The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  I couldn’t have talked him out of putting his life on the line if I’d wanted to, which I didn’t. So I figured I might as well give him the rest of it.

  “I need to tell you it’s likely that whoever is behind all this will try to destroy your father’s reputation. I’ll do everything in power to stop it from happening, but I can’t promise—the press can be brutal.”

  The confident smile on his young face faded. “I told you Dad wasn’t the best of husbands or fathers, but I loved him, and so did my mother.”

  He took a deep breath before continuing. “He spent a week in Vegas four times a year, and he didn’t just play poker. He took full advantage of the perks Vegas offers high rollers. I won’t go into the other things he did to make both my mother’s and my life miserable, but we made it past his outbursts and remained a family. It wasn’t exactly a secret, so I’m not worried about his reputation. Do your best, Mr. Patterson, and let the chips fall where they may.”

  Maggie put her hand on his shoulder, and I thanked him for the confidence.

  Ken called to confirm that we were on for tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock at the National Press Club. I assembled our group and handed out assignments: phone calls to invitees, exhibit books ready to go, security logistics. All those little details needed to be in place.

  So far, Stella had been unable to coax any further information from Rachel’s computer, but she was still trying. I was about to call Lucy when she called me.

  “Jack, I owe it to you to let you know I’ve accepted the chairman-ship of the Senate Armed Services Subcommittee on Readiness and Management Support.”

  “Congratulations! I take it the quid pro quo for this appointment is for you to attack me for being a greedy, shyster of a lawyer who’s made outrageous accusations about my client’s innocence and murder.”

  “I also intend to ask the government to revoke your security clearance—I hope you understand.”

  I didn’t, but throwing me under the bus was pure Lucy. At least she’d been rewarded with more than thirty pieces of silver.

  “Lucy, do yourself a favor. Lock up the chairmanship today, but wait until you’ve read tomorrow’s Post to go after me. And you might want to send one of your best staffers to a press briefing scheduled for two o’clock at the National Press Club.”

  I could hear her fingernails clicking on the wood of her desk. “A press briefing. Yours, Jack? And what about the Post? They’re not writing about me, are they?”

  “No, it won’t be about you, Lucy, so relax. But I’m pretty sure it will cast new light on the Goodman matter. I’m very sure it would be a mistake for you to speak out against me or my team before the press briefing.”

  “Come on, Jack, tell me what this is all about!” she demanded shrilly. This was the old, insecure Lucy, not the newly polished senator.

  “And spoil all the fun? Hope to see you tomorrow. Good night, Lucy.”

  I heard, “Damn you, Jack,’ before the line went dead. I heard an odd, snuffling noise and realized that Maggie was trying to control her laughter.

  Still laughing, she escaped to the kitchen, and I got up to stretch my legs and collect my thoughts before calling Peggy Fortson. I wasn’t at all sure she would take my call.

  This time I went through proper channels, so it was some time before I got through to her.

  “Jack, I’m sick of your lunch, brunch, dinner routine. What do you want now?” Okay, forget friendship, time to play it straight.

  “Peggy, I’m calling to invite you to a press briefing tomorrow afternoon at the National Press Club. I think you may find it worth your while.”

  Her comeback hurt. “I never thought you’d become a media hound. What’s wrong, Jack, can’t get anyone to listen to your off-the-wall theories?”

  I felt a slow burn. She knew exactly which buttons to push. I struggled to keep an even tone.

  “Something like that, yeah. The Attorney General won’t meet with me, and the U.S. Attorney still insists Rachel was a spy, so the Post was kind enough to invite a few folks to hear my story. You know—the one where I explain why Rachel was framed and murdered.”

  “C’mon, Jack, that’s not fair. A meeting with the AG would be useless. You know as well as I do that we’ve been excluded from any investigation into how Rachel stole military secrets, or why she committed suicide for that matter.”

  “Yeah, so you told me. That’s really too bad. Because if you’d listened, if you had been at the table, you’d know there hasn’t been any investigation, nor will there ever be. Peggy, I’m trying to protect you, but events are moving fast. You are running out of time. Tomorrow morning the Post will run a piece that will probably ruin Donald Cotton’s political ambitions, and tomorrow afternoon we will go public with the rest of the story.

  “The DOJ won’t give me an audience, so I have no choice but to make my findings public. I chose the National Press Club because I want the invited guests to know that I am confident, that this is a serious issue, and that I have real evidence that Rachel wasn’t a spy. Nothing I say will implicate the AG, but I’m about to hand you a mess of dramatic proportions. If I’m wrong, you’ll have a front row seat to see me fall flat on my face.”

  “Who else is coming? Or will you be talking to the walls?” Tough words, but I could hear a note of anxiety creep into her voice.

  “I hope not. I’ve extended invitations to Rouss Military Systems, the Israeli ambassador and several other ambassadors, the director of the CIA, the head of the NSC, the Intelligence Czar, and several senior deputies at the Pentagon, for starters.”

  “You didn’t include the Secretary of State?” I ignored her sarcasm.

  “No, I believe he’s in India. But we have invited his deputy as well as the Chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee and his counterpart on the House side. Oh—I’ve also invited Senator Lucy Robinson whose committee has an interest in what I’m up to these days.”

  “You expect these people to show up to listen to a DC antitrust lawyer who’s lost his marbles?”

  No anxiety now. She was clearly trying to piss me off.

  “No, I don’t expect the big dogs to show, but I think that after tomorrow’s article in the Post we might get a staffer or two.”

  We were getting nowhere, and I could feel my patience waning. I couldn’t figure out her hostility; maybe she just needed some time to think and the opportunity to brief the AG.

  “Peggy, just drop by tomorrow. It’ll be fun,” I pleaded.

  “You have a warped sense of humor, Jack Patterson. What is it that you want?”

  A good question, and I didn’t hesitate in answering.

  “Justice, Peggy. Justice for Rachel Goodman, but in one word: Justice.”

  73

  MOST OF THE TEAM reported similar results from their phone calls: polite comments that the invitation would be “conveyed to the right person.” At least no one could say they hadn’t been forewarned. Micki volunteered to call Cotton.

  “He clearly hadn’t heard from Ken yet, because butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. When I extended the invitation, he said, ‘Why in the world would I want to hear Jack Patterson whine about Rachel Goodman’s innocence?’”

  Maggie complained, “Why do you give me the assholes? I managed to get through to Dennis Maxwell at Rouss. He told me in short order that hell would freeze over before he attended one of ‘Jack Patterson’s circus shows.’ I got the impression you aren’t on his A list. The ambassadors were what we expected. I was routed to a staff member who took the information and promised to pass on the invitation. We’ll be lucky to get an intern to show.”

  “I almost forgot. Micki, please call Rabbi Strauss. I bet somebody higher than an intern shows up from Israel. How did you guys do with the military types?”

  “We had a little better luck,” Brian replied. “I expect the under-Secretary of Defense for Acquisitions and Technology to send several staffers. The CIA pretended they didn’t know who Rachel was, but th
ey’ll send someone. I also contacted a friend at JAG. After all, Rachel’s murder did occur on a military base. They’re sending a senior JAG officer.”

  “Good thinking. Sounds like we might have a crowd,” I said.

  Micki brought me back to reality. “A crowd of junior staffers and interns.”

  “The Post article should gin up a bit of interest,” I said.

  Maggie said, “You’re putting a lot of faith in Ken and T.J. What if tomorrow’s piece is a hatchet job?”

  “Then we’ll adjust accordingly. We will not panic, and no matter what the Post reports, we will proceed. Thank you everyone. After dinner, which Maggie tells me is about ready, I want to have a dress rehearsal of tomorrow’s events.”

  John Robert asked to skip the rehearsal. “It’s not because of my dad. If something happens, it’s likely to be tonight. My men want to deploy throughout the grounds tonight.”

  I walked him to the front door, and stood there a few minutes, wondering where Clovis was. I needed him for the dress rehearsal. He’d find the weaknesses in our plans. I admit I was also getting a little worried.

  I had just turned to go inside when I heard the noise of tires on the gravel driveway. Clovis jumped out of the front seat, flashing an easy grin. Thank God.

  “What are you grinning about?” I smiled in return.

  “Well, this place hasn’t burned down, and I made it back in time for both tonight’s briefing and tomorrow’s fireworks. Stella and Maggie have been keeping me up to date. Sounds like you’re way out on a limb. You sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “No, but I know you can plug the holes. How was Ben?”

  “Anxious, but the restaurant is open and he’s selling more barbecue than ever before. You were right: he had to get back on the horse. One bit of good news is that Ben Jr. has moved back to Little Rock. Linda says they’re already bickering. She’s thrilled to have one of her children back home.”

  “It won’t surprise me if Lee comes home, too,” I mused. “The accusations and allegations are pulling the family together. Who knows? Maybe even the daughter-in-law will change her tune. How’s Jeff? And was a trip to St. Louis really necessary?”

  “Ask him yourself—he flew back with me.”

  “He did? Where is he?” I turned back toward the door.

  “Calm down. He and Beth are reintroducing themselves. They’ll join us later. Let me tell you what I know, and they don’t.”

  “Oh, great—more secrets. What now?” I asked.

  “Well, you know I’ve been worried the bad guys might go after Ben, so I used Walter’s plane to go to Little Rock. While I was there, I got a call from our friends in St. Louis. Someone was following Jeff, and they wanted to make sure it wasn’t one of mine before they picked him up.

  “Paul had everything under control, so I hightailed it to St. Louis. Our friends had the fellow in custody. He’s clearly former military. Jeff doesn’t have a clue, but if our friends hadn’t stepped in, Jeff might have been kidnapped or worse.

  “This guy must not have enjoyed his time with our St. Louis friends. By the time I got there, he was scared shitless, ready to do most anything to get out of St. Louis. So I bundled him into the plane and delivered him to the Montgomery County Police. We had a nice talk on the flight home. He swears he didn’t kill Spencer, but has a good idea who did. He also knew all about the attempt on my life. Sam is working with the Maryland County prosecutor; as soon as they know anything definitive they’ll let me know.”

  “Seems you’ve been busy,” I deadpanned.

  “You could say that. I decided it might be a good idea for Jeff to come for a visit, although I’m not sure he’s safer here. Beth told him about the sniper and Stone—he didn’t take much convincing.”

  I wasn’t hungry. While everyone else ate I walked to the porch, took a seat on the porch swing, and tried to gather my thoughts and emotions. The sun was setting across the fields, and the sky was a vivid red, reminding me of Jo’s hair.

  She was as open and transparent as Carol was closed and secretive. My mind went to that first night when Jo showed up at the house with all the fixings for redneck margaritas. What wouldn’t I give to be on Pawleys right now?

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Maggie said softly, handing me a glass of cabernet. “You worried about tomorrow?” She joined me on the swing.

  “To tell you the truth I’m trying to figure out what happened to that simple life you and I once enjoyed. We had a nice law practice, you and Walter planned to travel, and Beth and Jeff had a great future. Now I’m in the fight of my life with people willing to launch a rocket to kill us all. Is telling Rachel’s story worth it?”

  “It was worth it to Rachel and Harold Spencer, and, despite the risk, it’s worth it to those Navy SEALs who volunteered to guard us. Micki and Larry, Clovis and Stella aren’t in this because they’re loyal to you. We don’t often encounter an injustice of this scope, nor do we often have the opportunity to influence the outcome. It’s our responsibility to give it all we have.” Maggie smiled and took a sip of her wine.

  “As to a simple life, our life was never that simple, and it never will be. You attract complexity and danger, like a magnet attracts iron shavings. Simplicity sounds good, but you’d be bored to tears with a simple life—so would I, that’s why we’re such a good fit.

  “Now I think it’s time for you to come inside and tell us what tomorrow will bring. It’s time for the big picture.”

  WEDNESDAY

  74

  THE POST was lying on the kitchen table when I got up the next morning. Micki and I had spent almost two hours last night going over our presentation for today. The group peppered us with questions, both ones we expected and some that were off-the-wall. Jeff was the most vocal, since he was brand new to the story.

  I had made it a point to review the information on Rachel’s zip drive again before I went to sleep. Rachel had downloaded all her notes, beginning with her trip to Israel to bury her husband’s remains. They revealed an intelligent young woman whose love for her husband had driven her to spend the last two years pursuing Rouss. I went to bed with Clovis’s final words spinning in my head.

  “Some way, somehow, they’ll stop you.”

  I picked up the Post, scanned the front page and found the headline just below the fold:

  U.S. ATTORNEY ACCUSES PATTERSON OF FRAUD

  FEDS RELEASE OVER $1M TO GOODMAN’S ESTATE

  The article that carried Ken Chandler’s byline was much better than the headline. It verified that Rachel’s bank account at Parra Bank and her other assets had been seized on the same day as her arrest, and that the Parra Bank account held funds from a life insurance policy and pension money owed to her by the Israeli government after her husband died. It went on to state that the account wasn’t listed on the government’s inventory of seized assets, and that a million dollars from an off-shore account had been deposited in the account two weeks after Rachel’s arrest.

  The article failed to mention that the money had come from a subsidiary of Rouss. I wondered how difficult Ken’s editors had been and whether he’d tried to argue about the headline. In the old days, before budget cuts and the proliferation of online news, reporters seldom wrote their own headlines. I felt sure Ken hadn’t written this one either. The article continued with a brief description of the negotiations to settle the forfeiture case, describing how we had discovered the account while searching for her widow’s pension.

  The article gave equal treatment to Cotton’s explanation. Cotton claimed he had no knowledge of the account, and that since the inventory didn’t show the account’s existence, he had agreed to close the case by settling the forfeiture case for “peanuts.” When Ken pressed him that someone in his office must have been aware of the account, he blamed the “oversight” on an overworked staff.

  Cotton was adamant that Micki and I had committed fraud. “They knew I would never give up a million dollars to the estate of America’s Mata
Hari,” he blustered and vowed to be in court this morning to set aside the settlement and to get a court order ordering me to return all of Rachel’s assets. He probably wanted her wedding rings back, too.

  We expected this maneuver and were ready should he follow through with his threat. He couldn’t vacate the settlement without a hearing, and a hearing would allow me to discover what and when his office knew about the account. It would also allow me to file a counterclaim against his office for seizing Rachel’s widow’s pension despite a number of international treaties prohibiting such tactics. Moreover, if he did manage to reinstate the seizure, we’d get our chance to prove her innocence in court.

  The last line of the article mentioned that I would hold a briefing at the National Press Club this afternoon at two o’clock. The Post had decided to open the event to other media. Fine with me.

  Micki walked in, looking for coffee, and I handed her the paper just as my phone rang. It was Lucy.

  “You commit fraud, yet you want me to hold my fire until you make a bigger fool of yourself?”

  “I didn’t commit fraud. Cotton and his staff did by hiding the account and failing to tell the court of its existence. As far as making a fool of myself, why don’t you come watch?”

  “I have much better things to do, thank you very much,” she snapped.

  “I’m sure you do, but you might ask the Chairman of the Foreign Relations Committee if he’s going.”

  “Senator Benton? What in the hell are you up to, Jack?”

  “Making a fool of myself,” I said, and clicked off. I’d spent too much time and energy trying to keep Lucy from making a fool of herself.