by Webb Hubbell
Over breakfast we talked about the issues that had come up yesterday.
“Until we get their inventory, don’t mention the money from Israel,” I said.
She smiled. “Don’t worry. My biggest worry now is your reporter friend. What if he doesn’t keep his promises?”
“Then you’ll handle it. I have every confidence in you. Ken won’t pull any punches. He’ll act as if he’s never met you and ask you tough questions, but he won’t betray our confidence. I’m not worried.”
The press conference was to take place immediately after the court filing, around ten-thirty or eleven. We’d made several calls to the local DC news outlets last night to give them a heads-up, but had no way of knowing if any of them would be there. Rachel’s story was already becoming old news.
I cleaned up the breakfast dishes and decided to check on Stella. She had worked late into the night, but I’d noticed her outside before breakfast, giving anyone willing a morning workout. She was now seated at her computer, drinking her green concoction, which she told me included kale, collards, and other stuff that was good for me.
“Try it, Jack. It has a good flavor,” she offered.
“No thanks—I have real trouble drinking anything green.”
“You sure? It will flush out all the impurities in your body and pump you full of vitamins,” she urged.
“How’s the decoding coming?” I asked, choosing to keep my impurities.
“More slowly than I expected, but I made good progress last night. Either Rachel was super smart, or she had help with this. Any chance your source in Israel knows how to break this code?”
“Maybe, but we can’t afford to let a soul know we have this. If they did, we’d have helicopters landing on the front lawn in a matter of minutes. Did you back up the drive before you started working on it?”
She gave me a sidelong glare. “I forget that what I do is foreign to you. Of course I did. I’ve made two back-ups, in case I make a mistake and fry the drive. I’m now working off a copy. The original is secure. Now, go away, if you don’t mind. I work better with no distractions.”
I did just that, wandering back into to the family room. While we waited to hear from Micki and Brian, I called Ben to give him an update and to remind Paul that the local press might descend on Ben’s house when news of the filing hit. Clovis and I were talking football when my phone rang.
Red was direct. “Well, Jack, if it was your intention to stir up a hornet’s nest, you’ve succeeded. Word’s out that your associate is at the courthouse filing objections to the asset forfeiture. Several high-powered lobbyists ambushed Lucy outside her office this morning demanding that she denounce your obvious perversion of justice and demand an investigation. They insisted that the government was right to claim any monies Rachel received as a result of her treasonous activities. It wasn’t a chance encounter.”
I could have told them that demands weren’t the way to Lucy’s heart.
“I wish I could have been a fly on the wall,” Red continued. “She said, ‘Thank you very much, but I’m late for a meeting with the delegation from the Arkansas garden clubs over their concerns with the Department of the Interior. My assistant will be glad to take note of your concerns.’ Can you imagine?” he chortled.
“She said the look on their faces when she mentioned the Arkansas garden clubs was worth the money she lost in campaign contributions. I do love that woman.”
“She should know they’ll find another senator to take up their cause,” I warned.
“That’s the good part. The lobbyists have been working both sides of the aisle, trying to stir up bipartisan indignation. Hasn’t worked so far. Lucy hasn’t shown much interest, and other senators worry she might know something they don’t.”
His laughter quickly faded when I asked, “Okay, Red, what else have you heard?”
“Our friendship and business ties are well known, so for the most part my sources in the military community have dried up. But what I hear is that no one understands why the government is pushing the asset forfeiture or why you continue to pursue the matter. My bet is the government will settle.”
“Oh, they’ll try,” I answered.
“Son of a bitch, I’m glad you’re representing me and not my competition. You be careful, Jack. This thing feels like it could get out of control.”
“Red, we’re doing the best we can, and I’ll let you know whatever I can. If you get a chance, catch Micki’s press conference.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, abruptly ending the call.
I’d barely put the phone down when Brian called.
“We filed the motion without a lot of hoopla, but were met by none other than U.S. Attorney Cotton before we could leave. He sucked up to Micki for a couple of minutes, asked if they could meet in private. I wish you could have heard her. She looked him up and down and said she didn’t meet in private with any man who wasn’t her lover.
“Cotton about wet his pants, but managed to convince Micki to meet with him and Carl Clifford, the head of their Civil Forfeiture Division, in an empty conference room down the hall. Cotton said I could sit in, despite my lack of a security clearance.”
“What a jerk, you don’t need a security clearance to talk about asset forfeiture. What did they want?”
“They wanted to talk settlement. They offered to exchange Rachel’s account at the credit union, for the estate’s claim to her Pentagon pension. Micki didn’t budge an inch. ‘There will be no settlement until we have a full inventory of seized assets, and we expect to receive that inventory post haste or we’ll file a motion with the court.’” His tone was perfect mimic of Micki’s.
“No mention of her widow’s pension or the life insurance proceeds from Israel?” I asked.
“Not a word,” he confirmed.
“You can give me a full report this afternoon, but were there any surprises?”
“They asked Micki to hold a joint press conference with them to confirm that the filing was a formality. She was almost polite, but basically told Cotton where he could shove it. Then she asked him to release Rachel’s cell phone, computer, and her personal effects ‘as a demonstration of goodwill.’ Cotton’s face turned beet red, and Deputy Clifford’s mouth dropped open.”
“What was that about?” I asked.
“I’m not sure, but they all agreed to keep the lines of communication open and got up to leave. Cotton sort of shoved his way past Micki and ran down the steps to the podium, Clifford in tow. Micki just laughed, told me not to worry, she’d have her turn. The press is here waiting, and I can see a couple of satellite trucks.”
“Thanks, we’ll try to find it on TV,” I said motioning to Maggie. “If we can’t find a local station covering it, I may call you back for a play-by-play.”
Maggie, of course, went directly to the right station.
Their off-screen reporter had just begun to speak: “We are coming to you live from the Federal Courthouse in Alexandria, where U.S. Attorney Donald J. Cotton is answering questions raised today in a court filing by the estate of Rachel Goodman. Her estate asks the court to set aside the government’s seizure and to return the assets she gained as part of her illegal activities to her estate. We go live.”
I muttered, “Illegal activities—what does that guy know?”
Maggie shushed me, and I heard Cotton say, “We are disappointed at this attempt by Mrs. Goodman’s lawyers to pervert justice in a greedy attempt to obtain monies that are the fruits of her criminal activity. But in order to put this chapter in our country’s history behind us, our office will look for ways to resolve this matter quickly and fairly.”
“How much money is involved?” a reporter called out.
Cotton responded, “If we can’t reach an agreement, the government will file a complete inventory in a few days.”
Hmmm… he clearly didn’t want to file a public inventory.
Cotton continued, “Next question.”
“Ken Chandler,
Washington Post. Mr. Cotton, what happens if there isn’t a settlement? Are you prepared to prove that Ms. Goodman committed espionage, which I believe is a prerequisite to your right to seize her assets?”
Cotton looked to Clifford, obviously unprepared for the question. He’d figured the entire press corps would buy his bull. “If it comes to that, we are prepared to prove her crimes by a preponderance of the evidence. But I say again, let’s hope for the sake of the country we won’t have to air this dirty laundry. Our intelligence community is working hard to remedy the holes in our national security exposed by her activities.
“But let me be clear. My office will consider settling this civil matter only because Mrs. Goodman is dead, and our county is better served by giving her estate a few dollars to protect our national security. Had Mrs. Goodman not taken her own life, our office was fully prepared to prove her guilt and would have sought the death penalty.”
“Son-of-a-bitch,” I muttered.
Cotton had turned away from the microphone when Ken Chandler followed with, “What if Mrs. Goodman didn’t commit suicide?”
He turned back with a bored sigh. “Mrs. Goodman’s death was a suicide. Virginia’s Office of the Medical Examiner reached that conclusion, and there’s no evidence to think otherwise.” Without another word Cotton and his entourage hurried back into the courthouse.
We had to put up with a few minutes of comment and an eternity of commercials before the camera returned to Micki stepping up to the podium. I know I’m prejudiced, but she looked fantastic in a navy jacket and slim skirt. She was already taller than Cotton, even more so in heels. I laughed as she took her time adjusting the microphone.
She nodded to the reporters. “Thank you. Y’all don’t know me, but if you check with the reporters back home, they’ll tell you I don’t normally hold press conferences. First, let me thank Mr. Cotton for his opening remarks—saved me the explanation.” She waited for the laughter to die down.
“So now that you’ve heard his opinion, let me try to give you a different perspective. Questions?” Micki’s southern accent was deliberately thick, and achieved the desired effect.
“Ken Chandler, Washington Post. Ms. Lawrence, the U.S. Attorney has described your objections to the government’s seizure of Mrs. Goodman’s assets as a greedy attempt to grab monies that are the fruits of her illegal conduct. Any comment?”
Micki paused to give a slow smile before responding.
“Well, Mr. Chandler, I guess my reaction is that Mrs. Goodman’s estate has never grabbed anything. The federal government seized Rachel’s bank and brokerage accounts even though she was never charged with a crime. The family believes that if she were alive, she’d fight the government’s money grab, so we will do so on her behalf.”
The same reporter who had asked Cotton how much money was in play repeated his question, “How much money is involved?”
Micki smiled again. “Fair question, but I can’t give you a good answer. As of yet the family hasn’t received an inventory of exactly what the government seized. We know for sure she had a bank account, a car, a computer, and a few personal effects, including her wedding and engagement rings, but your guess about how much we’re talking about is as good as mine.”
Linda had complained that Rachel’s body had been returned to Little Rock without her rings. I was sure they were in a personal effects locker somewhere, but it didn’t hurt to imply that the government had taken her wedding rings.
A young woman called out, “Mr. Cotton intimated that the government wants to resolve the civil forfeiture case. Are settlement negotiations ongoing?”
This was a tougher question.
“I’ve told Mr. Cotton that once we receive an inventory and determine that it’s complete and accurate, we’re more than willing to discuss a settlement. I asked him earlier today to return Mrs. Goodman’s wedding rings, computer, and other personal effects as a show of good faith. Surely the engagement ring and wedding band given to her by her late husband weren’t the fruit of any crime.
“But to repeat Mr. Cotton’s words, let me be clear: the government has produced no evidence of criminal wrongdoing. Rachel is and always will be innocent. We’re not asking the government to give the family something Rachel owed her employer or that belonged to the government. We only ask that the government return to the estate what once belonged to Rachel Goodman.”
From my perspective, Micki hit that one out of the park. She got in another dig over the rings, told the press we wanted her computer and cellphone as well, and she had laid down the gauntlet by asserting the case was about innocence, not money.
It was Ken Chandler’s turn to make Micki uncomfortable.
“Ms. Lawrence—same question I asked Mr. Cotton. What if Mrs. Goodman’s death wasn’t a suicide? And as a follow-up, what happens if a settlement isn’t reached over her assets?”
By now the other reporters were sensing more of a story. I saw a few more cellphones and recorders emerge from pockets.
“Your first question is difficult for me to answer. At this point, Rachel’s family doesn’t believe she committed suicide; neither does her legal team. There are just too many unanswered questions.
“And if Rachel was indeed murdered, then it is incumbent on the press, the authorities, and Congress to do everything possible to find and apprehend her murderer. I know Mrs. Goodman’s legal team will do everything in its power to discover who was behind such a tragedy.
“You also asked what will happen if the government doesn’t settle.” She looked at Ken, and he nodded his head in agreement.
“Well, that’s easy. We go to court and litigate the issues of whether Rachel committed a crime and whether any of her assets resulted from criminal activity. The burden of proof lies with the government. In the course of this litigation and with the subpoena power the case gives us, we will discover the truth behind a heartbreaking story. We believe our government arrested a fine young woman and wrongly accused her of committing crimes against her country, and that she was killed to prevent her exposing separate criminal conduct.”
You could hear a pin drop in the family room, but not at the courthouse steps. The reporters were throwing out question after question, and finally Micki raised her hand and smiled. “I’m sorry, I told y’all I’m not any good at this. No more questions for now. The next time we meet I hope to tell you that Mr. Cotton has agreed to return Rachel’s wedding rings and her other assets to her family. Thank you for coming.”
I waited a few minutes before I called Brian.
“Are you in the car yet?” I asked.
“Getting in right now,” he answered. “Just let me get the doors closed. Here she is.”
“Fantastic!” I said, forgetting about hello. “You are our permanent spokesperson from now on.”
“Oh, no you don’t. I almost peed in my pants. You don’t think I went too far?”
“You got out there, but that’s what we wanted. I love how you reminded them of the wedding rings. I bet Cotton didn’t have a clue.”
“I’m not so sure. I might have forced them up against a wall. Cotton may think he has no choice but to litigate.”
“You wait. I’ll bet they’ve already been told to settle and are trying to figure out how to save face.”
“Well, I’ve done my bit for now. As soon as I get back, I’m going to put on some jeans and ride one of Maggie’s horses ‘til we’re both worn out. I need some fresh air. What about you?”
“I’m about to turn up the heat. Delay and time is on their side. We have to increase the pressure and hope the bad guys make a mistake.”
“Either that or they put a stop to both of us,” she said.
“Yeah, that’s certainly a possibility.” A chill went up my spine.
63
AS SOON AS THE PRESS CONFERENCE WAS OVER, Maggie and Beth left to meet with Susan Sandler. I appreciated their efforts, but my brain was too full to think about house hunting today. Sitting alone in the family ro
om, I mulled over Cotton’s comments, trying to anticipate how the government might react. One worry kept niggling at me, so I called Matt and Lauren, Micki’s interns, to ask them to help with some research. The few minutes of silence felt good—I knew they wouldn’t last. Sure enough, the first caller was Red.
“If Rachel was murdered, what makes you think they won’t come after your ass next?” he shouted. I wondered idly if Caller ID had made a polite “hello” almost completely unnecessary.
“If she committed suicide, I have no worries. If she didn’t, I guess I’d better start worrying,” I responded, doing my best to keep it light.
“Yeah, right. Look, if you do turn out to be right, which I doubt, who do you think was behind it?” he asked.
“No good leads yet, but I’m working on it. Who knows, you might find out before I do. Tell Lucy to hold her fire a while longer. There’s more to come.”
“If you live that long,” he said gruffly.
I decided to call Rabbi Strauss. He answered his cell immediately.
“Mr. Patterson—I watched your partner’s press conference. Friends think you’ve pinned a target on your back.”
“Any idea who might want to take target practice?” I asked.
“No, but we’ve identified your pockmarked man. His name is Bart Stone, former Special Forces, now an independent contractor working for companies that sell weapons. His military record was wiped clean, and our people say he goes by several aliases.”
“What exactly does he do for these companies?” I asked.
