The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

I saw a few ears prick up, and a few note pads emerge. I nodded to a young woman who was probably about Beth’s age. “Mr. Patterson, you’re not suggesting that Ms. Goodman was innocent, are you? For weeks we’ve been told that she stole highly sensitive military information about top-secret weapon systems. We’ve heard that the government would seek the death penalty. Why wouldn’t you try to make a plea deal? Do you have any evidence at all that she wasn’t guilty?” The woman’s tone was indignant.

  I took another deep breath. “Whatever you may have been told, no charges were ever brought against Rachel Goodman. Under the law and our system of justice, she was and is innocent, just like every other citizen. I hope each of you remember that when you write your stories. A young, intelligent American citizen has died while in federal custody. Surely that is story enough.”

  I figured that would raise a few hackles. The horn-rimmed reporter raised his hand.

  “Mr. Patterson, you’re presenting a very different picture. Contrary to what Mr. Cotton said at his press conference, would you have us believe that Ms. Goodman was not depressed and that no plea deal was in the offing?”

  I paused before I answered.

  “I had just been hired and had been given no facts regarding the potential charges. I can assure you that when I left the room yesterday morning, Rachel was in good spirits, and neither of us had any intention of asking for a plea arrangement. To the contrary, I left the room planning to wage a vigorous defense that would confirm her innocence.”

  Someone said, “Too bad that opportunity is gone.”

  That should have put a final stamp on the press conference, but I couldn’t resist.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. I have every confidence in the Department of Justice, and I believe that a full and complete investigation will conclude that Rachel did not commit suicide. I also hope that the truth will come out and that Rachel will be completely exonerated.”

  The formerly indignant young woman asked, “Mr. Patterson, Ms. Goodman is dead; there can no longer be a criminal case against her. How do you think her exoneration might come about?”

  She clearly thought I was nuts.

  “I don’t know, but you can bet I’m going to try.”

  I stepped off the podium, and the reporters began to drift away, some running to catch cabs, others talking among themselves. The reporter with the horn-rimmed glasses spoke my name quietly, and I turned toward him. He handed me his card and said, “After Rachel is buried and the suicide investigation is complete, we should talk.” With that he walked away, leaving me with the impression that he had known her. His name was Ken Chandler.

  As I walked back to my office I wondered how the press would react to my comments. I’d done my best to plant seeds of doubt about the government’s accusations, but the young woman reporter was right. Where could I go from here? Clovis called before we reached the office.

  “We watched the whole thing. Ben and Linda are pleased. I’m worried, though, that your comments about her possible innocence could be dangerous. If there’s a remote chance she didn’t commit suicide, whoever did kill her isn’t going to want you snooping around.”

  He had a point. “You’re probably right, but the U.S. Attorney really pissed me off. I said what I did for Ben and Linda. Truth is there isn’t much I can do if the government decides to sweep the truth under the rug.”

  We talked a little bit about my coming down for the funeral, and he handed the phone to Micki.

  “You know the Feds aren’t going to let you near their investigation or any evidence that might exonerate Rachel, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, but that won’t keep me from trying. Too bad, I was excited about working with you again.” I meant it.

  “Me, too. Hurry up and get here. I need one of your hugs.”

  “What about Larry?”

  She laughed. “When Larry and I hug it leads to sex. Hugging you is more like hugging my brother.”

  Maggie suggested we close the office and reconvene at her house.

  “Walter will make you one of his special martinis. I expect you could use one or two right now. I’ve sent Mike to your house to repack your bag from Barker’s with extra clothes. The guesthouse is all ready for you. None of us need to be alone tonight. I invited Brian, but he declined, and I didn’t push it. We’ll wake up fresh tomorrow and decide what we need to do here, and when you and I need to go to Little Rock.”

  It was a relief to have Maggie take charge—I was running on empty. I expected a similar dynamic was going on in Little Rock. Ben and a few of his friends were sipping on bourbon on his back porch while Linda’s kitchen was full of her friends, everyone carefully trying to avoid talking about what had just happened. I wouldn’t be surprised if soon Clovis, Stella, Micki, and Larry were together at Micki’s ranch grilling steaks and enjoying a few beers.

  Maggie and Walter would try to keep my mind off the young woman who just yesterday had asked me to call her Rachel. That was going to be hard to do, but I knew one thing. From now on, I would honor her request and do my best to give her chosen name the dignity and reputation it deserved.

  SUNDAY

  45

  THE EVENING WAS PLEASANT ENOUGH. The martinis were cold and dry, and Walter had a way with steaks. We avoided discussing Rachel, and spent the evening discussing Walter and Maggie’s plans for the new corporate headquarters, foundation offices, and retreat center. I was tempted to let them build a house on the grounds for me. I could abandon DC entirely. I excused myself to the guesthouse right after dinner, poured myself a nightcap, and made the mistake of turning on the Nationals game. As the cameras focused on a fan who’d caught a foul ball behind first base, I caught sight of Carol. She was with Eric Hartman. I turned off the TV, and tried to go to sleep.

  I tossed and turned for most of the night, desperate for sleep. Around five o’clock I decided to chuck it and got up. I’d made a decision. My life was falling apart, but I had no time or right to throw a pity party. The next few days would be difficult—identifying the body, attending the funeral, reviewing the suicide investigation, and probably having to tell Ben I’d done all I could do. I could continue to knock on doors, but I knew the words “national security” would be invoked to keep me from finding out anything useful.

  I decided that after the funeral I would take a real vacation, the kind where you do a lot of nothing. I needed to get my head straight. Helen’s words had made an impression: I needed to seek change rather than allow life to change me. I didn’t really want Beth and Maggie to decide where I might live. And I needed to make a decision about Carol. Should I try to reconnect, repair our relationship? Did I even want to? It was time to fish or cut bait.

  I searched VRBO and the website of a real estate company that specialized in properties on Pawleys Island, South Carolina. A house I’d rented before was available beginning Friday, and I booked it online immediately for three weeks. It would be too cold to swim in the ocean, but I hoped long walks on the beach and fresh seafood would give me a new lease on life.

  I ran through the pictures on the website again and began to feel better. I went to the kitchen, made coffee, and decided to treat Walter and Maggie to my own version of the perfect breakfast. Maggie might prefer tea and toast, but I knew Walter would be happy with my efforts. I scoured their refrigerator and determined they had all I needed to make my southern version of eggs benedict using sausage and gravy rather than Canadian bacon and hollandaise. Besides, they didn’t have any Canadian bacon and I never could make a decent hollandaise.

  I couldn’t find any English muffins, so I decided to further improvise with the Hungry Jack buttermilk biscuits I found in the cheese drawer. Maggie did have some late season fresh tomatoes, so I threw the sausage in a pan and went to work.

  It wasn’t long before Maggie joined me. I was surprised to see her pour a cup of coffee.

  “I allow myself one cup in the morning, then I switch to tea,” she explained. “My kitchen smells quite wonde
rful, but what got you up so early? I told Walter I thought you might sleep all morning. I hope the guest bed wasn’t uncomfortable.”

  “The bed was perfect, but my brain wouldn’t cooperate. Maggie, when we get through this week I’m going to take a few weeks off.”

  “Have you arranged a trip with Carol?” she asked.

  “No, I’m afraid Carol may have gone the way of all my love interests—into someone else’s arms.”

  Maggie’s eyebrows rose slightly, but she said nothing. She seemed neither surprised nor disappointed.

  “No, I need to spend some time with just me. I’ve rented a place on Pawleys. If you need me, I’ll have my phone and Internet access, but I’m spent, and I’ll be no good to anyone until I figure some things out.”

  “I’m glad,” she said. “In fact, I was going to suggest something of the sort—the beach is a fine idea. Brian and I can handle anything that comes up, and like you said, there’s always the phone and the Internet.”

  It wasn’t long before Walter joined us, woken, he said, by the smell of sausage and baking biscuits. Maggie was many things, but she wasn’t much of a breakfast cook. A slice of buttered toast was the extent of her breakfast repertoire.

  Each biscuit, split in two, received a generous blanket of sausage gravy, accompanied by an egg over easy on one half of the biscuit, and a slice of grilled tomato and a sausage patty on the other half. We ate at the counter, eating more than we should, but who cared? The easy morning meal freed us from the sadness of yesterday, giving us a renewed feeling of well-being. Walter volunteered to deal with the dishes while Maggie and I went over our priorities for the next few days.

  The weather was warm for October, and they asked me to join them on a horseback ride through their newly acquired estate. It was a tempting invitation, but I declined. I was ready to go home and relax, watch a little mindless football. The Chicago Bears were undefeated so far, but I doubted they could beat the Falcons.

  I called an Uber before anyone objected and was soon on my way back across the river. When we pulled up to my house, I found the security guys talking with one of Martin’s guys. I pushed past them, figuring somebody would explain the new system to me later. I had just dropped my bag in the front hall when my cell phone began to vibrate. I wanted to ignore it, but recognized the Department of Justice number.

  “Peggy—I just finished breakfast, but I’ll be happy to join you for a mimosa.”

  No response. The brunch gag had obviously played itself out. I sank into a chair in the den, waiting for a response.

  “Mimosas with a good friend sounds really good right now. But I’m calling to inform you that the investigation into the death of Rachel Goodman is complete. A copy of the report is being emailed to you as we speak.”

  “The conclusion?” I asked.

  “Suicide.”

  “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Are you my contact person after all?”

  “No. The investigation is complete. If you have questions you can go through normal channels. Your press conference wasn’t well received, Jack. Several people are in favor of prosecuting you for violating the confidentiality agreement.” Her voice faded.

  “You think I violated the agreement? I took my lead from Cotton. She’d never been charged—how could he presume her guilt? It was pure bullshit, designed to make your guy look good for his next election, nothing more.”

  “Jack, be careful what you say. Read the report before you go flying off the handle. The report is definitive that the cause of death was suicide. For your information, cooler heads spoke up for you, including the AG. Cotton is a fool. But you need to be reasonable.”

  I did as she suggested. “Okay, let’s talk about something else. How does Ben get her body back to Arkansas?”

  “The family was informed this morning how to make arrangements. I believe that process has already begun,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “Peggy, I should have been called. What’s going on? Has there been a deliberate decision to cut me out? She was my client.”

  “I’m sorry, Jack, but your press conference put nails in the coffin. There’s no longer a criminal case, and you no longer have a client. Why shouldn’t the agencies involved be able to go straight to the Jennings?”

  “Don’t you think I should have been consulted on that decision?” I asked.

  “What I thought did not carry the day. Don’t make this conversation any harder than it already is, Jack. The limb I’m out on is already pretty short.”

  Wow. I wondered who had the power to overrule both Peggy and the Attorney General.

  I gave it a moment’s thought and asked, “Peggy, tell me this. Did the investigation conclude that Rachel was depressed?”

  “It did,” she answered.

  “Did they look at the tapes of our meeting?”

  “Jack, the investigation has determined that her death was a suicide. And no, the tapes have not been found. If it’s any consolation, the report says she should have been watched more carefully.”

  “Thanks, but, no, it isn’t.”

  “Jack, I’m really sorry your client died, but it’s over now, and you’ve got to let it go. The case is closed.”

  There was no sense beating up Peggy any further. I wondered exactly how far her limb extended. I knew that Attorney General Bertram Sharp was out of favor with the administration because he had investigated the President’s Chief of Staff for bribery and campaign finance violations. The Post still carried op-eds questioning whether Sharp should continue to hold office. I’d never met the man personally, but I knew Peggy thought he was terrific—honest, forthright, and seemingly immune to White House pressure. Certainly, he was a surprise appointee in this administration.

  “Thank you, Peggy. I really do appreciate the call. Better to hear the information from you than from a reporter.”

  46

  WHATEVER ENERGY I’D GAINED from breakfast was gone. I managed to call Clovis, who verified that the U.S. Attorney’s office had called Ben to inform him that Rachel’s body had been released and was ready for transport to Little Rock. He suspected the funeral would be on Tuesday. I reminded myself to ask Maggie to handle our travel arrangements.

  The security guys wanted to explain the new system, but I wasn’t interested and told them I’d call if I had any problems. Truth was I was worn out, ready to “let it go” as Peggy suggested, except I couldn’t. The “full and complete investigation” that came by way of email was bullshit, a total whitewash. Rachel had been found hanging by a bed sheet, no other marks on the body—that was it. Oh, and an admonition to the military that she should have been more closely watched. There was not one lick of evidence in the report indicating Rachel had been depressed. The author simply assumed she must have been suicidal since she was about to be charged.

  I tried to concentrate on the Falcons, who were being demolished by the best defense the Bears had fielded in years. I should have been in Seattle with Red, whose Lobos were playing the Seahawks on Monday night. I’d turned in my tickets because I thought I’d be defending Rachel. I had just dozed off when my cell rang. It was Red.

  “Jack, I’m sorry to hear about your client. I really am. Are you okay?”

  “Thanks, Red—I’m…well, I’m okay. Think we have a chance tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, we do—at least I hope so. Listen, just a heads up and something to think about.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “You raised a lot of eyebrows at your press conference yesterday. You said your work for Rachel wasn’t over—that you were going to try to prove her innocence.”

  “I did, but to be honest it was mostly bluff, an unsuccessful attempt to get the government to do a thorough investigation of her death. They’ve already ruled it a suicide—after less than a day. It was made clear this morning that the matter is closed, that I should drop it.”

  Red lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “I’m getting some pressure—the military types I do business with
are very unhappy with you. You might want to issue a statement that the case is closed.”

  “And who might they be?” I asked.

  “You know I can’t tell you that. But the sooner I know this case is closed, that you’re ready to move on, the better I’ll feel. Shoot, Jack—just let it go. You can still hop a plane and join us for the game. Might be good for you to get away.”

  “Red, I don’t know quite what I’m going to do about Rachel. Right now I’m just trying to deal with what’s happened. But I am going to Little Rock for her funeral, and then I’m going to get away, for a few weeks.”

  “You and Carol going somewhere special?” he asked.

  “No, just yours truly. I don’t know where I stand with Carol—I think I may have some competition.”

  “Eric Hartman?” he asked.

  “They looked pretty cozy at the Nats’ game last night.”

  “Aw, geez. I hate to hear she’s taken up with Hartman again. He’s a jerk, has the moral code of a snake. Carol really does believe she can provide information without knowing or caring how it’s used. Hartman will use her and spit her out. I don’t know why, but whenever Carol gets close to someone, she runs for the hills. I’d hoped you would be different. It’s too bad, but for her, business always comes first. I’ll say something to her, but I doubt it will do any good. I’ve warned her about Hartman before.”

  This conversation wasn’t helping either my ego or my mood.

  “Please don’t. I need to deal with this one myself. It will either work out or it won’t. Thanks for calling, Red.”

  Maggie called to say we were scheduled to take off at ten o’clock the next morning. She asked if we should issue a press release before we left town. I thought of Red’s advice, but decided against it. I might not be able to do much, but I wasn’t quite ready to throw in the towel.

  “Do I need to help you pack?” she asked. I smiled, knowing she meant well.

  “Thanks, but no, I think I can manage. I’ll take the Metro—see you tomorrow morning.”