by Webb Hubbell
Clovis punched in a text to Paul, and before long he was introducing us to Liz’s new chaperone, Moira Kostov. Clovis had told me that Moira’s parents and grandparents had emigrated from Hungary during the Cold War. Now in her thirties, she’d grown up in Nashville where she’d been a good student and a better jock, swimming and playing tennis. She went to Michigan on a swimming scholarship and joined Detroit’s police force right after graduating. A bad divorce, Detroit’s economy, and Clovis’s job offer had brought her to Little Rock just a few weeks ago.
Paul wore thicker glasses than my friend Woody, but looks can be deceiving. He’d been a champion wrestler in college and was an expert in martial arts. Last year Clovis had told me, “If I had a child, I’d rather have Paul protecting her than anyone else I know.”
Moira was dressed in a navy blue pants suit and white blouse that looked at least five years out of date. Her shoulder holster was in plain sight beneath the jacket, and she wore black athletic shoes. You almost expected a badge. Her coal black hair was pulled back into a severe knot, and her almond eyes were dark green and very serious. She wore little make-up: a little blush and lip-gloss accented her strong cheekbones and generous mouth. Her grave handshake impressed me, and she seemed, well, she didn’t seem like a cop. I was fascinated with this paradox of a tough former Detroit policewoman who had such a soft smile and a softer voice. Paul pulled out a chair for her, and they both sat down.
Liz was direct. “You think you can keep up with me?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I think so.” Moira replied evenly, and Liz exploded.
“I’m not a ‘ma’am,’ I’m Liz, and I wouldn’t count on it.” Clovis glanced at Moira with an “I told you so” look.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Ma’am . . . I mean Liz. It’s going to be hard at first. Your husband was one of my professors at Michigan.”
“You went to Ann Arbor? You knew Doug?” Liz raised her eyebrows in apparent disbelief.
“Well, not exactly. I was one of several hundred in his basic chemistry class. He was a wonderful teacher, always had time for any of us even though the class was huge. I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me.”
“Small world,” I commented. “Moira, we all go by our first names. I’m Jack. I hope both Clovis and Paul have told you how we work: if you have a thought or idea, speak up. We’re in a strange situation. Clovis has already told you that Micki and I have both been followed. I don’t know how much he told you about Liz and why she needs protection.”
“I’d like to hear myself,” Liz said pointedly.
“If Doug was involved in selling drugs, his partners or his competition might think Liz knows more than she does and decide, well—to keep her quiet. If the arrest isn’t about drugs, whoever is behind it may want to use Liz to get at Doug. Right now, none of us knows exactly what happened, and we need to keep Liz safe.”
“Jack, the drug charges are bullshit. Doug wasn’t selling marijuana!” Liz jumped in. “I don’t know about that other stuff, but I’ve been married to him for almost thirty years. All Doug cares about are molecules, the Razorbacks, and, to a lesser degree, me. You’re supposed to be our lawyer, our advocate—how can you think Doug was a dope dealer?”
Before I could answer Moira put a gentle hand on Liz’s arm and said, “Liz, Jack doesn’t believe any of that. He’s here to defend Doug. I was Dr. Stewart’s student, and I’d believe the President of the University of Michigan was selling dope before he was. Jack’s telling me all this so we’ll both understand why you need me. I was a beat cop in Detroit and saw dope deals every day. The U.S. attorney’s behavior doesn’t make sense, and it’s up to Jack to get inside his head. He can’t do his job if he’s worried someone’s going to harm you. I’m here to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Liz looked at me and back at Moira. “Thank you. I get pretty protective when it comes to Doug.”
Micki glared at me. “You have every right; the thought of a bodyguard is very unsettling.”
I felt like an ogre. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so direct in front of Liz. Maybe I was the one being overly protective, but I didn’t think so. My instincts told me there was a lot more to this mess than ginger snaps.
As the waiter handed us menus, I complimented Clovis for adding Moira to his team. She’d stepped in with Liz at the right time, already beginning to build trust. I caught myself watching Moira as they spoke.
“Was she here during Woody’s hearing?” I asked Clovis in a whisper.
“No. She was in Detroit until just a few weeks ago. She was a real find. She went straight from school to patrolling the streets. I’m lucky she needed a job and was willing to come to Little Rock. Her credentials all check out. What you see is what you get.”
During dinner we talked about tomorrow’s logistics. Micki would take the lead, I’d keep quiet. This strategy went against my grain but, given Dub’s animosity, was absolutely the right thing to do. Micki and I hoped to meet with Doug early, but we doubted we’d have enough time to do more than get him into a clean suit when he walked off the plane.
The judge for tomorrow’s arraignment was the Honorable Wade Houston. A former FBI Agent and assistant U.S. attorney, he’d been on the bench for eight years, his views and rulings consistently both conservative and pro-government. He believed in a “rocket docket”—no delays in hearings or trials. The government was usually given tremendous leeway in presenting its case, while many a defense lawyer threw up his hands after the first day. We were not only going up against the power of the U.S. Government; we were also facing a “hanging judge” as far as granting defense motions and sentencing. Micki said most defense lawyers who drew Judge Houston usually called the prosecution and took whatever was offered. Since we couldn’t talk to either Dub or our client, we didn’t have this option.
Micki warned Liz that that the eyes of the judge, the prosecutors, and the press would be focused on her as well as on Doug and that she should dress carefully for the part. Moira would sit beside her, sans weaponry. Dub had been drumming up press all weekend, so the courtroom would be packed. It would also be full of Doug’s students and colleagues. I expected nothing less than a circus.
The last thing on tonight’s agenda was for Micki to go over what to expect at a bond hearing. Micki figured Dub would try to punish the Stewarts by arguing for a large bond. If a defendant doesn’t have the money to post bond on his own, he has to purchase a bond that can cost up to ten percent of the bond’s face amount. A million dollar bond could cost the Stewarts one hundred thousand dollars, money they’d never get back. Fortunately, Liz had liquid assets in her own right, and her sizable trust meant she probably wouldn’t have to go through a bondsman. The downside was that Dub was likely to use Liz’s wealth as a reason to ask for an even higher bond, arguing that Liz had plenty of money to help Doug flee the country. Prosecutors love to put defendants and their families between a rock and a hard place.
After Micki finished, Moira asked, “Is there any possibility they won’t produce Dr. Stewart tomorrow? If he’s in Oklahoma City tonight, can they get him back in time?”
Liz looked at me, chewing on her bottom lip. “Can that happen?”
Micki answered, “Well, Liz, they can’t have an arraignment without him. He still has some constitutional rights. I’ve already prepared a habeas if they try another trick like they did today. Frankly, I don’t think he’s in Oklahoma at all. Dub’s just jacking us around.”
What could Dub have up his sleeve?
MONDAY
April 21, 2014
16
I SPENT A restless night constantly checking the bedside clock, willing its digits to change. Just before seven, I finally put on jeans and went downstairs for breakfast, gathering the Democrat from the pile on the front desk. Egg yolk or pancake syrup invariably makes their mark on my shirtfront, so I try not to wear courtroom clothes to breakfast. Sure enough, the arraignment had made page one, all but repeating Dub’s press release.
I
had just ordered when Clovis sat down, bearing both a large plate of biscuits and gravy from the buffet and the printed e-mails Maggie had sent. Between bites he briefed me on the logistics for the morning. Liz and Moira would ride with us; we’d meet Micki in the courtroom. The deputy marshal in Dub’s office had told him we couldn’t see Doug until he was brought into the courtroom. What was the point? Why deny me access to my client? I knew Micki planned to file a protest with the judge, but I expected a less-than-sympathetic ear.
Plates clean, we finished our coffee and walked into the lobby just as Liz and Moira stepped out of the elevator. I was relieved to see Liz dressed very conservatively in a grey suit and fairly low heels. She had her hair pulled back with a scarf at the nape of her neck. Gone were her Rolex watch, her large aquamarine ring, and her showy diamond engagement ring. She wore only her gold wedding band and small pearl earrings. She gave a little twirl and said, “All ready for court, counsel.”
“Perfect, absolutely perfect,” I responded. She looked genuinely pleased, and again I wondered what made her tick.
ON THE WAY to the courthouse, I learned that Moira had set up a chair outside Liz’s room for the night, but Liz would have none of it. She insisted that Moira sleep in the other bed, and they had stayed up late talking. Liz needed a friend right now, someone to talk to besides her lawyers. Families of the accused have a rough time. They’re in a sort of limbo, no one’s responsibility. Frequently, even when the lawyers win, the process itself causes permanent psychological damage to the family.
We arrived at the courthouse as Micki was stepping out of her car, Paul in watchful tow. Together we ran the gauntlet of the ravenous press and courtroom security. The sterile courtroom looked like most every other federal courtroom across the country: a large room with a judge’s bench, seats for a jury, and two large tables, one for the defendant and one for the prosecution. Seating behind the rail allowed for about fifty spectators, if that.
Liz sat with Moira in the first row, which Maroney had reserved for family. They looked pretty lonely. Micki went back to the judge’s chambers to tell his clerk we were there, and Clovis left to ask the marshals if we could meet with Doug for a few minutes. The press traipsed in, followed by a clearly frustrated Clovis.
“The deputy marshal was a real jerk, gave me the usual line: the prisoner is unavailable, and if we have a problem we should take it up with Dub. Of course, Dub is meeting with his ‘people’ and can’t be disturbed.”
“Why am I not surprised? Did he at least say Doug is here? Could you see Doug in the holding cell?” I asked.
“They wouldn’t let me anywhere near the holding cell. I asked him specifically if Doug was here. He didn’t even blink, and said ‘All questions should be addressed to Mr. Blanchard.’”
Micki had returned in time for his last comments. I looked at her, silently willing her not to erupt. For the time being, she kept her cool.
The judge’s clerks, court reporter, and bailiff filed into the courtroom, but still no Dub. As the clock hit nine o’clock the courtroom door opened with a flourish. In walked U.S. Attorney Dub Blanchard, a man of middling height, thinning hair that fell short of a high forehead, and a toothy grin. He wasn’t actually fat—my daughter Beth had once called him the “Pillsbury Doughboy.” He was followed by an army of assistants who took up the entire prosecution table and most of the row just behind the rail. They lugged in what looked to me like a lot of files for an arraignment. Dub strolled around the courtroom smiling and shaking hands. He finally glanced our way, turned his back, and joined his assistants.
As soon as the courtroom calmed down we heard, “All rise.”
A fully-robed Judge Wade Houston entered the courtroom. He stood a little less than six feet tall, had a jutting jaw, and brown hair that looked like it had been razor cut, styled, and sprayed in place only moments earlier. Without a smile or a word to anyone, he sat down and frowned heavily.
“We are here in the matter of the United States versus Douglas Stewart. Who represents the United States?” His tone made clear that he thought this proceeding was a huge pain in the ass.
Dub jumped up. “I do, your Honor. Wilbur Blanchard, your Honor.” He began to introduce his staff, but the judge waved him back down.
“Who appears for the defendant?” Judge Houston asked.
Micki rose and said, “Micki Lawrence and Jack Patterson, your Honor.” I stood up.
Before Houston could say a word, Dub stood, paused gravely, and said, “Your Honor, before the court allows Mr. Patterson to enter his appearance, the United States would like to be heard. We object to his appearance and request that the court reserve any ruling on our objection until it can be thoroughly researched and briefed.”
Oh, good grief. Dub really didn’t like me, nor I him, but this was ridiculous.
The judge looked puzzled. I remained standing.
“Your Honor, I am aware that Mr. Patterson is a licensed lawyer in the District of Columbia, but the United States sees no reason why this court should allow a lawyer, not licensed in this state and not admitted to this court, to appear before his qualifications, integrity, and motives have been scrutinized. Ms. Lawrence can handle the matter before the court. She doesn’t need some DC lawyer who’s looking for publicity. To our knowledge, no motion has been filed requesting he be admitted by reciprocity and, when it is, it should be briefed. Might I suggest that if Mr. Patterson persists we delay this matter until the court sets a briefing schedule on this issue? The United States would need at least thirty days to respond to any motion for admission once it is filed.”
Dub had played his first card. He wanted to delay my representing Doug for as long as possible, probably until the case was over. He was playing hardball. Fortunately, I knew how to play this game quite well.
“Your Honor, may I speak?” I said in my most respectful tone. The judge nodded. I didn’t give Dub a chance to object.
“Mr. Blanchard remembers a time last year when I appeared in Circuit Judge Fitzgerald’s court and had not yet been admitted to this state’s bar. In that case, I had to enter my appearance by way of a motion supported by both my co-counsel and the prosecutor. Since that time, however, I have been admitted to this state’s bar. My bar number is 2013-73. I have also been admitted as a lawyer in good standing in this federal district and in this circuit. I believe the respective clerks will verify that my dues are current. If the court will allow me to approach the bench, I have copies of those licenses. I apologize for not providing these to Mr. Blanchard prior to this hearing, but I had no reason to believe he would be so poorly advised.”
After last year, I’d applied to be admitted on the off-chance Micki and I might handle another case together. Dub turned bright red and threw the papers I handed him at one of his assistants.
The judge took over. His face reflected his displeasure with both of us.
“Okay, that’s settled. Let’s get on to the business at hand. Bailiff, bring the defendant into the courtroom.”
I sat down. Still no sign of Doug.
Dub, still standing, took a deep breath, almost busting his shirt buttons. “Your Honor, the defendant is not available.”
I knew it. I knew it.
Micki was on her feet. The judge’s gavel failed to quiet the gallery.
It took a moment to restore order. Finally, he said, “Sit down, Ms. Lawrence. You’ll get your turn. Counsel, I hope you can explain.”
Still miffed by my presence, Dub smirked at Micki, then turned to the judge. “Your Honor, as there are members of the press in the courtroom, I want to be careful what I say.” Dub knew exactly how to get the media’s full attention. “The defendant was in custody at the local jail, but was involved in an altercation Saturday evening that necessitated moving him to a more secure environment.”
Micki shoved her chair back, but Judge Houston stopped her with a glare.
“That’s all well and good, Mr. Blanchard, but why, pray tell, isn’t he in my courtroo
m today? Where is he?” His scowl took in all of us, as though we were somehow in cahoots.
All eyes focused on him, Dub looked around and paused. I had to admit he had some natural acting ability.
“Because of certain facts which might jeopardize this case and even our national security, I cannot disclose his location in open court.” I so wanted to wipe that smirk off his puffy face.
The courtroom exploded. Judge Houston let the crowd work off its surprise for a moment before gaveling them into silence. I kept my hand firmly on Micki’s bouncing knee to keep her in her seat. Dub waited until the gallery had calmed down.
“Your Honor, the United States has filed its pleadings under seal to begin a process that is consistent with the national security interests of the United States. Your Honor has the requisite security clearances to review the pleadings. After you review them you’ll understand why we’re compelled to be so circumspect. I apologize for inconveniencing the court, but you will soon understand the need for secrecy.”
Holy shit. We had gone from ginger snaps and marijuana to a full-scale national security alert. Judge Houston didn’t blink an eye. He had probably been briefed in chambers and was ready for Dub’s histrionics.
“Well, in that case, Mr. Blanchard, it appears there is nothing left for me to do today.” The judge raised his gavel.
I removed my hand from her knee, and Micki shot up. “Your Honor. May I be heard, please?”
“Of course, Ms. Lawrence, but I’m not sure what, if anything can be done. The United States has taken Dr. Stewart into custody. They are holding him at an unidentified location as a national security risk and have filed motions under seal. What do you expect me to do before I read what they’ve filed?”
“Your Honor, we wish to file a habeas motion immediately. Dr. Stewart is a U.S. citizen and has certain rights. He is hardly a threat to national security,” she said flatly.
“I’ll consider your motion and the government’s response and rule on it expeditiously. I’m not known for sitting on my hands.” His face and voice were stone cold.
