A Game of Inches

by Webb Hubbell

  I took a moment—I wanted to get this right.

  “Because you’re not just another lawyer. Micki, when you and I work together we are the best. All the flirtations and other baggage we bring to each other aside, when we are in the courtroom we are a formidable team. If Billy has a chance in hell, it’s because we’re working together. Neither of us can do this alone. We need each other, but more importantly Billy needs us. But if you don’t believe in him, it won’t work.

  “Talk to him. Ask him hard questions. If you don’t believe in his innocence, we’ll both walk away.”

  She spoke quietly, “So you really do believe in him. And I guess in all that other stuff.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “For the record, we were good in bed together, too.” I could envision her smiling.

  “Better than good.” I responded.

  “Larry is very good for me. Do you understand?”

  I didn’t, so I kept quiet. It was time to end any conversation about our past.

  “You do know that some sociopaths can convince the most hardened prosecutors of their innocence?”

  “Billy’s not a sociopath, and the prosecutor is sure he did it.” I said.

  “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve seen him this afternoon. You know I wish we could talk together in person—I miss that.”

  “Me, too.” It was the truth, but given the conversation maybe it was best we weren’t together. Maggie would call our complicated history a distraction.

  I spent the rest of the morning on the phone. I called Rose, thanked her for covering for me and managed to dodge every question she asked about where I was. Maggie later told me she suspected I was somewhere with that “Carol Madison woman,” and I was embarrassed to tell her. Perfect.

  I called Walter to thank him for giving me Martin’s help. He wondered how long I could stand being cooped up at Barker’s. We agreed to have lunch tomorrow. As a Barker’s member he could come and go without drawing attention.

  If time weren’t such an issue, I’d feel good about the progress we had made in our first real morning, but the clock was running way too fast for my taste.

  The pressure of time led me to call a man I had been forced to deal with in the Stewart case—Alexander Novak. He was an outlier, a Russian gangster who ran his own organization. I had a grudging respect for the man—without his help Micki would surely be dead.

  40

  NOVAK WAS PART of the Russian mafia. At one time he controlled gambling and prostitution in the South from Atlanta to Dallas. He ran his business out of Little Rock for many years, but had moved to Dallas last year, I can’t think why. Novak claims he’s gone legit, but I have my doubts. We crossed paths two years ago in Little Rock, each doing the other a favor. Micki couldn’t stand him and would have my hide if she knew I was making this call.

  “Alex—Jack Patterson. I hope you are well.”

  “Jack!” he said in surprise. “A voice from my past. I am fine. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “I need some information.” No need for niceties with Novak.

  “Information doesn’t usually come cheap, my friend.”

  “I understand. Alex, I need to know how I would go about hiring three or four attractive women for a night in DC. They’d need to be fairly intelligent, presentable in public.”

  “Jack, the reason for your inquiry is none of my business, but I have to admit I’m surprised.”

  “I’m not actually trying to hire anyone. I just want to know how I would go about doing so.” I knew I sounded irritated.

  “Jack, as I have said, I am no longer in the business, but I might know someone you could call. But I need more information, and I must have your word that you are not helping the government set up some type of sting operation. I am well aware of your feelings toward my former business.”

  I had hoped he would just give me a name, but I understood his caution. Walter and Maggie’s foundation was devoting a lot of money to organizations that try to rescue young women from sex traffickers, and I was an integral part of that effort.

  “In turn, I need your word that you won’t use my name without my permission or tell a soul about this conversation,” I said. Caution worked both ways.

  “Hmm—intriguing. You have my word.” Novak may have been a crook, but I had learned that when he gave his word, he meant it.

  “Micki has agreed to represent Billy Hopper.” Word or no word, I couldn’t reveal my own involvement directly. “He attended a banquet with three attractive women who returned to a hotel with him. Later ….”

  Alex interrupted. “I’ve read a few news accounts, say no more. You think it is possible that the women in the limousine and the woman in his bed were not friends, but girls for hire?”

  “I don’t know. What I do know is that the identity of the woman found in the bed remains a mystery, even to the prosecutor. The three women at the banquet haven’t surfaced either. The prosecutor could have them under wraps, but I don’t think so. Billy swears he didn’t know the victim, and I believe him. I think she might have been working for someone. Why else wouldn’t a friend or family member have claimed the body by now?”

  “There are many reasons why women disappear and many reasons why no one claims a body, reasons that have nothing to do with prostitution.” Of course he was right.

  “True, but if three or four of your colleague’s best girls suddenly went missing, he wouldn’t run to the police.”

  “No, particularly if he saw a picture of one of those girls in The Washington Post. If he were brave, he might try to go after the person who had hired them. More likely, he would have been frightened and simply disappeared,” Alex said.

  “Why would he have been frightened?”

  “People in the business don’t murder their goods. Assume for a minute that Micki’s client didn’t do it. I think he did, by the way, but let’s assume he didn’t. The person who murdered that woman could just as easily murder her protector. Why take that risk? Maybe he took the other three girls with him.”

  Alex’s use of the word “goods” made my skin crawl. For him it was strictly business.

  “Why do you think Billy did it?” Alex was a smart guy; I wanted to hear his reasoning.

  “Sex can make a man crazy, even turn him into a cold-blooded, sadistic killer. Powerful men have been ruined, mild-mannered men have become violent—before, during, and afterwards. In my former business we saw this pattern many times. Billy Hopper fits the mold. He’d been drinking all night, he couldn’t get it up, and he took it out on the girl. Sadly, it doesn’t just happen in brothels; it happens in thousands of homes. I’m sorry, Jack. Micki’s client is a poster boy for violence against women in America.

  “It doesn’t matter whether she was an old girlfriend or a working girl. He likely snapped when he couldn’t get it up or prematurely ejaculated. The stupid girl probably ridiculed him, and he exploded. Micki’s best bet is to claim temporary insanity, but I doubt that defense will play well in today’s atmosphere. May I ask why you’re involved?”

  Of course he had seen through my subterfuge, but I kept to the game plan. “Micki asked for my help and, naturally, I agreed. She was reluctant to call you directly.”

  “Ah, of course. That explains your interest. I, too, would like to be of help, if I can. Perhaps I can place a few calls. May I call this number if I find anything useful?”

  “Yes—we would both be most appreciative. Thank you.”

  Novak certainly didn’t fit any mold—he was an intelligent and complicated person. During the Stewart case we developed a level of trust I would never have imagined possible. His reaction today contained equal amounts of bluntness and finesse, insolence and civility. I knew he was right about men taking out their frustrations, sexual or otherwise, against women. I’ve never understood it, can’t imagine such brutality. But it happens day after day, every single day.

  I don’t know why I thought the girls at the banquet might have been hired.
Pro athletes attract women like picnics attract ants, and it was just as likely they’d bought or been given their tickets just like everyone else. Rock stars have groupies, and so do pro athletes. All the professional leagues educate their athletes on the subject. Whether those classes do any good is an open question. Another possibility was that the women came with other men at the table and helped a drunken Billy get back to the hotel. Good Samaritans, so to speak.

  *****

  Mr. Kim was not pleased that Patterson’s whereabouts were still unknown. Patterson was not sophisticated enough to know how to go underground beyond detection, but so far he’d been successful. He did know that Patterson had gone to several ATM’s in DC before he left town. Considering his appetite for good food and wine, the cash couldn’t last long.

  He had to believe that someone with the Matthews’ companies, probably Stella Rice, had discovered his entry into Patterson’s phone and computers. He was no longer getting any information, not even meaningless chatter. His technicians assured him they would gain entry again within a few days.

  Jones was difficult to follow, but from all appearances he was in town as a tourist. He had even met with several hotels about a possible wedding reception. Marshall and Micki were meeting with Hopper this afternoon. He hoped to have a full report immediately after.

  His thoughts went back to Patterson. If he didn’t surface soon, he would have to be flushed out like a quail.

  41

  I DON’T KNOW why I felt so isolated. It had only been a couple of days, and I wasn’t exactly marooned on a desert island. But I did—I felt all fidgety, just couldn’t relax. The worst was waiting for email and phone calls from the team. What were they doing? My mind was absorbed with theories and outcomes; I could hardly think about anything else. I went down to the bar for lunch. When I saw the special was chicken and dumplings, I gave up. I knew the price would be many hours at the gym—assuming I survived.

  I finished my lunch and took my laptop to an empty table in a corner. Finally, an email from Clovis.

  “Logan Aerospace purchased a table for the NFL’s Honors banquet for $10,000, paid an extra $15,000 to have Hopper sit at their table. Details to follow. No information on names of attendees. Ten-person table. Guests included Hopper’s agent and female guest, three attractive women, four guys in suits, too young to be high-level executives. Guys bought autographed Lobos’ football for $4500. Lots of alcohol served, agent passed waiter $200 to keep drinks coming. Waiter pretty sure agent’s guest was not his wife. Agent occupied a suite at the Mandarin for three days, big food and alcohol tab.”

  I responded with some follow-up questions. I also sent Maggie a message asking her to ask David Dickey to provide a report on Logan Aerospace. We had all agreed that despite Stella’s assurances of security, we should keep calls to a minimum, using email as much as possible.

  Stella’s email was next:

  “Bastards already trying to hack into my new system. They won’t get in, but they’re pissing me off. Hacking is slowing down process of trying to find source, but maybe they will make a mistake.”

  I wouldn’t want to piss Stella off.

  Maggie responded to my email:

  “David is on it. Says Congress is already looking into Fantasy football, but NFL and NBA lobbyists and lawyers will make sure investigation goes nowhere. His company has already done an analysis. Fantasy sports are a gold mine for owners, millions they don’t have to share with players or TV networks. Report will be in next delivery to your location.

  Interesting development. Hopper’s agent showed up at the office. Says he’s here to help in any way he can.”

  I sent this email back to her:

  “Must have gotten wind that Red paid what was due, wants his cut. Ask for a copy of his contract. Tell him Micki is representing Billy and schedule meeting between the two. Make sure Clovis talks to Micki before meeting. Need to know what he remembers about the evening, but need to tread lightly. Agent probably ripping Billy off. Don’t let on that we are anything but grateful for his help.”

  This felt more like practicing law. But I couldn’t help but be amused—our emails had begun to resemble telegraphs.

  The bartender brought me another glass of iced tea. She must be new—I hadn’t noticed her Saturday or Sunday. I could tell she had something on her mind and waited for her to speak.

  “Mr. Patterson, this might be none of my business, but you might want to stay downstairs for a while. There’s a large meeting upstairs with a lot of non-members. One of the guests was asking if any of the staff had seen you lately. We’ve reported him to Mr. Barker, but don’t worry: no one said a word. Just as a precaution, you might want to work from down here. It should be pretty quiet.”

  My stomach gave a bit of a lurch. The staff is well known for its discretion—their jobs depend on it. But there was always the chance…

  I wondered who was hosting the meeting, but knew better than to ask. I thanked her sincerely, adding, “What happened to Wally? I mean you’re doing a great job, but … um, sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  She was quick to respond. “It’s Barb, Barb Patton. Wally’s fine, but his uncle had a stroke, and I’m filling in for a couple of weeks. There’s not much family left, you know.” She allowed her hand brush mine as she removed the old glass.

  Okay, Jack. Don’t read anything into that, I scolded myself. I was here to work, not to flirt with the wait staff.

  I tried a little research of my own on Logan Aerospace, a multi-billion dollar military contractor. They built components for fighter aircraft. That triggered a memory, and sure enough Chuck Morrison was in their listing of senior executives, the same Morrison who had met with Tennessee Senator Boudreaux that first weekend at Carol’s.

  Probably a coincidence, but intriguing nonetheless. Maybe I should call Carol to ask her about Chuck. No way, Jack. Forget about it.

  I hoped to hear from Micki soon. If she didn’t buy in to Billy, I’d have to rethink the whole effort. I couldn’t do this without her. I’d be in way over my head. I felt almost queasy knowing that someone had asked about me, here, at Barker’s. Whoever was suspicious, clearly didn’t think I’d left town. Maybe he was just being careful. Either way, I felt uneasy.

  Maggie had been able to scan David’s report on Fantasy sports and email it to me.

  Officially, the NFL has long held the position of opposing sports gambling, but the league has done nothing to stop individual team owners from investing in fantasy football. Fantasy sports operate under an exemption to a 2006 federal law that prohibits games like online poker, but permits fantasy sports play with respect to professional sports leagues. The games are legal in all but five states. A handful of other states are also trying to shut them down, but David speculated their efforts would be unsuccessful. Too many voters were playing fantasy sports. A move to shut it all down could be political suicide.

  Fans pay entry fees to a website—anywhere from twenty-five cents to thousands of dollars—to assemble a roster of real football players with multimillion dollar prize pools that can pay millions to the winner. One site alone says it pays out over seventy-five million dollars a week and over two billion dollars in a year. No telling how much it takes in: the industry is totally unregulated. No wonder Red says fantasy football is bigger than the sports itself.

  People called Red Shaw a fool for paying the NFL over two billion dollars for the new LA football franchise. If David’s economic analysis was correct, the franchise would be worth at least four billion in ten years. No, Red was not a fool.

  If Red was involved in setting up Billy—and the more I thought about it, the more I found it hard to believe—I had to wonder what role Lucy might have played. Lucy always had an agenda. Her engagement to Red insured big bucks for her campaign coffers. For his part, Red gained a strong ally in the Senate for his businesses and the NFL. I admit my individual prejudice wanted to think that somehow Lucy was involved, but I’d be damned if I could see how. I
was lost in my imagination when my cell buzzed. It was Novak.

  42

  I HADN’T EXPECTED to hear back from him so soon, if at all, so I assumed he had bad news. As usual there were no preliminaries.

  “One day I will learn to trust your instincts,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A former colleague in the DC area is missing three girls and their bodyguard. For obvious reasons he does not wish to be involved in your case, and he is pretty sure that the woman found murdered was not one of his. But he thinks he knows who she was.”

  I tried to keep my voice neutral. “Does he have a name, a family, someone who can identify her?”

  “Her papers, birth certificate, and immigration documents will be delivered to your office. She came from Bulgaria and worked independently.”

  “Wait a minute—does he know who hired her that night? What about her bodyguard and the other girls? Did she have any friends Micki can interview?” My voice had lots its cool, and Novak laughed.

  “Calm down, Jack. My former colleague wasn’t involved in the bodyguard’s day-to-day operations, much less those of the dead woman. As I said, the bodyguard has gone missing, as well as the three other girls. My former colleague has called out the dogs to find them.”

  Novak’s command of English was excellent, but intriguing. For example, he always referred to a pimp as a bodyguard. Who were the dogs?

  “Can I speak with him?”

  “No way. Your reputation precedes you, my friend. He thinks your client—sorry, Micki’s client—probably met the dead woman at the Mayflower bar and took her upstairs where he murdered her. She worked that bar regularly—independent, classy, and expensive. He thinks the bodyguard took the other girls out of town to prevent them from getting mixed up with the police. They are probably holed up in a motel somewhere, shooting up heroin.

  “He also said that unless you can prove Billy didn’t kill the girl, Hopper’s life in prison isn’t worth a plug nickel. He’s dead on arrival.”