The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “Where in the world did you find that?” I asked.

  “I’ve been waiting for the perfect occasion. You like?” she asked as she vamped a sexy pose.

  She curled in beside me, and it didn’t take me long to realize the Jersey was all she was wearing. We sipped on the wine and pretended to watch the game, but it wasn’t long before I pulled her closer and ran my hands under the jersey. She pulled a soft wool blanket from the back of the sofa over us and kissed me with a passion unusual for her. My jeans came off, and we came together with a sudden urgency, like first-time lovers. We parted when she rose, pulling me up with her.

  “Take me to bed, Jack Patterson. I want you again. And this time, let’s take our time.”

  FRIDAY

  37

  CAROL WOKE ME with a soft kiss on the neck. To my disappointment, she’d already showered and was dressed in butternut colored pants and a cream silk blouse. A quick glance at the clock reassured me it was only six-thirty.

  “I’ve got a breakfast meeting, so roll over and go back to sleep. Mattie’s already here and will cook breakfast whenever you’re ready.” She gave me a quick kiss and was out the door before I could even say good morning.

  I found and pulled on my pajamas, stumbled into the kitchen, and poured myself a cup of coffee. Mattie wasn’t surprised either by my presence or by my apparel. She smiled and asked when and how I’d like my eggs.

  “I’ll hop in the shower. Give me a few minutes, okay?” I asked.

  “No problem, Mr. Patterson. You have time for your favorite?” she asked.

  Mattie made a special egg dish for breakfast that included spicy sausage, onions, and peppers. It was too spicy for most of Carol’s guests at the shore, but Mattie knew I loved it.

  “I wish I could, but not this morning,” I sighed, unsure how long I’d be locked up in the back of a van. “Just Grape-nuts or whatever cereal you’ve got handy.”

  By seven-thirty Mike and I were headed across the Potomac to meet Joan Laing at the Alexandria Federal Courthouse. Traffic patterns in the DC area fascinated me. Every weekday morning from about five-thirty until nine-thirty tens of thousands of cars poured into the nation’s capital. The process reversed beginning at about three in the afternoon. For the commuters who lived in towns like Manassas or Burke, it could take a couple of hours to make the trip, another good reason to live in Chevy Chase.

  I found Ms. Laing waiting for me on the courthouse steps. She wore a different beige pantsuit, and I wondered how many she owned. She greeted me and waved me into a room where a U.S. marshal patted me down, a little too hard for my taste. I soon faced her in the rear of a windowless van that contained nothing except benches attached to each wall.

  She said nothing, so I tried a little humor. “I’m surprised we’re not blindfolded and handcuffed to the seat.” There were U-bolts in the floor intended for that purpose.

  Without a smile she deadpanned, “It was discussed.”

  “Really?’ I asked with a frown.

  She allowed herself a smile. “Just kidding.”

  That broke the ice, and as we bounced along over what I thought must be rural roads, we talked about where she had attended school—McGill and Boston College Law—her husband’s science fiction novels, and several mutual friends at main justice. I got up the nerve to ask her to call me Jack, and she agreed, returning the favor. The van slowed, backed up, and came to a stop.

  The van had backed into a closed and windowless garage, and we were escorted from the garage into an attached cinder block building. I had no idea how long we’d been driving or where we were. Joan and I were separated, and a marshal escorted me to a small room and told me to remove my clothes. As I stood there shivering, he passed a wand over the clothes I’d piled on the table, and then passed the wand over my body. I’ll spare you the indignity of the rest of the search, except to say he was very thorough.

  After I dressed, he led me to another room, this one fitted with a steel table and two chairs in its center. Joan and another woman sat next to a smaller table against a wall. Cameras were situated in each corner. So much for private conversation.

  The other woman, Agent Hudson, handed me her card in silence, and I apologized for not having a card on me. She failed to notice the irony. A marshal led Rachel into the room. She wore a blue jumpsuit and was hampered by leg shackles connected by a chain to handcuffs. At my request the leg shackles were removed, but the handcuffs remained.

  I hadn’t seen her since her college days, but I recognized her immediately. She was slender, of average height with very dark skin, with her hair in a short afro. She was the spitting image of Ben.

  Joan introduced everyone and reminded Rachel of her rights. Rachel responded that she understood her rights. It was my turn.

  “Rochelle, it’s been a long time. I don’t know if you remember, but we met when you were in DC to see Angie and Beth. I understand you asked to speak about hiring me to be your lawyer, but before we discuss that matter I caution you not to say anything about the case. This discussion is not protected by the attorney-client privilege. Agent Hudson is taking notes, and I suspect those TV cameras in the corners are recording this conversation.”

  My eyes went to the camera across from me, and Rachel glanced at the one in front of her before she spoke.

  “Okay, thanks. But I need to ask a favor right off the bat. I changed my name to Rachel when Ira and I married, and I prefer you to use it, if you don’t mind.”

  “Of course—you must remind me if I slip up.” I was glad to see she wasn’t daunted by the circumstances.

  “I remember meeting you, and you’re right, it was many years ago,” she continued. “But my father always said if I were ever to need a lawyer, I should call you—he thinks the world of you. I followed the Hopper case, and I loved your wife and daughter, so I feel like I know you more than a little. Ms. Laing continues to tell me I need a lawyer, so I asked her to contact you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. In fact, I was in Little Rock talking to your parents about helping you when I learned you’d asked to see me.”

  “You’ve seen Mom and Dad?” She interrupted. “How are they? I wish…” I raised my hand, and she halted.

  “They’re concerned, and I won’t kid you—it’s been tough. But they’re strong and are holding up well. Your message was welcome.”

  “My main concern is the effect it will have on them and my brothers.” I stopped her again before she could continue.

  “Rachel, we can talk about your family later. We’ll have plenty of time to talk about what happened, your concerns, and the charges against you after I’ve been hired and we can meet in private. But Ms. Laing insists we talk about representation first.”

  “What do I need to do? I have money put aside, but I don’t know if it’s enough for a lawyer of your reputation,” she said.

  “We’ll work something out, don’t worry. Your dad has offered to help, but I’d rather not discuss money today. I’ll bring an engagement letter when we’re able to meet in private. Money isn’t going to a problem, I promise.”

  I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Agent Hudson had stopped writing and was looking at Joan. I suspect they were wondering if someone else had agreed to pay my fee. I’d deal with that issue later.

  “Then what do I need to do?” Rachel asked.

  “Listen for a few minutes while I tell you why I may not be the best lawyer for you. I’m an antitrust lawyer—I’ve never represented anyone charged with espionage.”

  Now Rachel interrupted. “Don’t waste your breath. Dad said you are the best—you represented Billy Hopper, and I know all about what you did for Woody Cole. I don’t need an espionage expert, that’s not what’s going on here at all. When we talk in private I will explain.”

  I reached across the table and stopped her from saying anymore. I was dying to know what she meant by “that’s not what’s going on,” but now was not the time.

 
“Okay, then look over to Ms. Laing and tell her you want me to represent you. We’ll do the paperwork, talk about your family, and talk about other issues when we meet in private,” I responded.

  Rachel did as I instructed, and I asked, “Now that this charade is over, may I meet with my client in private, please.”

  Joan didn’t budge.

  “I’ll report her decision to the appropriate individuals, and we’ll do our best to speed up your clearance. I see no reason why you shouldn’t be able to have an attorney-client meeting by mid-week.” She rose from her seat and added, “I’ll call the guard.”

  “No. You promised me an hour,” I said firmly. She looked annoyed, but resumed her seat.

  I turned to Rachel. “How have they been treating you? Are you getting enough to eat? Are you comfortable?”

  For the next thirty minutes I tried to garner as much information as I could about her treatment, her health, and anything else that didn’t involve the case. I received permission to enter her apartment, and she told me who had a spare key. I was confident the FBI had ransacked it, but at least I could see what was left.

  I knew I was over my time limit, irritating agent Hudson, but I continued to chat until Joan broke in.

  “Mr. Patterson, you’ve used up your time and then some. I’m calling the guard to take Ms. Goodman back to her cell. Say your goodbyes.”

  Rachel said, “Please give my parents my love and tell them everything will be all right. It’s not what it seems.”

  The guard came in and reattached the shackles and chain, so I said, “Try not to worry too much, Rachel, everything will be okay. You and I will get to the bottom of this. This nightmare will be over soon.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Patterson—with your help I know it will, too. Tell Mom and Dad I’ll see them soon.” She smiled Ben’s smile, a smile of confidence.

  “I will,” I said, trying to return that same confident smile. I couldn’t help but think, “Thank God she hasn’t seen the newspapers.”

  38

  THE SECOND STRIP-SEARCH came as a surprise. My holding Rachel’s hands raised concerns that we might have exchanged something, which was ridiculous. Say what they want, it was about power and humiliation.

  I dressed and returned to the van, but Joan wasn’t there. Maybe they had searched her again. I waited on the hard bench for what seemed a long time before she appeared and returned to her spot across from me.

  “I don’t know how you did that. I’m impressed,” she said with what seemed to be an honest admiration.

  “Did what? I couldn’t say a thing.”

  “You gave your client the impression you think she’s innocent and you will get her off. You exude confidence and it’s contagious. So, I’m serious, I’m impressed.” She smiled pleasantly.

  “She is innocent. You’re familiar with the phrase, innocent until proven guilty? I believe in it. Right now, this case is a blank slate, and I’ve not seen a shred of evidence establishing her guilt. So it wasn’t an act; she’s innocent in my book. That fact that you’ve detained her and are about to charge her doesn’t mean a thing. I’ve seen too many men and women prosecuted for crimes they didn’t commit.” Joan’s smile faded.

  “You don’t know me, but I assure you I don’t prosecute someone, much less ask for the death penalty, unless the evidence is overwhelming. Don’t worry—before long you’ll have plenty of evidence. I’ll be interested to see if you still exhibit that same confidence when you’ve seen the proof.”

  She exuded confidence herself, and although I wanted to change the subject, I didn’t want to leave it on that note. “I’ll keep an open mind, as I hope you will.” I reached across the van to shake her hand, and she extended hers. I didn’t trust her one bit.

  She changed the subject, but not with good news.

  “She told you she had money put away. I’m sorry, but my office has seized all her bank and brokerage accounts. I’m sure you’re not surprised,” she said.

  “Surprised no, disappointed yes,” I answered with a tone that didn’t disguise my displeasure. “I suspect you have a warrant to check Rachel’s parent’s accounts to make sure no one tries to funnel money for a lawyer through them.”

  “We do. You will receive a copy of the warrant soon. I can also tell you that so far there’s no evidence that any money was funneled to Rachel by way of her parents’ accounts.”

  “Thanks for the information—now I’ll give you some. No matter how little money is available, I will represent her—not only in the criminal case, but also in the asset forfeiture matters. I’m in for the long haul, money or no.”

  “Well, that is your prerogative,” she said. “You may have noticed that I was late in returning to the van. I’m sorry to tell you we’ve had a leak. The press has gotten word you were visiting Rachel and has assumed you represent her. I don’t know the source of the leak—I can promise you that my office has been airtight.”

  I had no reason not to believe her. “How is your office handling the press right now?”

  “You might have noticed that our U.S. Attorney, Donald J. Cotton, is a bit of a press hound. When he was asked about the rumor at his usual Friday press conference, he said he could neither confirm nor deny the story. The press interpreted that answer as a confirmation. I’m sorry.

  “Another thing. I don’t like having to bring this up, but I’ve been asked to remind you of the confidentiality agreement you signed yesterday.” Her pale face took on a ruddy hue.

  I smiled, as much at her embarrassment as at how silly all this was: gag orders, leaks, and confidentiality. Everyone in DC made a big deal about confidentiality and secrecy, but the whole town leaks like a sieve. Law enforcement leaked whatever they wanted and always got away with it. I felt bad for Maggie, who was having to field press calls with no guidance.

  “Joan, I honor my agreements, so please tell whoever is concerned that I intend to follow not only the letter of my agreement but the spirit as well. I can’t speak for anyone else. For example, if the press corners Ben Jennings before I can give him guidance, I don’t know what he might say. But no one on my legal team will say a word other than what was agreed. The agreement allows me to confirm I’ve been hired, so I’ll issue a press release to that effect, just to keep the wolves at bay. I’ll email you a copy. I’ll also speak with Ben as soon as I can.”

  “Again, I’m sorry.”

  I smiled. “That’s okay. I’ll forgive you, if you complete the clearances so I can see Rachel in private sooner rather than later.”

  “I’ll work on it. The only problem I’ll have is with Brian,” she said.

  “If there’s a problem, I will make it a bigger problem. I’m adamant. Brian has joined my office staff, and he will work on this case.”

  I might have said more, but the van came to a stop and the rear door opened. It felt like the return trip didn’t take as long as the trip out, but isn’t that always the case?

  Joan and I agreed to stay in touch, and we went our separate ways. So far, so good, but Phil’s warnings lingered in my ears. I wouldn’t let down my guard. As I watched her walk away, I wondered what it would take to get past her guard.

  39

  I CROSSED THE STREET to the waiting Big Mike who mouthed “Maggie,” and handed me my phone.

  “I’m so sorry…” I began.

  “Jack, the calls have been non-stop for at least an hour—they even have my cell number. Why didn’t you warn me?”

  “I had no idea. I was locked in a van without a phone when Joan told me about the leak. How bad is it?”

  “Well, it’s calmed down a bit since Brian and I decided to ignore the phones and lock the office doors. Martin’s men are outside, shooing people away.”

  “Listen, send out an email that I’m about to dictate to our media list, then close the office, and have one of Martin’s people drive you to… oh, how about the Boathouse on MacArthur. It’s out of the way, and your driver should be able to get out of the garage withou
t being followed. Bring Brian with you. We need to talk strategy.”

  I dictated a short statement for the email:

  As part of my representation of Rachel Goodman, a confidentiality agreement was reached yesterday between the U.S. Attorney’s Office for the Northern District of Virginia and our office. All media inquiries and requests for interviews should be directed to Donald J. Cotton, U.S. Attorney for the Northern District.

  Cotton liked publicity—I’d just given him plenty.

  I got in the back seat and told Mike I needed to make a couple of calls on the way to the Boathouse.

  The first call was to Ben.

  “Ben, I saw Rachel this morning, and I’m on board as her lawyer. We couldn’t talk privately, but she looks good, misses you both, and is in good spirits.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  There would be time later to explain the parameters of the attorney-client privilege. I gave him an abbreviated version of the morning’s events, omitting the strip search and shackles.

  “I don’t know how to thank you, Jack,” he said with obvious relief.

  “Barbeque,” I kidded. “Tell me how the reopening is coming.”

  “We’re still getting rid of the gasoline fumes. Don’t worry—I’ll keep my end of the bargain. We haven’t talked about money, but I’ve got money put aside, and I have an idea that should bring in a bunch more.”

  I cut him off. “Let me talk about money with Rachel first. She said she had money saved, but the government has seized her bank accounts. Let’s not worry about money now—we’ve got work to do first.”

  “What do you mean, the government seized her bank accounts? They can’t do that, can they?”

  “They can, but not forever. Listen, Ben. The press found out I’ve been to see her. You’ll get calls. They can be aggressive. It’s okay to confirm I represent her. But please say nothing else, just hang up the phone. Same for Linda.”