The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “What is he doing here? Who asked him?” Ewing demanded.

  “I did. My office, my guests.” Sharp’s tone was steely. “His hard work has brought us to this day, and I want him to hear what I have to say.”

  He looked at me and said, “Jack, I asked you to come today because I want you to hear my response to Richard’s request that I turn over all the exhibits and other information you gave me. He claims they contain classified information and that his office should take possession of them for our national security.”

  Ewing reminded me of Walter Peck, the pencil-necked character in the original Ghostbusters, arrogant, and on the wrong side of right. It occurred to me that he and Hartman might use the same barber.

  He turned to me and said, “I might as well tell you, Mr. Patterson, that if you still have copies of any documents relating to this matter, we expect your full cooperation in the return of those documents. Otherwise, we will get a court order that compels you to comply.”

  I came close to telling him where to put his expectation, but held my tongue. It was the AG’s meeting.

  “Richard, my office has carefully reviewed your request,” Sharp responded. “Not one single document is covered by the Secrets Act, or even considered to be confidential. The press has already splashed about half the exhibits all over the news. Therefore, I refuse to comply with your request.”

  He raised his arm to fend off Richard’s response. “I know what comes next, so I’ll save you the trouble. You’re about to tell me I work for the President and that, since this issue is a matter of national security rather than criminal justice, I’m duty bound to follow the wishes and the orders of the President. Am I right?”

  Ewing shrugged his shoulders.

  “Well, if that is the case, and I suspect it is, the President will have my resignation on his desk this afternoon. I won’t do it.”

  Ewing didn’t act surprised, but Peggy sighed, even though she’d known it was coming. I felt the bile rising in my gut. It was time to put a stop to Ewing’s cover-up of the scandal and the administration’s attempt to continue to sell arms to whomever they damn well pleased. I shook my head slowly and cleared my throat. Ewing looked bored.

  “Your resignation is unnecessary Mr. Attorney General, because even if you resign and a new AG turns over the materials they want, I control the originals as well as a few other documents I’ve held in reserve. If you resign, I’ll no longer have any confidence that the federal government intends to get to the bottom of Rachel’s murder, and I’ll have no choice but to put in motion my back-up plan.”

  Ewing interrupted, “I demand you return the exhibits and documents in your possession relating to this case—originals and copies. You won’t get a second chance.”

  I smiled and calmly replied, “Mr. Ewing, that’s at least twice you’ve demanded that I ‘return documents.’ Let me make one thing clear before I continue—the documents and exhibits do not belong to you or to the government; never have, never will. They either belong to my client or are my work-product. The United States government has no ownership claim to any document in my possession.

  “And before you run off to get a court order that I will disobey, please tell whomever you send on this fool’s errand that if they attempt to obtain those documents by court order or by breaking into my office safe, or by any other means, they will fail. I’ve taken measures to protect them, and should something happen to me, copies will be delivered to the Washington Post, the New York Times, and Bloomberg News. And I don’t mean just the documents the AG holds. I mean every piece of evidence assembled by my client or myself over the last two years. You don’t want to open that can of worms, trust me.

  “Mr. Ewing, should this administration accept Mr. Sharp’s resignation before he has time to do his job, I will file a wrongful death and malicious prosecution lawsuit naming Eric Hartman, the defense contractors involved in this conspiracy, the federal government, specific individuals who work at the Pentagon, and certain intelligence agencies, including yours.”

  I was bluffing just a little—it felt really good.

  Ewing said, “You signed a release. You released the government from any claims when we returned her assets.”

  I smiled. “Interesting that you know the terms of that settlement, Mr. Ewing. You can tell me how you learned of its terms when I take your deposition. But I think maybe you should read that release a little more carefully. You’ll find it only releases claims arising out of the asset forfeiture. The release says nothing about malicious prosecution or wrongful death.”

  Ewing looked totally bumfuzzled.

  I turned to Bertram Sharp. “Please don’t resign, Mr. Attorney General. I don’t have the time or the resources necessary to launch the kind of investigation that will reveal exactly what happened and who was responsible for this shameful scheme. As Peggy will tell you, I’m an antitrust lawyer, and as she so often reminds me, I’m in way over my head.”

  FRIDAY

  Two Weeks Later

  81

  THE ATTORNEY GENERAL didn’t resign. Peggy told me he received a call from the President asking that he stay on and launch a full-scale investigation. Apparently the uproar raised by the press had been enough to cause even this President to temporarily retreat from Twitter. I promised her I’d call for brunch in a few weeks. She said she looked forward to it, but she had a back-up plan just in case.

  With Ken Chandler and The Post leading the charge, the story wasn’t going away. Both the House leadership and the President’s senior advisors recommended a total house cleaning at State, including the Secretary. An outraged Congress was demanding heads roll, and both the administration and the Pentagon have been quick to lay the blame on rogue low-level employees at the State Department.

  I didn’t buy this spin, but it wasn’t my battle to fight. I’m still convinced the scheme was Hartman’s brainchild and that he used Carol and others to further his ends. I’d spent enough weekends at Carol’s place on the shore to know she never bothered with low-level types. Her guests were always generals, cabinet officers, members of Congress, and high-powered lobbyists. The least important person there was always, well, me. I will tell Ken Chandler what I think.

  I received several letters from Hartman’s lawyers threatening to sue me for assault and battery, demanding that I pay Hartman’s medical bills and apologize. I tossed them in the trash—no way would I apologize and his threat of a lawsuit was ludicrous. His lawyers weren’t about to give me the opportunity to question him under oath about his involvement in the framing of Rachel and her murder. I don’t think he personally ordered Rachel’s death or the attempts on our lives, but as the driving force behind the plan to sell arms without congressional approval he was as guilty as sin. According to Ken Chandler, Hartman was spending a lot of time out of the country recovering from the “terrible beating” he received. My bet is he was checking out countries that wouldn’t honor a request for extradition.

  Two weeks had passed since the press briefing, and I was back in Little Rock to attend a gathering at Micki’s ranch hosted by Ben and Linda. Most everyone came. Beth and Jeff drove down from St. Louis for the weekend. Martin and Big Mike couldn’t make it, so I promised we’d bring them barbecue. We invited John Robert and his SEALs, but John Robert was out of the country, and the others had returned to duty.

  Sam Pagano was there with Jasmine White, who looked mighty fine with her dark flowing hair and enormous hoop earrings. I pulled Micki aside and asked about Kristine. Turns out, she and Maggie had decided Kristine had to go. Once they discovered that Jasmine was both a runner and cyclist, they made sure Sam either attended or participated in every race she entered, an activity totally appropriate for an aspiring politician. Kristine wouldn’t be caught dead at such an event, and it didn’t take long for Sam to notice Jasmine. When I nudged him a little, he confessed that he hated fundraising events and missed the Faded Rose.

  Kristine had moved on to bigger fish. A slick local T
V sports commentator, despite having no experience or brains, had decided to run for governor. He and Kristine were made for each other.

  After dinner, Jeff took the opportunity to ask my permission to marry Beth. I didn’t think my approval made much difference, but the gesture made me feel good, sort of like I was still in control. They’re off to Charleston next week to tell his parents. The ring was his grandmother’s, and Beth couldn’t stop looking at it. They hadn’t set a date or place for the wedding yet, but Maggie and Walter suggested that if they could wait a year, the new retreat center would be available. My bet was that Jeff’s mother would organize a large church wedding in Charleston followed by a very expensive reception paid for by the father of the bride . . . me.

  Beth and Jeff weren’t the only couple to get engaged that day. Clovis fell to one knee to ask Stella to marry him.

  Her response? “Took you long enough.”

  They asked me to serve as best man, and Micki as maid-of-honor. Their wedding will be at a trout-fishing lodge on the New River in North Carolina next spring.

  I kidded Micki, “Good news comes in threes—you and Larry next?”

  She frowned, “We’re not there yet. We still have mother-in-law issues to work out.”

  I feigned disappointment, and she told me they would be in DC more often over the next year. Maggie was so taken with Larry’s ideas for the foundation’s offices and the Retreat Center, she’d asked if he would supervise the architects and contractors.

  “I hope you have a spare desk at your office.” She smiled, but looked a bit uncertain.

  “My office is yours. We’ll put your name on the door if you want.” And I meant it.

  After we’d heard all the news and everyone had settled in with a drink and old friends, I managed to corner Ben and Linda for a few minutes.

  “Ben, it’s time for us to deal with all that money that’s languishing in my trust account. It can’t stay there forever.” I’d already sent him an accounting of the money I’d spent, including Micki’s fee.

  “Keep it. I noticed that you paid Micki, but not yourself,” he said. “I used it to pay every expense I incurred, as well as a bonus to Brian, Martin and his crew, and for a dinner at Morton’s Steak House for John Robert and his team. But if you are absolutely sure you don’t want the money, I’d like to suggest an alternative. A good portion of that money comes from the manufacturer of the weapon that killed Ira. Rachel and Ira spent most of their adult lives promoting peace and reconciliation. Why don’t we donate the money to a non-profit organization that promotes peace in the Middle East along the lines that Ira believed? We can do it in Rachel and Ira’s memory.”

  Ben looked at Linda, and they both smiled before he responded.

  “Swords into plowshares—it’s a fitting tribute. Linda and I had already been talking along those lines. And we talked about something else as well: the money should be given in the names of Rachel and Ira Goodman. She loved Ira and became his wife. How is her changing her name to Rachel much different from Linda taking my name? She chose to become Rachel, and we should honor her decision.”

  Ben Jr. had included a few new items from his father’s menu for the afternoon. Jalapeno hushpuppies and a black-eyed pea soup with chorizo were both a big hit. But, as usual, Ben’s basic barbeque sandwich and dry-rubbed ribs ruled the day.

  After dinner, everyone gathered around Micki’s fireplace to chat and reminisce. I couldn’t help but notice that all my friends were now couples, and the longer I stayed, the more awkward I felt. No one made a fuss when I told them I had an early plane to catch and returned to the Armitage.

  The Lobos were playing the Redskins in DC on Sunday, and Red had insisted I join him in the owner’s box. The Lobos linebacker, James “the Wall” Stockdell, had guaranteed victory. The Redskins had made the mistake of letting “the Wall” go to the Lobos in the supplemental draft, and he’d been All-Pro since, with a definite chip on his shoulder whenever he faced the Redskins.

  My plane landed at National around noon the next day, and I took a cab home, without protection for the first time in what seemed like forever. I took a minute to really look at the house that had been our home for so many years. It was filled with many good memories, but no dogs, no Beth, and no Angie. It looked as lonely as I felt. I was scheduled to meet with Susan on Monday to start the process of putting the house on the market. This time I felt sure about the decision to sell.

  The decision to sell my house also made me realize something about my relationship with Carol. I had always used Angie as the excuse as to why I was so conflicted about Carol. Much like I told myself I couldn’t sell the house because of Angie, I told myself that it was Angie’s memory that kept me from committing fully to Carol, but that wasn’t true. Bottom line, Carol wasn’t the one for me. I didn’t love her. I enjoyed being with her and she was everything a man should want or need, but she wasn’t the one. When all was said and done, I couldn’t fool my own heart.

  I walked into the house, threw my keys on the side table, and flipped through the accumulated mail, most of it, of course, either bills or appliance ads. I heard voices in the background and wondered if I’d left the TV on the whole time I was gone.

  Jo Ellen Murphy didn’t leave me in suspense. She ran out of the den and directly into my arms.

  “It’s about time you got home,” she said.

  I could hardly believe my eyes. Her red hair was its usual tousled mess, and she wore jeans and an L.A. Lobos jersey.

  “Boy, have I missed you,” she said, giving me a welcoming kiss.

  Still in a state of shock, I let her lead me into the den and pull me down onto the sofa. “We have rules to discuss. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  It turned out that Clovis had been worried about Jo as well as Beth and Jeff. He’d sent Jordan to Pawleys to explain the danger she could face. Naturally, Jo laughed it off, said she could take care of herself. But Clovis asked Jordan to stay in Pawleys and keep watch until after the press briefing.

  “Jordan’s an easy guy to like,” she said. “My girlfriends thought he was hot and kept him busy while I ran the restaurant. But you have nothing to worry about. He’s way too young for me—I prefer a much more mature man.”

  “Clovis called last night,” she explained after she’d laid down her “Rules.”

  “He said the case was over, and in his opinion you could use company. You were moping around, and everyone was worried you were reverting to your former self. ‘Was it possible for me to surprise you?’ He even offered to pay for my plane ticket, first class no less. Offended, I said ‘hell no.’”

  “What changed your mind?” I said with a smile.

  “He told me you had skybox tickets to the ball game. I’ve never been to a pro football game much less sat in a skybox. I figure no one I know is here. I can keep my reputation, and you can show me the sights. I want to see the monuments, the museums, and the Capitol. Don’t think it’s because I want to see you,” she said with a laugh, and we went upstairs to get reacquainted.

  The look on Red’s face when we walked into his box the next day was worth the price of admission. Her knowledge of the game and her obvious pleasure in being there made Jo an instant hit. The game turned out to be closer than expected, and the Lobos won 33-31 when Billy Hopper made a one-handed touchdown grab in the game’s final seconds. Only one of Red’s guests was unimpressed with Jo: Lucy. The senator wanted nothing to do with Jo, and Jo reacted in kind.

  “That woman needs to see a doctor about removing the stick up her ass,” she whispered in my ear.

  Red couldn’t have been nicer, which was probably why Lucy behaved so badly. He ordered Lynn, one of his two ever-present “advisors,” to make sure Jo got a full set of Lobos gear to display in her restaurant. He told her she was welcome to come to a game in L.A., with or without me. He’d even send his jet for her. I laughed; Lucy fumed. When he insisted that we join them at Joe’s Stone Crab after the game, Lucy pleaded a headache
and bowed out. She blamed the headache on the mess I’d given her and her new Senate committee.

  I put off my appointment with Susan for a week, told Brian to hold down the fort and not to call me unless there was a real emergency. Jo and I spent the entire week playing tourists, enjoying great restaurants, and studying the chessboard. DC is a wonderful city if you don’t need to get anywhere quickly.

  I say “playing the tourists,” but it was Jo who mapped out our itinerary. She had planned our days down to the minute, and not just our visits to the Smithsonian and the monuments. We went to the Library of Congress and then walked to the Eastern Market. We visited galleries off the beaten path such as the Kreeger and the Phillips. We spent one morning at Hillside, the museum and former home of Marjorie Merriweather Post, and an afternoon at the spy museum. She made reservations at restaurants I’d barely heard of, and of course, she had to have fresh crabs, so one afternoon we drove to Cantler’s, sort of indoor/outdoor crab restaurant near Annapolis that served the best crabs on the East Coast, in my opinion.

  She saved the Vietnam Memorial for our last day, and insisted I do an etching of my father’s name inscribed in the marble. That night I grilled steaks and she made twice-baked potatoes, a salad, and blueberry cobbler. I opened a special bottle of wine I’d been saving for . . . well, I wasn’t sure why I’d saved it. After dinner we stayed up half the night talking and holding each other, neither of us wanted the morning to come, but come it did.