The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “I have to take you at your word, Peggy. I already have a million questions. Any chance that point person can be you?” I asked.

  “Sorry, no. Everyone knows we’re friends. The AG would be okay with it, but there’s no way the other agencies would agree.”

  Right. I should have known.

  “Listen, Peggy. I met with Rachel yesterday. She was in good spirits, eager to talk. There is just no way she committed suicide. Ask Joan—she and some FBI agent were there with us.”

  “We already have, and her reaction was the same as yours. She’s pretty shaken; so are the rest of us. Nobody saw this coming, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, as you well know. The whole world will wonder how this could have happened.”

  “You sound like they’ve already ruled out foul play. I’m telling you Rachel didn’t kill herself, and you’re trying to figure out how to defend her jailers. If you don’t believe Joan or me, watch the damn tapes. She was murdered, I’m telling you.”

  “Calm down Jack. No one has come to any conclusions. There will be a full investigation, of that I can assure you. Let us do our job. You will have your hands full with the family and the press.”

  “Speaking of the press, do they know yet?” I asked dreading her response.

  “Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Too many people and agencies are involved. She was being held at a military base in central Virginia. How to deal with press inquiries is on this morning’s agenda.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. No sense killing the messenger.

  “Jack, I’ve told you everything I know. I promise you’ll have a contact this afternoon, but I have to warn you—don’t expect to learn much in the next few days. Please be patient.” She knew how impatient I could get and how quickly.

  “I know I owe you for making sure I was notified. Please give my thanks to the Attorney General. I’m sure the intelligence agencies want this all to go away. Now at least I have a little time to prepare. Anything else you can tell me?”

  “I feel sure you will be interviewed as part of the investigation. As far as we know, you and Joan were the last people to speak with her. We must know what you talked about.”

  “Well, that shouldn’t be too tough. The interview was taped and an agent Hudson took notes.”

  She didn’t respond—something else was wrong.

  “Peggy, what aren’t you telling me?”

  “Well, I guess you’ll find out. Things got a little crazy when they found Rachel. The guards didn’t know how to handle it or who to call. Too many people got involved. Both the tapes and the agent’s notes are now missing. But they’re bound to turn up.”

  I almost shouted in the phone. “Missing? You have got to be kidding me.”

  “Please don’t jump to any conclusions and get all conspiratorial. The tapes will be found, and either the autopsy will confirm suicide or it won’t. Patience, Jack. Remember it’s a virtue.”

  Her snippy comment was the last straw. I threw the phone into the brush and allowed myself a few obscenities, not giving a damn who heard. I saw Mike rustling around in the grass to find my phone, and I apologized, struggling to regain my composure.

  42

  MIKE AND BRIAN WERE SHOCKED when I told them what had happened, but there wasn’t much they could offer. As Mike sped us toward the office, I called Clovis.

  “Are you sitting down?” I asked, repeating Peggy’s question.

  “I am. I’ve calmed down and am sitting in a comfortable rocking chair designed and built by Larry. You’ll want one of your own.”

  “Clovis, Peggy Fortson just called—Rachel is dead.” I paused to let the words sink in. “They claim she hanged herself with a bed sheet last night. I don’t have any details, but the FBI is at Ben’s house now. Can you send an extra detail over there? I’ll call Micki as soon as I hang up with you; maybe she can get there before the press.”

  “Look, you’ve got your hands full. I’ll call Micki. We’ll take care of everything here. Anything more you can tell me?”

  “I met with her yesterday; she was in good spirits. I can’t believe she committed suicide. I don’t believe it. The AG is convening a meeting of all the affected agencies, and Peggy assures me there will be a complete investigation. I wish I could believe her. Her body was taken to the Virginia’s medical examiner’s office for an autopsy, but when or if we’ll get a report is anybody’s guess.

  “Ben and Linda will be devastated. Get their family doctor over to the house—Jasmine will know who he is. I wish I could take the next plane down, but someone has to identify the body and….”

  “Jack, Ben and Linda have good friends who will support them, but they have no one in DC. Stay where you can do the most good. Micki and I will do what we can and keep you up to date.”

  In times of crisis we jump ahead—what about funeral arrangements, where are the insurance papers, who will take care of the cat, that kind of thing. It’s a natural reaction—humans like to believe they’re in control of events over which they have no real control.

  Mike and Brian remained silent, absorbed by their own emotions. My thoughts went to Rachel and her family. Family and friends never recover from the suicide of a loved one. The question is always, “why?” Guilt hovers just beneath conscious thought, haunting your life like a recurring virus. You should have known, you should have been able to do something, you should have done something. Again, it seems to boil down to our need to control, if not ourselves, then others.

  In that vein, I couldn’t help but second-guess. Maybe it had been suicide. Had I said something to bring her to such despair? I thought I’d lifted her spirits, even Joan had commented on it, but…? On an intellectual level, I realize and believe that depression is a disease and that suicides occur more often than society likes to admit. But at this moment I couldn’t help but feel a bit responsible.

  I tried to imagine the impending meeting with the Attorney General. I could well imagine fingers pointing, each person trying to cover his respective ass. I supposed that because it was a military facility, the guards and jailers were military police. The FBI and at least two intelligence agencies were knee-deep in her arrest and detention. One had to believe that the White House and the National Security Council were already in damage-control mode.

  I had no choice but to hope that a complete investigation was in the works. But my instinct told me not to expect much of anything. Both press and public interest would wane, and eventually a bland report confirming her unfortunate suicide would be released. I was convinced that her death couldn’t have been suicide, but what could have happened? Why should someone need to kill her? The government already intended to do that.

  Brian’s voice brought me back to reality. I heard “yes, ma’am” and “got it” a few times, and realized he was talking, or rather listening, to Maggie. I had asked him to call her while I called Clovis. “We’ll meet you at the office in half an hour. Yes, ma’am, I will.” He looked a little uncertain, but forged ahead.

  “Maggie says you should quit feeling responsible and get to work on a press statement. She said to remind you about the confidentiality agreement, and whether it has any restrictions covering what you can or can’t say under these circumstances.”

  I smiled. I could always count on Maggie to keep a level head. I found a notepad and began to jot down a list of things I needed to do before leaving for Little Rock. I couldn’t concentrate and soon gave up, allowing my thoughts to drift where they would.

  In the space of a few minutes, I’d gone from starting to strategize Rachel’s defense in one of the biggest espionage cases since the Rosenbergs to dealing with the press and handling clean up matters for her parents. No wonder I felt such a void. Whether or why she had downloaded military secrets had become a moot point. A complete investigation might decide if she had committed suicide, but a venue to litigate her guilt or innocence no longer existed.

  I couldn’t help but think about the time I had spent with he
r yesterday. Should I have been more confident, more reassuring? Her own words kept pushing through my muddled thoughts.

  “It’s not what it seems.”

  43

  WORKING IN DOWNTOWN DC on the weekends is eerie. No noise, no bumper-to-bumper traffic, no sirens—the streets are empty except for tourists. There were no satellite trucks or waiting reporters in front of our office building, thank heavens.

  Brian quickly went to work on the long list of items Maggie had given him. Mike made coffee and, at my request, went across the street to buy doughnuts, Tylenol, and a Coke. My headache had returned. I found the confidentiality agreement and read through it. It was hard to determine what was or was not covered given the circumstances.

  I turned on the TV and muted the sound, expecting regular programming to be interrupted any second. I took up a pencil and my trusty yellow pad and began to draft a statement that said absolutely nothing. I was good at saying nothing. My cell phone rang—it was Maggie.

  “I should be there in five minutes. We just drove by the Justice Building. There must be five satellite trucks outside, and it looks like they’re setting up a bank of microphones on the steps. Do you want me to stop and listen or come on in?”

  “Come on in. We can watch it together. It’s bound to be carried live. I’ll ask Brian to record it,” I responded, handing Brian the remote.

  “Have you heard anything from Clovis or Micki?” she asked.

  “Not yet. I’m sure they’ve got their hands full. They’ll call if they need me.” Every part of me wanted to call Ben, but I knew he must have his hands full, too.

  I went back to my statement, and it wasn’t long before Maggie rushed through the door. Her presence and long hug were exactly what I needed.

  She looked up to the TV and asked. “Anything on the telly yet?

  “Not yet,” I answered, and she left to put the kettle on for her tea.

  The TV flashed breaking news and the next thing we saw were the steps of the Justice Building. What looked to be about twenty people were emerging from the large double doors. I didn’t see Peggy or the Attorney General. The only person I recognized was Donald Cotton, the U.S. Attorney from Virginia, who walked up to the microphone and began to speak.

  “I will read a short statement and then take a few questions. I appreciate your coming here this morning on such short notice. I am saddened to report that at four o’clock this morning, Mrs. Rachel Goodman was found dead in her cell at Mullins Army Base, the cause of death an apparent suicide. Ms. Goodman was housed at the base while being questioned about her involvement in the theft of highly sensitive government documents. A full investigation of the circumstances surrounding her death is already underway. My office in the Northern District of Virginia will take the lead in coordinating all aspects of the investigation. Any questions should be directed to our press office. Questions?”

  There was a brief silence. I don’t think anyone in the press was expecting this news. After a shocked silence, Cotton nodded to a raised hand.

  “You said apparent suicide—can you give us any details?” the reporter asked.

  “This is preliminary, but it appears that Mrs. Goodman hanged herself with a bed sheet.”

  The press took a collective gulp, and another reporter jumped in.

  “Was she depressed? Was she being watched?” Good question.

  “I would rather wait on the report to answer that question, but she was about to be charged with espionage, having been caught red-handed downloading military secrets.”

  “Bastard,” I mumbled.

  Next question. “Will there be an autopsy?”

  “Yes, it is being performed by the Virginia Medical Examiner’s office. We should have the results soon.”

  I muttered, “Rush to judgment, why don’t you.” I really didn’t like this guy.

  He continued, “I’d like to answer all your questions, but I really can’t say much more. I assure you the investigation into the cause of her death will be thorough and complete, but sadly I’m afraid most of the answers as to why she killed herself will never be known.

  “This entire matter has been a tragedy. For reasons unknown, this woman stole highly sensitive documents from her country, putting us all at risk. A plea agreement might have provided us some answers, but now we’ll never know.”

  I hoped Ben and Linda weren’t watching.

  “One last question,” was shouted, and Cotton nodded.

  “You mentioned a plea agreement. Was that in the offing?” My ears perked up.

  “My understanding is that Deputy U.S. Attorney Laing and Ms. Goodman’s attorney, Jack Patterson, traveled to the Army base yesterday to meet with Ms. Goodman. I haven’t had an opportunity to speak with Ms. Laing, but I’d be surprised if a plea deal wasn’t discussed.”

  “You lying sack of shit!” I screamed at the TV. Expletives continued to fly until I noticed that Maggie was wincing. I quickly apologized. He hadn’t actually lied, but he’d done his best to give the impression that Rachel was about to admit she was a traitor.

  I quickly called Clovis.

  “Please tell me Ben and Linda didn’t watch the press conference,” I begged.

  “Sorry, but they did. You can imagine how upset they are.” I suspected that the whole room watching thought that I’d sold Rachel down the river.

  “Clovis, believe me. That bastard is lying through his teeth. May I speak to Ben?”

  Clovis put Ben on the phone. I had calmed down only a little.

  “Ben, please don’t believe a word that man said. I don’t know why he’s lying, but he is.”

  Ben’s voice was calm, almost devoid of emotion.

  “I know he is, so does Linda. His words hurt, but we both know Rochelle didn’t commit suicide and wasn’t about to plead guilty to something she didn’t do. Jack, right now I have to bury my child, and that’s all I can think about. The government can’t hurt me any worse than they’ve already done. I could care less what they say.”

  I felt better—and worse. “Ben, the press will be outside my office before long. I’ll try to set the record straight.”

  “We trust you, Jack. We know you’ll do what’s right; her defense is completely in your hands as far as we’re concerned. Do whatever you think you should do.”

  “I’ll get there as soon as I can,” I said and hung up.

  I immediately thought about Ben’s comment, “her defense is in your hands.” Now was not the time, but before too long I would have to break it to him that there would be no defense. Rachel was dead, and the government would use leaks and innuendo to convince the world of her guilt. Suicide never made anything better; it just made matters worse for those who were left.

  The phones started ringing before Maggie and I could think through a strategy. I told her to tell the press I would make a brief statement and answer a few questions outside our building within the hour. I needed at least fifteen minutes to revise my statement, and, frankly, to calm down.

  I asked Mike to notify Martin. Brian and Maggie dealt with the phones while I revised my statement. There were several people I needed to call, but I had to concentrate on the task at hand: doing my best for Rachel in perhaps the last forum I would ever have.

  44

  I LOOKED OUT over the makeshift podium of microphones. Maggie, Brian, and Big Mike stood behind me, a visual Brian had suggested would bolster the appearance of my conviction. I looked out over a sea of reporters and took a deep breath.

  “I’ve been informed that Rachel Goodman was found dead in her cell in the early hours of this morning, around four o’clock. The FBI has notified her parents. This terrible news comes as a complete surprise and shock to us all. On behalf or her family, I ask that you respect their privacy. Please direct any inquiries to my office until further notice.”

  I stepped back from the microphones to the puzzlement of the reporters.

  “Is that it?” one reporter called out.

  “What else can I s
ay? The Justice Department has promised her family a complete and thorough investigation into the circumstances of her death. I take them at their word and hope the report will tell us what happened. I refuse to jump to conclusions, and ask that you do the same. False conclusions could prove very embarrassing.”

  “Are you suggesting she didn’t commit suicide?”

  “Personally, I don’t believe she committed suicide, but I’m suggesting nothing because I don’t have any facts. I hope to get more information over the next few days, but as of now the only thing I know is that Rachel is dead. That fact in itself is hard enough to accept, much less the notion that she committed suicide.”

  “Mr. Cotton says you met with Ms. Goodman yesterday to discuss a plea deal. Is that true?” I looked at a young reporter who was wearing horn-rimmed glasses.

  “I did meet with her yesterday, but Mr. Cotton is completely wrong if he suggested that the purpose of our meeting was to discuss a plea deal. He was not present, but I was, and the possibility of a plea agreement was not mentioned. Deputy U.S. Attorney Laing and Agent Hudson from the FBI were present the entire time. I am confident they will confirm that the subject of a plea never came up. The meeting was also video recorded.”

  I wanted to call attention to the fact that our meeting was recorded. I didn’t want Joan or Agent Hudson to fudge on the purpose of the meeting, and I was convinced that anyone who saw the tapes would have serious doubts about suicide. The murmurs from the press indicated I’d succeeded.

  “What was the purpose of the meeting?” another reporter called out.

  “Ms. Goodman asked if I would act as her attorney, and I agreed. Normally such a meeting would be confidential, but because of certain national security protocols, this initial meeting had to be witnessed—thus the presence of Ms. Laing and Agent Hudson. I might add that Ms. Goodman was in good spirits when I left.”