by Webb Hubbell
A uniformed waiter handed me a generously filled brandy snifter and silently left the room. Red sat behind the desk chomping on a cigar and twirling his own brandy. Two other men stood off to the side. Red offered me one of the wingbacks in front of the desk and introduced the men.
“Jack, meet Lynn and Guy. They’re my good friends and financial advisors. I don’t take an important meeting without them. I hope you don’t mind?”
Lynn and Guy looked more like professional hit men in dark suits than financial advisors, but who was I to judge.
“Of course not—nice brandy,” I responded, sinking into the leather.
“I’d offer you a Cuban, but Lucy won’t let me smoke in the house. I import the brandy from France, glad you like it. Lynn, make sure Jack gets a couple of bottles.”
Lynn grunted.
Interesting instruction and reaction to and from a financial advisor.
Red leaned forward across the desk.
“Lucy says you’re a whiz-bang antitrust lawyer, the best of the best. Well, I’ve also made a few calls, learned the hard way to do my own research. Turns out she’s right—when it comes to antitrust you’re the man.”
Lovely, thanks—what next?
“Lucy also tells me you owe her a big favor, and I’m free to call on it. I expect you know what she’s talking about. I didn’t ask.” Red managed a grin even as the gnawed cigar moved up and down.
No reaction called for: first the compliment then the reminder of an obligation. Red was following the playbook. I waited for the ask.
“Jack, let me get right to the point. The NFL pays lobbyists a bloody fortune to make sure the NFL’s anti-trust exemption remains the law of the land. They pay attorneys even more to fight nuisance lawsuits trying to get around our exemption.”
Here it comes.
“The real danger lies with the Department of Justice and the FTC. Our exemption drives them nuts. I’m worried they might ferret out a weak link in the law or manage to get some liberal judge to side with them. The League may be happy with its lawyers, but I want my own. I want you on the Lobos’ payroll to monitor everything we do with an eye to antitrust exposure. Two hundred and fifty thousand a year sound about right?”
Well, shit, I wasn’t expecting this. If I were twenty years younger I’d have said yes before Red could whistle Dixie, but I wasn’t.
“Well—Red, I’m tremendously flattered, but I have a fairly good law practice, and I’m also heavily involved with the Matthews Foundation. I can’t simply abandon the foundation and my clients. I’m honored and thank you, but I’m not quite ready to become an employee, much less move to LA. But I’m happy to recommend a few highly qualified lawyers who might be willing to move for that amount….”
I spoke firmly, hoping to end the conversation, but Red interrupted with a growl.
“Oh, hell, Jack. I didn’t mean coming to work for the Lobos full-time or moving to LA. I own the damn team, and I’m not about to move out to la-la land. I don’t expect you to either. I’m talking about …well I guess it would be a retainer, I want you on retainer as our antitrust guy. You can represent whomever else you want as long as it isn’t another team, one of my players, or the damn union. I’ll have the team lawyers draw up a contract and deliver it to your office next week. You go over it, clean it up however you want, and sign it. I won’t take no for an answer.”
I didn’t know what to say, but my lawyer’s caution told me to go slow. It was one hell of an offer, but straight out of the blue. Why? Lucy Robinson, a lifelong adversary for most of my life, has me over for cocktails to witness her wedding announcement. After dinner her future husband offers me a lucrative retainer agreement with the Lobos, the NFL’s newest franchise. Retainers are highly sought after by law firms because they lock the client into a relationship. They usually provide for additional sums to be paid if the client is sued or the hours spent exceed a specified number. Most lawyers or law firms would kill for such an arrangement, especially when the client’s an NFL franchise worth roughly, oh, say two billion dollars.
Red wasn’t finished.
“I’ll make sure the lawyers include provisions that entitle you to get the same perks as other Lobos’ executives—skybox seats, away game tickets, Super Bowl tickets, etc. Hell, Jack you’ll be howling at the moon like the rest of us before you know it.”
“Howling at the moon” referenced the Lobos’ fans unique pre-game call and cheer. It reminded me of the Arkansas Razorback’s famous “Hog Call.” Not as good, but the LA fans loved it.
I didn’t answer.
“What’s wrong, Jack? You’re too damn quiet. I don’t like that. Tell me it’s not about that Hopper kid. Hell, he’s already cost me millions and probably millions more when that woman’s family dredges up some ambulance chaser and sues the team, but it’s not the end of the world. All the bad publicity will die down soon enough once he pleads guilty. If it’s about the money, tell me what it will take. I want you on board before I turn to the next draft. I’ve got a winning team to build.”
“Nothing’s wrong with your offer—the amount is very generous.”
“Great.” Red smiled, stood up, and extended his hand across the table. I remained seated.
“I’m overwhelmed. I don’t know quite what to say. Your guys can draw up the contract, but I want to think about my other commitments, be sure I can do the work you expect of me. Give me the weekend, but unless I have a complete change of heart, I look forward to becoming the Lobo’s second biggest fan.”
I rose and took his hand. Red seemed genuinely pleased.
As if on cue, Lucy came into the room, took me by the arm and said, “Jack, I’m so excited. I wish we could talk a while, but…” I wondered why I was now getting the bum’s rush, but shrugged it off. They were bound to have dinner plans. She gave me a quick, dry kiss, and I was quickly out the door, wondering what rabbit hole I’d fallen into.
Before I’d made it down the steps, I noticed a black Lincoln town car parked in front. The back door swung open, and inside I saw the smiling face of Carol Madison.
“Those little pastries weren’t enough—I’m hungry. How about you buying me dinner?”
3
RED SHAW PULLED back the drapery and watched from the window as Jack stepped into Carol’s town car. He smiled and murmured, “Perfect.” Lucy wasn’t so pleased.
“He didn’t agree on the spot?”
“No, my dear, he didn’t. He’s a lawyer. Caution is second nature. He’d have been skittish as a cat if I’d given him a contract all ready to go. I’ll up the ante and add a few perks. Don’t worry. I’ll have his signature before the end of the week. Let’s go to dinner, I’m starving. How about Joe’s for some crab?”
Lucy frowned, “But make sure it’s happens. We can’t afford to screw this up.”
She asked the nearest maid to bring her a wrap, kissed Red on cheek, reached down to his groin and gave him a seductive rub.
He took her hand and said, “No worries, Lucy. You’ll see.”
*****
I climbed into Carol’s car knowing I would wake up from this dream any second now. A very wealthy, very cocksure client had just dropped into my lap, and now I was on my way to dinner with a woman I hoped to get to know a whole lot better. And, let’s face it—I didn’t have anything better to do.
“Jack, say hello to Pat—he’s my regular driver.” Pat nodded at me in the rear view mirror, and I returned the gesture. “DeCarlo’s okay? I understand it’s one of your favorites.”
DeCarlo’s, a neighborhood restaurant in northwest DC, is one of my favorites, although I wondered briefly how she knew. DeCarlo’s serves maybe the best pasta Bolognese in the city. But I come back time and again because I can hear my companions talk and myself think. The service is excellent, Sinatra still croons in the background, and people leave you alone unless they know you—even then they’re pretty discreet.
I was taken aback to find Carol busy texting. She looked up lo
ng enough to say, “I hope you don’t mind. I have to get this off. Sit back and enjoy the ride while Pat manages the traffic. We have the rest of the night, I promise.” I tried not to read too much into her slow smile.
I had reverted to my normal skepticism before we turned the first corner. The car pulled up to a dark red awning beneath the door. Lucy DeCarlo greeted me warmly, but embraced Carol like they were family. She had the “perfect” table for the two of us. Carol slipped her arm into mine.
“I usually I sit up front so I can see and be seen but not tonight. Cellphone is off, and it’s time I properly introduced myself.”
We quickly agreed to share a Caesar salad and soft shell crabs. A New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc was the perfect crisp foil to the rich crabs.
“Jack, you look nervous. I’m not stalking you if that’s what you’re worried about. Surely you know how tough DC can be on marriages, what with lots of single women hovering, hoping for a break. Trust me—you did me a huge favor by letting me escort you around the room tonight like we were an item. So, let me tell you what I do to pay the bills. Let’s get that out of the way so we can enjoy ourselves and maybe put a lie to tonight’s charade.”
I leaned forward, ready to listen.
“I’m in the information and observation business. I maintain a select number of clients who pay me large annual fees to feed them information about anything and everything that goes on in DC, particularly with the current administration and Congress. I don’t lobby—never have, never will. My clients have armies of lobbyists.
“I merely feed the clients information and my personal observations—some public, most not so public. What they do with it isn’t my concern. Most of the time, I’d rather not know.
“I make friends with people from both parties. On occasion I’m able to help a cabinet officer get through the confirmation process, or make sure someone in trouble get the right lawyer or banker. But mostly I keep my eyes and ears open and report to my clients by way of confidential reports and emails. I am very good at what I do.” Her slow smile revealed both her charm and confidence.
I believed her. I had heard of people who did exactly what she described, but had never known one personally. At my old law firm, Banks and Tuohey, I’d been the beneficiary of information from such a source. My antitrust client was fighting the merger of two rivals without much success at the Federal Trade Commission. Then a source spilled the beans—the two rivals had no real interest in merging: it was all a sham. They were using the merger process to manipulate their own stock prices, while causing my client to spend millions to fight the merger. Relying on this tip, we quickly withdrew our objection to the merger, and my client’s rivals had to do some fast backtracking. I wondered whether that source could have been Carol.
I asked reluctantly, pretty sure I knew the answer, “I expect I’m in for a disappointment, but is this dinner part of your information gathering?”
“Wow, you really are jaded. I’ve got my work cut out for me tonight. Of course not, silly. I admit I’m curious why you were at Lucy’s this evening, but my meter stopped running when we entered the restaurant. For the first time in a long while, I’m here to enjoy the company of a handsome man, talk about anything but politics, and eat some good food.
“Red Shaw’s companies are clients, but, honestly, I have no idea what he wanted with you. As for Lucy, lots of people would like to know what makes her tick, and I bet you know more about her than anyone else in this town. But I’m not about to risk a nice evening by quizzing you about that stuck-up bitch.”
Blunt talk from someone who makes her bread and butter from politicians. Frankly, I didn’t care if she was lying. As far as I knew, I didn’t have any information worth sharing.
I raised my hand with a shrug, ready to talk about something other than Red or Lucy. She seemed pleased, and soon we were exploring each other’s interests. It turned out Carol loved the Washington Nationals, so most of the rest of the evening was spent talking baseball. I hadn’t met many women who knew so much about the game, much less an individual team.
We drifted on to families. She seemed to know quite a bit about mine, including the fact that I’d lost my wife Angie and that my daughter Beth was teaching at a wonderful school in New Orleans while her constant companion, Jeff, was doing his residency at Touro Infirmary in New Orleans.
She’d grown up in Charlotte, NC, graduated from UNC Chapel Hill, and received a Masters in Public Affairs at Harvard. She moved to Washington, DC to work for Senator Moynihan, but when the Senator declined to run again, she started her own “information” business, inspired by the success of others. I was surprised to learn she had never been married, but figured correctly that it was none of my business.
We lingered over coffee, turning the conversation back to baseball. Our waiter was hovering somewhat anxiously, and I realized we were the last party remaining, so I asked for the check. Carol’s driver was waiting out front—in fact, we caught him snoozing. When the car pulled up to my house I said something awkward about having really enjoyed the evening and hoping to see her again. I was so out of practice.
Carol reached behind my head and pulled me to her, gave me a soft kiss on the lips, and whispered in my ear, “You forgot to invite me in for a nightcap.”
She took one look at my face, laughed, and pushed me out the door. “You should at least ask, Jack.”
* * *
SATURDAY
* * *
April 16, 2016
4
I SLEPT LIKE a log, waking with a start to find my dog Sophie staring intently at me. As we went on her morning walk, I wondered if I could bribe my daughter Beth to take Sophie with her to New Orleans. Then again, New Orleans’s heat and humidity would be too much for a Bernese mountain dog. DC summers were bad enough.
I also let my thoughts wander to last night—Lucy’s invitation, Red Shaw’s offer, and Carol Madison. Each presented a bit of a mystery. Back in college we used to describe Lucy as “a piece of work.” Ambitious, aggressive and attractive, Lucy was a force to be reckoned with even then, and the last thirty years hadn’t changed anyone’s opinion, certainly not mine.
Red came across as blunt, gruff and forceful—didn’t bother me in the least, especially when I remembered he was originally from west Texas. I had worked with clients like Red all my life. They were usually difficult, but you always knew where you stood. I was at a loss to understand his offer, almost too good to be true. I suspected once his lawyer’s put the deal in writing it wouldn’t look so attractive.
Every NFL team needs antitrust advice. In 1961, Congress granted the league an anti-trust exemption, an event that has driven the antitrust lawyers at the Department of Justice crazy for decades. But why on earth had Lucy Robinson recommended me?
Carol was even more puzzling. Classy and intelligent—why had she singled me out? I was flattered, but my radar was up. Had Red asked her to entertain me? Had Lucy? Maybe I just looked lonely and available.
I showered and decided to opt for a real breakfast, not my usual Grape-Nuts. DC doesn’t have any true breakfast places where they don’t serve granola and the smells take you back to your grandmother’s kitchen. Bethesda has a few places that come close, but on a Saturday morning they’re packed. I opted for the grill at Columbia Country Club even though I wasn’t going to play golf that morning. The eggs were cooked well, sausage was seasoned, and the hash browns were nice and crisp. Besides, I could read the newspapers in peace.
The Washington Post covered the Billy Hopper story as if he had murdered the President—sidebars interviewing former teammates and friends and lots of commentary on the violence of the game. Everyone was “shocked,” but at the same time assumed he was guilty. The prosecutor announced that he looked forward to locking up Hopper for the rest of his life and again asked for assistance in determining the identity of the victim. They released her details: about 21 years old, 5’6’’tall, weight 110 pounds, natural auburn hair cut extremely short. An
artist’s sketch accompanied the article in The Post. She’d worn a blonde wig and had a birthmark on the nape of her neck.
Hopper was in town to attend the NFL Honors banquet the evening of the murder. Gossip at Lucy’s party was that the police had private videos of Hopper drinking at the banquet and leaving with three women in a limousine. I knew it was only a matter of time before those videos were leaked, as well as the gruesome pictures of the injuries to the young woman. Hopper was in a world of hurt. At least the District had abolished the death penalty years ago. Hopper would live out the rest of his life in a small prison cell in a super max prison. What a waste and what a shame.
As a lawyer, I couldn’t help but wonder who would represent Hopper, but no attorney was mentioned in any of the articles. His agent had refused comment. It was common knowledge that Hopper had played last year on a NFL minimum contract. So unless he had family money, attorney’s fees would quickly eat up whatever cash he had left after the season. Then again, he wouldn’t need much in prison.
Stop thinking that way, Jack. I’m a true believer in the presumption of innocence: give the young man the benefit of the doubt. Don’t lock him up and throw away the key before he even enters a plea or goes to trial.
I had plenty of time after breakfast before I was to meet Marshall, so I took the opportunity to go to the practice range and try out the new driver the club pro had convinced me to buy. Golfers are always tinkering with their swing, their putting stroke, or new equipment, hoping against hope that a small change will make a huge difference in their game. It seldom works, but dedicated golfers never quit trying.
