The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “Jack Patterson calling me on a Sunday morning. Why do I think you’re not calling to invite me to brunch?”

  I tried to match her tone. “I wish I were, but you’d never accept such a late invitation.” It wasn’t the first time I’d called her on a Sunday morning.

  “Okay, Jack, quit the bullshit. Why are you calling?”

  “Well, it’s about Rachel Goodman. You may not know this, but she’s from Little Rock, and her father, Ben Jennings, is a good friend. Can you tell me if she has counsel? I’m talking to her parents, and I’d like to tell them she has a good lawyer.”

  I waited, long enough to think maybe she’d hung up.

  “Jack, you’re out of luck. I can’t tell you a single thing about this case. Why are you even asking? You should know better.”

  “All I want to know is whether she has a lawyer. That’s not too much to ask, is it? The family has resources, and she’s entitled to counsel.”

  Peggy sighed. “She’s been read her Miranda rights, but hasn’t asked for counsel. Even telling you that is more than I should say, and I damn sure better not read about it in the Post tomorrow. The case is being run out of the U.S. Attorney’s office in Northern Virginia in consultation with relevant parties. You know, the mere fact you called must be reported to the U.S. Attorney and the appropriate intelligence agencies.”

  I decided not to push—I might need Peggy as a back channel. I asked the one question I knew she could answer.

  “Who is the point of contact in the U.S. Attorney’s office, assuming the family can find an attorney who will take the case?”

  “The U.S. Attorney, Donald J. Cotton, has taken the lead.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” I asked.

  “Why should I tell you anything about him? Surely your sources are as good as mine.”

  “Fair enough. I’m warned,” I said with a touch of humor, hoping to diffuse her growing irritation.

  We ended the call with a hollow promise to meet soon for drinks. I’d found out what I needed to know: Rachel was not represented.

  I didn’t mind that Peggy would report my call to the team handling Rachel’s case. If Clovis was right, the government was already monitoring Ben’s house.

  With the Feds, you have to assume no secrets exist. Privacy rights and attorney-client privilege are a fiction one studied in law school. Reality sets in when you learn that terms such as “national security” override the attorney-client privilege and even the Bill of Rights.

  *****

  I strolled into Crittenden’s and saw my friend Sam Pagano talking to a very tall woman I almost didn’t recognize. She wore a white blouse with a soft collar, straight skirt on the long side, and—I couldn’t believe it—pearls. Her sandy blonde hair was still short, but everything about her was softer than the lawyer I’d met over three years ago wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and work boots. I even detected a hint of perfume.

  Micki Lawrence looked as classy as ever; it didn’t matter what she wore. Her back was turned as I approached. It must have been Sam’s smile that caused her to twist around toward me.

  “It’s about time you got your cute ass back home. Ben’s world has turned upside down, and you can’t unwrap yourself from Carol Madison long enough to lend a hand?”

  I gave Sam a hearty greeting, and then turned to Micki with an outstretched hand.

  “Don’t give me that hand.” She reached up and planted a warm kiss flush on my lips. “I’m really glad to see you, but don’t you get any ideas. Larry and I are very happy. You lost your chance a long time ago.” Direct as ever.

  “Pearls?” I asked.

  She blushed. “I’m meeting Larry at his mother’s after brunch. She gave me the pearls for my birthday, said something about southern women and pearls. I wasn’t really listening. Our first few meetings didn’t go too well, so I’m trying to make amends. Enough. We’re here to figure out what we can do for Ben and his daughter. Where’s Clovis?”

  11

  WHERE WAS CLOVIS? He was seldom, if ever, late. I checked my cell to see if he’d left a message, but nothing.

  “He should be here,” I said. “He joined me for coffee this morning, said he had something to take care of before brunch. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  “Clovis is never late,” Sam offered under his breath.

  While we waited, Sam told us about his decision to run for the Arkansas Supreme Court.

  “I’ve enjoyed my work as a prosecutor, but it’s time to move on. When I was first elected, the office was overwhelmed with kids who got hooked on the drugs they found in their parent’s medicine cabinet and turned to crime to feed their addiction. If we hadn’t done something, we’d have ended up with an entire generation unable to get work or be useful members of society. Do you realize that there are over forty-five thousand laws on the books that restrict employment of convicted persons even after they’ve paid their debt to society? It’s one strike and you’re out for life in this land of the free.

  “So we spent time and effort developing a good diversion program to get them treatment rather than destroying their lives with a felony conviction. Doing that enabled us to turn our attention to the real bad guys, including sex traffickers like Jack’s friend Novak.”

  I wouldn’t characterize the Russian mobster Novak as exactly a friend. We had traded favors, but only because we needed something from each other. I thought of my relationship with Novak as dancing with the devil.

  Sam continued, “Despite what we’ve been able to do, the job has taken its toll. Another few years, and I’ll be as jaded as most prosecutors who stay in the job too long. Fresh faces, new perspectives, and turnover make a prosecutor’s office responsive; too much seniority and experience fill the office with cynics and hard hearts.

  “I’ve been a public defender or prosecutor since law school, so it’s time I looked at the law from a different perspective. I’ve got great name recognition, the support of most lawyers in the state, and, so far, the big money people don’t have another candidate. And I have a huge advantage in politics: my name ends in a vowel. Being of Italian descent has to count for something. I’m not brilliant like Marshall, but I still have a real love for law and lots of practical experience.”

  Sam had always been proud of his Italian heritage; felt it gave him a leg up—and why not? His ancestors had been among those who had founded Little Italy before the First World War. Today it’s a tiny community near Little Rock, but in its heyday, it had boasted four wineries.

  “So do you want me to support you or your opponent?”

  Sam choked on his drink and then gave me a rueful grin.

  “Well, I was hoping for a generous contribution from my best friend. But now that you mention it, the prospect of you supporting my opponent might guarantee a victory,” he said, laughing.

  I was only halfway kidding. A sizeable monetary contribution from the lawyer who defended Senator Robinson’s assassin could become a campaign issue Sam didn’t need.

  “I’m in for the max if you want it. Just let Maggie know when and where to send the check.”

  I could tell Sam was appreciative, but Clovis’s absence was weighing on both of us. Every minute one of us glanced toward the entrance.

  We ordered brunch and discussed what each of us could do to help Ben and his daughter. Sam’s public office restricted what he could do, but he could encourage the police to keep a watchful eye out over Ben and Linda and be a sounding board.

  Over superb eggs benedict, jalapeno cheese grits, and fresh banana bread we speculated on why Rachel hadn’t asked for counsel.

  Sam said, “If the case is as airtight as the papers make it out to be, I suspect the prosecutor has gone to great lengths to encourage Rachel to hire counsel. He doesn’t want a technicality endangering his case.”

  Micki volunteered, “I’d bet she doesn’t think a lawyer will do her any good. If she was working for Israel, Rachel has to hope she can be part of a diplomatic exchange
. A criminal defense lawyer might impede an exchange from happening. Her handlers likely told her what to do if she got caught.”

  I tried to pay attention as Sam and Micki recalled cases they’d handled where failing to get counsel had affected an outcome one way or the other, but I couldn’t help but worry about Clovis.

  We had just ordered coffee when Paul, Clovis’s top assistant, strode into the restaurant. He practically fell into the empty chair at our table, his face the very picture of bad news. He didn’t mince words.

  “Clovis went to Ben’s this morning on a tip and was jumped from behind. He’s still in the emergency room. The doctors say he’s not critical; he’ll be okay. But I’m telling you, those guys did a real number on him.”

  We were all stunned. Micki cleared her throat and took a deep breath, “What happened?”

  “He got a call this morning about Ben’s place and decided to check it out. Good thing he called the office to ask for backup.”

  “Turns out his premonition was correct. When he pulled up, the white Tundra was parked in the driveway. He should have known better than to go in alone, but he thought he could catch the culprits red-handed.

  “He was jumped by three guys who must have been waiting for him. After a good beating, they left him unconscious and were dousing the restaurant with gasoline when the backup unit pulled into the parking lot. The culprits rushed out the back door as our guys came in the front. They got away in the Tundra while our guys were tending to Clovis.”

  “You sure he’s okay?” Micki asked anxiously.

  “He’s in a good deal of pain and looks like hell. But the doc says he’ll recover. He’s got several broken ribs, a concussion, and bruises everywhere,” Paul answered. “But even worse, he feels like a chump for getting blindsided.”

  “Has anyone told Stella?” I asked.

  “Clovis ordered me not to, says he doesn’t want her to worry.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Better you than me, Jack. Thanks.”

  Sam had slipped away to call the police. He didn’t have much to add when he returned. “So far no sightings of the Tundra or the bad guys. I’ll do what I can to make sure the police give this top priority, but unless Clovis can identify the attackers, there’s not much to go on.”

  “Paul, I need to see him,” I said.

  “That’s why I’m here,” he responded. “Clovis wants to talk to you before your meeting with Ben and Linda.”

  Micki gave me a kiss on the cheek and rose to leave, “Tell Clovis I’ll drop by this afternoon, and get Stella here pronto. If she’s not in charge, he’ll break out of the hospital and go after those guys.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll put Maggie on it. But I don’t imagine he’ll want to do much of anything right now. Broken ribs have a way of slowing even a bull like Clovis,” I said, remembering my own experience with a good ass-whipping a long time ago.

  We went our separate ways, worried and unnerved, but promising to keep one another informed.

  Clovis was our rock and protector. How could this have happened? And who would want to kill Clovis?

  12

  PAUL AND I SLIPPED OUT THE BACK of the hotel and into his Sequoia. As we drove off, he warned that the press had gotten wind I was in town and had figured out I was here to meet with Ben. Three vans with satellite dishes and at least ten reporters and crew were camped out in front of Ben’s house. I would have to face the music before much longer.

  I called Maggie on the way to the hospital. After recovering from the initial shock, she volunteered to call Stella. I warned her that Clovis didn’t want to alarm Stella, to which Maggie said something about men and their egos that’s not worth repeating. Maggie and Clovis were close, and I knew her all-business tone was a mask. I expected Maggie to be on the plane with Stella when it landed.

  Terry Collins, the exceptional Trauma Director at U.A.M.S., met me at the door. We’d been childhood friends, and I had kept up with her career over the years. I knew she would make sure Clovis had the best care possible, as she did with all her patients. She told me who was treating Clovis and tried to reassure me, but her words went in one ear and out the other. I needed to see him myself.

  The attending nurse pulled back the curtain, and I saw my huge friend almost sitting up in bed, his massive, well-toned frame half-covered by a sheet and attached to endless numbers of tubes and wires. One eye was swollen shut, his lip was twice its normal size, and what little I could see of his body was swollen and bruised. I couldn’t temper my reaction.

  “Clovis, you look like shit.”

  He grimaced, “Please don’t make me laugh, my ribs are killing me.”

  I took a deep breath. Most men have been trained not to show emotion. No matter what the circumstances, you hold every feeling in, at least until you’re alone. Clovis was my friend, my fishing buddy—hell, he’d saved my life more than once. His obvious pain was tough to handle.

  I looked at the nurse and said, “We need a little privacy, if you don’t mind.”

  At Terry’s nod, they both left, and Clovis motioned for me to come close.

  “It hurts to talk. But I need to tell you something before the dope kicks in.”

  “Forget about business. I’ll handle everything until you’re up and around, and from the looks of things, that could be a while.”

  He frowned and said, “The guys in the Tundra weren’t rednecks or thugs. They were professionals.”

  “What makes you think that?” I asked.

  “While I was on the ground gasping for air and they were kicking the shit out of me, someone ordered them to stop. I heard him say, ‘the client wants him alive when this place goes up.’”

  “That’s sick. Who’d you piss off this time?” I said, trying to maintain my composure.

  “After I left you at breakfast, I got a text that the Tundra was at Ben’s. I didn’t recognize the sender’s number, but like a fool I rushed out to the restaurant. The same guy who ordered them to stop kicking shouted for them to get my cell. He didn’t want anyone to know about the text.”

  “Well, maybe they weren’t amateurs, but who’d want you to burn alive? You haven’t been cheating on Stella, have you?”

  “I told you not to make me laugh,” he tried to grin; it didn’t work.

  “I’ve racked my brain trying to figure it out, but nobody comes to mind. I’ve put Paul in charge of your protection. I’ve warned him, and I’m telling you again—these guys aren’t amateurs. My gut says they’re liable to come after you next. What are you going to tell Ben?”

  “That’s not your problem. You are no longer on the clock, my friend. You have one job and one job only: get well. You are to obey the nurses and doctors until they discharge you.”

  He reached out for me to come closer.

  “Be careful, and listen to Paul. I didn’t see this coming,” he said in a whisper as his eyes closed. The drugs were doing their job.

  I stood there a few minutes, just watching him breathe. It wasn’t long before Terry swept the curtain back with a no-nonsense gesture. Time to leave. Paul was waiting in a chair just outside the ER.

  “Where to?” he asked. I glanced at my watch.

  “I need to see Ben and Linda. But, Paul, your primary job is to protect Clovis and find out who’s behind this. I want someone inside his room at all times, not waiting outside the trauma unit.”

  13

  I’D FIRST MET PAUL during the Cole case. He was the living proof of the old adage about book covers. He wore thick glasses and looked nothing like a former college wrestler turned martial-arts expert. He stood only about five foot eight and had the wiry frame of a runner, but there was more to Paul than met the eye. Paul had been chosen to guard my daughter Beth several years ago, and Clovis’s confidence in him had proven to be spot on. The only weakness I’d discovered was that he was head over heels in love with Debbie Natrova, Micki’s office manager, a forgivable weakness.

  As we drov
e to Ben’s, I filled him in on what Clovis had told me. Paul didn’t say a word, but I could tell he was pissed by the way he gripped the steering wheel.

  I asked, “Does Clovis have any enemies?”

  “Well, sure. Husbands we’ve followed, jerks we’ve restrained, and guys we’ve caught stealing from their employers. But those folks never strike back. This feels different—maybe it’s something personal. He may have been working on a matter I don’t know about, but I can’t think of anyone who would want Clovis to die in such a gruesome way.”

  We turned onto Ben’s street, and I recognized the familiar scene of satellite dishes rising from trucks and vans out of place on a quiet street. As we pulled closer, I could see reporters and cameramen set up on his front lawn.

  I told Paul to wait while I spoke to the reporters.

  As we exited the car he mumbled, “Your funeral.”

  Ben stood on his front porch staring at the trucks and people as though they were aliens. He didn’t say a word as I veered toward the tent. The press didn’t act surprised—they were ready with questions.

  I held up my hand to stop the barrage of questions. I was used to these makeshift press conferences.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Jack Patterson. I’m an old friend of Ben and Linda Jennings, and, on their behalf, I ask you to please remove your equipment from their lawn.”

  My request resulted in a chorus of muted laughter before the questions rang out.

  “Do you represent Rachel Goodman?” Two or three voices asked the same question.

  “The last time I saw Mrs. Goodman she was in her mid-twenties attending graduate school. In fact, until I received a call this Saturday I had no idea that Rachel Goodman was the same young woman I knew long ago as Rochelle Jennings.”

  That answer didn’t satisfy a soul.

  “Then why on earth are you here?” came the quick follow-up.

  “Ben and Linda are old friends. I grew up in their restaurant, as I’m sure several of you did. Friends comfort friends during difficult times. That’s why I’m in Little Rock, and why I’m standing in this tent asking you to leave their property.”