by Webb Hubbell
“Mr. Patterson—may I call you Jack? Thank you, I hope you will call me Levi. Despite what you told the press today, I hope you will represent Rachel. She needs a lawyer of your caliber. But that is not my purpose for seeking you out.
“I have a message to give Rachel and her family. Your remarks this afternoon convinced me to deliver this message to you rather than the Jennings. I’m not close to them and don’t think they will understand its significance. You will.”
He sighed, “Israel knows Rachel will soon be charged with various crimes including conspiracy to commit espionage. In fact, she will be accused of conspiring with the Israeli government to steal military secrets. Such allegations are strongly denied by the Israeli government.”
So far, he hadn’t told me anything that hadn’t been in the news every day.
“Because Israel values its relationship with the United States and because it denies any involvement in Rachel’s activities, Israel will cooperate fully in the investigation, and has decided not to seek any sort of diplomatic resolution.” He coughed, perhaps ashamed of the statement he had memorized.
No, Ben and Linda wouldn’t understand the full implication of his message—in essence, Israel was throwing Rachel Goodman under the bus.
Maggie understood what it meant—her face tightened and her eyes turned to flint.
“Levi, may I ask a few questions?” I tried to keep an even tone.
“Yes, of course. I will answer if I can.”
“I take it this same message has been delivered to the United States government.”
“That is correct. Who said what to whom I do not know, but our denial of involvement, our willingness to cooperate, and our lack of desire to seek a diplomatic resolution was transmitted through proper channels.”
“When you reference ‘a diplomatic resolution,’ I take it you mean any kind of spy swap or exchange is off the table?” My voice became a little firmer.
“Again, you are correct.”
“Can you tell me if this decision by the Israeli government resulted from negotiation?”
“I wasn’t told how Israel reached its decision. Forgive me, I’m just a messenger.”
“Can you tell me whether the agreement to cooperate includes disclosure of the activities of Rachel’s husband?”
“I cannot imagine how the work of Rebbe Goodman is pertinent to Rachel’s recent activities.” Rabbi or not, this guy was a cool customer.
I tossed a little shrug, hoping the bluff would work.
“I appreciate the courtesy. At least the Israeli position won’t blindside anyone. I will do my best to convey the message to the Jennings and to Mrs. Goodman. I assume you understand what Israel’s position means for Rachel?”
“Yes, I’m sorry to say, I do,” he replied with a heavy sigh.
17
THE RABBI’S MESSAGE also meant that the U.S. government had made the decision to seek the death penalty in Rachel’s case. Tomorrow, I would have to give Ben and Linda that news. I offered Levi another glass of wine, but he declined. I couldn’t help but wonder who’d sent him on this errand and whether either government had sanctioned it. As he rose to leave, he offered a ray of hope.
“I come to DC quite often. Will you allow me to return your hospitality? Perhaps you know of a quiet place where we can talk. Most restaurants are so loud these days.” I followed his glance to a solitary figure sitting in the corner nursing an empty glass.
After he left, Maggie and I sat in silence for a few minutes. Suddenly Maggie said, “I’m sure your Rabbi is a very nice man, but I feel like I need to wash my hands. Why don’t we meet back here in, oh say fifteen minutes or so?”
A few minutes to myself sounded like a good idea, so I paid the bill and followed her upstairs. I tried to reach Carol again—still no answer. I couldn’t seem to pull my thoughts together, so I threw some water on my face, changed shirts, and took the elevator down to the lobby to find Maggie chatting with Jordan, our companion for the evening. I considered asking Micki and Larry to join us, but thought better of it. Strauss’s message had been a real downer. No need to spread the gloom.
Over Jordan’s objection we walked the few blocks to the restaurant. The cool crisp fall air felt good. Bruno’s is Little Rock’s oldest Italian restaurant. My mother and I had enjoyed eating at Bruno’s when we first moved to Little Rock. I had loved watching old Mr. Bruno toss pizza dough high into the air. The restaurant had moved several times and, to the dismay of all of Little Rock, had finally closed. But it had remained in the family and had now reopened in downtown Little Rock to rave reviews. The menu was more contemporary, but it still felt like the Bruno’s I remembered so well.
We invited Jordan to join us for dinner, but he preferred to wait outside while on duty. I’d have to talk to that boy—he needed loosening up. From our table by the window we could see him pacing up and down the sidewalk. Maggie was unnerved, and I asked for a different table.
“Do you think we can ever come to Little Rock without needing protection?” she asked after we were reseated.
“I hope so. You’re right, it is getting old, but this time there’s a new wrinkle—no one has tried to kill me, only Clovis.”
“Right. It isn’t funny, Jack, and you still haven’t told me what happened.”
The waiter stepped to the table to take our order before I could respond. Rabbi Strauss’s message had taken away both our appetites, so we agreed to share an appetizer portion of fresh mozzarella and Roma tomatoes and a Caesar salad.
After the waiter left, I filled Maggie in on the Tundra following us, the attack on Clovis, and the aborted attempt to torch Ben’s restaurant.
If Maggie’s mood had been unsettled before, the possibility of Clovis being burned alive took her over the edge.
“My God, who would do such a thing?” Her voice was shrill, and several couples turned our way.
I reached across the table to take her hand.
“It didn’t happen, Maggie. It didn’t happen. And you cannot mention what I just told you to Stella or anyone else, not even Walter. Clovis gets to tell her in his own good time.”
She nodded, but her eyes were full of tears. Our waiter appeared with our appetizer and two glasses of Pinot Grigio, and the bustle brought us both back from the edge. Maggie cleared her throat and excused herself, returning in a few minutes, completely under control.
We tried to regain our footing with chitchat about the newly revitalized downtown. I indulged in a little reminiscing, and before long we were back on an even keel. When the waiter brought our salads, I carefully returned to the events at hand.
“It’s hard to believe that just yesterday morning I was about to play golf with your husband. Less than forty-eight hours later we’re here in Little Rock talking about a potential new client charged with espionage.”
“Moreover, you have a second matter on your plate, one equally as difficult. Who tried to kill Clovis, and why?”
“Maggie, what’s gotten into you?” I asked. “You’re usually dead set against our getting involved in cases beyond the scope of our antitrust work. Now you seem ready to jump into the deep end.”
She took her time, rearranging her silver and taking a healthy sip of wine before responding.
“Well, for one thing, I don’t like what’s happening to Rachel. I’ve never met her, but this doesn’t seem fair. And the attack on Clovis hits even closer to home. You can’t ignore that.
“I never want you to give up your antitrust practice. You know antitrust law and mergers and acquisitions inside and out, and you’re one of the District’s best.”
She fiddled with her silverware again; I knew better than to interrupt.
“Jack, we have two great clients on retainer—the Foundation and the Los Angeles Lobos, and you give them superb advice. But you shine when you follow your heart, when you take on a case that’s out of your usual bailiwick. People talk about Billy Hopper. And look what you accomplished for Liz and Doug Stewart.
“My own life experience has led me to be wary, not to take chances. But I’ve been wrong to fight your instincts, so I’ve decided to back off, within limits. Our partnership will be better served if I concentrate on a few changes in our office structure that will help accommodate those wild hairs that take you off in unexpected directions.”
“What changes?” This time the other diners turned to look at me.
She smiled, looking like the cat that ate the canary.
“What changes?” I repeated, my voice now calm, but firm.
“I told you over the phone we’d talk on Tuesday. We may need to delay the conversation for a few days while we resolve the issues here in Little Rock. So let’s talk about what you have planned for tomorrow. Would you like to share a dessert?”
I grumbled a little, but we ended up sharing a very creamy Tiramisu and walking back to the hotel, Jordan hovering a few steps behind. By the time I reached my room the day had caught up with me. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.
MONDAY
18
CAROL SLEPT IN on the Mondays after her weekends at the Eastern Shore, regardless of whether she remained on the shore or drove back to DC Sunday evening. So I decided not to call her first thing, especially now that I’d read her email. Our conversation would be even more difficult, and I wanted to put it off for as long as I could.
Sam must have called in a favor with the reporters who covered the police blotter—no mention of the attempted arson. Paul texted that Clovis would be discharged later this morning. Good luck with that, I said to myself. Micki left a voicemail saying she had a court appearance at nine, but would be in her office by ten.
After breakfast and answering a few emails, I took the plunge and was relieved to hear Carol answer the phone as if it were just another day.
“I’m so glad you called. When are you coming home? I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. The last couple of days have been crazy—I’m sorry we played phone tag yesterday. And I didn’t see your email until this morning.”
“Oh, forget that email. I sent it way too late and after a little too much wine. Why don’t we skip the game, and you come here tonight—Mattie’s cooking. It’s been too long since I’ve had you all to myself. Bring your toothbrush.”
Mattie was her cook and housekeeper. She lived with her husband in a small apartment near Carol in the Watergate. Carol’s driver Pat and his wife lived in a similar unit. Carol owned both apartments and gave them a significant break on the rent for the convenience of having them close and on call.
The invitation sounded almost too good to be true. I was expecting a lecture about answering my phone, misplaced priorities, and being a damn fool. Instead—well, a night with Carol was just what the doctor ordered.
I took a deep breath and told her the truth. I was still in Little Rock, and wouldn’t be home for at least several days.
“Well, damn. I had planned something special for tonight. It will keep, but if you don’t come home soon, I may have to surprise you there.”
I was at a loss. Not a word about Rachel, not a word about our earlier spat, only what sounded like a sincere wish for me to return to her waiting arms. Maybe I’d been worried about nothing.
We settled on Thursday night. Surely I wouldn’t need to stay in Little Rock that long, but the attack on Clovis and his condition took first priority. Still, I walked into the hotel lobby feeling better than I had in weeks.
*****
Micki had relocated her office to a renovated ramshackle Victorian house in Little Rock’s Quapaw Quarter. The renovator had taken great care to retain its original layout and charm while adding the conveniences of contemporary life. Debbie Natrova, Micki’s office manager, met us at the door, happily informing us that we’d find fresh muffins, pastries, and coffee in the conference room. Linda had called to say she and Ben were running a little late.
Debbie had emigrated to the U.S. from Eastern Europe when she was a teenager. She had hoped to become a pastry chef, but her sponsor, Alexander Novak, had other plans. She and other innocent young women like her, eager for a new life in America, were robbed of their innocence when they were given hard drugs and trained how to please the men who went to their rooms night after night. Micki rescued Debbie from Novak’s clutches, employing her as a receptionist so she could keep a watchful eye on her recovery. Now Debbie kept Micki’s office organized and running smoothly. Her methods and manners were quirky, but no one doubted her abilities.
Another of Micki’s projects was her unlikely receptionist and part-time investigator, Mongo Stankovitch. Mongo looked like he’d be more at home in a biker bar than behind a reception desk. I’ll give him this—his loyalty to Micki and Debbie was unshakable. I never worried about Micki or Debbie’s safety as long as Mongo was there to greet whoever walked in the door.
Debbie handed Maggie a warm muffin and a cup of hot tea already doused with milk. She had a good memory.
Munching on my muffin, I asked Paul, “How come you don’t weigh three hundred pounds? Does she make these for you every morning?”
“Not every morning, but I’ve had to extend my morning run. What I can’t understand is how she doesn’t gain a pound or an inch. Neither does Micki. Mongo and I are struggling.”
I sat down at the end of the table with a cup of coffee and a second muffin, waiting for the others to arrive.
On a whim, I asked Debbie if Stella had checked their offices for bugs.
“No—you know Micki doesn’t worry too much about that stuff. I mean, who would want to listen?” she laughed.
Before I could answer, Micki walked into the room with Mongo in tow carrying a large box of files. She wore a bright red suit and heels.
“Jack, we only have security issues when you’re in town,” she said, laughing. “Give me five minutes to get out of this damn suit—itches like hell.” She grabbed a muffin, kissed me on the cheek, and headed to the back office she had converted to a workout room and crash pad.
I couldn’t help but grin, reminded how much fun it was to work with Micki. She kept me on my toes, never hesitated to tell me when I was wrong, and her enthusiasm and optimism were contagious.
We made small talk until Micki opened the door and sank into a chair. She’d changed into jeans and a man’s white shirt, and was drying her hair with a towel.
“Sorry—I had to take a shower. I can’t stand the stale cigarette smell of that old courthouse—without a shower it lingers with me all day.”
We spent thirty minutes talking about what I’d learned in the last couple of days and my brief conversation with Rabbi Strauss. Suddenly concerned, I asked about Ben and Linda, but Paul told me they had gone to Ben’s warehouse to pick up a case of barbecue sauce.
“What do you know about Rabbi Strauss?” I asked.
“I’ve defended a few of his synagogue members. He never misses a court appearance and is always there for the family, no matter what the circumstances. He’s active in the community and well respected.”
“I got the distinct impression he wasn’t that happy to be the news bearer last night,” I said.
“I expect not. I’ll ask around, but from all I know, the guy’s a mensch,” Micki said.
“Find out what you can. Last night won’t be the last time we hear from the good rabbi.”
19
MONGO LED BEN AND LINDA into the conference room. Ben carried a box crammed with jars of barbecue sauce, which he plopped down on the middle of the table. Mongo started to move it, but I stopped him mid-move.
“No, Mongo, that box deserves a place of honor. Ben, thank you—that sauce will make Walter’s day.
“Ben and Linda, I promise you can trust Maggie as much as you trust me. She’ll ask you for a lot of paperwork and information. You won’t think most of it is relevant, but the government is a stickler for details, so I hope you’ll be patient.”
Linda responded, “That’s okay, we’re ready. I brought a file I’ve ke
pt on Rochelle since she was a baby. I tried to give it to her more than once, but she always refused, said it was safer with me. It’s got her birth certificate, her report cards from kindergarten through high school, her college transcripts, and even her social security card. I’m sorry, but I don’t have a marriage certificate.”
I knew Maggie would put her at ease in a few minutes, but I had bigger fish to fry first.
“Before I turn you over to Maggie and Debbie, I have some new information. There’s no way to sugarcoat this. Maggie and I were informed last night that the federal government will seek the death penalty in Rachel’s case. I’m disappointed, but not surprised. I haven’t verified the accuracy of this information, but thought you should know right away.”
Ben bit his lip, and Linda turned away, but neither said a word.
“I told you yesterday that I’ll do everything I can to help Rochelle, and I will. Micki has agreed to help, but because of this development I want you to rethink whether you want our help or not. I can help you find a lawyer more experienced in death penalty cases.”
Ben raised his hand to stop me, and I waited for him to gather his thoughts. His voice began with a quiver.
“D…Don’t go there, Jack! Just don’t! Woody was tried for murder, and he wanted the death penalty, did he not?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“That ball player, Hopper, was accused of murder, was he not?”
“Yes, but he wasn’t facing the death penalty.”
Ben’s voice had lost its hesitancy.
“Linda and I have talked about this more than once. If my daughter agrees, Linda and I want you to defend her no matter what the charges or the penalty. The bottom line is this, Jack: We trust you.”
He turned to Micki.
“Micki, I don’t know you that well, but I saw how you complemented Jack in both Woody’s and Doug Stewart’s case. If he hadn’t asked you to help, I would have.”