The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “Sure did. Maybe yours, too. Now go check on him before we need to get back to work,” I ordered.

  “Whatever you say, sir.” She saluted and sauntered out of the room.

  “Okay, Brian, pour yourself a coffee. I’ll get Maggie and Beth—we all want to hear what happened with Cotton.”

  We settled in, and he began. “Cotton and his deputy, Carl Clifford, agreed to return everything in her regular bank account and her Pentagon pension. They brought her computer and phone with them, as well as her rings and other personal effects.

  “All Micki had to do was approve the dismissal of the lawsuit and sign a release from any liability for wrongful forfeiture.”

  “The release was limited only to the wrongful seizure of her assets, right? Nothing else?”

  “Nothing else. Micki and I went over it word by word,” he answered. “She was worried that referencing another potential asset might raise a red flag, but we decided we had to chance it.”

  “And?” I pressed.

  “She told them she was concerned that another asset might turn up after the release had been signed, giving as an example a second car or a timeshare no one knew about.”

  “Cotton’s deputy argued that since no assets had been seized other than those on the inventory, a newly discovered asset wouldn’t be subject to the seizure complaint.

  “But Micki continued to talk about her ‘fiduciary duty,’ just wouldn’t let go. Even I was getting exasperated when Cotton suggested a solution. They would change the language of the release and dismissal to release any government claim from any of Rachel’s assets, known or unknown.”

  “Known or unknown?” I asked, hardly able to believe our good fortune.

  “Known or unknown. Micki is convinced Cotton doesn’t know about the Parra Bank account; she’s not so sure about Clifford. He was drumming his fingers on the table when Cotton wrote out the language and gave it to his assistant to prepare, but he was in a box.”

  “Micki couldn’t get him to back off having a press conference, and he wasn’t about to say Rachel was innocent, but I suspect she let him get away with his moment because we got we wanted,” Brian finished.

  “Good work, both of you,” I said as Micki and Larry entered the room. He looked a little sheepish, and Micki’s hair was damp. Any anger about Larry’s walk-about had evaporated.

  I filled them in on my calls to Peggy Fortson and Ken Chandler, then figured it was time to give out instructions.

  “Brian, you’re in charge of getting the funds at Parra Bank moved into my trust account. If you need any help, ask Maggie.”

  “Martin and Stella, if that rocket had hit the building our evidence would have gone up with it. Please find another place to store the originals of the zip drive, Spencer’s letter, and the other documentation.”

  “Beth and Maggie,” I said turning to them. “After Micki and I meet with the Post this afternoon, we should know whether phase two will work or we have to go to phase three. If they don’t take the meeting, all bets are off. We need all the documents organized. Maggie, you know what I need, and Beth can help.

  “Martin, Larry, our intruder got past our system. By the way, thanks again Larry, I—we all—owe you one.” His only response was a barely perceptible nod. “Is there anything else we can do to keep intruders out? I sure hope our SEALs decide to stay for a few more days.”

  I looked at Beth. She was chewing on her lower lip, a childhood habit I had failed to break. “Do you think the bad guys will try something again?” she asked.

  “I do. By now they’ve surely figured out that we have three of their people in custody. I’m afraid they’ll bring an army next time.” I hated to be so blunt.

  “Stella, I doubt you’ll find much of anything on Rachel’s computer or phone, but will you check them out, please.”

  Everyone went off to do his or her tasks, including Martin and Larry, who wanted to do another tour of the property, which left me alone with Micki.

  “Good job today,” I offered.

  “We got lucky, thanks to Cotton’s eagerness to settle. You know you’ve boxed the bad guys in a corner. They’re bound to come out clawing and biting.”

  “I know, and it’s driving me crazy that we still don’t know exactly who they are. That sniper guy will never talk, and the other two are just stooges. I have a feeling there’s another layer we haven’t uncovered, someone we haven’t reached yet. But we’ve gotten this far, maybe our luck will hold.”

  “Right,” she said with a laugh. “And maybe the bad guys are out of rocket launchers.”

  71

  KEN CALLED TO ASK if we could meet with his editor at one-thirty. That gave us time to get downtown, but we’d have to work on our tactics on the way. I said a few encouraging words to the team, and we left.

  When Micki and I arrived at the offices of The Washington Post, I admit to feeling queasy with self-doubts. An intern escorted us to a small conference room, no coffee and no pastries. After waiting more than a few minutes, Micki gathered up her papers in irritation. “This isn’t worth it. We can figure out a better way to get the story out.”

  “Calm down. They’re just playing games, trying to look reluctant so we agree to give them more information. Patience is a virtue, Ms. Lawrence.”

  She smiled, “I’m sorry. I’m not known for my virtue.”

  Fortunately, Ken and his editor, T. J. Henry, arrived before she got really pissed off. T. J. was a trim man who looked to be about sixty. His hairline was beginning to recede, and the round wire-rimmed glasses he wore gave him an owlish appearance.

  After the usual introductions, Ken pulled out a tape recorder and turned it on—the opening gambit.

  “Come on, Ken. You and I had an agreement. Off the record first—don’t play games. You’ve worked hard on this, don’t screw it up now. Micki and I are here to fill in the gaps in your story.”

  T.J. growled, “What gaps? How would you know about any gaps?”

  “This morning Ken told me I had sold Rachel Goodman down the river, and that you were taking him off the story. Now, only a few hours later, we find ourselves sitting in this nice conference room. Why? Because he discovered there’s way more at issue than thirty pieces of silver.”

  T.J. tugged at his lower lip and said, “You’re right. We’re meeting because Ken told me that Rachel received a large sum of money from an off-shore account. What I don’t understand is why you would present such clear evidence of your client’s guilt.”

  “Simple. You don’t know the details of the transfer yet, and the details establish the fact that my client was framed. The money wasn’t deposited into Rachel’s account until weeks after her arrest. To avoid anyone from discovering this clumsy mistake, the government hid the deposit’s existence from us, the court, and the public at large.

  “But don’t assume we settled in order to obtain the million dollars. That money never belonged to Rachel, and we make no claim to it. We have what we wanted from the get go: Rachel’s computer and cell phone.”

  “What good are her computer and phone? The government has assured us they’ve both been wiped clean,” asked Ken, looking confused.

  “We have one of the foremost forensic computer experts in the country on board. For example, Ken, would you like to know how many times you talked to Rachel? For how long, and on what days?”

  Micki kicked me under the chair, but Ken gave the game away with a stutter. “Th-those conversations were confidential.”

  Time to tone it down. “Listen, your conversations weren’t recorded, but I hope to read about them in the articles you write. I have no intention of putting anyone else’s life in danger, especially yours. Who would write the story?”

  T.J. asked, “Then why are you here?”

  “To give you the documentation about the bank account, and to let you interview Micki off the record about the Cotton negotiations. You’ll need both before you call Cotton to get his version of the facts. My bet is Cotton will
deny knowing anything about the account, which may be true. But someone in his office had to know. Otherwise how could the government have seized the account? You might also ask why it wasn’t included in the inventory. I wonder when it will dawn on him that Micki tricked him into giving up over a million dollars?”

  “I’m more interested in asking him where the money came from,” Ken said.

  “I will tell you what we’ve discovered, but it has to be off the record. Any problems with that?”

  T.J. nodded his agreement, so I answered.

  “Two hundred thousand dollars of the money has been in the account for two years. This money was a lump-sum life insurance payment Rachel received after her husband died. Another hundred thousand accumulated by installments of four thousand dollars a month, a widow’s pension from her husband’s employer. That employer was an arm of the Israeli government.”

  “So she did receive money from Israel,” T.J. stated flatly.

  “Yes, and I’ll bet some anonymous source told your paper the money was payment by Israel for Rachel’s spying. In fact, they were legitimate payments—a widow’s pension, and by international treaty pension money is not subject to tax or seizure. What’s more, the Israeli government explained the life insurance and pension payments to our government to absolve themselves, and our government asked them to keep quiet.” I handed him a copy of Lauren and Matt’s research.

  T.J. was asking the questions now. “Let’s say we were told that payments from Israel were made into this account to the tune of four thousand dollars each month. You’re saying these payments were a widow’s pension, not money for spying?”

  “I am, and I have the documentation to prove it.”

  “Yet the government seized that money, along with her life insurance money, but didn’t list the bank account on the inventory? I know we’re off the record, but I want to be sure to get it right.”

  “Yes, and a few weeks after her arrest, a million dollars hit her account. I think it was to bolster the story that she was a spy, but the source of the money knows better why it was wired and why it came in after the arrest. For all I know, it might have been a payment to the U. S. Attorney’s office.”

  “I assume the source of the money was Israel.” T.J. relaxed until I answered.

  “No, the source wasn’t the state of Israel or anyone affiliated with Israel.”

  Ken almost shouted, “Then who?”

  “I think you know,” I answered.

  “How would Ken know?” T.J. interrupted.

  “Because he was working with Rachel and a man named Harold Spencer. I don’t know the extent of their communications because Spencer’s phone was taken from him when he was killed. Ask Ken who has the resources to wire that kind of money into her account.”

  T.J. looked to Ken, who answered quietly, “The money came from Rouss Military Systems.”

  “Technically, it came from an off-shore subsidiary of Rouss. I’ll give you the information we uncovered, and you can make your own determination,” I told them.

  T.J. responded, “You’ve put yourself in a pretty dangerous position, don’t you think? Two people are already dead.”

  I remained silent, trying to look unconcerned. He frowned at my silence, and I finally responded.

  “Yes, and as a matter of fact, there have been at least two attempts on our lives, but I will not turn belly up. Rachel and Harold deserve more. My hope is that once Ken reports that my client was framed, by whom and why, the bad guys will lawyer up and back off. See how helpful we can be to each other?”

  T.J. smiled for the first time. “It sounds like you have more to tell us, and I bet you’d like a little help from The Post. Let’s get that out on the table.”

  “You’re right, I do. But for the next eight hours, your plate is full. You need to interview Micki, verify the information we’ve given you, and get to the bottom of why your source lied about the payments to Rachel. Ken needs to write his story about the wire transfer, and the Post might want to write an apology to the state of Israel.

  “Add to that, the moment Ken calls Rouss to ask about payments into Rachel’s bank account, both your publisher and editor-in-chief will receive calls demanding that Ken’s story be killed. Am I right?” I asked.

  “I suspect you are right. But, once more, what do you want?”

  “At the least, I want Ken to call Cotton and Rouss. I want you to book the National Press Club tomorrow afternoon for a briefing where I will lay out what we have discovered to date—on the record. You may assemble as many Post reporters as you want, and I leave to your judgment whether you wish to invite other members of the press. I do plan to invite a few guests who are either public officials or employees of Rouss. I’d also like to meet with Ken again tomorrow morning, off the record, so he can tell me if any of the information I have is inconsistent with what he’s discovered. And, finally, I want the Post to publish a piece in tomorrow’s paper outlining the facts of the million-dollar deposit, even if you have to say Micki duped Cotton.”

  T.J. had taken off his wire-rims and was rubbing his eyes. At last he sighed and said, “Okay, you’ve got it. If we can’t get the Press Club, I’ll find another suitable venue. I’ll email you within the hour to tell you where and when. I’ll talk to the higher-ups about inviting other members of the media. It might help the credibility of our stories, but I bet my editor-in-chief will want an exclusive. We’ll run a story under Ken’s byline in tomorrow’s paper. No guarantees about placement or content, but if the documentation pans out it won’t be just about Ms. Lawrence duping Cotton.

  “But I’m curious, why meet with Ken off the record first tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Because like you, I expect the subjects of my investigation will stop at nothing to prevent the press conference. If they should succeed, I want Ken to have all the information we’ve uncovered. But I don’t want to be its source if I have to go to our back-up plan,” I answered.

  “You have a back-up plan?” T.J. asked.

  “I always have a back-up plan.”

  72

  WHILE KEN INTERVIEWED Micki, T.J. and I talked in hypotheticals about what else I’d discovered. I wanted him to realize that I hadn’t showed all my cards. Micki and Ken emerged from a small office after about an hour, and we left immediately.

  Big Mike was waiting in the Tahoe, and I called Maggie as soon as we were settled in the back seat. “The meeting at the Post went better than I expected; we’re on our way back. Can you get everybody in the family room in about an hour? The press conference is on for tomorrow, and I’ll need everyone’s help preparing. We should probably have a run-through tonight.”

  “We’ll be ready. You’ll be glad to know that our SEALs are back and working with Martin on security, expecting the worst. John Robert told us that the C.O. at the military base gave them twenty-four hours before he has to report the prisoners’ existence and the missile system. Clovis should be back soon. His plane is in the air.”

  I hung up and asked Micki, “How’d the interview go?”

  “Good, I think. Ken’s done a lot of leg work and seems to have his facts straight. He doesn’t think Cotton has any idea there’s a separate bank account not listed on the inventory, much less that it contains more than a million dollars. Ken told me Cotton may be ambitious, but he’s a straight shooter. He expects Cotton to go nuclear.”

  “Good. Learn anything else?”

  “Right now, he believes Rachel was set up, but not murdered. Her death is the biggest unknown in what we have, that is unless Bart Stone confesses. My bet is that Rachel told Ken a lot more than he’s admitted, but he lacks the hard evidence that we have in the zip drive. His focus is on Rouss, and he doesn’t see any broader conspiracy. I have to tell you I have my doubts about that, too,

  “That’s not surprising. Rachel thought she’d uncovered a scheme for Rouss to make more money. I have a feeling that the scheme goes way beyond greed, but I could be wrong. God knows I have been before.
”

  “Well, if you are wrong, then it’s on to phase three, that back-up plan you haven’t yet shared with your partner,” she teased.

  “What make you think I’ve got a back-up plan?” I asked.

  “Because you told T.J. you always have a back-up plan,” she reminded me.

  “Oh that. Did I ever tell you I can run a mean bluff at poker?” We both laughed.

  “Speaking of bluffs, what if Ken had called yours about Stella cracking a scrubbed cell phone?”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  Micki turned serious. “What’s your biggest worry about tomorrow?”

  “If the chips don’t fall right, my back-up plan will take a while. There’s no way we can all live under this intense scrutiny for any length of time.”

  “So you have a back-up plan, but it won’t work.” She laughed and punched me on the arm.

  “In a nutshell, yes,” I laughed. “Hell of a mess I’ve gotten you into, once again.” I smiled, and we were both quiet. Micki unbuckled her seat belt and scooted over to rest her head on my arm.

  “Hell of a mess,” she whispered, and we rode the rest of the way home in silence.

  *****

  Maggie met us at the car.

  “At this rate we’ll need to hire another cook. John Robert brought along a few more buddies who don’t believe what the guys are saying about Stella’s workouts. She’s had to add an afternoon session.”

  Micki went inside quickly to search for Larry. I noticed John Robert sitting on the porch, so I said to Maggie, “Come on, I’d like you to sit in.”

  I sat down on the swing and asked, “How’s your mom?”

  “She sounds happy, and relieved to be away,” he responded. “She’s a strong woman, but she was pretty spooked by all that’s happened.”

  “She should be—I’m a little spooked myself. Listen, John Robert, I appreciate you guys being here, but this post could be hazardous duty for the next few days. You might want to reconsider.”

  “We’ll leave when we are no longer needed. You’re trying to find out who killed my father, something I can’t do. The least we can do is offer a little protection. Stella is getting us in better shape than we thought possible, and protecting your perimeter is valuable training. The danger is real, but there isn’t a man or woman who doesn’t want to be here.”