A Game of Inches

by Webb Hubbell

  As I started to get the feel of the new driver, my mind wandered back to Carol Madison. Should I call her? Should I send flowers? Should I wait a few days before asking her to the Nat’s next home game? I thought about asking Beth for advice. I usually call her every Saturday morning, but she was off on a working retreat for teachers this weekend. The other option was my best friend Maggie, but she and Walter were still away.

  Maggie had been my assistant, paralegal, and right arm when I practiced antitrust law at Banks and Tuohey. Two years ago she married Walter Matthews, the president of Bridgeport Life. Together they chair the Walter and Margaret Matthews Foundation. I now have a solo practice, and the foundation is one of my principal clients. Maggie is still my assistant and her husband is my best friend and golf partner. It’s complicated, but somehow it all works.

  Before I knew it I’d worked up a good sweat. I showered, changed, and left the club to meet Marshall at the restaurant attached to his hotel, the Hay-Adams. The hotel sits right across Lafayette Square from the White House and directly across the street from St. Johns Episcopal Church. It surprised me that Marshall would stay at such an expensive hotel, but when I had suggested an equally nice but less expensive option he politely declined. Clearly, Marshall had his reasons, and who was I to tell him where he should stay or how he should spend his money.

  I had also offered for Marshall to stay with me. I rattled around in our old family home, but Marshall explained that my house contained too many memories of my late wife. Marshall was the closest thing Angie had to a brother, maybe even closer if that’s possible. I understand how he felt about the memories. On many a sleepless night I thought about selling the house, but it was too much to think about, used up too much energy.

  I climbed the marble stairs off the lobby up to the restaurant, where the maître d’ nodded his welcome and escorted me to Marshall’s table. He stood, and we embraced. Marshall was one of my three best friends both in high school and college. He stands over six feet three inches tall and is as solid as a rock. He was dressed in a dark gray suit, starched white shirt and conservative tie. I felt way underdressed in my golf shirt and slacks.

  Marshall is a brilliant judge who chooses to sit on the trial bench in Little Rock, Arkansas rather than accept the Federal appellate judgeship that has been offered on several occasions. He had officiated over the preliminary hearing of Woody Cole’s shooting of Senator Russell Robinson, Lucy’s husband. Our friendship was tested during that ordeal, but with those issues resolved our friendship has resumed, as close as ever.

  We spent the first few minutes catching up on Beth. He wanted to know all about her job in New Orleans and when she and Jeff were going to get engaged. I told him that a father doesn’t ask about marriage plans these days. He might not like the answer.

  “Nonsense,” he bellowed. “It’s time that young lady and I had a good talk. Tell her if she doesn’t call me soon, I may have to pay her and Jeff a visit. It’s time for them to fish or cut bait.”

  I assured him I’d be pleased to convey the message. I had no doubt that Beth was more likely to confide in Marshall than me. She once told me that her Uncle Marshall was the only one she could talk about “certain things.” I knew that one of those things included being “neither black nor white.” Washington is a progressive town, and it had never occurred to either her mother or me to raise the issue.

  I asked what brought him to town, knowing he would be circumspect. The Attorney General had become a close friend of Marshall’s after the Cole case, but they both preferred to keep that friendship private.

  “A very sad duty, I’m afraid to say,” he answered, and I saw my friend’s large brown eyes well with tears.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I’m pretty shaken up about this. Give me a minute.”

  “Of course.” I smiled, wondering what could be bothering him. “It’s okay. Today my time is yours.”

  The waiter approached, and we both looked at our menus, giving Marshall time to collect himself. I was surprised when he asked for a beer. I’d never known Marshall to have alcohol with lunch unless we were eating barbeque at Ben’s in Little Rock. When the waiter pointed out the many choices on the menu, Marshall looked confused and finally asked for a Stella.

  He caught me watching him and said without a smile, “I suggest you order something strong as well, my friend. This story may take a while.”

  “Marshall, has something happened back in Little Rock? Is Mrs. Cole okay?”

  Helen Cole is Woody’s mother—she practically raised Marshall and me during high school, a very special woman.

  “Don’t worry, Jack. Helen is fine.”

  “What’s wrong then?”

  “I’m here to meet with the Constance Montgomery, Deputy U.S. Attorney, about a telephone conversation I had.”

  I felt my throat tighten. “You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

  “No, nothing like that. William Hopper called me the morning he found that woman in his bed. Ms. Montgomery offered to come to Little Rock to take my statement, but I was already on my way to the airport.”

  “Good God, Marshall, Billy Hopper? Are you serious? Why would he call you?”

  He didn’t respond, just looked down at his hands, seemingly surprised to see them shaking. I knew I needed to slow down.

  Here’s the thing—Marshall is brilliant, but he’s very literal, linear in this thinking. I learned a long time ago that his brain needs time to process information to see the broader meaning. Crowds create anxiety, whether it’s a parade or a cocktail party. He’s shy with strangers, particularly women, slow to form friendships. Compassionate rather than judgmental, he’s slow to anger, but sure of his convictions. Marshall’s friends learned long ago that pressure in any form just doesn’t work. Prepared for stress, he handles it coolly and with intelligence, but put him in a tense situation he’s not ready for, and he’s likely to act more like an ostrich than a tiger.

  Right now Marshall was traveling inside, and it wasn’t a healthy place to be.

  “Marshall, I’ve got an idea—you listenin’?

  “Of course I’m listening.”

  “Let’s ditch this place. I’ll pay for our drinks while you go upstairs and change into real clothes. Meet me out front in ten minutes, and I’ll treat you to the best barbeque and coldest beer in DC, a place where we can talk in absolute confidence.”

  “Jack, how many times have you told me there is no real barbeque in the District?”

  “Well, it’s not Ben’s, but it’ll be good enough.”

  In less than ten minutes, he stepped out of the elevator looking much more comfortable. The cab was waiting, and before long came to a halt in front of an old, slightly seedy house on the Hill—no sign, no name, just a street number above the door. I led him around back to stairs leading to a basement door where we were greeted by a wiry fellow of about seventy with a full head of once dark hair sitting at a desk working the Times crossword. An old rotary phone sat on the right corner of the table. I signed us in and introduced him to Marshall.

  “Welcome back to Barker’s, Mr. Patterson. Haven’t seen you in a while.” I made polite noises as he buzzed us through another door.

  We found ourselves in a room familiar to me—creaky pine floors and paneled walls, a room smelling of cigars, old money, and sweat. The bar was topped with jars of pickled eggs, peanuts, and beer sausages. Nobody ate that stuff, except the peanuts, but the dated trappings somehow made you feel comfortable. I wondered idly how a twenty-something would react to them. The few other diners barely gave us a second glance.

  “No craft beers,” I said. “Just Bud, Miller, and I think they have Sam Adams now. If you want something stronger, the bar is fully stocked. The wine cellar is the envy of many DC restaurants. I wouldn’t suggest a pickled egg or sausage, but that’s your call.”

  The juke box was silent, but I led us to a quiet booth in the corner. The waitress delivered a pitcher of cold beer and two frozen mugs, an
d I was relieved to see him perk up. I ordered two pulled pork sandwiches and a side order of dry-rubbed ribs. Baked beans, slaw, and collards quickly arrived without having been ordered.

  Marshall busied himself with slaw and hot sauce, took a spoonful of beans, and asked, “I trust you when it comes to barbeque, even in DC. But where exactly are we and how come you’ve never told me about it?”

  “Well, Barker’s is private club, not a very posh club, but a very private one. Roger knows every member, and no one gets in unless there’s a member at his side.

  “You won’t find any menus at the bar. Every day there’s one special and a few staples such as salads, cheeseburgers, barbeque, and a shrimp burger that will break your heart. They’ve got what you might call a formal dining room upstairs. Barker’s is a cozy place to meet and talk over drinks and real food in total confidence. Leak an overheard conversation or disclose who is meeting with whom and your membership is revoked, no excuses, no recourse. If a guest violates the confidentiality rule, they’re never allowed to return and the member is fined. Big bucks, not a slap on the wrist. One learns the hard way not to bring a guest with loose lips.

  “Members can stay overnight in private rooms upstairs. It’s really quite nice —showers, a workout room, everything one would find at a good hotel. Most of the members are male, although a few women have been admitted in the last few years. I’d love to show you, but guests aren’t allowed anywhere in the building except for the dining rooms and a few meeting rooms. Mr. Barker makes the rules, and the first rule is—screw up, even once, and you’re out. If I ever wanted to disappear for a week or two, Barker’s would be the perfect place.”

  “Why would you want to disappear, Jack?”

  Again, so literal.

  “Just an expression, Marshall. I thought about it right after Angie died. I got so worn out by well-wishers I just wanted to escape for a few days, but I couldn’t do that to Beth.”

  “How many members are there, and how hard is it to get in? Who decides?”

  “No one knows except the Board of Governors and Mr. Barker. You have to be nominated by a member, unanimously voted in by the Board, and finally interviewed and approved by Mr. Barker. If he says no, there is no appeal.”

  “Sounds pretty autocratic.”

  “Barker’s rules, he owns the place. He spent several years in England and came to appreciate the value of the exclusive gentlemen’s club. He brought the concept back to DC, realizing that the exclusivity alone would appeal to men and women of the city who need a source of good food and drink, privacy, and camaraderie.”

  “Is it indeed exclusive?” Marshall asked. I knew exactly what he meant.

  “No, I’m happy to say, it is not. The membership is very representative of the DC community. The only people who seem to have been excluded are those who are known to care about being seen and written about in the papers. Needless to say, you won’t find many members of Congress dining here.”

  The waiter delivered hot sandwiches and ribs, and we concentrated on pulled pork for a while. I poured us another beer, and he smiled his approval, saying, “I think I could get used to this, Jack. It’s not Ben’s, but I really like your club.”

  “I could tell you much more about it, but let’s get down to business, so to speak. Marshall, in your position you shouldn’t talk to Ms. Montgomery by yourself. Let me go with you.”

  “That’s very kind of you, but totally unnecessary. I’m not worried about me. And that’s not why I’m upset or why I’m here.” Marshall’s head lowered.

  “Well, then, what’s up?” Why was this so hard?

  “I’ve come to help William. He needs a friend, and I’m here to figure out how best I can help.”

  “What? How in the world do you know Billy Hopper? And why do you want to help him?” I tried unsuccessfully to keep my tone neutral.

  “Well, I don’t know why I shouldn’t.”

  5

  MARSHALL OFTEN USED the phrase. “I don’t know why I shouldn’t.” He had first used it when I asked him to convince Angie to go out with me, and for that reason alone I enjoyed hearing it every time. The phrase had become expected and somewhat amusing, but this time I sensed an edgy, almost querulous tone. I wanted to jump in with all sorts of warnings and advice, but instinct held me back.

  “I have a boatload of reasons why you shouldn’t, but before I unload the boat, why don’t you tell me why Billy Hopper called you and why in the hell you think you—not his family, not his agent, and not his lawyer—are the person who needs to help.”

  Marshall seemed to shrink, almost physically. I ordered another pitcher of beer and leaned back in my chair. Patience didn’t come easy to me.

  “Billy Hopper doesn’t have any family, his agent has abandoned him, and he doesn’t have a lawyer yet.

  “I’ve known this young man since he was a counselor at Camp Carolina. My boys loved him, and when Jerry Stone—he’d run the camp for about thirty years by then—told my wife about his family situation, the next thing I knew William was a fixture at our house most every holiday or college break. I couldn’t have asked for a nicer houseguest, and he was a great influence on the boys. Grace treats him like a son, and I guess I do, too. I know William almost as well as I do my own boys. I simply can’t believe he murdered that woman. Now you know why I’m here and why I have no choice but to help. If it were Beth, you’d be doing the same. It took all I have to keep Grace and the boys from coming. Thank goodness for school and exams.”

  Well, now that I understood the relationship, I knew it would be tough to talk him out of getting involved. But what are friends for other than to keep you from doing stupid things. I was ready to start my sermon, but Marshall beat me to the punch.

  “Before you give me a lecture, I want to tell you a little more about the young man you probably only know as a pro football player and supposedly a murderer. William was born in a little town in the hill country of east Tennessee. His father butchered his mother when the boy was just eight years old—literally butchered her with a Bowie knife. I realize that experience doesn’t bode well for his defense, and it will come out—everything always does. William’s alcoholic father then picked up the child and drove off with him in his pick-up. Fortunately the father didn’t go far, exactly as far as the nearest bar. While the father was inside drinking, William climbed out of the truck, walked into the country store across the street and told the owner, ‘My Dad just killed my mother.’

  “William’s father ultimately pled guilty to manslaughter, claiming he was too drunk to know what he was doing. For some reason judges and juries seem to think murdering a stranger is worse than murdering your wife, so he got off with a light sentence. But he never made it out of prison. He attacked another inmate with a knife he’d stolen from the kitchen, and a guard shot him. It’s only a matter of time before a reporter or law enforcement discovers William’s father’s history and tries to link his father’s behavior to William.”

  I said, “A propensity to murder with a knife is hardly part of one’s DNA.”

  Marshall shook his head, “Nor is a father’s conduct relevant or admissible in a trial of the son, but let’s not be naïve. A good prosecutor will make sure both the public-at-large and the jury know of William’s past. You can bank on it.”

  Marshall waited in silence while the waiter cleared the table and then continued.

  “Tennessee Social Services didn’t know quite what to do with William, so he began the merry-go-round of one foster home after another. They tried to find a suitable relative to take the boy, but it turned out that the father’s family was as bad or worse than the father. The mother’s family was another matter. No one had any idea who she was. They found no birth or marriage certificate in the trailer; she didn’t have a driver’s license or any other form of ID in her purse. No one came to claim her body. The father’s family was no help. They said that Zeke Hopper— that was his name—just showed up one day with a young pregnant girl named D
onna. Sadly, she ended up in a pauper’s grave.”

  A potter’s field—not something you think about often, if ever. Surely everyone deserves some sort of decent burial. I was reminded of a friend in Santa Barbara who memorializes the lives of the homeless in his home overlooking the Pacific.

  I shook off a little shiver and said, “Very sad, and very hard to believe in this day and age.” I took another sip of beer. “The similarity won’t be lost on anyone when it comes out.”

  Marshall replied, “I’m afraid not. Psychologists on both sides will have a field day.”

  “Do you think Billy snapped? Maybe he has a shot at a temporary insanity defense?”

  “Not a chance. Insanity pleas are seldom successful. You know that from Woody’s case. Besides, I have no doubt about William’s sanity. He’s a very intelligent young man, knows exactly what he’s doing. You will meet him one day. But let me continue with his history.

  “When he was older, William spent a good deal of time trying to find out about his mother. She seemed to have no history before showing up in the hills of Tennessee with Zeke. There’s no proof she was ever married. William’s birth certificate lists Donna Hopper as the mother and Zeke as the father. That’s it, no birthplace or home address, not even a middle initial. She could have been anyone.”

  “Jeez,” I said, interested despite myself. “So how on earth did Billy turn out to be a Rhodes scholar? For that matter how did he get into a tough academic school like Sewanee—a football scholarship?”

  “No, Sewanee doesn’t offer football scholarships. Quit jumping ahead, Jack. It would be easy to say William was lucky, that somehow he found the perfect foster parents who recognized his unique skills. I think a more truthful analysis is that school, church, and sports provided the needed escape from multiple terrible home situations. From a young age, William spent every moment he could in school, in church, in the library, or on the practice fields to avoid going back to houses that weren’t homes. Most of his foster parents couldn’t care less where he was as long as he was present when social services took a body count for the monthly check. Sometimes genes and brains do win out over environment.