Ginger Snaps

by Webb Hubbell

  I noticed Clovis peering around the door into the restaurant. I couldn’t help but smile as he gave a sigh of relief and strode in, ready for the day. He reported that his folks were hard at work, and I brought up my one “shower thought.”

  “I’m not too current on the regulations regarding government surveillance and wiretapping, but I do know that the mere mention of ‘terrorism’ or ‘national security’ allows the Feds to throw the Fourth Amendment to the wind. I think maybe a little bug inspection at Micki’s office is in order.”

  “Great minds think alike,” Clovis said. “I’ll check your room and Liz’s too, while I’m at it.”

  “Good thinking. Clovis, if Doug is in fact a major grower and distributor he’s bound to have enemies and associates who might wonder what Liz knows. You know, I still can’t believe the Feds haven’t charged her—or even brought her in for questioning. We need to think about getting her some protection. How about you? You two seemed to hit it off.”

  “Not funny. I ain’t about to fall on that grenade. If you think she needs protection, I’ve got the perfect person.”

  “I wouldn’t wish that duty on anyone, but you’ve piqued my curiosity. Who’s the sacrificial lamb?”

  “I’ll introduce her when and if the time comes.”

  The server brought us coffees to go, and we left for Micki’s office. She’d already been on a five-mile run and was dunking one of Debbie’s pastries into her second cup of coffee. Munching on a cinnamon roll, Clovis took advantage of a pause in our small talk to tell her his people would come by later to sweep her offices. She played with the pastry, looking resigned.

  “What, no protest?” I asked. “Usually you think you’re exempt from the government’s intrusion.”

  “Well, maybe not this time. I spoke with a friend at the U.S. attorney’s office last night. He confirmed what Fitzhugh told me, that a special task force comprised of special agents from DEA and Homeland Security is running this gig, with Dub in charge and only answering to the Drug Czar himself. No one else. Dub’s only obligation to Main Justice is to keep the Criminal Division informed.”

  “That doesn’t bode well.”

  “Not one bit. He may think he covered his ass, but Doug Stewart’s in a world of trouble. Growing plants in your backyard and baking ginger snaps doesn’t warrant an interagency task force. Dub’s not even using his office at the courthouse. He got a special appropriation to rent office space downtown and hire a completely separate support staff. And he hasn’t brought on a single agent or attorney from his U.S. attorney’s office. Everything’s hush-hush. The way they’re going after Doug, he might as well be Al Capone.”

  “Well, forewarned is forearmed. That seals it. I’ve got a friend at Justice who might be willing to talk. And, Clovis, Liz needs full-time security. The last thing we need is for the cops to charge Liz with possession or for her to get smacked with a DUI. You’ve got someone in mind to babysit, right?” Clovis and Micki exchanged amused looks.

  “Oh, hell, Micki! I’m sorry. This is your case. I’m sorry. Why didn’t you stop me?” I asked.

  “I will, when I disagree. Normally, I’d say you’re being overprotective, but I’ve known my source in that office for years, and he was scared to talk. He warned me more than once, ‘Micki, be careful. Watch your back.’”

  11

  THE SKINNY MAN now sat behind the wheel of a dark gray Volvo SUV. He’d assured Mr. Smith that he could handle Patterson and Micki Lawrence just fine, glossing over his worry about Clovis Jones. Last night, Jones had personally tucked the Stewart woman in before driving Micki back and securing her office. Worse, Jones’ people were on campus asking questions. He had a moment now, while Lawrence and Patterson were huddled in Micki’s office, and Liz Stewart was off getting a massage. So he turned his attention to his primary problem—how to neutralize Jones. Mr. Smith had made it clear he didn’t tolerate mistakes.

  LEAVING MICKI AND Clovis to hash out security with Mongo, I perched on the edge of Micki’s desk and searched for Peggy Fortson’s cell number in my contacts. Peggy and I had joined the Justice Department at the same time. I had left for a private practice after a few years, but she’d stayed the course and was now the deputy assistant attorney general for the Criminal Division. We were still very good friends, so I didn’t feel bad about calling on a Sunday. She answered on the second ring.

  “Jack! I wondered if I’d ever hear from you again. Are you finally calling for that dinner you owe me?”

  No beating around the bush from Peggy. I owed her a lot more than dinner, but I got to the point.

  “No, I wish I were, but, well, I’m in Little Rock, and I’ve got some questions.”

  Her naturally cheerful voice took on an edge.

  “I know where you are, Jack. I also know why you’re there. Let me shut this down before you start. I’ve been specifically instructed by the attorney general to have absolutely no involvement in the Stewart case. He said if you called I should tell you that the appropriate person to speak to is Dub Blanchard. Other than that, I’m not to give you the time of day. I’m sorry, Jack. When will you be back in town?”

  I couldn’t imagine why the attorney general had hogtied Peggy. She was a career senior deputy, not some new intern. But she was also my friend, and I knew not to cross the line.

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll call you for that dinner as soon as I get back. I promise. I’m sorry to have bothered you on a Sunday.”

  “Wait, Jack. Look, please be careful. I mean . . . well, just watch your back.” She sounded miserable. Watch your back—it was becoming repetitive.

  Sliding the door closed with her foot, Micki eased carefully back into the office, juggling a stack of papers and two cups of coffee. I took one from her, helped her with the papers and said, “No luck with Peggy, they’ve put a muzzle on her. I have no idea what’s behind all this, but she’s been told ‘hands-off.’”

  “Don’t go all conspiracy on me, Jack. Dub knows you two are close, and he’s made sure you can’t go around him. Once Dr. Stewart announced you were his attorney, I bet he called Main Justice even before he called the press.” She was tapping the eraser end of a pencil on her desk.

  “What about the late-night call from your friend at the U.S. attorney’s office? Don’t tell me that doesn’t bother you.”

  “Let’s not box at shadows. Doug’s probably going to tell us he was growing all those plants because it’s his right under the First Amendment. As if I haven’t had a dozen clients try that one on me.”

  She turned to Clovis and asked, “Find out anything at UALR?”

  “Not much yet. The kids in Stewart’s classes are pretty freaked out, don’t know what to think. But the faculty rumor mill is working overtime. Did you ask Mongo and Debbie? They probably have more insight into Little Rock’s drug scene than my people.”

  She bit her lip. “I did, and neither has heard a thing—Stewart as a major drug supplier seems pretty unlikely. Look—I’m a little hesitant to involve them. They’ve invested a lot in getting and staying clean. They run with a different crowd now, and they’re trying hard. For Debbie, drugs mean Novak and a lot of bad memories.”

  “I’m with you, but they do have good sources. Let me give them a couple of harmless suggestions. I promise not to get them in a situation they can’t handle,” Clovis reassured her.

  “Okay. But if Novak turns up again, he’s all yours.”

  “Rumor has it he’s left Little Rock for good, but I’ll have my radar up. I’ll be sure both Debbie and Mongo can reach me any time.” He left before Micki could object.

  That was the second reference to Novak I’d heard. He sounded like Russian mafia, or some sort of Boris and Natasha wannabe. I asked Micki to explain. Her revelations about Novak and how she’d gotten involved in Debbie’s liberation and rehab gave me a jolt. Debbie seemed so bubbly, almost without a care in the world—I wondered how she felt underneath. I knew this sort of thing happened, but not, I’d thought
, in Little Rock, or to anyone I might know.

  Micki clearly took him very seriously. “I know in my heart Novak’s going to make another run at Debbie. She seems pretty solid right now, fairly content, but it just takes one slip—she’s still vulnerable. He sees her as a source of income and a means of blackmail for his well-heeled clientele. And he has an image to think of—escapees can be dangerous in his business. He’s capable of anything. She’s my responsibility now. I need to keep her safe.”

  Debbie’s story made me feel guilty. Several of the better restaurants I enjoyed in D.C. employed an ever-changing bevy of beautiful Eastern European servers. The young women were attractive and hands-on friendly. I ignored the rumors and occasional lewd glances from some of my fellow diners. Several colleagues had even encouraged me to go with them to one of the Russian restaurants that catered to professional ice hockey players and high rollers. They said “the view” was worth the expensive drinks. It never crossed my mind that these cute women might be victims of the sex trade. Human trafficking was a rapidly growing problem across the country and had spread well beyond major metropolitan areas. But Little Rock?

  I knew enough from my days at Justice to know how difficult it was to pinpoint the money behind these operations. I’d lay odds that Novak was just the front man for some Russian or Chinese mafia. I hated the way society used the phrase “the sex trade,” like the oil trade or international trade, as though it were just another economic market. How any decent human being could participate or condone the abuse handed out to these young women was beyond me. Having met Debbie, I knew I wouldn’t be so polite or listen so quietly the next time my buddies hinted at being more than friendly with those young women.

  My mind returned to Novak. What could he have to do with Doug Stewart? He may have used drugs to tame Debbie, but that didn’t make him a competing drug dealer or Doug’s business partner. In fact, it didn’t connect him with Doug at all.

  My thoughts were interrupted as Clovis returned to the office looking pleased. “Whenever you need to downsize, Micki, I’ve got a job for those two. They caught on real quick.”

  “Don’t you go stealing my employees, Clovis Jones,” she laughed.

  Clovis left to run a few errands before he drove us to the courthouse. Micki and I dug into the basics of the case. Much of the daily grind of lawyering is dull as nails: court preparation, forms, unending paper work, and an undervalued commodity–thought. Our need to make some sense of all this, hung over us like a fog. Still, we had to get Doug ready for the arraignment and what we hoped would be a successful bond hearing.

  Micki asked the question I knew was coming.

  “Are you going to enter an appearance tomorrow? I need to know.”

  “I know you do. Can we put that decision off until this evening? We’ll have met with Doug and know how he’s going to plead. You’re handling the arraignment and the bond hearing anyway. I’m just helping you prepare, throwing in my two cents. I’ll meet with Liz after we see Doug. Why don’t you join us? We can decide then.”

  12

  DEBBIE, GOD BLESS her, had gone to get lunch, She returned with a large box of fried chicken and potato salad from a place called Lutie’s’s—one bite and I was in heaven. The chicken was crispy on the outside, juicy on the inside, skin coated with just a hint of breading, salted to perfection.

  Consumed by pressure, hunger, and the guilty pleasure of fried food, we all dug in. Bones picked clean, I was sure I couldn’t eat another bite, when Debbie pulled out little fried peach pies that were still warm. Clovis gave a moan as he bit in. We lingered in contented silence until my eyes drifted to the face of my watch—time to go to the courthouse.

  No press on the steps—the first tickle of apprehension. Sure, it was Sunday, but the Lord’s Day never kept a good reporter away. Clovis had arranged to meet the deputy at the side door, but the door was locked, and no one answered his insistent knocks. He called the deputy’s cell, but only got his voice mail. They’d probably been delayed in transit. We waited a few minutes, but after no one appeared, Clovis called again. No answer. The tickle turned into a sinking feeling.

  Micki’s face was grim. She’d had plenty of experience with deputies who played games with her clients just for kicks. She punched in the U.S. marshal’s cell number.

  “Micki, how can I help you on this beautiful Sunday afternoon? Everything okay?” He sounded sincere, a nice enough guy.

  “Bill, I’m at the courthouse. We’re supposed to meet with Dr. Stewart, but the deputy isn’t here and doesn’t answer his phone. The courthouse is locked tighter than a drum. Is my client still in the county jail? We can be there in fifteen minutes.”

  “Randy was supposed to have the prisoner there at one. I’ll track him down and get right back to you. Shouldn’t be a problem, so far as I know.”

  Clovis had walked around to check the other doors, but the building was deserted.

  “There’s a bad smell here—I’d bet it’s the stench of Dub Blanchard.” Micki said harshly.

  I tried to stay positive. “The deputy couldn’t have been nicer. Maybe they’re just running late.”

  Micki’s cell rang. As she listened a deep flush crept up her neck and her teeth clenched.

  “You tell that arrogant son of a bitch he can kiss my ass! I . . . here . . . talk to Jack!”

  Micki threw the phone at my head and went storming off. I ducked and picked it up from the shrubbery, no worse for the wear.

  “Marshal, this is Jack Patterson. What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Patterson, this is Bill Maroney. I’m real sorry about this. Randy, my deputy, just told me that Dr. Stewart was involved in some sort of altercation last night. He wasn’t hurt, but in a move of caution he was moved to a different facility.”

  “Okay, so where is he? We’ll come to him.” I waited as he audibly swallowed and cleared his throat.

  “Um . . . well, apparently he’s in Oklahoma City at the Federal Prison Transfer Facility.”

  “Oklahoma City–you mean the federal prison at the airport.” I struggled to keep my tone neutral.

  “Yes, sir. I don’t know why they didn’t move him to the Faulkner County jail. That’s only about thirty minutes from here. Or even to Forrest City–it’s not much further. But, well, um, no, it looks like they flew him to Oklahoma City.”

  “What do you mean ‘they?’ You’re the marshal.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true, but the Justice Department detailed some deputy marshals from Fort Smith to Mr. Blanchard’s task force, and last night they took jurisdiction over the prisoner. I didn’t know until just now. I mean I didn’t even know they could. One minute the guy’s in county jail, the next thing I know he’s in Oklahoma City. The guy that told me all this, said it was done on Dub’s orders: my only responsibility is to keep Dr. Stewart safe when he’s in the courthouse. He was pretty strong; said that mostly I should just keep out of the way. When I said you were supposed to meet with the prisoner this afternoon, he said that was too damn bad, and what they did or didn’t do was none of my, uh, well ‘fucking’ business anymore. I’m repeating his words exactly. As soon as we hang up, I’ll try to get DC to tell me what’s going on, but for now, my hands are tied.”

  “Any more good news?”

  “He said if you have a problem, you’re to take it up with Mr. Blanchard. I’m really sorry, Mr. Patterson. I have a number if you want it. I don’t treat people this way. Micki will never trust me again.”

  “Oh yes, she will. What she thinks of Dub Blanchard is another matter. You might warn your courtroom deputies to be ready. Anything’s possible.”

  “I wouldn’t blame her if she kicked him in his fat balls. Most folks know better than to try to jack Micki around.”

  “Okay, Bill,” I sighed, ending the call after getting Dub’s number. No sense going off on him.

  Micki had returned from her walkabout, still fuming, ready to let loose on anyone. I put my hand on her arm, and she jerked it a
way.

  At last Clovis ventured, “So, where now?”

  “Micki, did your friend say exactly where the new task force is headquartered?” I asked.

  “No, but it’s bound to be downtown. It can’t be too hard to figure out.”

  I punched in the number Maroney had given me for Dub.

  “Dub Blanchard, please.”

  “May I say who is calling?”

  “Jack Patterson.” No need to elaborate.

  The woman came back on line in seconds. “Can he call you back? He’s in a meeting.”

  “No, he needn’t bother. I’ll be at his office in five minutes.”

  I hung up.

  “Clovis, pick the newest, most expensive building downtown, if there is one. Five’ll get you ten that’s where they’ve set up shop. Micki and I will try to get past security while you call Walter’s pilot. Find out if he can be ready to go to Oklahoma City in thirty minutes. The transfer facility is right there at the airport. They even have those jet ways a plane can pull up to just like at a regular airport terminal.”

  WE PULLED UP to the only new building in downtown Little Rock, twelve stories of glass and steel. I knew we had the right building because a guy who clearly wasn’t a banker stood outside the entrance talking to two armed men wearing blue vests labeled “U.S. Marshal.” These guys have no reason to be discreet.

  As we got out of the Tahoe, I held Micki back. “I know you want to deck someone, but you catch more flies with honey. Let me try it my way, okay?”

  She gave in with a scowl. “I’ll be good, but if this doesn’t work . . .”