The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  “Exactly what is normal in your world, Jack?” Larry asked.

  “Good point,” I laughed. “What are the plans for breakfast?”

  Clovis looked pleased as punch. “I’ve got sausage and egg casserole cooking in the oven and sweet rolls in the warming drawer. Can you believe this place has a warming drawer? If you want healthy, Stella made a batch of vegetable smoothies.”

  “Sorry, but I never do green before lunch,” Larry deadpanned. “Or after, for that matter.”

  Clovis laughed, and the three of us headed to the kitchen and dug into the savory casserole and sweet rolls. There are some benefits to not exercising.

  Micki, Maggie, and Brian soon joined us, and after breakfast we cleaned up and gathered in the great room.

  Micki began, “I’ve scheduled our first meeting with Rabbi Strauss at the Willard Hotel at eleven o’clock. He didn’t seem surprised by my request and has reserved a conference room, which we can use as long as we need. After that, I thought you and I could revisit your vision for the press conference after the filing tomorrow.”

  “I understand why you’re reluctant to hold a press conference, but we’re trying to smoke out a few rats,” I responded. “A press conference on the courthouse steps will surely get their attention.” She didn’t look convinced.

  “Our next meeting is with Ken Chandler. Sucking up to the press hasn’t been your style so far—what’s up?”

  “I’m not sucking up,” I said, frowning. “Ken has an excellent reputation as an investigative reporter. And I believe he actually met Rachel. We need to be careful, but I have a hunch.”

  “You’re the boss,” Micki shrugged.

  “No, Micki—that won’t do. No bosses—we’re partners. If you disagree with any part of my strategy, you need to speak up.” She had far more experience with criminal cases than I, but we always had to have this conversation.

  “I hear you, Jack. Just be sure to use the press, not get in bed with them. The Post is a bastion of the fourth estate, not some talk news host or Internet blogger who’s satisfied with innuendo and fake news,” Micki warned.

  “And what if we’re wrong? What if it turns out Rachel was a spy? What if she did commit suicide?” Her point was valid; we’d be way out on that limb.

  “Micki, we need the press this time. Ken Chandler will keep us grounded. He’ll ask reasonable questions and point out any flaws in our suppositions. Ken can ask questions we shouldn’t, go where we can’t. If it turns out to be a dead end, we go home and try to find other work.”

  She continued, without even a hint of a smile. “After we meet with Ken, we meet Mike and Brian at Rachel’s apartment.”

  “You have the inventory—what’s the point?” Maggie asked me.

  “I only had an hour with her, under extremely difficult circumstances. After her husband was killed, she lived alone for over two years. I hope maybe her apartment can give me a better sense of who she was.

  “The Rachel I interviewed at the military base didn’t seem to be worried at all. She certainly didn’t act depressed, but impressions can be wrong. Lawyers like to think they can represent anyone, but if you don’t believe in your client, your doubt becomes evident in every action you take. I’d love to have you come with us, Maggie, but Clovis told me you had work to do here?”

  “With the change in catering because of security issues, I need to figure out how to feed us, not to mention prepping all the paperwork for tomorrow morning. Beth wants me to meet with Susan Sandler after lunch, and,” she smiled broadly, “the Redskins are playing the Panthers tonight in Landover. Someone needs to organize the watch party. No sense in this compound becoming all work and no play.”

  Micki shook her head in amazement and said, “Maggie, I don’t know how on earth you manage to do so much in one day. You take multi-tasking to a new level, and I mean that as a compliment!”

  With that, they all left to get started on the business of the day, so I wandered back into the kitchen to find Beth nursing another cup of coffee.

  “Sleep well?” I asked.

  “Not really. You know—first night away, plus I miss Jeff.”

  “Thanks for working with Susan. I’d take the first one she showed me just to avoid the hassle of shopping.”

  Beth scolded, “This isn’t buying a golf shirt, Dad, and I can’t choose a house for you.”

  I laughed and gave her a quick hug. “You should step into our discussions, too. Everyone values your opinion.”

  “So far I’m content to just listen. I am glad you hired Brian, and not for Maggie’s sake alone. He’s quiet, but I can tell he has good instincts.”

  “I’m glad he’s on board, too. After today, I’ll know if we’re on the right track or if we should close up shop. My own instincts certainly aren’t perfect. My love for Ben may have clouded my vision.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your instincts, except for women. When are you going to tell me about the new girlfriend in Pawleys? It’s only about an hour from Charleston. Maybe I could meet her for lunch?” she teased.

  Beth lunching with Jo? No thanks.

  Micki rescued me. “You ready to roll?”

  I grabbed a jacket and was about to jump into the back seat of the Jeep when I noticed shoulder-length blond hair and hesitated.

  She turned, handed me her ID, and said, “My name is Lisa Eckenrod, I work for Martin, and I’ll be your driver this week.” Her tone was pleasant, but no-nonsense, and we were soon off. I tried to quell a nagging feeling that I’d forgotten something or left something undone. It was as if I was searching for a golf ball in the woods, while it was lying in the fairway. Maybe my subconscious just needed a round of golf.

  58

  THE WILLARD HOTEL has hosted almost every U.S. president since Franklin Pierce. Notable guests have included Charles Dickens, Buffalo Bill, P.T. Barnum, Martin Luther King, and countless others. People sit in the lobby just to see who walks through. I wondered idly why Rabbi Strauss had chosen to stay in such a public place.

  Sure enough, we found him seated in a very visible chair in the lobby, calmly reading the Post. We all shook hands, and he escorted us to a small conference room equipped with a pot of fresh coffee, hot water, and an assortment of teas and soft drinks. Stella had warned me that our conversation would likely be monitored and videoed.

  Rabbi Strauss waited until we were all comfortably seated. He got right to the business at hand. “Let me begin with Ms. Lawrence’s request for information about the man who observed us at the bar in the Armitage. He does not appear in any of our databases, which is most unusual. We are trying to ascertain his identity; the fact that he observed us is of concern. Should we learn his identity we will share that information.”

  Not a single unnecessary word—this conversation could be like pulling teeth.

  “I take it he does not work for any of the Israeli government’s intelligence agencies or the military?” I asked.

  “Most assuredly not,” he replied with a frown.

  “Well, you can report that the same man not only followed me to St. Louis, but also attended Rachel Goodman’s funeral.”

  “That is indeed interesting, and I’m sure most disturbing to you,” he replied in the same stilted language.

  “Most disturbing, but let’s move on. What can you tell me about Ira Goodman, Rachel’s husband?”

  He finally relaxed a bit. “You are perceptive, Mr. Patterson. Do you know the word Tzaddik?”

  “I believe it means ‘righteous one,’ a very spiritual man. It is identified with Hasidism. Ira wasn’t Hasidic, was he?” I asked.

  “No, but had he lived, he would have been a Tzaddik for millions of Jews, especially those living in Israel. He worked tirelessly to bring peace to that region, and through his thoughtful intelligence and charisma was able to accomplish a great deal. Israel lost one of its brightest lights when he died.”

  “Was he employed by the Israeli government?”

  He pursed his lip
s and thought for a minute, “Before I answer your question, I’d like to know why you ask.”

  I’d clearly struck a nerve, and I didn’t want to piss him off. I needed information. I decided it was time to give him a little.

  “Rabbi, Micki and I represent the estate of Rachel Goodman. In that capacity, we must locate all sources of income she might have had. I have a hunch that Rabbi Goodman received money from the Israeli government. The discovery of deposits from the Israeli government led the Feds to believe that Rachel was a spy for Israel. I believe they later discovered the truth, yet chose to leak the story that she had been paid by Israel. That story gave them cover to prevent the media from discovering the real reason Rachel had chosen to download military secrets.” He said nothing, and I decided to push.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “You live up to your reputation, Mr. Patterson,” Strauss smiled. I waited patiently while he added some raw sugar to his coffee and took a careful sip. Having gathered his thoughts, he finally responded.

  “Rabbi Goodman received what you might call a salary from a branch of Israeli intelligence. As the widow of a man who died in the service of Israel, Rachel received a widow’s pension as well as payment on a life insurance policy. Those deposits into her bank account did indeed prompt inquiries by your State Department. The Israeli government answered these inquiries to the government’s satisfaction, but was asked not to disclose the existence or nature of these payments. In a spirit of cooperation, Israel agreed to your government’s request.”

  “Do you know the monthly amount, the amount of life insurance, and the bank’s name?” Micki inquired.

  “The life insurance payment was for two hundred thousand dollars. Her pension amount was four thousand dollars per month. I apologize, I do not know the name of the bank.” Turning to me, he asked, “Won’t your government give you this information?”

  “Under normal circumstances, yes, it would. But this case is sensitive, to say the least. Can you please find out the name of the bank? Did she receive any other benefits?”

  “The bank’s name should not be a problem. I am not aware of any other benefits she received,” he answered.

  Micki continued, “Who will receive the pension payments now that his wife has died?”

  Strauss answered, “They will probably end, since they had no children. I will confirm that supposition as well.”

  “Please. Did you speak with Rachel after her husband’s death?” I asked.

  “Unfortunately, no, not substantively. I tried, but after she returned from Israel she kept to herself. I always called when I was in town, but she begged off meeting for a drink or dinner.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “Did she ever tell you she thought her husband had been murdered?” Micki asked bluntly.

  “No, she did not. But a rocket fired into a café by Hamas killed him. If that’s not murder, I don’t know what is.”

  “What type of rocket?” I asked.

  He looked uncomfortable again. “I don’t think I’m at liberty to answer that question. What difference does it make?”

  I wondered how much I should tell him. I decided to light the first match.

  “It could make a great deal of difference. I understand that Israel may not want to divulge that information. Perhaps you could check with your sources?” This conversation was beginning to remind me of my occasional conversations with Novak.

  He seemed to think about it, but didn’t respond.

  “Rabbi, you admired and respected Ira Goodman. What did you think of Rachel? I understand that Ira’s family did not approve of the marriage.”

  “Ira’s family was wrong about Rachel. Their son loved her very much, and she him. He considered her a partner—she complemented the work he did to bring peace to Israel and the Middle East. She was also a superb student who understood both the historical and contemporary basis of the regional conflict.” He hesitated just a little before continuing.

  “She was sincere in her conversion to Judaism. When they came to Little Rock she sat in on meetings I had with Ira about issues of faith. I found her to be as articulate and intelligent as her husband.”

  He glanced at his watch, and I realized it was time for us to leave. I tried one more question.

  “Rabbi, is the Israeli government conducting its own investigation into Rachel’s death?”

  “Why… why should it? According to the papers, she committed suicide.” His surprise was authentic.

  “Doesn’t Israel find it troubling that Rabbi Goodman was killed by a rocket attack? That his wife was accused of spying for Israel, which your government knows is untrue? Finally, that Rachel committed suicide the day she hired a lawyer and was eager to explain her innocence? If I were in your government’s shoes, I’d be concerned that these two deaths were not a coincidence. Did you ever once consider that Rachel could be a spy? Did you ever imagine that she would commit suicide?”

  He sat in stony silence, but I wasn’t about to let him off the hook.

  “Tell me, Rabbi, do you believe Rachel was a spy?”

  He sighed, “No, Mr. Patterson, Rachel was not a spy.”

  “Then I’ll ask again. If the Israeli government isn’t willing to carry out its own investigation, why hasn’t it asked the U.S. government to undertake one? You told me that Rebbe Goodman was one of Israel’s brightest lights and that Rachel was his partner as well as his wife. Why would the Israeli government allow these two murders to be swept under the rug?”

  I hoped the people listening in on the microphone heard my message.

  Clearly shaken, Rabbi Strauss responded, “That, I cannot tell you. When Rachel committed suicide, as we were led to believe, I assumed that any interest in their deaths would be over, forgotten.”

  “No, Rabbi, nothing is over. It is just the beginning.”

  Blinking back honest tears, he pushed back his chair and quickly left the room.

  59

  I WAS STARVING, so Micki and I walked around the corner to the Old Ebbitt Grill across from the Treasury building. We spent a little time talking over the Strauss interview, agreeing that we had definitely lit a flame. Over coffee we turned to what Micki might expect at tomorrow’s press conference.

  “They’ll push you on the suicide being proof of guilt. Without giving away the farm, we have to hold to our story that the government hasn’t satisfied the family that her death was suicide. The government has to prove the money was the fruit of her illegal activity, and since we contend she was innocent, the government must meet its burden of proof or has to turn her assets back to the family.”

  “I’m more worried that now we look greedy. You know, ‘Shouldn’t the family be mourning rather than trying to retrieve her bank accounts?’” Her reproachful tone was right on the mark.

  “What’s your comeback?” I asked.

  “I knew you’d ask,” she snapped. “Why don’t you cut me some slack and suggest an answer?”

  “Micki, the answer has to sound sincere, as if the question is catching you unprepared, and it must be in your voice.”

  “Okay.” She thought for a few seconds before responding. “I’ll say the questioner is right. This is a time to grieve, but the government froze her assets before she had any chance to plead not guilty to the charges. Their precipitous action forced the family to hire a lawyer to try to block their money grab before time ran out.”

  I laughed, “No more preparation. You’ll do great. Let’s pay the bill and walk back to the office. We should have plenty of time before Ken arrives.”

  I was wrong. He was pacing back and forth outside my office. I apologized and said I hoped he hadn’t been waiting long. After unlocking the doors and turning off the security, I went to make a pot of coffee while Micki tried to put him at ease in the conference room.

  While the coffee was brewing, we played the game of who do you know, idle chat before combat began. Micki brought in the coffee and cups, and we began.

  “Tell me, Ken
, was Rachel a spy?”

  After he had recovered, he said, “I’m used to asking the questions.”

  I responded, “Right, but I’m the person who asked for the meeting, so we play by my rules.”

  “Which are?” he asked without a blink.

  “First, when I preface a subject or sentence with ‘off the record,’ and you don’t object, then it’s off the record. If you object, we’ll discuss it. Second, I expect you to be candid with me, and I will be candid with you. You are sitting on a big story, but you need me, and I need you. Third, if you tell either Micki or me something in confidence, it will never leave the room without your permission.”

  “Sounds fair enough.”

  “So I ask again: Was Rachel a spy?”

  “What does it matter? After all, she’s dead,” he answered, clearly uninterested.

  “Well, if that’s what you think, we have nothing to discuss. Good day, Mr. Chandler.” Disappointed, I rose to see him out, but he caught my sleeve.

  “Not so fast, Patterson. My turn: Why do you think it matters?” he asked. He remained seated, so I returned to my chair.

  “Okay, I’ll tell you why. Tomorrow morning, Ms. Lawrence is going into federal court to object to the government’s seizure of Rachel’s assets. The government has two choices: they can release her assets, thus tacitly admitting that Rachel was innocent, or they can fight us, claiming the seizure was proper because she committed espionage. That gives us a forum to prove she wasn’t guilty.

  “I’m looking for a friend in the press who will do his or her own honest investigative reporting, but will give our effort credibility to those who will try to write us off as greedy lawyers or publicity hounds.”

  “So you want me to be your shill,” he said flatly.

  “No, not a shill. Just a reporter who’s willing to keep an open mind. But don’t worry, you’re off the hook; it won’t work. I thought you might have met Rachel, or have doubts about her guilt. No harm, and I wish you the best.” I watched him weigh what I had said, unsure how to proceed.