by Webb Hubbell
Maggie said, “Okay, I see it, but what does it mean?”
“I don’t know, but I keep running up against little things that don’t have a logical or simple explanation. Clovis, let’s take the equipment with us tomorrow. Show Maggie how to operate it. I’m not sure I can get you into the judge’s chambers.”
I returned a call from Peggy Fortson. She said the materials I had left her were intriguing but not “convincing.” I asked her if she was intrigued enough to attend tomorrow’s hearing. She’d be there. Apparently, Dub had thrown a hissy fit when the judge had called Rodney Fitzhugh to extend the invitation, but she’d calmed him down by assigning him to a new “task force” that required his presence in DC.
Micki and I spoke with Bea while the others built a fire in the den and chatted. With Clovis by her side, Bea confirmed that the book Clovis had retrieved from Janis Harold, and which she was now holding on her lap, was exactly what it appeared to be—the register from Russell’s duck club—a record of every visitor since he’d started using the place. Bea could physically describe a lot of the visitors. She remembered what they drank, what they ate, and whom they slept with. She remembered in detail some of the off-season meetings and visitors, because she had been on call to cook and clean. She had kept all her pay records, which recorded the days and hours she worked. She let me have those when I promised she would get them back. She also gave us the lowdown on some of the other people who worked there.
After a bit, I noticed Bea giving me nervous sidelong glances. I sensed she had something to tell me that she didn’t want the others to hear, so I suggested she and I go sit on the back porch. Getting the hint, Clovis and Micki joined the others in the den.
After they left the room, I said, “Bea, I know all this has to be hard on you. Russell was good to you, and you trusted him. Clovis told me that his wife fired you right after he died.”
“Mr. P., that woman knows I can’t get any other work—I’m too old, and my joints give me too much pain. Russell’d said I could work out there for the rest of my life, and she didn’t even give me my last two weeks’ wages, saying she’d have to audit the books before I got paid.”
“Well, that sure doesn’t seem right. Bea, is there something you’re holding back—something you didn’t want to say a while ago?”
Bea hesitated and gave me a shy smile. She walked slowly to the kitchen and returned holding what appeared to be an identical ledger to the one she had just looked at. She eased back into the sofa, and I waited while she decided whether to show it to me.
“The senator kept this other book locked up in the little cabinet by his bedstead. After his guests left, he’d make notes by their names. When folks used the club when he wasn’t there, he’d have me sit down at the dinner table with him next time he was there and tell him what they talked about. He never ‘xactly told me to listen in on folks, but he always gave me a real nice tip when I remembered. When Mr. Woody came to get the other register, Russell told me not to give him this one. When Mrs. Robinson fired me, I knew she’d find it and there’d be hell to pay. Russell wouldn’t want her to see what he wrote about those women, so I took it with me. I’m not going to jail, am I?”
“No, Bea, you’re not. Don’t worry—I’ll take good care of it.”
Bea went back to the kitchen, and I started looking through the journal she had given me. On the eve of tomorrow’s proffer, I’d been handed the evidence I needed to support my theory from the most unlikely of sources—someone Russell’s guests saw every day but who was invisible to people of power. I called Micki into the room and handed it to her.
She knew immediately what this book meant. We were hardly home free, but I had a chance. As she thumbed through the first pages, she pointed out a name I’d already seen the night before.
“Did you see this?”
“Yeah, I saw it. I’ll have to deal with it after tomorrow’s hearing.”
“Leave it alone, Jack. It’s not that important.”
We went into the den to join the rest of the group who were sitting around the fireplace, drinking a little wine and swapping tales. Walter and Maggie sat together on the sofa, while Beth and Jeff were sitting on the floor. Micki looked radiant in the firelight, and I thought … well, never mind what I thought. I caved to the old boyhood code of honor, as old-fashioned as Lawrence Welk. In some odd way, she was still Sam’s girl.
Wishing I could stay to enjoy the evening’s camaraderie, I walked away quietly; I had a proffer to prepare, and I was getting a headache. Clovis seemed on edge and pulled me aside to tell me his people had seen some suspicious traffic around Micki’s place, and that they’d chased two guys away from the fence line. We agreed that if anyone was going to try something, it would most likely be tonight or tomorrow morning. I shivered. My grandmother would have said that someone had just walked across my grave. I felt nervous for everyone, but knew I had to entrust our safety to Clovis.
I read the journal Bea had given me until I could no longer keep my eyes open.
WEEK TWO
THURSDAY
44
THE ALARM CLOCK went off at five o’clock, and I woke up in a sweat, reliving the bizarre dreams that had roiled my sleep. I knew if I rolled over, I might sleep through the entire morning. The warm shower felt good, especially on my pitching arm. Then I heard the door to my bedroom open and close quietly. My heart stopped. It’s over. They’re here. They got past security, and it’s all over. I stood under the spray, waiting to face my killer.
To my relief and pleasant surprise, it was Micki. She wore only a long white terry-cloth robe, which she let drop to the floor. She carefully stepped into the shower, then her lips were on mine, and she backed me against the tile wall. We kissed deeply, our hands at each other’s faces. The hot water poured down between the closing space between us, then down our faces and necks and backs.
Fulfilled, we remained in each other’s arms. She kissed me sweetly, and said, “There is magic in your shower after all.”
Just when I thought she was leaving, she reached for the bar of soap and lathered my body from top to bottom, then handed me the soap. I repeated the favor, and we rinsed and toweled each other off, but instead of putting on her robe, she led me by the hand back into bed. We were both a little less hungry this time and explored each other more slowly until we satisfied each other again.
I still hadn’t said a word. I leaned back on my pillow, and after we caught our breath, Micki rolled over, put her head on my chest, and said, “Every law partnership should begin this way.” She smiled and reached up to kiss me. “For a second there I thought you weren’t going to let me in the shower.”
She laughed when I told her who I thought she was. Then she got a stern look on her face. “Don’t get serious on me now.”
I must have looked confused because she kissed me again and said, “You know, you’re sweet, but you’re already getting way too serious and worrying about feelings, and what about Sam, and we’re business partners and all that. It’s only sex, Jack. Now all that tension between us is gone.” She put her head back on my chest, wrapped a leg around mine, and said, “It’s okay. Last night I saw you looking at me, and I bet because of some old-fashioned thinking on your part, you didn’t act. I’m glad I did.” She kissed me yet again and then climbed over me with those long legs.
“Too bad we have to go to work—you look like you’re ready to go another round.” She slid off the bed, put on her robe, and left the room.
I LINGERED IN bed for a minute, wishing I could relive every second, but that wasn’t going to do Woody any good. I took another shower, colder this time, got dressed, and headed to the kitchen. Bea was frying sausage and adding flour and milk to the drippings to make gravy for the biscuits baking in the oven. If she kept cooking like this, we were all going to have to start running marathons.
Micki walked in and whispered, “If you don’t stop grinning, Beth’s gonna get suspicious.”
She poured hersel
f a cup of coffee and sat down on a stool to watch Bea make the gravy as if I weren’t even in the room. Limiting myself to a biscuit wrapped around sausage with a little grape jelly, I opened the back door and wandered outside. I found myself on the spot where I’d been pitching to Jeff last night.
The grass was worn where I’d planted my foot. I went through my pre-pitch ritual—getting the signal, gripping the ball—and into the wind-up. It didn’t feel quite right. Maybe because I had on dress shoes and my starched dress shirt restricted my movement. But something else bothered me. … I just couldn’t put my finger on it.
Soon, we were all ready to leave for court. The house and grounds were crawling with security personnel. Clovis was taking no chances. We had just left the house and were following Clovis out to the Tahoe when I realized what was wrong. I stopped dead in my tracks.
“Stop, everybody stop.” I didn’t yell, but in a voice loud enough to be heard, I asked, “Clovis, did you move the Tahoe last night?”
Clovis stopped, and when he turned back to me, I had my answer. Clovis hadn’t, but someone else had.
We hurried back inside, congregating nervously by the front door. Clovis was outside bellowing orders into his Bluetooth. While we waited, I told everyone about pretending to pitch this morning and that something was nagging me—something not quite right.
“Yesterday, Jeff set up maybe fifty feet in front of Clovis’s car. Initially, I was worried I might blow one past him and smash a window. As I got comfortable, I quit worrying. The Tahoe was just a backdrop. This morning, it wasn’t until we walked to the car that I realized it was no longer in my line of sight from the makeshift pitcher’s mound.”
Clovis came in. “Jack, if you ever decide to get out of the law business, you’ll always have a place in mine. The car was moved last night, probably to get it out from under the security light. I’ve called—”
Suddenly, there was a deafening explosion that shook the whole house. We all dove for cover as pieces of the Tahoe flew through the air, a few slamming into the house. We watched in shock and silence as the remains of the truck burned. Even Clovis had nothing to say.
I was so mad I couldn’t see straight. I got right in his face, barking orders.
“Clovis, I’ve had enough of this! We’ve got to get out of here! Call the police and find us a new location. It’s not your fault, but you can’t protect us here, and it’s not fair to Micki. Micki, call the clerk and Sam. Nobody goes outside until the police come.”
Clovis didn’t move a muscle. Everyone just stared at me, and I knew I had to get a grip. I took a deep breath, apologized, and pulled Clovis aside.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t … I do trust … Look, can you keep everyone safe while I go to the courthouse?”
His eyes widened. “You still want to go to court?”
“Hell, yes. Finishing this case, win or lose, is the only way I know to put a stop to these attacks. Delaying only increases the danger.”
Maggie strode across the room and grabbed my hand.
“You’ve never walked into a courtroom without me. I hope you’re not thinking about doing it now. Micki and I are coming with you. It will all be in chambers today, so there’s no need for Beth and Jeff to come, or Helen either for that matter. Surely security, the police, and the ATF are enough to keep the big bad wolf away while we’re gone. Let Clovis’s team do their job and let’s go do ours.”
Clovis nodded. “First I gotta find us a new car.” I gave him a thumbs-up, and everyone relaxed a little.
While we waited for another SUV to arrive, Clovis said, “How’d you pick up on the moved car? They sure didn’t move it much.”
I told him the best target for a pitcher is a catcher’s mitt. The first backdrop behind the mitt is the catcher’s chest protector, which is ideally a solid field of dark blue or black. Last evening, the black Tahoe made a perfect backdrop behind Jeff. I could focus on his mitt without distraction. This morning it had been moved far enough that the backdrop had become pasture, horses, and trees.
“It’s like when you play an away game. Sometimes, the home team puts a pretty girl behind the plate, hollering and waving her arms. You watch on TV next time, and I’ll bet you see a wild-looking blonde right behind home plate.”
Maggie looked skeptical.
Clovis said, “I thought the blonde … well, whatever … I’m sure glad you were wide awake this morning.”
“Must have been the shower.” I felt a firm punch on my arm.
45
EVEN THOUGH MARSHALL had notified the press that this morning’s hearing would be in chambers, the crowd outside the courthouse was enormous—folks waving signs and banners, talking and waving to each other, kids out of school, even moms with strollers. Folks for and against the death penalty, folks for and against gun control, but mostly just riled up folks wanting to be part of something. Vendors sold water and soft drinks and even little American flags. Except for the ugly shouts, it could have been a street fair. Several ingenious protestors had figured out how we were getting in and out of the courthouse and stood where they could pelt our car with eggs and rotten fruit before we made it to the safety of the police-protected area. I was glad Helen wasn’t here to see the spectacle. One thing was certain—my conduct yesterday hadn’t changed many hearts or minds about Woody’s fate.
Marshall’s clerk seemed surprised to see us. Everyone in the office had heard about the bomb, and she’d assumed we’d ask for a continuance. Micki assured her that “no little car bomb” was going to get in our way.
Sam and his entourage showed up, as did Peggy and Rodney. I brushed off what had happened. I knew in my gut that the best thing I could do to protect everyone was to present the case today.
Micki had been to the holding cell to tell Woody about the bomb. She had also made it clear to Woody that, like a mother’s good child, he was not to speak unless spoken to. He’d first made the decision to remain silent—now we would hold him to it.
Marshall invited us into chambers and directed us to sit down. I tried my best to give Woody a reassuring look. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, and his hands shook. For the first time, he looked frightened.
Marshall looked at me and cleared his throat. “Before we go on the record, the court is aware that a bomb destroyed Mr. Jones’s car this morning. I’m relieved beyond words that no one was hurt. I’ve been assured that local and federal authorities are investigating, but if you need some time, this court is open to a continuance, no matter what the members of the media or your US attorney may say, Mr. Fitzhugh.”
I’d heard that Dub Blanchard had already appeared on a morning news show, suggesting that the bomb was a “publicity stunt or worse,” to buy time or garner sympathy. Now, Rodney Fitzhugh remained quiet. I sympathized with him—he couldn’t disparage his own boss, and he couldn’t defend stupidity.
“Your Honor,” I said, “I appreciate your concern, but we’re all okay. I didn’t have time to listen to the US attorney, but I’m sure he wasn’t speaking in his official capacity. We’re ready to move forward and believe it’s in everyone’s interest to do so.”
Accepting my reasoning with a concerned look, Marshall turned directly to business.
“The media was upset to learn that today’s proceedings will occur in chambers. However, they will be transcribed by the court reporter. You will notice that a video camera is set up and operating. Any objections?”
Sam was quick to say no.
I said firmly, “Your Honor, it is my request that this hearing remain private. I ask the court to hold off ruling on whether to make it public until it’s over. I believe there is a compelling need for a private hearing. If, at its conclusion, you believe the public’s right to know trumps my reasoning, I’m sure you’ll rule accordingly.”
Marshall agreed, but expressed his continuing reluctance about the very concept of a proffer. He’d allow it, but he warned me not to take advantage of the opportunity. I should put forth only whate
ver proof I had in accordance with traditional rules of evidence. I told him that was fine, but asked to make opening remarks, just as Sam had in court the day before.
During the ride to the courthouse, Micki and I had speculated as to why Sam hadn’t objected to my proffer in the first place. We surmised that he liked the idea of getting a sneak preview of our case. With the stipulation, he was all but assured that Woody would be bound over to trial. Now he could sit back and hear our defense, knowing he’d have time to shoot holes in any theory we presented. If this had been a typical murder case, I ought to have kept my pitiful cards close to the vest, but this case was anything but typical, and as they say in poker, I was going “all in.”
Marshall suggested that, before we went on record, we take a short break—he needed coffee. Maggie offered to get us coffee and hot tea for herself. She’d be lucky to find hot tea in a southern courthouse. Woody asked Micki why he couldn’t just plead guilty and get it all over with.
What was it with this death wish?
Tersely, I answered for her. “Because, I’m holding you to your word.”
Marshall placed his coffee carefully on a knitted coaster and turned to Woody.
“Mr. Cole, this stipulation is a bit unusual, so I want to ask you some questions. Has your counsel gone over the terms of this stipulation and told you of its potential consequences?”
Woody seemed to draw on some deep well of strength, sat up straight in his chair, squared his shoulders, and said, “They have. In fact, Ms. Lawrence told me I was a damn fool to agree to it.” That caused the raising of a few eyebrows, but Woody continued. “They went over it, and I listened to Ms. Lawrence’s concerns. I told Jack, excuse me, Mr. Patterson, that I wanted to enter into this agreement. In fact, I told them I’d fire them if they refused to let me sign it.”
