by Webb Hubbell
Micki wasn’t happy with the headline, but we both knew that the fact the Post had published anything was helpful, and the article itself wasn’t too bad. The next call was from Ken.
“I’m sorry about the headline.” I shrugged it off, and he continued. “My editors are being cautious. They’re scared to death of Rouss, scared of getting sued.”
“I would expect nothing less. Sounds like Cotton was ready for your call.”
“When I called to ask him about the account, he denied its existence. Who did I take him for, et cetera, and hung up. A few minutes later he called back to apologize, saying he’d accidentally dropped his phone. He talked about his overworked staff and spouted his fraud theory. I wanted to write about the conversation, but my editors made me play it safe.”
“When and where do you want to meet?” I asked.
“You still going forward? After the headline, I figured my name was mud.”
“I don’t write newspaper articles or headlines—that’s your job. My job is to get out the truth, and right now you’re my best chance of doing so. Why don’t we meet at Barker’s, say about eleven?”
“Cotton’s holding a press briefing at ten; let’s make it eleven-thirty. Does that give you enough time?” Ken asked.
“Eleven-thirty at Barker’s. See you there.”
I hung up and told Micki about Cotton’s briefing.
She shook her head. “I thought he’d have better sense.”
“Me too, but we’d better send Brian. Whatever he says, we’ll need to deal with it this afternoon. We’re meeting Ken at Barker’s at eleven-thirty.”
“Barker’s! I thought your club was for men only. Clovis and Judge Fitzgerald have been, but you’ve never taken me,” she teased.
“That’s because you and Larry were too busy rolling in the sheets at the Hay-Adams,” I responded.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Damn right, I am. And for the record, Barker’s membership is open to women. I think we have four or five women now.”
The cook was busy making pancakes and bacon, and it wasn’t long before the aroma had lured everyone to the kitchen. We took coffee and heaping plates into the family room. We ate in congenial silence, the morning peace disturbed only by the moans and groans emanating from Stella’s morning class. She had picked up the pace again.
My phone rang again—this time it was Red.
“I leave town for a few days, and you’re on the front page of the Post. Yes, I’m back in town, and I’ll thank you not to ask where I’ve been.”
“Wouldn’t think of it. I figure you’ll tell me if I need to know,” I responded.
Red’s voice rang with true appreciation. “Thank you, Jack. I appreciate your discretion.” Then it was back to normal. “I thought you’d want to know that Carol never left town.”
“I’m not surprised. I invited her client, Rouss, to my briefing this afternoon,”
“You don’t sound happy. Anything you want to tell me?”
“No. I’ve got a lot on my plate. After I present my case this afternoon, maybe we can have a private talk.”
“I’d like that. I told Lucy to keep her powder dry until she hears what you have to say. Don’t know if she was listening. You know Lucy.”
“That I do,” I laughed.
“Oh, one last thing—do you have an extra ticket for this after-noon’s fireworks? I thought I might send my public relations guy to watch.”
“I’ll put him on the list,” I replied, and after getting the information on his guy we hung up.
Carol’s presence in DC could mean only one thing—she would be at the briefing. This was a curve ball I hadn’t anticipated. The increasing noise finally interrupted my reverie—I was reminded of a fund drive for public radio. Maggie, Larry, and Micki were all dealing with calls.
“What’s going on?” I asked no one in particular.
Maggie put her phone down and said, “I’ve taken calls from two embassies so far—both are sending attachés. They’re calling back to confirm the place and time. Word is getting out, Jack.” She turned to her ringing phone.
The Post article had done its work. News travels fast in DC, and when one person decides an event is a must-attend, no one wants to be left out. I wondered if the Post and the Press Club were getting similar responses. The answer came from Martin.
“Be careful what you ask for, Jack. Security for the bigwigs is all over me. They want to know where they can stand and if they’re allowed to bring in firearms. John Robert and I are off to the Press Club now for a security meeting. Don’t worry—I have plenty of drivers, and a number of John Robert’s friends are watching this place.”
I could feel the excitement grow as I watched Beth and Maggie put together a list of attendees. My own phone rang—I was surprised to see Peggy’s number. She answered with no preliminaries.
“I’m not happy about it, but the AG has decided we should both come to your shindig. He thinks this whole thing is funny, just laughs every time someone, usually me, objects to your little circus.
“Cotton has been calling all morning, but the AG won’t take the call, said to let him stew in his own juice. Lawyers for about a half dozen defense contractors have demanded an immediate meeting, but he waved them off. He asked his FBI detail to make sure we have front-row seats.
“As a result of all the angst generated by the Post article and your impending press conference, I have an appointment in the S.C.I.F. for a video conference with State, Defense, the NSC, and God-knows who else to decide what to do if you spill government secrets. Can’t you please dial this thing back for at least a few days?”
S.C.I.F., or Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility, is simply the common acronym for a secure room where sensitive information can be reviewed and discussed. I wondered idly how the one at DOJ would match up with one designed by Stella. When I worked at Justice, I always thought individuals impressed with their own importance overused it.
“Please tell me this is all a joke, maybe just a bad dream.”
“Peggy, as far as I know I have no government secrets to spill. And there’s only one way you can get me to back off. Someone way above Cotton’s pay grade has to admit that Rachel was innocent and was murdered.”
I heard a deep moan. “Jack, you know the government will never admit that Rachel was innocent, much less murdered. Nor will the government allow you to have this briefing. It’s just too risky. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I should have insisted that the AG take your meeting. But a full-scale press briefing in front of national and international media is out of the question. Call it off, Jack, and I’ll try to work something out.”
I wanted to trust Peggy and the AG. In fact, I did trust them. But the power of “national security” had closed the door once before and, given an inch, would surely do so again.
“Peggy, I’m sorry this situation is tough for you, but it isn’t personal, it’s business. Well, except for Rachel and Harold Spencer. You do what you have to do, and I will do what I must.”
“Jack, you’re giving me no choice. There is no way you’re going public this afternoon.”
“Peggy, you’re wrong. There is no way you can stop me.”
75
AS I PUT THE PHONE DOWN, I noticed Maggie pointedly tapping her wrist. I realized it was almost ten o’clock, time to leave. Maggie, Beth, and Jeff would go straight to the Press Club. Brian would join them after attending Cotton’s press conference. Clovis and Stella would come with Micki and me to Barker’s. I’d arranged for a small conference room where we would meet Ken.
We were about to leave, but I pulled Stella aside and said, “Stella, I need you to trust me one more time.”
“Well, it’s worked so far, and we’re all still alive, so what do you need?”
“I’ve prepared a document that I need you to sign on blind faith. I hope we can tear it up after today.” I handed it to her.
She looked it over and asked, “Do you really think
we’ll need this?”
“I sure hope not.”
She took the pen I offered and signed it. “There. I told you it wasn’t a big deal.”
I gave it to Clovis and said, “Hang back for just a few minutes. Get Beth to gather the attachments referenced in this document and put them wherever we’re keeping the original zip drive and Harold’s letter.”
Clovis looked at the document and grinned at Stella. “Jack always gets paranoid right before a big day.”
Micki and I were soon sitting with Ken in a small conference room at Barker’s, and enjoying ham sandwiches and the only potato salad I’ll eat in DC. Brian had called earlier to give us the gist of Cotton’s press briefing, but I wanted to hear about it from Ken.
“At first he was all hale and hearty, said he hadn’t tried to set aside the judgment because he was waiting for you to do the right thing. You know, give back the million dollars voluntarily. What a crock!
“Then he encouraged all of us to ignore your press briefing, predicting it would be just more whining from a lawyer who lost a big fee when his client died. He said both government and private attorneys would be there ready to sue if you defame. I asked him who the clients were, but he totally ignored me. He went on to say that his office was considering instigating disbarment proceeding against you and Micki.”
I laughed. Micki looked a little more concerned.
“The rest of his comments were a repetition of what he told me last night: he didn’t know about the account, the inventory was a low-level assistant’s error, probably just poor proofreading, and the evidence against Rachel was overwhelming. He concluded by saying the million dollars would be in the government’s coffers by this afternoon. I’m here to tell you it was one weird performance.”
Micki responded, “The latter is impossible. If we did return the money, it would go back into the seized bank account until a Court determines its true ownership. We couldn’t put it in the government’s coffers even if we wanted to.”
Ken asked if he could quote her, and she readily agreed.
I gave Ken a summary of what I would say and prove this afternoon. After the plates were cleared I asked, “Have I suggested anything inconsistent with what you’ve discovered over the last few months?”
“Rachel alluded to most of it through hypotheticals, but you’ve gone way beyond even what she thought was happening. But, no, your conclusions aren’t inconsistent with what I’ve learned. It helps to have the letter from Spencer. When can I get a copy?” he asked.
“This afternoon,” I answered. I handed him a list of today’s attendees. He hadn’t had time to check in with T.J., so he had no idea who was coming.
Ken gave out a low whistle as he scanned the list. “There’s no way this briefing will come off. They’ll lock you up first.”
*****
On the way to the Press Club, Micki said, “I don’t think I’m dressed for jail. Do you think they’ll let me change before they lock us up?” She grinned, but we both knew the joke might be on us.
When we arrived, satellite trucks lined the streets, blocking traffic on both 14th and New York Ave. We rode the elevator up to the 13th floor and, to avoid the mob of reporters and guests, Martin and John Robert whisked us to a private room.
“I’ll say this, you sure know how to draw a crowd,” Martin drawled.
“Well, it never hurts to have the Post backing you.”
T.J. rushed in to join us. He was clearly excited.
“So far we have five ambassadors, a bunch of ranking intelligence officials, staffers from three Hill committees, the Attorney General, the Director of the FBI, and more than a few uniforms, all waiting to hear what you’ve got to say.
“It’s almost show time, so let’s not keep ‘em waiting. Our editor-in-chief will begin with a few words. The rest is up to you.”
Micki squeezed my hand and whispered, “You can do this.” We got up and walked in through a side door into the First Amendment Lounge.
I noticed Maggie and Beth, who were sitting off to my left. I could see the Attorney General, the Director of the FBI, and Peggy seated in the front row. Carol Madison was sitting a few rows back, next to Eric Hartman, chief lobbyist for Rouss—a slick dude if there ever was one. I also recognized several of the lawyers in the room, including one of my old partners at Banks and Tuohey. He specialized in libel law—I felt sure he would like nothing better than for me to defame his client and suffer the consequences.
The Post’s editor-in-chief, Ralph Armbrust, stood at the podium. Ken had guided Micki and me to a table next to the podium that was equipped with additional microphones. The editor cleared his throat and began.
“I want to welcome everyone to this unusual event—a press briefing by the lawyers who represent the estate of Rachel Goodman. But before I turn the microphone over, I have a few words to say.
“When the Post ran the first story about the arrest of Rachel Goodman, we reported what we understood to be the truth about Israel’s involvement in her alleged espionage. In fact, we reported that the Israeli government made regular monthly payments to Ms. Goodman and suggested that such payments were in exchange for military secrets. Our newspaper was not alone in doing so.”
Many heads were nodding in agreement, and I could hear the murmur of whispered asides.
“Only yesterday did we learn, and have now confirmed from several independent sources, that Rachel Goodman did indeed receive payments from the Israeli government.” He paused for effect and the noise level rose a bit.
“But the fact is that those payments had nothing to do with any alleged spying. The Israeli government employed her husband, and when he was killed she received a widow’s pension from that same government.
“The Washington Post apologizes to the Israeli people and its government for this mistake. Our failure to check the accuracy of the information and our willingness to assume the worst led us to harm the relations between our country and Israel. I believe the Israeli ambassador is with us today. Mr. Ambassador, on behalf of my newspaper, I extend our sincerest apologies. A full retraction of our stories will appear tomorrow in the Post. In addition, a full-page ad paid for by the Post and apologizing to the people of Israel will run in the New York Times, the Chicago Tribune, and the L.A. Times tomorrow.”
Wow—that was a surprise, and he was just getting started.
“Because of our failure to do our job, and because of the negligence of the U.S. Attorney or someone in his office, my paper has decided we owe it to both the public and Mrs. Goodman to hear her version of the facts. As you can see, we also decided not to limit access to whatever Mr. Patterson and Ms. Lawrence have discovered. It’s high time we all listened to someone willing to talk on the record, rather than taking as truth the words of those who only talk off-the-record.
“That said, I will turn the microphone over to Mr. Patterson and Ms. Lawrence.”
I paused before rising. The buzz from the press had grown louder. My eyes turned to my team. They looked anxious. Then I looked toward Carol—she was looking daggers at me, as was her companion. I rose, took a deep breath and walked to the podium.
“Good afternoon….”
“Stop!” I heard and then saw Donald Cotton striding toward the podium waving a small stack of papers.
“Stop!” he shouted again. “I have a Court order that says you are to cease and desist from speaking to this group, that you and Ms. Lawrence are under arrest, and that all materials in your possession are to be confiscated.”
Bedlam ensued, and while the editor-in-chief tried to restore calm, I took the papers from Cotton and scanned the Court order. There it was in black and white: both the greed and the gall. I handed the Order to Micki, stepped around the table and walked to the front row to confront Peggy, oblivious to the surrounding turmoil.
“I guess I was wrong, you stopped me after all.”
“Jack, I don’t know anything about this, I promise.” Her eyes told me she was telling the truth
.
I turned back to see Cotton at the podium. He was shouting into the microphone. “Marshal, restrain Mr. Patterson. Now if everyone will calm down and return to your seats, I’ll explain why I had to take such drastic action.”
I extended my hands to the two marshals who had appeared with handcuffs. Thank goodness they left Micki alone. Peggy looked aghast and started to rise, but the Attorney General pulled her back. I noticed John Robert and two of his SEALs moving in my direction, but I shook my head, and they backed off.
Grinning in triumph, Cotton was about to speak again when the Attorney General rose and walked directly to the podium. The AG’s face was bright red—I don’t know that I’ve ever seen an angrier man. He confronted Cotton head on.
“What is this, Cotton?” He didn’t need a microphone.
76
THE MICROPHONE EASILY PICKED UP COTTON’S ANSWER. “Patterson committed fraud by failing to disclose the million-dollar wire transfer into Goodman’s account during our negotiations. I went to court to get our money back and to prevent Patterson and Lawrence from exposing national secrets. My sources tell me that’s their plan.”
“So we throw the First Amendment out the window whenever someone threatens to say something we don’t like? Did they teach you the concept of prior restraint at law school? When were you going to let me know about your actions?” the AG boomed.
“I didn’t need to. If you remember, the special committee appointed by the Director of Intelligence placed litigation authority in my hands.” I was pretty sure that Cotton had just shared confidential information covered by the National Security Act. He had certainly tightened the noose around his own neck.
“Now who’s disclosing national secrets, Donald?” Cotton’s face turned red, but the AG wasn’t finished. “And let me ask you in whose name the asset forfeiture case was brought. If you had read the pleading you filed, you’d know it reads ‘In the name of the United States of America by the Attorney General of the United States,’ not by some special committee.”
