by Webb Hubbell
I should have anticipated the FBI’s strategy—there was nothing surprising about it. They had slow walked Marshall, not allowing him to see Billy until they had all the witness testimony locked up.
Marshall again gave me a peculiar look. He finished his scotch and said, “I’m going to call it a night. I want to call Grace again. I’m exhausted, and want to have all my wits about me tomorrow. I’ll come to your office after I meet with Billy.”
He refused to let me pick up dinner, insisting serenely that I was his guest whenever we were in the Hay-Adams.
I had hoped to hear his story about the hotel, but it would have to wait. He saw me to the door and for the third time tonight got an odd grin on his face.
“You haven’t asked me about Micki,” he said casually as we left the restaurant.
Micki Lawrence had been my co-counsel in both the Cole and Stewart cases. She was the outdoorsy type: very tall with short, sun-bleached hair. When she wasn’t in the courtroom she was riding or grooming her horses. She was also a very good lawyer, dedicated to a clientele that consisted mostly of criminals and hard luck cases. We worked well together and once talked about a loose law partnership. Last time I saw her she was practically engaged to a Little Rock doctor. Another reason for us to work together hadn’t come up, and we hadn’t spoken in more than six months.
“No, I haven’t. She must be married by now.” I ducked the comment. Micki’s probable marriage was not a subject I cared to discuss.
“You might want to check in with her.”
There was that grin again. I made a mental note to check in with Micki sometime soon.
14
I UNLOCKED THE front door and was immediately greeted by a tail-wagging Sophie, excited by the prospect of a walk. I was ready to call it a day, but as I hooked on her leash, I realized I hadn’t checked my email or voicemail all day. I was ready for Maggie to come home. She was great with both the press and testy clients, most of whom melted at her refined British accent.
Sophie and I returned after a quick round the block, and I settled down at my desk. I knew Rose deserved my first attention.
“Jack, don’t ever do that to me again. The phone never stopped ringing and a few reporters even got past security. They all want to know how you’re connected to Billy Hopper, and who the black man with you in court today was, I mean, I know who Judge Fitzgerald is, but they don’t, and I didn’t know what to say. And that was just the beginning—that man Shaw, who called before, was downright rude. He demanded to know where you were and why you weren’t returning his calls. He said—well, I didn’t like what he said and hung up on him. Jack, I’m just not up to this. What’s going on? I need Maggie—it’s her job to handle stuff like this.”
My sentiments exactly. I had left my old law firm, Banks and Tuohey, a few years ago under difficult circumstances. Both Maggie and Rose had come with me. They had been caught up in my work, both were tired of the large law firm atmosphere, and both had decided to put their trust in me. I owed Rose a lot, but I knew her limitations. This was more than she could handle.
“I’m sorry, Rose, and thank you. I know today was tough, and you did great. Calm down and don’t worry. I’ll take care of Mr. Shaw. Listen, I’ll be in the office early tomorrow. Can you come in early?
“Judge Fitzgerald is going to use one of the spare offices and the conference room for at least the next few days. I’ll talk to our security folks about keeping the press out. Better yet, I’ll get Martin to take care of it.”
I heard her take a deep breath, knew she was trying to regain her poise.
“Of course, you know I will. But what’s all this got to do with Billy Hopper? He murdered that girl in cold blood, you know—terrible, terrible thing. He’s every women’s nightmare, cute and innocent, but underneath another violent jock who thinks he can get away with murder.”
I would have to convince to Rose to keep her opinions to herself, but not tonight.
“Get some rest, Rose; tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”
I knew I should call Red, but I needed to unwind. I didn’t want to know what he’d said to Rose, but it was worrisome.
I went through my emails; most of them were from the press. I read each one, then punched delete. Same with the voicemails—delete. I usually tried to keep reporters happy—you never knew when you might need a favor. But I didn’t want to saddle Maggie with the mess, and I had no skin in this game.
A few messages were from friends questioning my sanity. Several were rude, almost threatening. But one message caught my attention: a call from an old friend, Cheryl Cole. She wasn’t exactly a friend, in fact she was—well, she is Woody Cole’s former wife, who managed to parlay her relationship with Woody into a popular evening talk show on Fox News.
“Jack, you owe me. Marshall Fitzgerald and Jack Patterson attending Billy Hopper’s arraignment. I smell a really big story; you owe me and you know it. Call me any time day or night.” To the point, as usual.
I wasn’t about to let Cheryl within a city block of Marshall. Maggie was really going to hate making this call. She didn’t think much of Cheryl, but I did owe her a favor for her participation in the Stewart case. Of course, her cooperation had worked to her benefit as well, usually the case with Cheryl.
I sighed and punched in Red’s number, really hoping he would be out to dinner.
“Where in the hell have you been?” he answered. So much for dinner.
“Sorry I’ve been hard to reach. I’ve been at the courthouse all day.”
“Yeah, well I know that. It’s all over the news. Don’t you have better things to do than being a courthouse groupie? They said you were on the front row. How early did you have to get there to get a front row seat?”
Courthouse groupie—I wondered who gave him that phrase. Sarcasm does not impress me.
“Not early at all—the bailiff had saved me a seat. Marshall Fitzgerald, an old friend of mine from Little Rock came to town on Saturday. It turns out he is close to Billy Hopper. I offered to go to the arraignment with him. Lucy knows him—she can explain the relationship.”
There was along pause. I suspected Lucy was standing right there.
“Well, I’ll be damned. I guess your presence makes some sense. I was worried I’d put my money on the wrong horse. Did you get the contract from my lawyers?” Red’s tone was almost polite.
“I did, but I didn’t go into the office today. I’ll go over it and get back with you tomorrow.”
“Good. You know I liked that kid… Hopper… cost me a lot of money and my people think I should sue him.”
Why in the world would Red pile on Billy? “I’d say he has bigger worries than a civil lawsuit from his former team.”
Red gave out a boisterous laugh. “I guess you’re right. Don’t understand it. The kid had the world by the tail and threw it all away for a one-night stand with some hooker. Doesn’t make any sense. All of us have spent millions trying to distance football from the issue of violence against women, and now Hopper has undone all that work in one damn night.”
I was ready to cut the conversation short.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, or should I call your lawyer?”
“If it’s something major, call me; if it’s wording or whatever other stuff you lawyers worry about, work it out with them. Let’s get this done. Thanks to Hopper, I bet some damn Senator is already planning some sort of hearing to appease the women’s rights groups. I need you on board.”
“That Senator wouldn’t be having dinner with you right now?” I joked.
“Nope, not this Senator, I hope! I like you, Patterson. You punch back.” I heard a laugh, and he hung up.
I was ready to dislike Red Shaw, probably for no good reason. To begin with, I was wary of anyone close to Lucy. He was gruff and demanding, and from what Marshall told me, had been pretty stingy with Billy Hopper’s contract.
Yet, something told me not to judge so quickly. This latest incident of violence against a
woman had created another storm of bad publicity for the NFL, especially for the Lobos. An indignant Congress was likely to pile into the fray. They love the free publicity of hearings, especially if they don’t really have to do anything.
I needed to make one last phone call before I called it a night, but before I could call Clovis my cell phone began to vibrate. I didn’t recognize the number but I answered it nonetheless.
“You miss me?”
15
IN SPITE OF myself, my heart jumped when I heard Carol’s voice.
“Well, sort of, I guess,” I said warily, “but after Sunday…”
“Don’t be silly,” she interrupted. “I told you I’d work it out, and I have. I can explain later, if you insist. But let’s get serious. The Nationals are in town Thursday night, and I look damn good in a baseball jersey and jeans. You can teach me how to keep score.”
I bet she looked very good—my ego already felt better. I racked my brain…Thursday, Thursday. Damn. Maggie and Walter.
“I’d like nothing better than to catch a Nationals game with you, but I already have plans.”
“Do I have competition?” She was toying with me.
“Not what you think. Maggie and Walter Matthews are getting back from a month in Italy, and I committed to dinner with them. How about Friday night? Strasburg is pitching.”
“I have a better offer. Pat will pick you up Friday afternoon, and he’ll bring you out to my place. The party won’t arrive until Saturday morning, so we’ll have some time to ourselves. I promise not to work so hard this weekend. This group is a lot more fun.”
I wasn’t used to being chased, but I wasn’t about to turn down the offer.
“Sounds perfect. Strasburg’s arm is sore anyway.”
“Bring your bathing suit.” She actually giggled and hung up.
Sounded like whatever was bothering Carol had been resolved. I’d miss golf on Saturday with Walter, but he’d understand.
I took a few moments to imagine the upcoming weekend. Good thing Maggie was coming home. She’d bring me back down to earth.
Clovis filled me in on his efforts with the Fitzgerald family. At first, Grace had resisted, trying to make light of the situation, but when the satellite truck showed up and parked in the middle of the front yard she retreated to the kitchen. Clovis had spoken gravely to all the boys, giving each of them his card and instructing them to keep away from both the truck and the reporters.
“They’re all convinced Hopper didn’t do it. Amazing.”
“You ought to hear Marshall. I guess this is normal. The family is the last to know. The DC prosecutor is convinced he did it, and I don’t think she’s putting on an act.”
Clovis responded. “Of course, he did it. The woman was in his bed, the knife was a room service steak knife, and he left the banquet with three women arm in arm. The videos are all over ESPN and CNN.”
So the prosecutor had already begun to leak damaging evidence. It would be drip, drip, and more drip. Both the potential jury pool and the trial judge would be convinced of Hopper’s guilt long before the trial. It isn’t fair, but the prosecutor holds all the cards and controls the media by way of leaks.
Clovis continued, “Jack, tell the Judge he needs to come home. The more he’s associated with Hopper, the worse it’s going to be for him back here. Hopper is the new poster child for violence against women. The longer the Judge appears to be befriending him, the more likely the women’s groups are going to go after him. I’m not just talking about drumming up an opponent next time he’s up for reelection. I’m talking about picketing his courtroom and his house. Folks get riled up and things can get out of control pretty quick.”
I had worried Marshall might lose his shot at the Court of Appeals. It hadn’t crossed my mind that it could cost him his current job as well.
Marshall had peaked my curiosity so I asked Clovis, “So, Clovis, how’s Micki?”
“Uh, … Why do you ask?” He seemed to have lost his usual sangfroid.
“Well, first Marshall suggests I give her a call, and now you sound like you’ve choked on a soup bone. What’s up?”
“She’ll kill me if I tell you.”
“Do I need to get on a plane and come down there to find out? What in the hell is going on? You won’t have to worry about Micki killing you, I’ll do it myself if you don’t start talking.”
“Okay, calm down. So, Micki and Eric split, and she didn’t deal with it very well. Pretty classic story: she came home from a fishing trip a day early and caught him in her bed with some nurse. She didn’t much mind him cheating, but in her bed was a bit too much. Then he threw gasoline on the flames by blaming it all on you.”
“What?” I asked, astounded.
“Yeah, after she calmed down he accused her of still being in love with you, and that’s why he was cheating on her.”
“What a crock.”
“That’s what she said, too,” Clovis replied. “At any rate, she threw him out on his ear and started drinking. A lot, a whole lot. Finally, Debbie called Sam and me.”
Sam was my friend Sam Pagano, the local prosecutor and her former boss. Debbie was her office manager.
I asked. “Why didn’t you call me?”
“After we spent a couple of days sobering her up, she made us swear not to tell you. She said she’d start drinking again if we told you. I told her you would ultimately find out, but she made us swear anyway. I think she had finally convinced herself to marry Eric, and somehow she now blames you.”
“Is she okay? Should I call her?”
“Well, she’s back at work, and I’ve seen her out with another guy now and then. I’d let the sleeping cat lie if I were you.”
“Why would Marshall suggest I call her? Does he know?”
“I have no idea. I guess he doesn’t.” Clovis said.
“So my good friends Sam, Debbie, and you knew all this and didn’t say a word to me?”
“Well, Jack, her demands were pretty specific. I had no reason to tell you until you asked. You haven’t exactly been beating down her door—or even asked about her recently, as far as I know.”
“Valid point. I’ll leave her alone, but dammit, if she stumbles again, I expect a call—okay?”
“Deal.”
* * *
TUESDAY
* * *
April 19, 2016
16
I DIDN’T SLEEP well. Yesterday had been a whirlwind, and the last two phone calls had been pretty unsettling. I didn’t know quite what to think of Carol’s renewed interest, couldn’t quit wondering what had happened. Was Red somehow behind her call? And Clovis was right: I hadn’t spoken to Micki in months, and her love life was none of my business. Still… I never did like Eric, and it wasn’t my fault he was having a fling with a nurse in Micki’s bed.
I arrived at the office with a sack of warm blueberry muffins, a peace offering for Rose. A fresh pot of coffee was brewing in the kitchen, and for the moment the phones were silent. Martin called to tell me the press still hadn’t discovered where Marshall was staying—a miracle. But he worried about getting Marshall inside the courthouse today without getting mobbed.
Better him than me, I thought and then felt guilty. I wasn’t the one who didn’t do well with reporters.
Rose and I quickly went over my notes from last night. I couldn’t help but wonder what Billy would tell Marshall and how Marshall would handle it, but I schooled myself: Billy Hopper wasn’t my business. I would help Marshall any way I could, but Hopper was his problem. The contract from Red’s lawyers sat on the corner of my desk. I toyed with it for a minute, but left the envelope unopened. Instead, I prepared for a nine-thirty meeting with a client about a merger that had drawn the attention of the Justice Department.
The client arrived right on time, accompanied by an entourage of lawyers who knew nothing about antitrust law. We reviewed his options for the next hour or so, finally devising a reasonable plan of action. They were pleased and
for a few minutes I enjoyed the warm feeling of having done a good job.
Rose and I were reviewing my calendar when Marshall arrived. Rose took one look at him and quickly excused herself. Apparently his morning hadn’t gone as well as mine.
“Does Barker’s serve a late lunch?” He asked brusquely. “I think we need to hurry.”
“Absolutely. Let’s go.” I said.
Martin whisked us into his Suburban just as a handful of reporters ran back to their waiting cabs. I knew we wouldn’t be able to dodge them much longer.
Despite the hour, Barker’s was crowded, but after a few quiet words we were led to a corner table. Marshall sat down abruptly and ordered a beer
“You have one, too, Jack, I don’t like to drink alone.” I ordered a draft.
“That bad?” I asked.
“That bad.”
He jerked his hand up and down impatiently as the waitress delivered the beer and waited for our orders. Today’s special was fried catfish, hushpuppies, and slaw. No reason to even look at the menu.
As soon as she left, he began. “At first they put him in what they call the Hinckley cell at the courthouse. Named for John Hinckley, the man who shot Reagan. They were worried he might come to harm if he were put with the general population at the jail.
“But after the arraignment they got a call from the office of a powerful member of Congress complaining about favorable treatment. The marshal told me they had no choice but to move him in with the general population. He said they would do their best to see he wasn’t harmed, but couldn’t make any guarantees.”
“What jerk complained? Don’t they have anything better to do.”
“Apparently somebody senior enough to put the fear of God into the head of the jail.” Marshall was clearly distressed.
“Let me make some calls. I still have a few friends in the Marshal’s service.”
