someone had left her a bedraggled and half-starved kitten.
Micki had spent months battling the authorities to keep Debbie from going to jail or being deported. It didn’t help that Novak had confiscated all her immigration papers the day she arrived. To keep an eye on Debbie’s recovery, Micki hired her as a receptionist. Once free of drugs and her sponsor, Debbie had quickly proved to be a capable, if quirky, employee. Micki soon promoted her to office manager, and the office now ran as smooth as silk.
Now, Debbie gushed, “Did you see all the DEA agents at that purple house on Elder? They’re hauling everything off, and the house is taped off like a crime scene. The moving van blocks the whole street, and you wouldn’t believe the press and the rubberneckers. Wonder if it’s a meth lab? Maybe there’s a client in it. Do you want me to send Mongo to check it out?” Debbie brought Micki a homemade carrot cake muffin. Debbie hadn’t become a pastry chef, but she was a truly intuitive baker.
“I ran a different route today, so I missed it. I bet the neighbors called the cops.”
“Maybe. But neighbors don’t usually want to get involved. Novak ran one of his casinos in the Quarter for the longest, and nobody complained, remember? He ran high-stakes poker games downstairs while we worked upstairs.”
Micki remembered all too well. After discovering Debbie on her doorstep, Micki had vowed to end Novak’s reign. Unfortunately, Novak’s clientele had more power and influence than she did. Her efforts to shut him down ran up against a political stonewall. Eventually he moved the casino to Maumelle, but Micki’s only real success had been keeping Debbie clean.
“Look, Debbie, I want you to use a fine screen on any walk-ins today. I’d like to get to my horses early. No pro bono clients who have a trial on Monday, okay?”
Not that Micki was averse to walk-ins. She took on more than her share of pro bono clients and hard luck stories, but no matter how big her heart was, she had to limit the number. It was the occasional wealthy client, a big personal injury case, or drug dealer whose assets haven’t been confiscated that enabled even the very best criminal defense lawyer to keep the doors open.
She nibbled on her muffin and set about responding to e-mails, reviewing court pleadings, and organizing the rest of her day. Micki tried to keep the creaky sliding doors to her office closed to the reception area, but she had a solo practice office, not a big law firm: clients dropped in to pay down their bill with wadded-up fives and tens, or just to get a cup of coffee. Walk-ins stopped by with problems that might need a lawyer, or usually just a sympathetic ear—she never turned them away.
Mongo, another of Micki’s “projects,” fulfilled the multiple roles of receptionist, part-time bouncer, and occasional investigator. Debbie and Mongo handled the first interview for all the walk-ins and screened Micki’s calls, but former clients needed to be greeted with a warm hug and at least a few minutes of Micki’s time. She gave her legal interns almost free access to her office and was always available for their questions, either about the law or the personal. Debbie was constantly back and forth with messages and reports. The huge, sliding oak doors constantly rumbled along their tracks.
Micki really didn’t mind, or even notice. She wanted no part of a traditional big law firm. Sure, she could make lots of money, but at what cost? She’d heard about one DC firm that kept cots in the basement, sort of like a dorm, so young lawyers could prove their worth in billable hours. Not knowledge or appreciation of the law, not empathy for their clients, just cold, hard time, billed to the client. Micki loved life and working with real people too much for that sort of drudgery, no matter what the pay. The day passed quickly, and she relaxed, contemplating a sunset horseback ride. Debbie’s insistent voice broke through her reverie.
“Sorry, Micki, but there’s a random woman I don’t know waiting in the front office. No appointment, says she only needs a few minutes. I’d say maybe late forties, casually dressed, lots of messy blonde hair. I don’t think she’s a nutcase—she smells of money. Wait till you see the rock on her finger. She drove up in a brand new Mercedes convertible. It’s out back, if you want a peek. She won’t tell me why she’s here. I bet it’s a divorce. Oh—and Marshal Maroney wants you to call, didn’t want to leave a message.”
Micki bit her lip. A call from Maroney always made her nervous. Hopefully he didn’t have one of her clients in lock-up.
“I need to call Bill first. Tell Ms. Blonde I’ll be right with her.”
Micki was punching in the marshal’s number when she noticed the black Infiniti parked across the street.
She hollered out. “Mongo, check out that car across the street
, will you? I saw it there this morning.”
The Infiniti’s driver had recognized both the Mercedes and its driver. He called Mr. Smith and told him that Liz Stewart had just gone into Micki’s office. Amazed that Smith had been dead-on about Stewart’s choice of counsel, he pulled away from the curb as instructed and sped off just before Mongo opened the front door.
The U.S. marshal got right to the point. “Micki, sorry to bother you, especially on a Friday afternoon, but we’ve got a man in custody who’s asking for his lawyer.” Micki instinctively knew her sunset ride and probably her whole weekend were blown.
“This morning the DEA arrested a professor at UALR—a Dr. Douglas Stewart.”
The name meant nothing to her.
“The crazy son-of-a bitch insists that his lawyer is that Jack Patterson fellow. Do you know how I can reach Patterson? The marshal’s office in DC gave me his law firm’s number, but the firm says he no longer works there. They either can’t or won’t give me a new number. All I need to do is confirm Patterson doesn’t know this pothead.”
“What are the charges, Bill?” Micki asked.
“Oh, he’s in a shitload of trouble—possession, cultivation, and distribution of marijuana, a lot of marijuana. Dub held a press conference about the bust this morning—called him a terrorist, no less. If you want the details, Dub’s already got the case on his website. The DEA seized his house, cars, and most everything else. Come to think of it, I think Stewart lives over near you.”
Micki mulled it over a bit. Jack Patterson didn’t practice law in Arkansas, nor did he represent drug dealers. His DC antitrust clients stole their money using more sophisticated schemes. Last year, Jack had reluctantly returned to Little Rock to help his boyhood friend, Woody Cole, against the charge of murdering Senator Russell Robinson. After the case, Jack had returned to DC, and she couldn’t recall the last time they’d talked.