by Webb Hubbell
“Of course. At the least it should be entertaining.”
“Jack, if the research proves to be worthless, that means someone else is trying to kill you. Have you thought about that?”
“Not until just now, thanks.” The prospect was sobering.
“Well, if you two can do without me, I have to go meet with our bankers.”
“That’s what you always say when you’re going to play golf,” Maggie interjected.
“I didn’t say where I was meeting them.”
He was out the door before either of us could protest.
We sat back down. “Thank you, Maggie. What did you say to him?”
“I told him everything. He figured you needed to talk money. We trust you, as Doug and Liz are going to have to. He’s not worried about the money. He’s worried about losing his best friend. We both think it’s your love of Angie that’s driving you this time, that maybe you can’t see or believe that someone she cared about could be a criminal. But I’m always amazed how you see things none of the rest of us can, so we trust you. That’s the bottom line.”
“Five million dollars is a lot of trust.” I said, moved by her faith.
“Yes, it is. But I know you well enough to know you aren’t going to lose five million dollars, any more than you’re going to quit falling for pretty women—anywhere.”
“Ouch, that hurt.”
“I meant it to. You need to be careful.” She raised her cup, giving my arm a light touch.
We sat quietly for a bit, each thinking our own thoughts, until she broke the spell. “Okay, so what’s next?”
“I’m taking Peggy to lunch, and you’re going to find that letter.”
44
WHEN I WORKED at Main Justice, 701 was my favorite spot for a meal. The atmosphere was classy, the waiters were discreet, and best of all, and it was right across the street. As a regular, they always found me a table for lunch, dinner, or simply meeting Angie for drinks before we headed home. The savvy owner ran several other DC mainstays, but I felt most comfortable at 701.
Peggy walked in as I was waiting for our table—she looked terrific. Her dark, curly hair fell casually to her shoulders, and she greeted me with an easy smile. I was a little taken aback by her unexpected glamour—Angie would have recognized the designer of her upscale suit. Disarmed by her physical allure and winning smile, many a man in the male-dominated Justice Department has underestimated her brains, but not for long. Her looks may have opened a few doors, but it was her intelligence and good judgment that kept her in the room. Now a career deputy in the Criminal Division, she and I began our careers at the same time. I moved to the Antitrust Division, but our paths crossed often, and we quickly became lifelong friends.
“I can’t believe I’m actually breaking bread with my elusive friend Jack Patterson. I hope you don’t think this counts as that dinner you owe me,” she opened as we sat down.
“No way. That’s one promise I look forward to keeping,” I said truthfully.
Peggy was married when we first met, but the marriage hadn’t worked because her husband expected her to follow his career path, rather than her own. After Angie’s death we met for drinks on occasion, but it never went beyond that. She’d made it clear she was open to more, but at the time I needed her friendship more than romance. As I sat across from her and watched her smile at the waiter, I wondered if it was too late to change my mind.
“Wine at lunch?” I kidded, as she ordered a New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.
“I’m not holding my breath for that dinner. Besides, I’ve got a feeling I may need something stronger than iced tea. So before you drag me into your latest pickle, I want to enjoy this lunch. I’ve signed out for the afternoon, and I intend to spend your money on a wonderful meal and enjoy this time. I’m going to take what I can get.” Her eyes betrayed loneliness, and I kicked myself for cancelling more dinners than I care to admit.
We ordered a three-course meal and shared a really nice bottle of wine and easy conversation, both doing our best to avoid business. She brought up my kidnapping over dessert. She’d heard about it and called Sam for a brief rundown of the events, but she wanted my version. I told her the complete story—minus a few details involving Moira.
“Jack, when are you going to learn?”
There really wasn’t much I could say. “Well . . .”
“Okay, what is it you want to talk about?” she asked, letting me off the hook.
“I want to talk about Dub’s task force.” I was entering safer ground for me, but not for her.
“I told you. That whole operation is hands-off. Nothing I can say or do.” She was blunt.
“You may not have a choice,” I said with emphasis.
“What do you mean?” I had her attention.
“If I’m right, your U.S. attorney is on the take, and he’s involved in a conspiracy so big it makes the banking and mortgage scandals look like chicken feed.”
“Oh, Jack. I hope you have some actual evidence. You can’t just accuse a U.S. attorney of impropriety on a lark.”
“My source says Dub has both a gambling habit and a penchant for prostitutes.”
“Do you have a credible source, or is this someone trying to smear Dub? I know you don’t like the man.”
It was the reaction I expected. I waited for her to continue.
She shook her head. “Jack, you know I would never condone that sort of behavior. If you have any real evidence to back it up, you need to go to the Office of Professional Responsibility. But you’d better be damned sure. And I don’t see how it connects him to a conspiracy. Don’t forget that several senior attorneys from Main Justice have been assigned to his task force—it’s not just Dub. They all report directly to the Drug Czar. Are you saying they’re all corrupt?”
“Listen, Peggy, I admit I don’t have any proof yet that anyone’s on the take, or even that a conspiracy exists. Write all this off as evidence of my lunacy, but what if I’m right? You can’t overlook it because you’re under orders to let the task force do its job. I know you too well. What if I told you the task force’s real purpose is to confiscate research that may lead to a cure for cancer?”
“What on earth has cancer got to do with dope dealing? Have you been diving off the shallow end?”
She might have been right, but I found her total incredulity irritating. I plugged away, told her my theory about Doug’s research and why its destruction would be invaluable in certain quarters. I could tell from her expression, polite but bored, that I was getting nowhere. It would be a mistake to go any further.
“I’m sorry, Peggy, you’re probably right. I shouldn’t have bothered you with any of this. I’m really sorry.” What I wanted to say was “so why in the hell did someone kidnap me and very nearly murder Micki?”
“If you hadn’t bothered me, I wouldn’t have enjoyed this lunch, and you wouldn’t have found a realistic ear to bring you down to earth. It sounds to me like your Dr. Stewart is in deep shit, and he’s doing what most marijuana dealers do—holler medical use, with a new wrinkle. I know he was a friend, but you need to leave Little Rock before you get yourself killed chasing rainbows or women.” She squeezed my hand.
Well, shit, didn’t that make me feel better?
Both Sam and Peggy thought I was nuts, that I’d lost all perspective. I didn’t want to believe Doug was a criminal, therefore I had convinced myself that Dub was involved in a major conspiracy and two kidnappings based solely on the word of a Russian thug. Maybe I was delusional.
I changed the subject, and we chatted amiably about old friends, but our words were a bit forced, the tone a bit strained. We finished our coffee, I paid the bill, and we exchanged an awkward kiss, once again promising to stay in touch. She was still a friend, but watching her walk out of that restaurant, I suddenly didn’t feel so bad about cancelling those dinners.
I tried to reach Maggie, but she was out running an errand. A text from Clovis asked me to meet him at the office at
three-thirty. I walked past the Treasury Department and decided to kill some time in Lafayette Square. This tiny jewel of a park, originally known as Presidents’ Park, is situated directly across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House and serves as a perfect venue for protestors. I always enjoy watching them tromp up and down the green, carrying angry signs and enjoying the exercise of the First Amendment. This week they were railing against the evil of canned tuna. The park was never empty, but I found a spot on a bench near the statue of Andy Jackson.
The White House: home of the president of the United States, and the official office of the Drug Czar. The Drug Czar didn’t rank highly enough to actually have an office in the White House. More than likely his offices were around the corner in the New Executive Office Building or in Jackson Square, but his mailing address was the same as the President’s. Dub’s task force reported to the Drug Czar, not the attorney general. What did that mean?
Although appointed by the president and confirmed by the Senate, the attorney general had to maintain some degree of independence from the political influences of the executive branch. The attorney general was also an officer of the courts and owes a duty to the justice system to make sure individual prosecutorial decisions are free from political considerations.
So did this independence carry over to the Drug Czar’s office? The answer is an emphatic no. The office is a creature of politics, and I doubted that whoever reported to the Drug Czar felt the same ethical constraints that a career justice department employee might. That concern had led me to approach Peggy, but I’d botched it. She clearly didn’t want to go near my theory.
Had Peggy’s reaction been honest or had she been prepped?
No need to get paranoid. Peggy had always been my friend, and still was, I hoped. I had to trust someone, and Peggy had lived up to that trust in the past. Sam and Peggy were both right. If I believed in the truth of my hazy allegations, I needed hard evidence, not theories grounded only in my vivid imagination.
THE MAN WATCHED Patterson sitting on the park bench and grinned. He now had people watching Jones and Maggie, and he was tailing Jack. So far, so good. He’d figured Patterson would try to involve Main Justice. Fortson was a straight arrow, but any problems she might have created had been handled long ago. Jones would also strike out with his sources. Dub was too important an asset to let him leave tracks. A few rumors might still be floating around, but no hard evidence remained. Maggie would run up against a dead end at the federal agencies. Today she was knocking on the door at NIH, but the General Counsel had been alerted. She would come up empty again. He found it irksome that no one seemed to know or care why Patterson wanted to accelerate the auction, but the client said they had the auction covered. So he let it go.
45
WHEN I WALKED into the office, Rose told me that one of Martin’s men had driven Maggie to NIH and Clovis had called to say he was running late. I sank into the chair behind my desk and decided to call Debbie and Paul. Why wait?
“Debbie, is Paul around? Can you get him on speaker?”
In a matter of minutes, I was talking to them both.
“Debbie, I’ve got an idea, but I want you to think it through. Paul, if you think there’s any risk for either of you, you need to say so.”
They agreed to be candid.
“Let’s see if we can’t shake things up. For the next week, every time Dub makes a public appearance, I want you both to be right there in the front row.”
Debbie laughed. “That’s easy, but why?”
“You’re too cute to miss, and eventually he’ll remember where he’s seen you. Your smiling face will surely fluster him, make him nervous. Paul, you’re there to protect her. Once he remembers, he’ll want her to disappear—and I don’t want her to end up as road kill.” Tough words, but I really did want them to be careful.
Paul cleared his throat. “Do you want her to speak, ask questions, or just be visible?”
“Just be visible. It won’t take long for Dub to spot her, and the press won’t be far behind—but no talking or baiting, understand? Debbie, I know this is going to be hard, but I want you to tone down the short skirts and make-up. Pretend you’re a sorority girl. If the press throws you a question, just smile and walk away. Don’t try to make something up. Paul, don’t let Dub’s deputies bother her. Debbie, if they ask you to leave, you need to leave straightaway. Our only purpose is to make Dub sweat.”
“A sorority girl? No way! Why can’t I dress up? He’ll be sure to remember me if I wear some of the same outfits I used to wear.”
The thought of Debbie confronting Dub in a hooker’s outfit had a certain appeal. The press would have a field day. I shook the thought away. I was already asking too much of her. Victims of trafficking have difficulty getting out after they’ve been rescued, but Debbie seemed to be made of special stuff.
“No, Debbie, I need you to be subtle, intriguing. I want him to wonder. Paul, until Maggie gets there to help, I leave her outfits up to you. Nothing that makes a story.”
“Got it,” Paul responded. I knew I’d given Paul an impossible assignment.
We talked for a little longer and, to my relief, Paul reported that Micki was improving steadily. I asked Paul to tell her I’d call later this afternoon. I still hoped that either Maggie or Clovis might come up with something positive I could tell her. Maggie returned, and I told her about my conversation with Paul and Debbie.
“What’s the point?” She asked. She settled into a comfortable leather chair, still holding the file she had brought with her.
“Dub is surrounded by lawyers and law enforcement types giving him advice and keeping him under control. It’s a pretty good bet he hasn’t let them in on his secret life. I think he’ll develop serious heartburn when he sees Debbie—maybe he’ll make a mistake. Even if he doesn’t, he’ll be distracted. You have to admit Debbie can be a distraction.”
“I take it you’re finally learning?” Maggie grinned.
We had a laugh at my expense before I asked, “Any luck finding Doug’s letter?”
“The FBI, DEA, Drug Czar, and Homeland Security all gave me the run-around—again. They won’t acknowledge such a letter exists and, if it does, hell will freeze over before I see it. I’ve tried every trick I know. The FDA and CDC were more cooperative, but they insist they don’t have any correspondence from our professor.”
“Somebody has to have the letter. We know he wrote it. Aw, hell, I hope to God he wrote it!” I said in frustration. I noticed that Maggie’s eyes were twinkling. “Rose said you went to NIH. What happened?”
“Well, I started with the general counsel. To say he was unhelpful is an understatement. He was pleased to inform me that anything related to Doug’s research had been sealed by Dub’s task force and was exempt from the Freedom of Information Act. The same went for any letters Doug may have sent the Director. Let me quote: ‘I don’t even have to go to the trouble to look. It’s all been sealed.’” Her disgust was evident.
“I was afraid of that. It was worth a try. Thanks.”
“Let me finish. Do you remember Dr. Jonas Ketcher? He was Angie’s supervisor.”
“Of course I remember him. Why?”
“As I was leaving the GC’s office, Dr. Ketcher stopped me and asked why I was there. As soon as I mentioned Doug Stewart he smiled, took my arm and led me down the hall. I liked his smile, so I told him the truth. He chuckled and said, ‘Nothing good ever comes out of a lawyer’s office.’ He told me that about three years ago everything that had Doug’s name on it had been boxed up and removed—every computer purged. It created quite an uproar at the time, but all protests were ignored, and the issue died down.
“The timing agrees with what Liz said about Doug’s letter, but it doesn’t help in finding the letter.” I sighed in frustration, but a smile still hovered on Maggie’s face.
“I had exactly the same reaction, must have actually slumped, because Jonas put his arm around me and said, ‘Walk with me.’ W
hen we reached his office, he closed the door. We just stood there for a minute—he seemed to be listening for something.
“I was about to ask, but he put two fingers up to my lips and spoke softly, ‘When they purged everyone’s files, no one thought to look in Angie’s old office. We finally got around to cleaning it out and came across a box of unopened mail. Most of it was publications and flyers—junk. I told my assistant to give me anything that looked important and throw the rest away. She found a few letters. One was addressed to Angie and marked personal. I saw that it was from Doug’s address in Little Rock. I remember thinking how strange since Doug didn’t leave NIH until after Angie died.
“He said, ‘I kept that letter and a couple of others in a drawer—I meant to give them to Jack, but forgot all about them. Probably should have turned them over to the General Counsel but it slipped my mind.’ He winked, unlocked his desk, and handed me a few envelopes. I thanked him, and he asked me not to tell anyone where they’d come from. I promised.
“I let him escort me from the building, and as he held the door to my car open he said, ‘That letter might turn out to be just his Christmas list, but Doug never did anything without a reason. Give Jack my best and tell him that a lot of us at NIH are glad he’s defending Doug.’”
“Finally!” I was suddenly excited. “Do you have it with you?”
She handed it to me with a flourish and came around to read over my shoulder. In the manila envelope I tore open, I found a note card and a copy of a letter. I read the note first.
Jack,
I sent this to Angie’s attention knowing she was already gone, but hoping somebody would pass it on to you. It seemed like the best thing to do. I sent another copy to your house. Please keep this letter in a safe place. It is self-explanatory, and I hope you never need it. Angie was instrumental in encouraging me and helping me get as far as I have. She said if trouble came calling you would help. I hope it never comes to that.