by Webb Hubbell
“Your Honor, if you please, my name is Janis Harold. I represent Mr. Patterson.”
“Ms. Harold. Welcome.”
“Thank you. May I speak?”
“Of course.”
“I’m puzzled by the nature of these proceedings. If this is a contempt hearing, does the prosecutor base it on some motion or a Show Cause Order issued by this court? I’ve checked the record and can find no such pleading or order on file. If the charge is obstruction of justice, is this an arraignment? If so, what are the charges? All I know is that my client was taken into custody last night by a deputy marshal assigned to Mr. Blanchard, made to spend the night in the county jail, and then paraded in front of the press in chains and an orange jump suit. What exactly has Mr. Patterson done to warrant such treatment?”
Dub jumped up. “Your Honor, he met with Dr. Stewart in Oklahoma City.”
“He’s Dr. Stewart’s attorney. Didn’t you know?” Janis snapped.
“Of course, but he did so without receiving this court’s permission.” He looked at the bench for a sign of approval.
“He didn’t need this court’s permission. Your Honor, I’ve reviewed the transcript of the prior proceeding. At no time did this court say Dr. Stewart’s lawyers couldn’t contact their client. Your only statement on the subject was that you would review the government’s pleading to determine whether the client should be made available to counsel. Mr. Patterson simply found another way to meet with his client once he discovered where Mr. Blanchard had hidden him.”
Janis emphasized the word “hidden.” Dub flushed again, this time a deep red. He really did fluster easily.
“I told counsel yesterday that he couldn’t see Dr. Stewart.”
“That’s right, you did. Let me quote, ‘It’ll be a cold day in hell before you see Stewart.’ You also said you would appeal any order from the court giving him access.”
Dub hadn’t expected to hear that. Neither had the judge, whose lips were set in a grim line. Dub rushed to add fuel to the fire.
“Your Honor, that’s not what I said. I simply explained to Mr. Patterson the options my office has available.” Janis was ready for the lie. She handed Maroney’s affidavit to Dub and Bullock and turned to the bench.
“If Mr. Blanchard intends to make such a representation to the court, if he denies that he used the words ‘cold day in hell’ and ‘we will appeal,’ I will call both Mr. Bullock and Marshal Maroney to the stand to testify.” I saw Bullock gulp.
“Your Honor, after my client’s partner, Ms. Lawrence, was kidnapped and almost killed, he became concerned for the safety of Dr. Stewart. Having been denied access to his client, he did what any good lawyer would do—he hit the books. He determined that once a prisoner is detained in a federal facility, jurisdiction over that prisoner lies not with the court, not with the U.S. attorney, and not with the U.S. marshal. Jurisdiction resides with the warden of the facility where he is incarcerated. The warden controls any and all visitation.” Janis handed the judge a memo outlining the law. “I might also add that Mr. Bullock recommended this precise course of action to Mr. Patterson last Sunday.”
She continued, “Only then did Mr. Patterson contact the warden, obtain permission for a visit, and fly to Oklahoma to check on his client. To clear up the record, he did meet with his client briefly, but the meeting was interrupted. The warden told him that the he had been ordered him to curtail the interview immediately. Of course he flew back to Little Rock, but certainly not to refuel. A deputy marshal met the plane upon landing, and Mr. Patterson accompanied him peacefully. He didn’t run or flee from arrest.” She turned to glare at Dub scornfully.
The judge interrupted. “All right, I’ve heard enough. Mr. Blanchard, do you intend to charge Mr. Patterson today?”
“Not today, your Honor, although my office is still contemplating charges.”
“All right then. First, since you have no charges, I see no reason why Mr. Patterson should be held. Second, Mr. Blanchard, if you wish to seek contempt charges against Mr. Patterson, you must file a motion. Furthermore, if you think disobeying your orders rises to the level of a federal crime or some form of contempt, I want to see some legal authority. Got it?”
No longer contemplating anything, Dub mumbled, “Yes, your Honor.”
“I expect to issue my rulings on your motions very soon. I don’t want you to read anything into what I say, Mr. Blanchard, but if I were you and didn’t want Mr. Patterson to have access to his client, I’d be preparing my appeal.” He smiled.
I felt almost giddy. We were finally going to get access to Doug—unless the Eighth Circuit Court of Appeals stayed his orders. Then Judge Houston turned to me.
“Mr. Patterson, I understand your hurry to see your client after Ms. Lawrence’s tragedy. However, I get the impression you tend to play a little fast and loose. I won’t tolerate any games in my court. I believe that justice delayed is justice denied. I know you are hampered by the loss of your co-counsel, but I will not accept her absence as an excuse for delay in either this case or the companion civil forfeiture case. I expect both sides to be ready within the dates I set in my order. Understood, counsel?”
I jumped up and said, “Understood, your Honor.”
Dub couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Your Honor, what about our request that Mr. Patterson be dismissed as counsel? He may not have violated an order, but surely his conduct warrants dismissal.”
The judge appeared to be seriously pondering the request. I was beginning to worry, when, a slow smile spread over his face.
“Request denied, Mr. Blanchard. Your request would only delay matters.” The judge banged his gavel and escaped the courtroom before anyone could say a word.
We remained in the courtroom for some time, relishing the moment. Dub and his troops left immediately, gearing up for an “impromptu” press conference. I had no desire to listen, and at my request Janis declined to participate. Too many battles were left to declare victory just yet. The opposition already had enough guns; I didn’t want to give them any extra ammunition. No matter what, Dub would spin it his way, and I couldn’t control how the press reported it. What mattered was that I was no longer under arrest, I was not in contempt of court, and I wouldn’t spend another night in jail.
Normally, you don’t just get to walk out of jail after being arrested. You have to be ‘processed.’ But since Dub and his attorneys had vanished, Marshal Maroney just smiled and opened the door.
So I walked out of the courthouse a free man. I’d spent one fairly safe night in segregated confinement—what would it be like to spend years behind those bars? Even if you were tough, made it through physically unscathed—what would it do to your soul? Laws in this country are unforgiving—where would you find a job? How could you support your family?
Janis and Maggie had decided to have a celebratory lunch, so I decided to wait for Sam who was just pocketing his cell phone. I started to thank him as he walked up, but he stopped me with an outstretched hand.
“That was Eric. Micki’s out of ICU and wants to see you. Eric gave in, but insists on being there. I’m okay with it as long as one of my officers is present. You probably won’t . . .” Clovis and I were already off like a shot.
29
LITTLE ROCK HAS the only Adult Level One Trauma Center in the state. The University Med Center had worked hard to attain the status and worked equally hard to maintain it. I’d known the director, Terry Collins, since we were kids. Terry met us at the door and told us to take the elevator to the third floor, the staff was expecting us. Clovis and I introduced ourselves to the two uniformed police officers standing outside Micki’s door.
I knocked, and a tall, worried-looking man opened the door. He looked like the kind of guy who ate a lot of fish and spinach. He stepped out into the hall, and I offered my hand.
“You must be Eric. I’m Jack Patterson.”
“Pleased to meet you. I—well, I feel like I already know you, but I sure didn’t thin
k we’d meet like this. Micki’s asleep again, but I promised to wake her whenever you came. I don’t think she’s suffered any permanent physical damage, but she still sleeps a lot, and psychologically, I don’t know. She’ll need a lot of time and a lot of therapy. It’s anyone’s guess when she’ll be back to normal.
“Jack—can I call you Jack?” I nodded, feeling my feathers ruffle just a little. He wasn’t that much younger than me. “I know you have this big case together, and I know it’s important to her, but she can’t be involved. She made me promise to let you see her, but she’s not ready to deal with you or some case or much of anything for that matter. She’s lucky to be alive.” He looked ready for combat, and I settled down. He really was in love with her.
“Listen to me, Eric. I’m here as her friend. I need to see her and assure myself she’s all right, maybe to reassure both of us. I don’t want to interfere with you or any of her other doctors. I just want her to get well. I’ll only be here for a little while.”
“Okay, but she’s very fragile.”
You’ve got a lot to learn about Micki. Fragile was not the word I would use to describe her, whatever the situation.
We stepped quietly into the room, and Eric pulled back the curtain. Why is it that even orderlies barge in without hesitation, but visitors tiptoe? Plastic bags dripped saline and medicine into IV catheters in her wrists. Her eyes looked like they’d been punched, and her skin was pale.
Eric said. “Micki, Jack’s here.”
She turned her head to look at me, eyes still bloodshot. I could still see a twinkle.
“Hello, partner,” she whispered.
I took her hand gently, pulled the chair close, and sat down. Micki looked at Eric, Clovis, and the policeman who had trailed in behind us.
“I need to talk to Jack alone. I know I’m not supposed to, but I’m gonna do it. So everybody out.”
Eric was the first to protest. “Honey . . .” but she interrupted.
“Out.” She couldn’t shout, but no one was about to argue with her. I continued to hold her hand, an innocent bystander, pleased as punch.
They all retreated, Eric scowling at me as he closed the door. “How’d you figure out where I was? Sam told me it was you who found me.”
“Just a hunch.” She looked so tired, so unlike the Micki I knew.
“Jack, I know I won’t be able to stay awake very long, so tell me what’s happening. I’ve got to know. I promise not to say a word, but please tell me what’s going on.” She leaned back, clearly expecting me to talk, so I did. Told her about going to Oklahoma City, spending the night in jail, and what had happened in court today. Her eyes remained closed, but I could tell she was listening and thinking.
I had just finished when Clovis stuck his head in the room.
“Jack, the policeman’s getting anxious. Eric’s gone, but if he comes back and you’re still here he’s going to have a cow.” I could easily grow tired of Eric.
Micki tried to smile. “Just a few more minutes, please . . . c’mon Clovis, just a few more minutes.” Clovis closed the door quietly.
I tried to interrupt, but she stopped me, sounding a bit like her old self. “My turn, Jack. It wasn’t Novak. Somebody’s trying to frame him.”
“I agree,” was all I could get out before she continued. “They all wore masks, but. . . .” The effort it took her to speak was heartbreaking.
“Sam will find whoever did it,” I told her. “I think what happened to you is somehow related to the Stewart case. I haven’t figured it out yet, but I will. What’s important is for you to recover. Don’t worry. You’re my partner—we have a lot to look forward to.”
She smiled, but was clearly about done in. Releasing her hand, I promised to return.
As I rose to kiss her on the check, she whispered, “Please, be careful. They’re coming after you next.”
“I know.”
30
CLOVIS AND I thanked the two officers and drove back to Micki’s office. I found myself sitting in her office chair, full of nervous energy, with nothing to do until Judge Houston issued his orders. Maggie and Debbie were going through all of Micki’s current cases. Clovis seemed preoccupied, so I busied myself calling a couple of friends to let them know I’d be in Little Rock for a while. I also called Liz to tell her about my conversation with Doug, emphasizing his willingness to give up his research if the prosecution would leave her alone.
It wasn’t yet the right time to press for the deal. Dub was bound to be pissed about this morning, and I didn’t want to deal with Bullock until Dub had calmed down. Besides, I still had no idea what Doug’s research pertained to or how marijuana was involved. Finally, I was at an extreme handicap without Micki. She knew all the pitfalls and tricks in negotiating a drug plea deal involving civil forfeiture. I only knew enough to be dangerous.
Liz said, “Jack, I’m not comfortable with any kind of deal until you get all the time you need with Doug. I know, I know, it’s great for me, but it concerns the both of us, so until you’re totally comfortable, don’t jump the gun. That said, I trust you completely. In the end, do what you think is best.”
“Thanks for the confidence, Liz. When the time comes I’ll only have a short window of opportunity, so your trust means a lot. You doing okay, otherwise?”
“Actually, I’ve enjoyed spending time with my dad. We don’t usually get along so well.”
“Good. Take it easy. Something’s bound to break soon. When it does, I’ll need you here.”
The last two days—and the night—were catching up. I needed some down time. I told Clovis I was going back to the hotel to take a nap. He had already pulled out his keys when Moira appeared and offered to drive me back. Clovis hesitated, but I waved him off, told him to relax and enjoy the afternoon. I was in good hands.
On the way back Moira and I chatted, and I took every opportunity to find out more about her. I’m sure Beth would have said I should have been more subtle. Maggie would say Moira was becoming a distraction.
I realized I hadn’t had a bite to eat except for noodles and brown gravy in over twenty-four hours and asked Moira if she would join me for a quick lunch. The hotel bar was full of men in suits who stared at me like I’d just spent the night in jail. Even in decent clothes, I suppose I looked a little seedy. Or maybe these guys watched TV. Whatever—all I could think about was food and sleep. I decided against wine, opting for a Diet Coke. Moira and I shared an order of nachos covered in cheese, jalapenos, and chili. She easily deflected my questions about her background, peppering me with questions about the case and my theories about the link between Doug Stewart and Micki’s kidnapping. I found myself enjoying her company.
Her fingers casually grazed my hand and shoulder more than once, and I couldn’t help but wonder about asking her up to my room to share a bottle of wine. Fortunately I had the good sense to leave it to my imagination. This woman carried a Glock in her shoulder bag and worked for Clovis. Maybe after the case, when things settled down . . . .
While we were waiting for the check, she offered to walk me to my room. When I declined she looked me in the eye and said, “Are you sure you want to be alone right now? I can be pretty good company.”
I won’t deny it felt good to know her interest hadn’t been all my imagination, but I managed to reply firmly, “Thank you, but yes, I’m sure—I’ll be fine, I just need some rest.”
Once upstairs, I showered to get the lice shampoo and jail smell out of my hair, turned down the thermostat, crawled into the bed and burrowed into the comfort of its soft covers. My eyes closed, and I was quickly dead to the world.
31
IT’S AMAZING THAT our sense of danger or preservation, or whatever you’d like to call it, works even when we’re sleeping. I was dreaming about Micki when I woke up with a start, aware of another presence. Moira had slipped under the covers and was climbing on top of me. She quickly undid her hair, which fell abundantly to her shoulders. She wore only a sweater. I’ll ad
mit it: I was stunned, almost unable to react.
She smiled and said in a low voice. “You don’t have much of a poker face, Jack. Don’t be in a hurry now. I’m in charge.”
Bending forward her lips brushed mine, a soft testing, and then another. She stretched upright and began to slowly rock back and forth against my lower torso until I was fully aroused. She reached behind her head and lifted her sweater exposing two very full and round breasts. Placing her hands behind her, she squeezed my thighs and began to slowly lean back, pressing her backside hard against my groin as her hands slowly slid down my legs.
She arched her back until her hair was brushing my ankles, her bottom swaying back and forth on top of my pelvis. Then slowly she came back up and bent forward from the waist. I felt her hands gliding their way up my torso until her mouth touched mine and her tongue began to probe. I arched my back to meet her, and she held my face to hers, lips open, tongue exploring. I felt her fingernails press deeply into the back of my neck as her other hand slid slowly down my chest. We met eagerly, and moaning softly, she began to rock her pelvis back and forth. I cried out in pleasure. Couldn’t help it.
Her mouth slid to my ear and she whispered,
“Sweet dreams, Jack.”
32
I DISTINCTLY HEARD a voice ask, “Was all that really necessary?” Moira responded, “A dying man’s wish.” I tried to clear my brain—had it all been a dream? Was I still dreaming? I hadn’t opened my eyes yet, but I sensed I was no longer in the same bed, and my wrists and ankles were tied to something. I felt a tight band around my chest. What kind of game was Moira playing? What had I gotten myself into? I still felt pretty groggy, but now the man’s voice was crystal clear. “You need to leave. It’s time to finish this.”
