A Game of Inches

by Webb Hubbell

Therapists had assured me that these frequent bouts of minor depression were normal. I knew I could shake it off in time. I had no idea why I was indulging in such a pity party. After Angie died I had no desire to socialize. It had been six years now, and only two women had held much interest for me. My sometime law partner in Little Rock had turned out to be exactly that, and in the end it was much better for both of us. Marian South, a high school flame who was now a college professor in Vermont, turned out to be more attached to Vermont than to me. I had no intention of moving to Vermont.

  It was still early, so I opened a bottle of wine and sat down to stare at my computer. An antitrust lawyer’s work is usually about as lively as my social life. But if I was going to spend most of tomorrow with Marshall, I needed to sort out my workweek. I spent a while juggling various appointments and finally felt pretty good about my schedule. Angie and I used to spend our Sundays much the same way, relaxing and coordinating our schedules for the week ahead. The familiar ache of loss was a bit duller, but thinking about her brought me back to tomorrow’s task—Marshall Fitzgerald.

  I’d be left cooling my heels while the deputy U.S. Attorney interviewed Marshall about the phone call he’d received from Billy Hopper. I wasn’t concerned that Marshall was in any trouble or that he would lose his cool. But I was concerned that she might broaden her inquiry beyond the phone call. Marshall had firmly refused my attempts to intervene. He could handle it and didn’t need my services as his lawyer.

  * * *

  MONDAY

  * * *

  April 18, 2016

  10

  MARSHALL CUT A handsome and imposing figure at breakfast, He wore a dark suit, perfectly knotted tie, a cuffed white shirt and dark dress shoes, polished to perfection. I had given in to a sports coat and khakis—at least I hadn’t spilled anything on my shirt during breakfast.

  “You certainly are dressed to impress.” I complimented him.

  “I’ve found that on certain occasions it’s best to look one’s best. Today is one of those occasions. Besides, I received a call earlier this morning. Agents from the FBI will also take part in the interview.”

  Well, that changed the ball game. I wondered why the FBI would get involved. Murder was normally a local matter, but the reality was that in DC they don’t need much of a reason and frequently intervened in high profile cases. We sipped our coffee and I tried to emulate his nonchalance. I thought I’d set a few ground rules, but Marshall beat me to it.

  “I appreciate you coming to the interview, but I don’t want you to do anything that will keep me from seeing William—understand?”

  “Of course, but I’ve been thinking about this a great deal. I don’t want you to inadvertently say something that puts you at risk. I thought before we begin I’d at least ask them to verify that you are not a target of any investigation. I also want to put some limits on what areas they can question you about. For example, I don’t want them to question you about Billy’s family background.”

  “None of that Jack—nothing that will give them an impression that I’m not being cooperative. Besides, why would you think I’m a target?”

  “I don’t, but don’t handcuff me. If it were up to me I probably wouldn’t let you be interviewed at all without working out a complete understanding about the scope of this interview with the U.S. Attorney’s office. We’re talking the FBI, remember?”

  “I am well aware of the practices and methods of the FBI. You are not my lawyer. I will simply thank you very much and go by myself if you attempt to impede this interview in any way.” His formal tone evoked the very image of the judge he was.

  “Okay, it’s your funeral,” I said in frustration.

  I insisted we take a cab to the courthouse. I didn’t want either of us to look hot and bothered when we arrived. We cleared security easily and soon stood outside Room 316. I gave a brief rap, opened the door and saw four men and one woman sitting silently at a table. The men were clearly from the FBI, so the poised young black woman must be with the U.S. Attorney’s office.

  One of the men looked up and said, “I’m sorry, this is a private meeting—you’ve got the wrong room.”

  Marshall emerged from behind me, and the man backtracked, “I’m sorry, Judge Fitzgerald, you’re in the right place. I didn’t know you were bringing anyone with you. Come on in.”

  I spoke up, “Jack Patterson. I don’t think I’ve met any of you. Here’s my card.” I tossed a few business cards on the table, expecting everyone to do the same. The exchange of business cards is a Washington ritual, but no one returned the courtesy. The man who had originally spoken turned to Marshall.

  “Judge Fitzgerald, this is to be a private interview. Is there some reason you need counsel?”

  Marshall responded evenly. “Mr. Patterson is not my lawyer; he is a long-standing friend. I’m a simple Arkansas trial judge, and thought I’d be more comfortable having a friend sit in, but if that’s not permitted, may he sit outside the door until I’m finished?”

  The woman rose to address Marshall. She wore a dress with a jacket rather than the ubiquitous dark suit of the legal world. Her voice was kind, but firm.

  “I’m sorry, Judge, but we cannot allow Mr. Patterson’s presence to be here unless he’s your lawyer. But I see no reason why he can’t sit outside, and you may certainly confer during breaks. Mr. Patterson, your reputation precedes you. I’m Constance Montgomery, Deputy U.S. Attorney. My colleagues will introduce themselves.” She passed two of her cards across the table and the men did likewise. Two of them were with the FBI, Travis Barry and Fred Pitcock. The third was one of her deputies—I didn’t catch his name.

  Constance continued, “Judge, the FBI will conduct this interview. Mr. Salem and I are here only to observe.”

  So she would set the rules but pretend to only observe. She spoke to Marshall, but looked me directly in the eye. She didn’t expect a challenge, and I didn’t give her one.

  The others pulled out legal pads, and as soon as I left the room the questioning began. Fortunately, Marshall has a wonderful memory, and he was able to recite most all their questions during the first break.

  For the first half hour agent Travis took the lead, asking Marshall to recite his name, address, educational background, marital status, etc. Easy information they could have pulled of the Arkansas’s Judiciary’s website in a couple of minutes. Interview Techniques 101—begin the interview with easy questions to put the prey at ease.

  Travis continued. “Judge, thank you for giving us your background information. Let’s move foreword to the morning when William Hopper brutally stabbed and killed a woman in his hotel room. Mr. Hopper made three phone calls that morning. One to 911, one to the front desk at the Mayflower asking for security. But the first call was to a number you have identified as your home phone number. Is that correct?” His tone was still very cordial.

  “I don’t know anything about how many calls William made or what you allege William might have done, but he did call me at my home the morning of March twentieth.” Marshall wasn’t about to give them an inch.

  “Okay, he called you at home. The Mayflower’s phone records indicate that the call lasted approximately ten minutes. Does that sound right?”

  “I don’t know if you have any phone records, or what they show, but if you are asking me how long we spoke, I’d say about ten minutes.”

  “Judge, why did he call you?” Travis asked.

  “I don’t have any knowledge of his reason. You will have to ask him.”

  Marshall said at that point Travis became a little testy. “Judge could you be a little more cooperative. What did Mr. Hopper say when he called?”

  “Well, first he apologized for calling so early, then said he needed help.”

  “What did you say in response?”

  “I told him there was no need to apologize and asked how could I help.”

  “Please, Judge. We’ll be here all day if I have to drag this phone call out of you in bits an
d pieces. Can’t you just tell me about your conversation?

  Marshall said he knew it was time to quit playing.

  “William told me he had woken up in his hotel room and found a strange woman lying next to him in the bed. He said there was blood everywhere, that he jumped out of the bed and had no idea what to do. I asked him if she was alive, and he said he was pretty sure she was dead—she hadn’t moved. So I told him to call 911 and hotel security.”

  Travis seemed pleased. “Did he mention a knife?”

  “He said he’s found a bloody knife on his chest when he woke up, and that he’d thrown it across the room.”

  “He said it was on his chest?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Did he tell you why he threw it across the room?”

  “No, of course not. Wouldn’t you have done the same thing?”

  “Okay, did he tell you anything about the girl?

  “Only that he had no idea who she was.” That seemed to get Travis’s attention.

  “Did you ask him anything else?”

  “I asked him if he was okay, was he injured, things like that.”

  “And…?”

  “He said that he was okay, that the blood must be hers.”

  “He said that?” Travis was digging in. “He said the blood was hers?”

  “No, he said, ‘The blood must be hers.’” Marshall recognized the subtle difference.

  “Did he say anything else about his own condition?”

  “He said he couldn’t remember anything from the night before. He didn’t know who the woman was, and couldn’t remember how he got back to the hotel from the banquet.”

  “So he couldn’t remember a thing.”

  “That is what he said.” Marshall answered.

  “Anything else about his condition other than he wasn’t injured, and he couldn’t remember anything?”

  “He didn’t have any clothes on.”

  Marshall said that Travis looked surprised, as did the others. “How do you know?”

  “Well, I don’t know. It’s what he told me. He said he was naked when he woke up and that he was covered in blood. He wanted to know if he could take a shower.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him he couldn’t shower until the police arrived. I told him it was okay for him to put on clothes, but to be sure and tell the police he had been naked earlier.”

  Marshall said that at this point Constance had suggested they take a break, but had a single question first.

  “Before you hung up did you tell Mr. Hopper not to talk to anyone without a lawyer present?”

  “No. I told him not to talk to anyone until I got here, but I didn’t mention a lawyer. Why?”

  11

  THE DOOR OPENED and the men filed out. Marshall looked relieved, and I was about to suggest we get coffee in the cafeteria on the first floor when Constance tapped my arm.

  “Mr. Patterson?” She nodded at Marshall. “Judge. Can I have a minute before the break, just the three of us?”

  I wasn’t about to argue, so we returned to the room. She spoke directly to Marshall. “I know you’re anxious to speak to Mr. Hopper, and I’m not revealing any confidences when I say he won’t talk to anyone without your presence. However, I’d like to finish your interview before you meet with him, and I’m afraid that’s going to take a little longer.”

  Marshall grumbled. “And why is that?”

  “Whether you realize it or not you’re a critical witness. You explain why the knife wasn’t near the woman’s body, why blood was on the inside of Hopper’s sweats, and that he told you he didn’t remember anything that had happened. His phone call to you answers a lot of questions we’ve had, and we’re only getting started.”

  “Whether you realize it or not you’re a critical witness. You explain why the knife wasn’t near the woman’s body, why blood was on the inside of Hopper’s sweats, and most importantly he told you he didn’t remember what happened. His phone call to you answers a lot of questions we’ve had, and we’re only getting started.”

  “My testimony won’t change. It is the truth. How can it hurt for me to see him before you’re finished?”

  “I know you’re telling the truth, and I know you would never lie even if it could save your friend, but your present memory is untainted by any contact with Mr. Hopper. I’d really appreciate it if you would allow us to finish before you speak with him.” She spoke carefully, clearly treating him gently.

  “Will we have concluded before the arraignment this afternoon? Will I be able to speak with him before it convenes?”

  “I honestly don’t know. But certainly you can attend the arraignment. I’ll make sure you have the chance to speak at least briefly with him. Mr. Hopper doesn’t have a lawyer yet, and as I’ve said, he refuses to talk to anyone until he talks to you. He has taken your advice literally. He won’t even talk to a public defender. Other than to be polite, he refuses to talk at all. I’m as ready to have you see him as you are.”

  “Can I tell him it’s okay to talk to the pubic defender?” Marshall asked.

  Constance seemed intrigued for a second.

  “Since they haven’t yet conferred, today the public defender will simply enter a not-guilty plea for him at the arraignment. I’ll be sure the jail lets you spend as much time with him as you need tomorrow. You can tell him anything you like. Right now, get a cup of coffee, and we’ll reconvene in—let’s say twenty minutes.

  I spoke carefully, “Ms. Montgomery, it was only a very brief phone call. May I ask why this interview should take so long?”

  “I don’t want to go into everything, but you’re a good lawyer, Mr. Patterson. What would you like to ask if you were in my shoes? I suspect you already have a good idea.”

  With that she rose, closing the door gently on her way out. Marshall sat with his head in his hands. I was afraid he was going to cry.

  “C’mon. Let’s go downstairs and get a cup of coffee. This room is suddenly suffocating.”

  Marshall rose slowly and followed me out the room. We made our way to the cafeteria in the basement. I ordered two coffees while Marshall snagged a table.

  “Jack, the least I can do is get him a lawyer. I need your help. It’s already been more than two weeks. I bet he thinks I’ve abandoned him.”

  “No way. If he thought you’d abandoned him, he wouldn’t be refusing to talk to anyone. He’ll be sure when he sees you at the arraignment. Right now let’s focus on what they might want to ask you next. Then we can figure out a process to get him a good lawyer quickly.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll think of something. Have you ever known me not to figure out a way?”

  For the first time today I saw Marshall’s pearly whites.

  “No, Jack. Your methods are sometimes suspect, but you always find a way.”

  “All right. Let’s get ready for the next set of questions. I bet what you just went through was the easy part. The next session will probably test your patience and really piss you off.”

  “What do you mean? I don’t know anything more than I’ve already told them. What could they ask?”

  I told him, and as I had predicted he was pissed.

  12

  A DIFFERENT AGENT—NEITHER of us could remember his name—wasted a good deal of time reviewing the earlier interview, but Marshall kept his patience. Finally, agent Barry intervened.

  “Judge I’m going to show you some photographs. Take your time. Do you recognize the woman in any of these pictures?”

  Travis pushed five photographs across the table, all of the same naked woman lying in a pool of blood. I had prepared Marshall for this grisly tactic. He took his time, carefully examining each photograph.

  Marshall spoke deliberately. “I do not recognize the woman.”

  “You took a long time, Judge. You sure you don’t have some idea who this woman is?”

  “You told me to take
my time. I have no idea who the woman is.”

  “This is the woman who was found in Billy Hopper’s bed when the police arrived after he phoned you. Yet you say he wanted to know whether he could take a shower? Don’t you think he should have more concerned about calling an ambulance than getting legal advice about showers and clothing?”

  Marshall told me he took his time before answering.

  “I am not a practicing lawyer. I don’t give legal advice. William is a friend, and he asked me what to do. I told him to call nine-one-one and hotel security, which according to you he did immediately after calling me and even before putting any clothes on.”

  Travis considered this response before asking, “Judge, why do you think Mr. Hopper called you?”

  “William has been a family friend since he was a counselor at Camp Carolina where my sons attended camp.”

  Marshall said this revelation seemed to surprise the listeners.

  “Why would he have called you rather than, say, his parents or a sibling?”

  “His parents are deceased. As far as I know, he has no siblings.”

  “Really. How do you know this?” Travis probed.

  “He told me.”

  “Okay, you said he was a family friend. Has he ever been in your home?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than once?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Judge, you can be a little bit more forthcoming. How often would you say Billy Hopper has been in your home?” Travis let his irritation show.

  “I can’t tell you how many times he has been in our home. When he was in college he spent breaks and most holidays at our house. He spent some time with us before he went to Oxford, and more after he returned. After he signed with the Lobos he moved to Los Angeles. He didn’t come for Christmas this last year, but he spent a long weekend at our home right after the season was over. Is that detailed enough?”

  Marshall told me they conferred briefly in whispers before announcing they would break for lunch.