by Webb Hubbell
My response was totally overwhelmed by Sophie pelting down the stairs barking furiously. Laughing, Carol held the pizza high as I struggled to get Sophie under control.
“What a great dog– you’ve been holding out on me. And representing Billy Hopper—really?” She pecked me on the cheek and sailed right past me toward the kitchen.
“It’s not the way it seems.” I managed to get Sophie corralled on the back porch.
I took the pizza from her and put it in the oven to keep warm. While I opened the wine she wandered through the downstairs of the house, stopping to look at pictures of Beth, Angie, and my three best friends from high school: Woody, Sam, and Marshall.
“Good looking daughter, she looks a lot like her mother,” she said, as she took the glass of wine I offered.
She was dressed casually in jeans and a white cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up. No fancy jewelry, but small diamond earrings and what looked like a David Yurman link ring on her right hand. I only knew because Walter had recently given one to Maggie. A diamond tennis bracelet seemed natural on her wrist.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“You can interrupt anytime you want; as you can tell, I wasn’t exactly expecting company. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Billy Hopper. You played innocent last weekend—are you really going to represent him?” She got right to the point.
I didn’t want to lie to her so I avoided answering.
“See that picture of four boys with our arms around each other? One is Woody Cole and the tall black man is Marshall Fitzgerald. He’s known Billy since his kids were at camp in North Carolina. I’m meeting with Billy at his request.” I said.
“I know who he is—the other one is Sam Pagano, the prosecutor in the Cole case, your high school teammate and roommate in college. You forget I’m into information. I know a lot about you; it’s my business.”
“That’s right. It’s kind of scary that you know so much.”
She came across the room, looked up into my eyes, and then kissed me square on the lips. “Not enough.”
I was at a loss for a response, suddenly remembering the washout of last weekend. She rescued me.
“Now feed me, and let’s talk. We’ve got some ground rules to set.”
We sat on stools at the bar eating pizza and drinking a very nice Chianti.
“Ground rules?” I asked.
“Ground rules. In case you can’t tell, I’m interested in you more than having you as my escort at social events. I like your company, and I’m definitely interested in having an uninterrupted swim together, very soon.” She touched my hand.
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, you have my full attention. If getting to know you better means enduring boring DC cocktail parties and discussions about drones and fighter planes, I guess I can manage.” I meant every word.
“Okay, so ground rules. I don’t want to be in the position of giving clients information I learn from you. I want you to trust me, and I want to be able to trust you.
“For example, half a dozen clients would like very much to know how DOJ is going to come down on the Simpson-Whitfield merger, not to mention the real story of your involvement with Billy Hopper. So here’s the deal. I won’t ask, and you won’t talk about your business with me. Then I won’t have anything to report. However, if you talk about business with others at one of our weekends or at a party, or if you slip up and tell me something without my asking, I’m free to report it to my clients.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I don’t talk about my clients or my business with anyone. Is there a reason to worry about all this?” I responded, a little confused about why we needed ground rules at all.
“That’s pretty obvious. Not a soul this weekend had any idea that you had a connection with Hopper. Everyone was talking about him, but you were as quiet as a mouse, almost as if you didn’t read the papers.”
She paused, biting her lower lip, and I waited for whatever was next.
“Jack, the other day at the shore I was not my best. I’d like to explain about the phone call.”
This time I reached across and put my finger to her lips.
“Please don’t. Ground rules are set. You don’t ask me about my business, and I don’t want to know about yours. We now have our own version of don’t ask, don’t tell.”
She took my fingers and held them to her cheek. I could almost see the tension in her shoulders relax.
I asked, “Can you stay?”
She smiled sweetly. “If you don’t mind, tonight let’s enjoy the wine and talk. I want you, Jack Patterson, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not sure tonight’s the right time or place. You have a lot of memories here. So let’s go slow, okay?”
She was right, of course. I had never slept with anyone but Angie in our bed.
We took our wine to the downstairs study and turned on the ball game, which turned out to be mostly white noise for our conversation. She seemed to know quite a lot about my family, so I asked about hers. She told me that her parents still lived in their rambling house in the Dilworth neighborhood in Charlotte. I laughed when she imitated her father asking, “Yes, dear, I’m glad you’re doing so well, but what is it exactly that you do?”
She seldom saw her sister who had married a London attorney a dozen years ago and was now “quite British.” Her caustic tone made me look forward to introducing her to Maggie.
Her older brother Daniel owned a car dealership in Raleigh. He’d been a star running back at N.C. State, but had already had both knees replaced.
“Jack, he has constant headaches and sometimes forgets things, important things. His wife had to ask their son to come home to help with the business. It’s so hard to know how to help.”
I had friends in Arkansas who were going through the same thing. Football had given them early glory, a certain path to success, and then cheated them out of both their joints and their sanity. Somewhere Caesar is laughing.
I opened a second bottle of wine, and we talked about the early days of our careers. I told her how much I had enjoyed my time at Justice, and she spoke of the hurdles she had faced as a young female staffer on the Hill. The hours were long, the pay was paltry and she had to endure frequent and persistent sexual advances from both Members and senior staff. I was even able to talk about Angie—a little.
We ended up watching the ninth inning in silence; she curled up next to me on the sofa. I hadn’t spent such an easy evening with someone in quite a long time.
* * *
WEDNESDAY
* * *
April 20, 2016
20
I SLEPT LIKE a lamb and woke up the next morning in a great mood. Maggie and Walter would be home today, there were no satellite trucks in my front yard, and I hadn’t yet read the papers.
I took Sophie for a long walk after breakfast and decided to take the Metro in to work—easier to slip in the back door without attracting attention. Rose had been delighted to have a day off: the answering service could pick up any calls.
I figured I could work in the morning, meet Marshall for lunch at the Hay-Adams, and maybe get in nine holes of golf. Three hapless lawyers meeting Billy at the jail would occupy the press, and I needed some time to think without really trying, if that makes sense.
I put the coffee on and checked with the answering service for messages. Almost all were from the press, with a select few from people who didn’t believe in an accused’s right to a lawyer. I took a minute to order flowers for Carol. I couldn’t help myself. I reluctantly placed a call to Cheryl Cole—she’d called at least seven times.
“Jack Patterson, have you forgotten that you owe me from the Stewart case? I need you to come on my show. Which night works for you?”
You had to be direct with Cheryl.
“First, if I remember right, that ‘favor’ resulted in skyrocketing ratings for your program and a nice big contract for you. Second, the answer to when I’m coming on your show
the answer is never. That answer has served me well so far, and I intend to stick with it.
“So you are going to represent Billy Hopper?” She was quick.
“I didn’t say that. I am going to meet with Billy Hopper tomorrow. We’ll see what happens after that.”
She heard exactly what she wanted to hear—and Cheryl couldn’t keep a secret. She would be on the air tonight saying according to a confidential source it was only a matter of time before I agreed to represent Billy Hopper. It would be a nice diversion while I helped Marshall get Billy a proper criminal attorney.
I hung up before Cheryl could quiz me further. I opened the Post and found its piece on Hopper on page three, last paragraph:
“Jack Patterson is well known for having represented Woody Cole, accused murder of Senator Russell Robinson, and Dr. Doug Stewart, the world-famous chemist. Although he specializes in antitrust law, Patterson has a reputation for occasionally taking on seemingly impossible criminal cases. The case against Billy Hopper certainly belongs in that category.”
I took a few minutes to read the comics, a habit inherited from my mother who had always called them the “funnies,” then tossed the paper aside.
I hadn’t forgotten what Clovis had told me about Micki—it lurked just below the surface of my thoughts. I decided to take the bull by the horns. Her receptionist, Mongo, answered the phone.
“Mongo, this is Jack Patterson. May I speak to Micki?”
“You sure you want to?” Not a good omen.
“Well, yes, why wouldn’t I?”
No answer. Instead I heard him shout across the room, “Hey, Micki, Jack’s on the phone for you.” Same old Mongo. I waited patiently, wondering whether she would pick up or choose to ignore me completely. The answer came loud and clear.
“If you think I’m going to help you defend that murdering SOB, you’re dead wrong,” she shouted into the speakerphone.
“Nice to hear your voice, Micki.”
I heard a click and her normal voice off-speaker. “Well, hello there. How are you, Jack?” Her tone was, well, it was sort of uncertain, a little shaky.
“I was calling to ask you that same question. But to respond to your assumption, I have no intention of representing Billy Hopper.” I tried to keep my voice level.
“Then what in the hell is going on? It’s all over the news that you’re his lawyer.”
“Since when do you believe everything you hear in the press? And what happened to my ‘everybody deserves competent counsel’ defense lawyer?”
“She’s tired of football players treating women like trash and thinking it’s okay to beat the shit out of them or worse.”
“I’m right with you. But what if Billy’s innocent?”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” she asked.
“Marshall Fitzgerald does.” I responded.
“Marshall Fitzgerald? Our Judge Fitzgerald?”
“The one and the same. Why else would I be involved?” She grew calmer with every give and take, and our conversation became less tense.
“Why in the world does Marshall give two hoots about this guy? And even if he does, I still can’t help you, Jack. I’ve reached my limit when it comes to men taking out their frustrations on women. You have to draw a line somewhere.”
“I haven’t asked for your help. And, yes, it looks bad for Hopper. But Marshall cares a great deal for this kid, has known him most of his life, and I care a great deal for Marshall—I owe it to him to do what I can. Let me tell you what I know.”
I went on to explain the relationship between Marshall and Billy. Micki asked a couple of good questions, but didn’t seem to be particularly interested.
“Okay, so now I get it, but let me ask you this—why did you call?”
I lied. “We haven’t talked in a while, and this unexpected dip into criminal law made me think of you. So how are you?”
Now she lied. “I’m fine. We stay busy. Debbie is still driving me crazy, but she and Paul are still together, and otherwise Little Rock is much the same.”
I decided to leave it be, and we ended with a whimper, promising to stay more in touch, knowing we wouldn’t. Micki and I had enjoyed a special relationship during both the Stewart and Cole cases. Too bad we’ve never found that special case we always hoped for.
*****
My lunch with Marshall at the Hay-Adams wasn’t anything to write home about. After fried catfish and a wonderful Cabernet, today’s chef’s salad and iced tea were a bit of a downer. We tried to chat, but gave up pretty soon. Billy Hopper was the elephant in the room, and he took up all the oxygen.
I suggested a movie tonight, but he declined, citing other plans. He’d only been in town a day—I couldn’t help but wonder.
Most days, the DC Metro is a model of efficiency, and today was no exception. It delivered me to Chevy Chase Circle in less than fifteen minutes, and I was home after a ten-minute walk.
After walking Sophie, more to clear my head than to give her exercise, I sat at my desk and tried to prepare for an impossible assignment—interview Billy Hopper for one hour in order to determine whether he had murdered the woman found in his bed. Marshall had given me an untenable task.
I thought I had a pretty good plan for tomorrow. Maggie had texted to say their plane had landed, and they were on their way home, ready for bed. I replied that I wouldn’t be in the office tomorrow morning, but I would see them for dinner. I’d bet a dollar to a doughnut she’d call tonight to find out what was going on.
I spent the rest of the afternoon tending to my real job, warmed up the leftover pizza, and went to bed early. Tomorrow would be challenging; little did I know how challenging. If I’d been more attentive to my voice mails I might have returned two phone calls.
One was one from Red Shaw; the other was from one James, “the Wall”, Stockdell, the NFL’s fiercest linebacker and Billy’s teammate.
* * *
THURSDAY
* * *
April 21, 2016
21
I DRESSED CAREFULLY the next morning: charcoal pin stripes and conservative tie. The seldom-worn Allen-Edmonds wingtips were tight, but surely I could deal with them for one morning. Martin’s man told me the press had set up their gauntlet of microphones and cameras right in front of the jail; there was no way in besides plowing through. After meeting Billy, I would join Marshall at the office. Martin had the codes to open the office if they beat me there.
We pulled to a stop in front of the jail. As the horde of reporters started to shout questions, I slowed just enough to say, “I will not answer any questions at this time.” Of course that didn’t stop the ruckus, but I continued my slow progress into the building.
I made it through the door with my life. The waiting jailer was chuckling. I started to get out my driver’s license, but he said, “No need for ID, Mr. Patterson. I think your fans out there are identification enough. I will have to search your briefcase though.”
I handed it over, and he did a half-hearted search. “Conference room 101, third door on the right. We’ll bring him to you.” I wondered if the jailer knew the significance of Room 101 in Orwell’s 1984.
The room was empty except for a small table and two metal chairs. A pitcher of water and two empty mugs sat on the table. I saw a couple of gnats floating in the water.
The door opened and Billy walked in. He wasn’t nearly as big as I had expected. I’m six foot-three, but seemed to tower over the young man. Beth was right: he was good looking with a fresh face and golden hair, hardly the image of an NFL star. I was pleased to see that he wasn’t shackled or chained.
“Billy, we don’t have much time. Did Marshall tell you who I am and that you can be candid with me?”
“I’ve known about you for a long time, Mr. Patterson. I spent a lot of time with the Fitzgerald’s—your name came up all the time. The Judge said that talking to you is like talking to him, nothing but the truth.”
“Okay, I want you to keep one thi
ng in mind. I will not ask you if you murdered the woman, and I don’t want you to tell me. Okay?” I warned.
“It’s okay because I don’t know if I did or not,” he blurted out.
“I’m not sure if that’s what I wanted to hear.”
“But it’s the truth. I don’t remember a thing,” he said.
“Let’s slow down, Billy. By the way, may I call you Billy? Marshall refers to you as William—maybe you’d prefer I call you by your Christian name”
“Some folks call me Glide, but Billy’s fine. That’s what Grace and the boys call me. I’m not sure if William is even my real name. My birth certificate says Billy, but the Judge has always called me William. I don’t know why.”
“Okay. Let me do the asking first. Do you remember going to the NFL Honors banquet?”
“I do.”
“Who was at your table?” I asked.
“My agent, Cliff Parker. I met all the others, but I don’t remember their names. Corporations purchase tables, and the NFL spaces players at each corporate table.”
“Do you remember who sponsored your table?”
“I don’t. They had something to do with airplanes, I think. I really didn’t pay much attention. Frankly, the guys weren’t Presidents or CEO’s, they were guys who worked in the corporate headquarters and were thrilled they could spend the night with ball players and bid on sports memorabilia. I remember one of the guys said he was surprised his boss wanted me at their table. Apparently, I’d cost his boss a bundle when I caught that third touchdown pass against New England. There wasn’t much I could say.”
Might as well ask. “From what I understand, there were several attractive women at the table as well. Did you know them? Do you remember their names?”
“No, I’d never seen any of them before. One of them was called Ginger—I remember because she had bright red hair. I got the impression they were with the corporate guys. They were like most all the girls at these events: giggly, friendly, and drank a whole lot.”