by Webb Hubbell
“Bill, tell the professor that Jack’s not a criminal lawyer. I’d come down there and tell him myself, but it’s Friday afternoon, and I have a horse that hasn’t been ridden in more than a week.”
“Hell, Micki, we’ve told him that. The fellow won’t give an inch, keeps insisting he’s entitled to speak to his lawyer, and that his lawyer is Jack Patterson. He told one of my deputies he used to work with Patterson’s wife. Didn’t she die a few years back?”
“She did. Look, maybe this guy does know Jack. Let me call him. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
She sat tapping a pen on her desk calendar, allowing her mind to drift to Jack. His six foot three inches weren’t Hollywood handsome, but he was still a good-looking man, the athletic type. His face was etched with lines of both grief and laughter. She missed his sharp mind and their easy rapport.
She dropped the pen, stood up abruptly, and walked into the reception area. The mystery woman, clad in black leggings and a long pullover that hung off one shoulder, was lounging crossways in the old, overstuffed armchair Micki had meant to recover. Micki guessed her to be in her early fifties—very well preserved. She’d clearly spent a lot of time at the gym and probably with some damn fine surgeons. An abundance of frothy blonde hair dominated her appearance. Micki extended her hand, and the woman jumped up from the chair with a guilty grin. Micki caught the flash of several gold bracelets.
“Sorry to barge in on you unannounced. I’m Liz Stewart. You’ve probably know why I’m here. It’s all over the news. I’m afraid I’ve gotten my husband into a bit of trouble.”
Micki appraised her coolly for a few seconds, but she didn’t turn a hair.
“Well, you could say this is a bit of coincidence. Marshal Maroney just called to tell me he has a Dr. Doug Stewart—your husband, I assume—in custody. Apparently he’s demanding to speak to my friend Jack Patterson. Let’s talk in my office.” She could see that Debbie and Mongo were bursting with curiosity.
Liz accepted her offer of ice water, and Micki motioned her to a chair across from her desk. She watched Liz settle herself, laughing breezily.
“Isn’t that just like Doug? Jack’s not going to fly to Little Rock for such a minor matter. You and I can deal with this mess without bothering him. Let me tell you what happened—I’m sure you’ll know exactly how to fix it. Those bastards have locked me out of my own house over a few measly ginger snaps.”
Micki wasn’t sure what to think. Either Liz didn’t have a clue or she was running a very good con. Debbie came in with tall glasses of water, and Micki handed her a note:
No interruptions and plan to stay late.
“The whole thing’s very innocent, but first things first,” Liz put her glass down on a side table and reached for an oversized handbag. “I need to write you a check. Is ten thousand enough?”
Ten thousand. Most of her clients had a hard time paying her at all, much less coming up with a retainer. She murmured that it wasn’t necessary, but Liz ignored her, tearing out the check as she continued her running monologue.
“My good friend, Judy Farrell, has breast cancer. She’s gonna be fine, I mean it’s not really a bad diagnosis, no lymph nodes, but still, she was having a really tough time with the chemo. So I made her a batch of ginger snaps.” Liz smiled. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”
Micki felt sure she did, but asked anyway. “I assume you mean they were laced with marijuana?”
“Exactly!” Liz exclaimed. “Ginger snaps are so much better than the brownies we had back in college. Well, they did the trick—Judy couldn’t stop thanking me. I told her not to tell anyone, but damned if she didn’t tell her whole book club. Can you believe it? Now it’s all over town, and the police have Doug locked up. How do we deal with this? For God’s sakes, I’m supposed to host a cocktail party for my garden club in two weeks. I’m in the Armitage Hotel for now, but I really need my house back.”
Micki watched her carefully, trying to keep a straight face.
“Did you sell ginger snaps to anyone?”
“Heavens, no!” Liz exclaimed. “They’re not Girl Scout Cookies. I was simply trying to help a friend. Two women from her book club have asked me for the recipe—can you imagine? Her friend Claire wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to hang up on her. Maybe she got mad and told the police. Her husband’s a lawyer at the Romatowski law firm, you know.”
“I’m sorry. But I can’t imagine the DEA or even our pathetic U.S. attorney getting worked up over ginger snaps. Marijuana is still illegal in Arkansas, but a batch of marijuana-laced cookies hardly justifies seizing your house. Besides, the Feds have backed off going after marijuana users since Obama said it’s not as dangerous as alcohol. Maybe they arrested your husband so he’ll give up his source—trying to get him to roll on his supplier who probably is selling a lot worse stuff. Where’d he get the marijuana?”
Micki expected Liz to hesitate. Most of her clients did at this point; fearful their source would retaliate.
But Liz blurted, “Oh, Doug didn’t buy it. I just went out in the back yard and picked some.”
With a sinking feeling Micki asked slowly, “You mean you had a marijuana plant growing in the backyard?”
Liz didn’t flinch. “Oh Lord, not just one. We have a whole garden full.”
3
GINGER SNAPS, my ass, Micki thought. This floozy really had me going.
Even now, Liz looked comfortable, her expression clueless. Watching her touch up her lipstick, a flashy coral shade, Micki wondered whether she should throw her out on her ear. Now ten thousand dollars didn’t seem like much of a retainer, and she had to assume the Feds had frozen the Stewart’s bank accounts by now. She felt sure Liz was just another crook who’d been caught red-handed and come up with a very creative story.
Almost all her clients lied to her, at least at first–part of human nature. She wondered what kind of relationship, if any, the Stewarts had with Jack. One phone call would put that question to rest. She decided to be direct.
“Liz, what exactly is your husband’s connection to Jack Patterson?”
“I’m sorry–I thought you knew. My husband worked with Jack’s wife, Angie, at the National Institutes of Health. To some extent, Angie’s cancer is why we moved here. After she died, Doug decided to leave NIH. He wanted to have the freedom to engage in pure research, independent of any government grants or control. UALR’s offer of an endowed chair was perfect.
“Angie told Doug if he ever needed a lawyer to call Jack, day or night. At dinner one night she made Jack swear he’d represent Doug. Jack said, ‘sure, okay,’ but I don’t think he was really listening. I thought at the time her insistence was strange, almost as if Doug and Angie knew something the rest of us didn’t.” She paused, staring out the window.
If Liz was telling even half the truth about the relationship, Micki owed it to Jack to get as much information as she could, whether she ended up representing Dr. Stewart or not. She began to probe Liz about their marijuana garden, gently making it clear that Doug was in serious trouble.
Liz babbled on and on about organic fertilizer, grafting, cross pollination, and watering techniques, most of which Micki let go in one ear and out the other. But she did glean one bit of good news: Liz had money in her own right. Maybe that explained her devil-may-care attitude. Micki couldn’t turn down a paying client, lying or not. Liz seemed unconcerned at the possibility that the legal fees could run much higher. The loss of a weekend seemed a small price to pay.
Micki had a hard time squaring her priorities with Liz’s. Micki wanted to meet Doug, learn about the charges, arrange his bail, and prepare for an arraignment. Liz wanted to get her make-up and clothes back before a Saturday night cocktail party. She seemed annoyed when Micki told her the marshal would probably release her personal items sometime the next morning—Liz had her regular hot yoga class at 9 o’clock. Could he have them delivered to her hotel tomorrow afternoon?
Micki played cat
-and-mouse for a while longer, but Liz didn’t give an inch. She finally sent her to Debbie to fill out paperwork. She had to call Jack before he left his office, and besides, she was fed up with Liz’s act. As they both rose, she closed with the one question she’d avoided for the last hour.
“Liz, you don’t seem to need the money, and your husband’s an endowed professor. Why on earth was he growing that much marijuana? I mean—why a whole garden?”
Liz looked confused.
“Why, for his work, of course. Wait, you didn’t think he was selling the stuff, did you?” She blinked. “Oh my God, how could you ever think such a thing?”
WASHINGTON, DC
FRIDAY AFTERNOON
April 18, 2014
4
I WAS HAVING a bad week.
A letter from Montgomery County had arrived on Monday advising me that my property taxes had doubled. I couldn’t argue with a new valuation—real estate in the Chevy Case was booming—but double? Maybe with the extra money the county could manage to pick up the garbage on the right day and turn off that damned camera on Connecticut Avenue that always claimed I was speeding. Probably not. Why kill a cash cow?
Tuesday, Sophie had gotten tangled in the leash during our morning walk and gone down hard. She limped all the way home, so we headed for the vet. The Burnese Mountain Dog had been a gift from a well-meaning friend after my wife’s death. I’d named her Sophie after Angie’s mother, fully intending to find her a new home, but for some reason I never got around to letting her go. The vet discovered a hairline fracture along with worsening hip dysplasia. Nothing would do but surgery. I’d always raised a skeptical brow at my friends who spent inordinate amounts of money on their pets, but now I found myself in the same boat. How could one damn dog cost so much money? I told the vet to go ahead. How could I say no?
As a favor to a former colleague, I had agreed to help a young lawyer who had brought an antitrust suit against certain drug companies conspiring to keep new products off the shelves until they could maximize their profits on the old drugs. The case was turning out to be a real pain in the ass. Big law firms use their clients’ deep pockets to overwhelm a solo practitioner with mounds of paperwork. I had already spent way too much time answering stupid questions posed by lawyers who enjoyed spending their clients’ money. My job as president of Walter Matthew’s new charitable foundation kept me busy enough without spending days and nights responding to their futile attempts to overwhelm me.
To top off the week, I was stuck in a conference room on a beautiful Friday afternoon, trying to pay attention to a group of well-meaning men and women who droned on and on about how “misguided” our foundation’s goals were and how under my leadership the foundation was “destined for failure.” They suggested, ever so politely, that my background rendered me woefully unqualified to head a major foundation. They were ever so sorry, but they really felt Walter should hire someone else. I tried to keep my eyes open.
Rose, my administrative assistant, stuck her head in the door. “Jack, I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Gates is on line one.” A few heads turned, and I tried not to smile at our carefully crafted signal. Deliverance at last.
I muttered an apology and slipped out the door. The speaker continued without even glancing up, as if my presence weren’t important, which I thought odd since he had called the meeting to discuss me and my “misguided plans.”
“Sorry to interrupt, Jack, but two guys from the FBI are waiting for you in the lobby, and I have Micki on line three—she says it’s urgent.”
“The FBI? Great. Show them into my office. Offer them coffee or something. I’ll take Micki’s call first.” I picked up a phone in the office adjoining the conference room.
“Micki, it’s great to hear your voice. Your call has saved me from a fate worse than death. What’s up?”
“Pack your bags, Jack. You have another client in Little Rock. This one didn’t kill anyone, but he’s in a heap of trouble.”
I had no idea what she meant, but it was sure to be much more interesting than the FBI or the snore of a meeting I had just escaped.
“Okay, I’ll bite. Who’s the mystery man?”
“I’m kidding about packing your bags, but the client is real—a Dr. Douglas Stewart. He was arrested for growing marijuana, lots of it. The DEA has already confiscated everything he owns. So far, he’s refused to talk except to say, ‘I want to talk to Jack Patterson.’ I’ve met with the wife—in fact, she gave me a nice retainer. I’ve got to hand it to you, Jack—you have some interesting friends.”
I remembered Doug Stewart. He used to work with Angie at NIH. Angie had really admired him, thought he was a genius. Doug had grown up in Mena, Arkansas, a little town near the Oklahoma border. He was named a Rhodes Scholar while at the University of Arkansas, and, after several years in England, returned to the states to teach chemistry and engage in research at the University of Michigan. He’d won tons of awards, including the DeWitt, for his work in molecular biochemistry. He came east to work at NIH, where he and Angie became good friends and colleagues. He was so crushed by her illness that it was hard for me to be around him. After the funeral, he tried to be a friend, but I was acting out my hermit role. Over time, I lost track, as I did with most of Angie’s friends. It just hurt too much.
I pictured him in my mind—tall and lanky, long brown hair, perfectly typecast as Ichabod Crane. I was surprised to learn he’d been a walk-on football player for the Razorbacks. He never played a down, but practiced all four years on the scout squad. Angie told me his office at NIH was filled with Razorback memorabilia, even one of those bizarre plastic Uncle Heavy’s Hog Hats. His Chemistry awards and diplomas sat in a box in a corner of his office, but his hog hat was front and center on his desk.
Well, I’ll be damned. I had no idea Doug and his wife lived in Little Rock, my boyhood home. Doug, the Rhodes scholar, arrested for dealing drugs? What next? Watching your good friend murder a U.S. Senator on TV took the cake, but Doug ending up a drug dealer was right up there. I asked Micki to tell me what she knew.
“Well, not much. So far, the marshal won’t let me talk to him—direct orders from the US attorney. Stewart’s no help at all since he insists you’re his lawyer. Gotta be more to it than just grass. Maybe it’s meth—after all, the doctor is a chemistry professor. The Feds have backed off marijuana busts since Colorado legalized it and other states are headed that way. His wife is either a ditz or a con, but she knows her husband is in serious trouble. Of course, word’s gotten out that Doug’s asked for you, and the local press is foaming at the mouth. I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything.”
“The FBI is waiting in my office. What a pleasant surprise,” I said dryly.
“He’ll be arraigned on Monday. His wife has hired me, but before I show up in court, I thought I better make sure I’ve got the whole story. Liz says you made some kind of promise to Angie to take care of Doug if he got in trouble.”
“I wouldn’t know the first thing about defending a drug case.”
“No, and this doesn’t look like that exciting case we dreamed about working on together. It looks like a pretty cut-and-dry bust, and I don’t see much hope for your friend. He was growing over fifty plants in his backyard and had hundreds of seedlings in the garage. He’s looking at serious jail time even if he comes clean, cooperates, and that’s the end of the story. He told his wife he was growing for his work, and she either bought it hook, line, and sinker, or she’s a hell of a liar. I told Marshal Maroney I couldn’t imagine you’d consider representing a drug dealer. That is, assuming you haven’t gotten so bored with foundation work that you want to join my detested lot—Little Rock’s criminal bar.” She left the question hanging.
I didn’t remember any promise to help Doug and was sure Angie had no idea he was growing pot, but the prospect of seeing Micki again and spending some time in Little Rock carried some appeal. Anything beat sitting in a conference room with a bunch of foundation types. But my la
wyer’s caution kicked in.
“Well, I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire here . . .”
In mid-excuse, I wandered off-course, talking and thinking at the same time. Doug had been a friend, uncommonly supportive of Angie in those last months. The least I could do was make a quick trip to see if I could help. My regular weekend golf game had been cancelled because the club was hosting a charity tournament. I could enjoy a little golf in Little Rock with old friends and try to figure out why Doug had gone bad. Angie would want me to go, I told myself.
“Oh what the hell, Micki, I don’t have any plans for the weekend. I’ll have Rose check flights and let you know when I’ll be there. Try to get word to him that I’m on my way.”
“You’re shitting me. I don’t see any reason why you should get involved.” Micki was clearly dumbfounded.
“Well, I know that, but I really don’t have anything better to do this weekend, and he’s asking for me, right? He was a good friend to Angie, especially when she was so sick. Maybe I can help by telling him to trust and cooperate with you. I need a mini-vacation, and I haven’t seen you in ages. I’ll see Doug and then you and I can catch up over dinner.”
Micki’s silence was a dead giveaway. Usually she could think and talk and stay two beats ahead of the game. Finally, she said, “Well, uh, dinner might be a little awkward. I’m seeing someone, Jack, and well, you know . . .”
I was glad she’d put a halt to any expectations before things went further.
“No problem. I’ll stay at the Armitage and take Liz to dinner.”
“Thanks, I knew you’d understand. E-mail Debbie your flight schedule, and I’ll make an appointment for you to see Doug. I don’t understand why you’re coming, but I’d love your read on this one. The wife is a handful.”
I put the phone down, told Rose to get me an early morning flight to Little Rock and walked into my office where two burly FBI agents were waiting.
