by Webb Hubbell
“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” I asked extending a hand that they declined to shake. I relaxed into the chair behind my desk, leaving them standing.
“Mr. Patterson, we understand you represent Douglas Stewart.”
“You understand incorrectly.” I already didn’t like these guys.
They looked at each other, and the taller of the two asked. “How do you know Dr. Stewart?”
“He worked with my wife at NIH.” I didn’t offer more, and again they exchanged glances.
“Dr. Stewart has been arrested. He claims you’re his lawyer. If that’s not the case, we’d like to explore your relationship with him and what you know about his activities.”
“Then make an appointment. I’m in the middle of a meeting and don’t appreciate being called out of it for this.”
“I’d suggest you cooperate, Mr. Patterson. Your wife’s friend is a terrorist.”
A terrorist—horseshit. I dealt with the FBI for years when I worked at the Department of Justice. I thought I knew all their tricks. But morphing a respected scientist into a terrorist?
“Sorry, but I decline to be interviewed until a meeting has been scheduled and my attorney can be present. By the way, he will also arrange for the interview to be transcribed.”
“We don’t participate in recorded interviews, Mr. Patterson. You know that.”
I smiled, indeed aware of their position on recorded interviews. They didn’t want any records to exist that could dispute their recollection of what was said.
“Then you’re refusing to cooperate with me. Good day, gentlemen.”
I left them staring and returned to the conference room. Most people are afraid to say no to the FBI, rightly afraid of their power to destroy a person’s life. I’d represented way too many clients who had fallen into their traps. Never, ever meet with the FBI alone—you’ll find words put in your mouth you never said.
Thankfully, the foundation meeting was breaking up. After a few empty and insincere remarks, I wished them all well and escaped into Maggie’s office to tell her where I was going and that I’d be back on Monday. Maggie Matthews had been my assistant, paralegal, and right arm when I practiced law at the firm of Banks and Tuohey. Her new husband, Walter Matthews, was the president of Bridgeport Life Insurance Company and chairman of the foundation where I now worked—The Walter and Margaret Matthews Foundation. As part of my arrangement with the foundation, I have a small antitrust practice on the side. Maggie continues in her role as my assistant and paralegal, although she’s technically my boss at the Foundation. Don’t ask, it works.
I told her about Micki’s call and my brief meeting with the FBI.
“I remember Doug. He and Angie were extremely close. Don’t look at me that way. They were professional friends. That’s all. You probably don’t remember, but he came to your house a lot at the end. You should definitely go. It’s about time you got out of the office. It’ll do you good. Take the plane—it’s just sitting on the tarmac. Do you need me?”
When I went to Little Rock last year, I didn’t think I needed Maggie, but she came anyway and I was glad she did. I knew less about this situation than the previous one, but I couldn’t imagine needing her. I would see Doug, assure him about Micki’s abilities, play some golf, and come home on Monday. I was interested in what could have happened to Doug. How did he go from being a research chemist to a drug dealer? That answer alone would be worth the trip.
“No, not this time, but I’ll call if things get messy.” I winked.
Rose poked her head through the door. “The press is calling; the guy from the Arkansas Democrat is getting to be a downright pest. He’s holding on line one now.”
I told Rose to give him to Maggie. Maggie pretended to frown, but said she’d take any press calls if I promised to keep my phone turned on. I didn’t quite know where it was at the moment, but felt sure it was on wherever it was. After checking my calendar, I spent a good hour on the phone with my close friend Keith Stroup, founder of the National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws, or NORML, for folks who like an easy acronym. He gave me a quick update on the laws regarding marijuana cultivation and civil forfeiture. Arkansas still didn’t recognize medical marijuana, much less recreational use, but it was bound to soon. The South always seemed to be an election or two behind the curve. Keith felt there had to be more to Doug’s arrest than growing marijuana.
“The Feds are leaving growers and users to the locals. Your friend must be part of a cartel or maybe he’s laundering money.”
I wondered.
I drove home feeling good about the prospect of a spontaneous mini-vacation. I poured myself a glass of wine as soon as I walked in the door, noticing I’d left the phone on the bar. I smiled, thinking it really was okay to be beyond its reach every now and then. It rang almost immediately—I almost jumped out of my skin. I saw Maggie’s name and number on the screen.
“Sorry—I left my phone at home.” She didn’t respond. “Maggie?”
“I’m not calling to scold. Turn on CNN.”
Oh, jeez—surely not again. The last time I’d turned on CNN in response to someone’s command, I’d seen my friend Woody put a gun to a senator’s head and pull the trigger. I quickly found the remote.
The banner running across the bottom of the screen read: “World-renowned chemist busted. Dr. Douglas Stewart accused of master-minding campus drug operation and terrorism.” The host, a Friday evening sub, was interviewing none other than “Dub” Blanchard. Dub smiled gravely as he railed on about kids, drugs, school grounds, terrorism, and drug cartels. I knew him to be a media-hungry hack: now he was on his high horse, relishing the spotlight. The host smoothly fed him softballs, and he hit each one out of the park. Finally, he asked if it was true that the drug kingpin’s lawyer was the same Jack Patterson who had defended Woody Cole. Dub spit out his response.
“The last time Jack Patterson came to Little Rock he cooked up some of his ‘Yankee stew’ to manipulate justice. He’ll find this U.S. attorney doesn’t appreciate either his cooking or his tricks. If he thinks he’s welcome at my table, he’ll soon find his placemat in the outhouse.” The host found all this hilarious, as did Dub, who drooled a bit while he laughed. I couldn’t help a laugh myself.
Maggie had been holding the whole time.
“Maggie, don’t pack your bags, but you might want to get them out of the attic.”
SATURDAY
April 19, 2014
5
NO MATTER HOW many times Maggie explains the economics, I still feel guilty every time I use Walter’s plane. But I couldn’t deny it was a heck of a lot more comfortable than Delta. Stretching my long legs into the aisle and leaning all the way back, I remembered the last time I’d flown to Little Rock. I’d sworn never to return to Little Rock, but here I was, returning for the second time in two years.
This time, as the pilot began his approach, I felt none of the trepidation, but mulled over the same question that had nagged me before—why? Why would a renowned chemist get involved in a drug operation? Angie had the greatest respect for Doug and believed that one day he’d bring home the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. Neither he nor his wife, Liz, lived an exorbitant lifestyle. They didn’t have children. I remembered they both played club tennis, but as far as I knew he had no other outside activities except watching college and professional football. Angie told me that if the Razorbacks lost on a given Saturday, he’d sulk until Tuesday, but he never exhibited any erratic behavior. Liz, the daughter of a wealthy Memphis cotton merchant, radiated self-confidence and good health, a woman who clearly loved life. Whether at charity events or on the tennis court, she loved to organize everyone else, and no one seemed to mind or had the courage to object.
The plane taxied to the Hodges Air Center, and as I peered outside the window I recognized my ride and its driver. Clovis Jones, a former All-American linebacker, leaned against a large, black Tahoe, boots crossed, regarding me with some degree of apprehe
nsion. Clovis had provided our protection during the Cole case. He owned a successful security company and provided consulting and investigative work for Walter Matthews’ insurance company. When he was in DC, we usually found time to catch a Nationals game or drive up to Cantler’s for crabs and cold beer.
“You didn’t have to meet me,” I said as we gave each other a man-hug.
“Do you really think I’m going to let someone else drive you around? Maggie’d read me the riot act if I let you set foot in this town without being by your side. You still got folks madder than a wet hen that you defended Woody, and now rumor has it you’re here to represent Mr. Wizard. Dub’s got em convinced he’s their kids’ drug dealer, the scum of the earth. You’re not far behind. Situation normal.” He chuckled.
“I’m not here to represent Doug. He’s a friend, sort of, but I have no idea why he’s calling for me. I’m gonna pay him a visit, set things straight, have a few beers, play some golf, and go home. I don’t need protection.”
Nobody talked like this in DC. They all took forever to say anything, probably because they could charge more the longer they talked. It felt good to be in Little Rock.
“I hear you, but Maggie’s already pulled rank. I’ve been hired, and you might as well get easy with it. Besides, the press is camped out at the Armitage. You’ll need me to run interference at any rate.”
With that pleasant bit of news, he shoved my bags and golf clubs into the Tahoe, and we headed to Micki’s office.
Her receptionist stuck out his hand and gave me his name, Mongo Stankovitch. I saw a muscular man with multiple piercings and tattoos, wearing jeans and a tight t-shirt, definitely not who I expected.
“Mongo–really?” I had to ask. Turned out his mother loved the movie Blazing Saddles, and she named him after her favorite character. Better him than me.
Micki rushed in suddenly, clutching a fat ginger cat, which she deposited on the window ledge. Her sandy hair had grown out some, but she still wore her usual plaid shirt and jeans. She followed a welcoming hug with a quick kiss.
“Sorry–I’m fostering Doughnut for a friend. Yes, the cat’s name is really Doughnut. I see you’ve met Mongo. Debbie is out running errands. Where’s Clovis?”
She rolled open the door to her office, as I explained that Clovis was trying to sneak my bags in through the back door of the hotel.
“Right—I can just imagine,” she laughed. “Listen, thanks for understanding about dinner and not staying at my place. Eric is as old-fashioned as you. Besides, I just might not be able to keep my hands off you. You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Hey, no fair,” I protested. “I want to hear more about Eric, but first tell me what’s going on with Doug.”
Micki went over what she had learned from Liz and what she had found out from her own sources. No formal charges had yet been filed, but both the DEA and the U.S. attorney claimed very publicly that Doug was growing at least a hundred full-grown plants in his backyard and hundreds of seedlings in the flower shed and garage.
“The good news is there’s no indication they’re going to charge his wife. I’m surprised. Dub not’s above indicting Liz, or her cat for that matter, to put pressure on Doug. The other lawyers in the U.S. attorney’s office are completely out of the loop. A tight little group of DEA agents and lawyers from Main Justice are in control. Dub’s also taking pot shots at you—a badge of honor, I’d say.” Micki grinned.
“I saw him on TV last night. I’m not sure I understand his wit, but he seems anxious to tee it up. Listen, Micki, defending drug cases is your bailiwick. I’m happy to talk to Doug, but I’ll take my lead from you. My thought was to meet with Doug, find out what in the hell this is all about, play some golf, eat some real barbecue, and head home.”
“Well, you have an hour with him at three. Liz and I’ll meet you at the Armitage for drinks at six. Eric was okay once I told him she’d be there. I wish he could join us, but he’s on call this weekend. Liz is spending the afternoon looking for someplace to live. As long as Doug insists you’re his lawyer, Dub refuses to talk to me, much less let me see Dr. Stewart. I’d say something big is up, but Dub’s just acting the same as always—an arrogant ass.”
THE BLACK INFINITI had pulled into a spot along the curb a little bit further down the street. For now he was content to watch the comings and goings at Micki’s office. He’d seen Clovis drop Patterson off and knew he’d have to leave before the bodyguard returned. Clovis would draw a bead on him in a heartbeat. Patterson’s arrival was unexpected. Like everyone else, Mr. Smith knew the professor had asked for the DC lawyer, but nobody thought he’d actually show up. Too bad for him. No chance Mr. Smith would let Patterson interfere with their client’s business.
MICKI AND I spent what little time we had talking about what Doug and Liz faced. If the charges held up, the government would demand the maximum sentence and throw away the key. Dub was sure to argue that all the Stewarts’ possessions were fruits of his criminal enterprise, including their house, furniture, and their extensive art collection. They would target every asset they could find, including their bank accounts. It would all be forfeited and auctioned off, with the proceeds going into the U.S. Treasury. I could never get over the fact that even if they never filed a single charge, the government could still bring a civil forfeiture proceeding against what they believed to be illegal gain from an alleged crime. It reminded me of a Kafka story except it wasn’t fiction: in America it happens every day.
Fortunately Liz had money in a trust fund created by her grandfather that the government couldn’t touch. Micki hoped she could convince Dub to return the house or at least her personal possessions by arguing that the money for the house and clothes came from Liz and not Doug. Whatever belonged to Doug was as good as gone.
Liz continued to insist that all of the marijuana was intended for Doug’s research, and that the government couldn’t prove he’d sold even a dime bag. Well, maybe, but Doug was still in serious shit. The press accounts, fed by Dub, claimed his large backyard had been knee-deep with well-tended plants and his double garage had contained hundreds of small seedlings under grow lights. The Feds might have ignored a few plants, but this was a different story. The penalty for cultivation was based on the number of plants and seedlings with a root ball, not the weight of the marijuana or how much was actually harvested. Besides, despite the legalization effort all over the country, Federal law still doesn’t recognize using marijuana in research or for medical use as a defense for possession or cultivation. Doug was up a creek, without any kind of paddle.
Micki hoped she might be able to cut a deal if the research story panned out, but she worried that Dub’s malicious theatrics might make a plea bargain impossible.
Rodney Fitzhugh, her friend and the deputy U.S. attorney, had warned her, “Don’t get your hopes up. This is clearly no ordinary drug bust. I haven’t seen this much secrecy since 9/11. I’ve heard wind of a lot of chatter between Dub, the DEA, and Washington, but nobody in the U.S. attorney’s office knows what’s going on except Dub, and he is atypically closemouthed.”
Nor could Micki figure out why Dub hadn’t involved Sam Pagano, the local prosecuting attorney. The DEA almost always turns drug busts over to the locals. Sam told her he’d been told to keep his head down and his office out of the way.
Sighing, she shook her head. “Well, whatever—our immediate problem is that Dr. Stewart wants you to be his lawyer, even though his wife has hired me. Of course, if you’re bored, I can spare an office.”
“What would Eric think?” I retorted, and she frowned. Her signal was clear: no teasing about Eric. I let the moment pass.
“My presence would only make things worse. Dub’s itching to use my involvement in Woody’s case to draw press attention. No, thank you, I’ll spend a little time with Doug, then get out of your hair.” One corner of her mouth turned down skeptically.
I’d seen the Tahoe pull up to the curb, and now Clovis walked in, holding the door
for a young woman who had to be Debbie. Nothing in our phone conversations had prepared me for either her getup or make-up. I rose automatically, and she blushed and smiled coyly as she took the hand I extended. Micki scowled, giving her a “hands-off” look. She flounced out without a word.
“What was that about? A little possessive, are we?”
“Don’t even think about it, Jack.”
Clovis saw my confusion and jumped in, direct as ever. “That one will get your throat cut. A thug by the name of Novak thinks she belongs to him. She’s terrified of him, and you should be too.”
I had no idea what they were talking about, but I had a date at the courthouse, so I let it lie.
“Time to go.” I turned to Clovis, but Micki pushed back from her desk and stood, this time scowling at me.
“Why are you here, Jack? And don’t tell me it’s because I called. Last time, you came running because you owed Helen Cole. This time your bags were packed before I was halfway through asking. Doug Stewart grows and sells marijuana, pure and simple; there’s no reason for you to drop everything and come running half way across the country. This guy isn’t your best friend like Woody. You hardly remember him. Is there something you’re not telling me?” Micki’s eyes bored into mine. Hip cocked to one side, she waited for an answer.
I shrugged my shoulders and walked out the door. Truth to tell, I didn’t have an answer. I had come back to Little Rock looking for one. Maybe I was tired of my work at the Foundation, maybe Little Rock had a greater hold on me than I realized, or maybe, just maybe, I owed Angie a promise long forgotten.
6
YOU WOULD HAVE been hard put to find anyone in the business section of downtown Little Rock on a Saturday, much less at the Federal Courthouse. Unlike the stately, turn-of-the-century county courthouse, the Russell Robinson Federal Courthouse and Office Building was a 1960’s five-story building with absolutely no charm. The afternoon skies had darkened and the thunderstorm broke just as we arrived. To my surprise, the press and their cameras were huddled under umbrellas outside the front entrance. Fortunately, Clovis had arranged for a deputy marshal to meet us at the back door and escort us to the holding area where Doug was waiting.