The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  I asked, “Had she sent you any attachments or strange emails?”

  “Nothing like that at all,” he answered.

  I made a mental note to talk to Stella about Ben’s emails. I didn’t want government documents to show up on his computer. I have a healthy distrust for the FBI, if you haven’t noticed. I felt pretty sure Ben would never see his old computer again. Several years ago the FBI had raided the home of one of Beth’s college friends. They took every computer in the house, including her little brothers’ Kindles. The parents were never charged, and the case is now closed, but the government kept the computers, including the boys’ Kindles.

  “They left me their cards, and I’ve called several times to see when I can talk to Rochelle. They’re always polite, always say the same thing—she can’t have visitors or talk to family. After a few weeks, Linda was going crazy so I decided to hire a lawyer.”

  Linda mumbled again, “Linda going crazy, my eye. Tell them the truth, Ben.”

  “Okay, Linda you’re right. I was frustrated. Nobody would tell me what was going on, my business was under siege, and the boys were no help. Neither of them offered to come home, and Tina hung up whenever I called. The only person who wants to talk is Butterman—he calls almost every day. I’m sure glad you’re here. That guy gives me the creeps, and he sure doesn’t think much of you.”

  “No, he does not, and I can assure you the feeling is mutual. Let me think about what you’ve told me overnight, and we’ll talk again tomorrow. One thing’s for sure: I’ll do whatever I can to help. You were there for me; now it’s my turn. Let’s meet back here at two o’clock tomorrow. Will church be over by then?”

  Linda nodded, but Ben asked, “Thanks, but can you hear me out for a couple more minutes?”

  “My time is yours,” I answered.

  “I have nightmares about what I saw and experienced in Vietnam, and I remember how I was greeted when I came home like it was yesterday. We knew how divided the country was over the war. Hell, most of us were dead set against it, and for good reason. But we didn’t exactly have much choice, so we did our duty. Imagine how it felt to be spat upon and shunned by friends who’d avoided the draft. My best friend told me I’d risked my life for ‘honky’s war,’ that I was no better than an Uncle Tom.

  “I’m still proud of my military service. It’s a lot of who I am. I saw and did things that still haunt me, but I grew up, developed discipline, and learned to focus my emotions in a positive way. So, when I hear my baby girl called a traitor it cuts me like a knife. Ben Jr. and I have talked about it; he has the same reaction. Does loyalty to country trump loyalty to family? I love my daughter, but I’m not sure how I’ll handle it if it turns out if she really was a traitor. You’ve got to help me with this, Jack. I just don’t know what to do.”

  Linda broke in, “Jack, I bet you’re thinking Rochelle got mad about Ira’s death, thought the government had a hand in it, and did whatever she’s accused of doing. I know that’s what is eating at Ben, but I don’t believe it for a second. I talked to my daughter some after Ira died. She may have abandoned her faith and changed her name, but she’s no spy. She’s Ben’s daughter through and through, and that’s never changed.

  “You asked how you could help. Find out what Rochelle is accused of doing and whether she did it. If she did I need to know why. I’ll love her no matter what, and that goes for Ben, too. He’ll never abandon his baby girl, no matter what she did, or what he says now.”

  8

  CLOVIS AND I LEFT BEN sitting in his chair sipping brandy. Linda volunteered to show us out, and he didn’t object. She walked us to the door and out onto the porch. I waited while she looked back to make sure Ben was out of earshot.

  “Thank you again for coming. You’re the only person Ben trusts to sort this thing out. It’s eating him alive, and he has no outlet to keep his mind elsewhere. With the restaurant closed, he sits in that chair fretting and worrying. He reads every newspaper article and spends hours on the Internet reading what anyone is saying about Rochelle.

  “I need to tell you a couple more things, but you can’t tell him I told you. Promise?” she asked.

  I nodded my head.

  “Ben received a Bronze Star and several other commendations for his service in Vietnam. When he got off the bus in Little Rock, he was in full uniform, his medals on full display. I drove up from Dumas with his parents to meet him. I was in love with him, have been since the third grade and always will be.” She allowed herself a smile.

  I was picturing an idyllic scene until she continued.

  “His parents and I weren’t the only ones there that day. The bus was full of returning soldiers, and happy family members lined the streets to meet them. Then three pickups full of kids appeared out of nowhere. They pelted Ben and the other soldiers with eggs, paint, and excrement, calling them murderers, baby killers, and traitors.”

  There was nothing for me to say, and she wasn’t through.

  “The worst of it was that one of Ben’s sisters, Maureen, was one of the kids. She’d been the one who let the group of protestors know when the bus would arrive. She got up in his face and told him she was ashamed of him, that he was a traitor to his race. Then she spit on him, right in front of her parents.”

  “Oh, Lord! What’d he do?”

  “Nothing. He loved his sister. But I was scared what he might do to the others. Who could blame him for fighting back? Several of the other soldiers whose families were getting pelted were reacting, but instead of fighting, he shouted, ‘Soldiers, it’s time to go home. These people are not the enemy. Leave it be, leave it be.’ Then he put his arm around me, and we left. The others followed his lead.”

  “What happened to the sister?” Clovis asked.

  “They didn’t speak for years. She tried to blame her friends, but he would have nothing to do with her. He refused to let her come to our wedding. His Mom was pretty upset about that, but he wouldn’t back down. Then after his Dad died and his Mom got sick, they reconciled, sort of, but the scars are there. She’s called and asked to talk to Ben about Rochelle, but I won’t let that happen. I wouldn’t be surprised to see her on TV soon, like she’s all close and lovey-dovey with the family. She ought to know better, but she doesn’t.”

  Such a sad and difficult story.

  “It’s possible the press will dig into Ben’s background, discover he’s a war hero, and write a piece comparing him to his daughter.” I wasn’t telling Linda anything she hadn’t thought.

  She said, “That’s why I knew I had to tell you. Ben never would.”

  On that somber note, she walked back into the house, and we returned to the waiting Suburban. Clovis rode shotgun, and I slumped into the back seat. Not a word was said as the driver headed back to the hotel.

  I noticed that both Ben and Linda continued to call their daughter “Rochelle.” I expected it wasn’t just the conversion to Judaism that had upset them.

  I was old enough to remember the Vietnam War—my father was one of its first American victims. My mother had told me stories about soldiers returning and being greeted in a similar fashion.

  She used to say, “Some people have a hard time distinguishing between the warriors and the war.”

  It wasn’t long before the driver interrupted our thoughts. “Clovis, I’m pretty sure the guy in my mirror is a tail. Want me to lose him?”

  Clovis’s eyes shot to the rearview mirror, and I turned around in my seat to see a white Tundra.

  “Already? Jeez, Jack—I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Jordan, you know what to do.”

  Jordan replied, “Right—everybody hold on.”

  Warned, I grabbed the handle above the window as our driver made an impossible turn on two wheels into a side street as our pursuer flew by, came to a screeching halt, and backed up.

  Jordan must have earned his stripes at NASCAR because we weaved through the quiet neighborhoods at breakneck speed. The other driver didn’t stand a chance. Clovis was o
n his phone as we tore down Broadway in downtown Little Rock. I expected to see blue lights any second.

  “I need a detail at the Armitage. Tell the crews at the house and the restaurant to be on the lookout for a white Tundra.”

  Clovis wanted to give his detail a chance to check out the hotel, so we took a tour of downtown Little Rock. The city had opened Main Street to traffic again—the pedestrian mall idea hadn’t worked after all. This day had been full of surprises; I wondered what tomorrow would bring.

  SUNDAY

  9

  I WOKE UP SUNDAY MORNING with no real vision of how I might help Rachel or Ben. To make matters worse, Carol Madison hadn’t called or returned any of my texts.

  On a whim, I checked the Post on my laptop—nothing at all about Harold Spencer, whoever he was. It wouldn’t surprise me if Columbia had pulled some strings to keep the event out of the paper. I decided to let it go, and walked downstairs to meet Clovis.

  Over breakfast, I looked through both the local paper and the New York Times. Both editorial pages featured opinion pieces suggesting that Rachel was America’s newest traitor, comparing her to Benedict Arnold and the Rosenbergs. They had drawn these conclusions without having a clue about what she was supposed to have done or why. Prosecutors use the press to convict their targets in the court of public opinion all the time. But in Rachel’s case, the slander was based on crafted hearsay and innuendo fed to the press by intelligence agencies schooled in manipulating the world media. So far, the public hadn’t been given a single fact regarding her alleged crimes.

  Several of my good friends work as reporters or writers for newspapers or Internet publications. They fight the rush to judgment every day, but the pressures of the twenty-four hour news cycle, Internet news coverage, and tightening budgets frustrate the best of them. Now we have an administration calling every article that casts it in an unfavorable light “fake news.” Just at the time when our country needs real investigative journalism and reporters to discover and mine the truth, newsroom budgets are being cut to the bone.

  Not too long ago, one friend told me we are witnessing the demise of print journalism. I hope not, but I can see why she thinks that way. My own daughter doesn’t take the St. Louis newspaper—she gets all her news from the Internet.

  Clovis joined me for a cup of coffee just as I was finishing the funnies. At least the Demozette had a good comics section. If the Post ever drops its comics section, it might lose me.

  “Be sure and thank Jordan for me. He was as cool as they come last night,” I said.

  “He’s been a find all right,” Clovis responded. “His family’s farm is near Batesville. He grew up idolizing the NASCAR Hall of Fame driver Mark Martin, who’s also from Batesville, but Jordan had the good sense to get his degree. He’s smart and shows good judgment.”

  I had to ask, “Any idea who was tailing us?”

  “Not a clue. It could have been the Feds, but they aren’t usually so obvious. And I’ve never seen them in a white Tundra; black Suburbans are more their style. You haven’t made the paper yet, so who knows you’re in town? Jordan’s on it, but…” He shrugged.

  I gave him a look, but let it go. I had to let Clovis do his job, so I could concentrate on mine.

  He refilled his cup and asked, “You figured out what to tell Ben this afternoon?”

  “Nope. Like you, I don’t have a clue. It sounds like Linda halfway believes Rachel did something wrong. Ben will have a hard time accepting a guilty plea, if that’s what’s in the offing, no matter what the reason. The next few weeks won’t be easy for either of them.”

  “Or for you,” Clovis noted.

  “It’s further complicated because Rachel is a mature adult. She may already have counsel who won’t want to cooperate with an antitrust lawyer doing a favor for her parents. An interfering family can be a criminal lawyer’s worst nightmare.”

  “Can you find out if she’s represented?” Clovis asked.

  “I’ll work on that this morning. Any surprises in store when we meet Micki and Sam?”

  Last time I’d asked about Micki, Clovis told me that she’d gone on a bender after finding Eric, her fiancé, in bed with one of his nurses. Sam and Clovis had intervened, and she got over the bastard. By the time she came onboard in the Billy Hopper case, Micki was seeing Larry Bradford, an artisan carpenter. I’d grown to like Larry after spending time with him. He had a calming influence on Micki, not a small accomplishment.

  There was much more to Larry than met the eye. He was from an old Little Rock family whose sons have always been bankers, as have their sons, and their sons. Larry graduated from St. Albans and Princeton, but couldn’t stomach the life of a banker and returned to New England to study carpentry. He became a very accomplished artisan and came to Arkansas to pursue his craft. Several of his pieces were currently on exhibit at Crystal Bridges Museum in Northwest Arkansas.

  Clovis interrupted my brief musings.

  “Not that I’m aware. Micki and Larry are still together. Stella and I have gone out to dinner with them several times, but you know Micki. The one thing certain is that nothing is certain when it comes to men.”

  Having been one of those men for a brief period, I understood what he meant.

  “Sam is talking about running for the Arkansas Supreme Court—I guess that’s news. I think most lawyers support him, but seats on the court have become politicized. A lot of money is pouring in from out of state to make sure the Arkansas Supremes are ultra-conservative and business friendly.”

  Clovis had just described the state of the judiciary all over the country. Judicial races, which used to be politically impartial and low key, were becoming expensive contests with candidates beholden to either big business or wealthy trial lawyers—Justice going to the highest bidder.

  Clovis brought me up to date on Woody’s mom, Helen Cole, and Judge Marshall Fitzgerald, a boyhood friend and Billy Hopper’s mentor. I made a mental note to call them both before I left town.

  Without even thinking, I looked down to check my messages. It had become a habit.

  “You expecting a call?” Clovis frowned.

  Embarrassed, I apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to talk to Carol before I left yesterday. I’ve been expecting a call or text.”

  “You sound like a teenager. If you want to talk to her, just call her. I’ve got a couple of things to do before brunch. Let me give you some privacy so you can get the urge out of your system.” He gave me a pat on the back and left, shaking his head at my rude behavior.

  Feeling foolish and rightly put in my place, I paid the bill and returned to my room. My frustration returned when I got her voice mail again. I turned to my email to get my mind off her.

  I found Carol’s message about ten down in the list I was deleting.

  Been busy. No time to call. Why couldn’t you tell me you were going to Little Rock instead of making up a story about golfing all weekend? What’s wrong? Your old girlfriend got herself in trouble again? Love, Carol.

  At least she had signed off with “Love, Carol.” She’d sent the message at one-thirty in the morning, not an unusual hour during her working weekends. I shot off a quick response explaining why I was in Little Rock.

  Emergency in LR—didn’t come up until Saturday morning. Rachel Goodman’s father is my old friend and mentor, Ben Jennings—small world. I’m here to find out how I can help. I’ll be back in time for the ball game. See you there. I miss you. Jack.

  I felt a rush of relief. After responding to a few work emails, I called Maggie.

  “How was the symphony?” I asked.

  “Fantastic. They performed Shostakovich’s Fifth, one of my favorites. How’s Ben?”

  “He’s struggling. We’re meeting this afternoon to talk about how to proceed. It will be a tough conversation and is likely to last into the evening. I won’t be able to leave Little Rock until tomorrow morning, and I’m supposed to meet Carol at the Nat’s game tomorrow night. Hold down
the fort, okay?”

  “Don’t I always?”

  “Yes, you do,” I smiled. “Try to clear Tuesday morning so we can talk. Representing Rachel is going to put a strain on the practice.”

  “What else is new?” Maggie laughed.

  “May I ask what’s got you in such a good mood? The Shostakovich couldn’t have been that good,” I teased.

  “It was, but I have a few things to talk to you about, too. I’ll clear away the whole day.” She hung up with no further explanation. A secretive Maggie made me nervous.

  I closed my laptop and pulled out my trusty yellow legal pad. I think best with a ballpoint and legal pad. It’s how I bring order and structure to my random and disconnected thoughts.

  I hardly knew where to begin. I didn’t even know what charges would be brought against Rachel. Both the print and Internet articles were full of suspicion and hyperbole, but no real facts. An hour with my legal pad at least produced the tentative outline of a strategy.

  I might have felt differently if I’d noticed the second email from Carol.

  Rachel Goodman!! Have you lost your mind?? You’ll destroy your career and mine along with it. Back off and call me. Why don’t you answer your phone?

  I should check my personal email more often, but I don’t. I wouldn’t open Carol’s message until Monday.

  10

  WHAT I NEEDED MOST WAS INFORMATION, so I decided to call my longtime friend Peggy Fortson. She’s a big dog at the Department of Justice, the Deputy Assistant Attorney General in the Criminal Division. We began our careers at Justice at the same time, but I moved over to private practice after a few years. She stayed, rising through the ranks to her current position.