The Eighteenth Green

by Webb Hubbell

  I looked at Deputy Director Ewing to make sure he knew I wasn’t about to leak confidential information.

  “Rachel identified five projects that Rouss designed and then dismantled. Over the last four years, five identical weapon systems were sold to our allies. The manufacturer of these identical systems was Surplus Military Systems Ltd., an off-shore subsidiary of Rouss. Not one of these sales was submitted to Congress for approval.”

  I had decided not to mention that Surplus Military Systems was also the source of the million dollars wired into Rachel’s account, but I would make sure that both the AG and Peggy knew that fact.

  “Let me remind you of another fact. You may think my theory is far-fetched, even fanciful. Those sales could have been legitimate. There could be a logical explanation for them to have been sold without congressional approval. That’s for Deputy Director Ewing, congressional oversight, and the press to figure out. But for Rachel Goodman, what happened was neither far-fetched nor fanciful. It was as real as it gets. A rocket designed and built by Rouss Military Systems, that should have been dismantled and destroyed, killed her husband and twenty other innocent souls.

  “A rocket, part of a system that cost our government more than six hundred million dollars to develop and build, and more than a hundred million to dismantle and destroy, was sold to the Israeli government without congressional approval and used by someone to murder her husband. It doesn’t hit any closer to home than that.

  “And when she and Harold Spencer discovered the truth, they didn’t receive an explanation, an apology, or compensation. Instead she was arrested, branded a traitor, and they were both murdered.

  “Maybe someone who isn’t hiding behind the words ‘national security’ can explain how this happened, because I can’t. I only know that Rachel and Ira Goodman, and Harold Spencer are dead, and those responsible for their deaths continue to do business as usual.

  “Let me leave you with one more thought. It would be easy to believe only Rouss was responsible—just another contractor caught padding invoices. But that conclusion doesn’t make sense. Rouss makes plenty of money. Why take the risk of faking documents about dismantling systems and selling a weapon without congressional approval? I don’t believe they would or did.

  “The irregularities that Rachel and Harold uncovered would certainly not have been worth the risk. Rouss is an enormous company that legally develops more than a third of our country’s weapons systems. My guess is that Rouss was approached by someone within the administration, high enough to speak with authority, and asked by that person to participate, without fear of consequences.

  “Couldn’t have happened? Maybe not—I’ve been wrong before. But in this case I don’t think so. Someone in this administration ordered Rouss to develop, design, and sell systems without congressional approval, someone involved ordered Rachel and Harold’s death, and everyone involved will continue to defy our laws until they are stopped.”

  I put the microphone down and walked over to the table where Micki sat.

  With that, most everyone rushed to leave. A few reporters tried to ask me questions, but I waved them away. I turned to speak with the AG, but stopped when I noticed Ken and T.J. waiting.

  “T.J., I can’t thank you enough for making this event possible. It took courage both on your part and that of the Post.” I extended my hand in thanks. “You know, Mr. Chandler here is a fine young reporter, not afraid to take a chance when it’s the right thing to do. Take good care of him, you hear?” Ken blushed, T.J. laughed, and they both walked away.

  Micki had joined me, and we again turned to Peggy and the Attorney General.

  “Mr. Attorney General, I owe you my thanks. Without you I’d probably be cooling my heels in some jail by now.”

  We all laughed, although Micki still looked a little nervous. “Anyway, it’s all yours now. Maggie will get Peggy copies of the exhibits this afternoon.”

  “You’re welcome—you weren’t too bad yourself,” he said. “The Pentagon and the intelligence community will try to sweep it all under the rug, although they’ll catch holy hell from the press. Congress will beat them up for ignoring them, new legislation will be introduced, and I’ll do my part to find the killers and bring them to justice. And unless and until I’m forced to resign, I will do my level best to bring whoever is behind all this to justice.”

  “I appreciate your help, and when people try to convince you that you need to let it go for the good of the country, remind them I’m out there watching. I still have a back-up plan if they try to cover it up.”

  “A back-up plan? Please keep me out of it.” He smiled then turned to Peggy, “Tell me again why you didn’t want me to meet with him?”

  Must have been a private joke, because she punched him in the arm and they walked away sniggering.

  Clovis approached and nodded his head toward Carol, who was now standing alone. “It won’t get any easier. Time to say goodbye.”

  I walked over and spoke, “Hello, Carol, I’ve missed you.”

  That caught her off guard.

  “Things could have been so different, if you’d only listened.”

  “True, but I couldn’t. It’s not in my DNA,” I answered.

  “Are you going to tell the AG that I was involved?” she asked.

  “No. It doesn’t matter—it’s not my case anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that Rachel has been exonerated, and the JAG will determine that she didn’t commit suicide. That’s all I was ever after.”

  “Too bad you didn’t tell me. We could have worked something out. You should have told me,” she smiled.

  “We had an understanding not to talk about each other’s business, remember? But even if I had, it wouldn’t have worked out.”

  “How did you figure me out?”

  I ignored her question, and shook my head. “Goodbye, Carol. It was fun.”

  We didn’t kiss, we didn’t embrace. There was nothing left. I couldn’t help but wonder if the decision to kill Rachel and then me had been made at her place on the Eastern Shore.

  At that moment, Eric Hartman walked up beside Carol, draped his arm around her shoulders, and with a shit-eating grin said to me, “I hope you’re proud of what you did today. You just made your country weaker, asshole!”

  I have no memory of what happened next. The next thing I remember, Eric was lying on the floor, his faced covered with blood, and Carol was screaming at me, “You broke his nose. You broke his fucking nose!” Clovis was leading me away, and I could hear Red laughing.

  80

  THERE WAS NO TIME for celebration or admonishments over my loss of temper. We regrouped at the park across from the Press Club. After a few high fives, Clovis, Stella, Micki, and Larry decided to return to Little Rock immediately. Micki needed to deal with members of the local press who were camped out on Ben’s front lawn, and Clovis was ready to spend a little more time in his new rocking chair. Beth and Jeff asked if they could stay a day or two, which delighted me no end. John Robert and his SEALs wanted to stay at the compound for a few days to make sure there were no more bad guys hanging around.

  After hugs all round, the four of us hopped into the waiting Tahoe, ready to relax at our temporary home by the river. Once we were underway, Beth handed me Rachel’s journal. It was heartbreaking to read the part Beth had marked for me to read. Rachel described in detail what she had learned about Ira’s death. She and Ira had always known that some factions of the government disagreed with his approach to peace. Her suspicions were aroused when she found shell fragments with U.S. markings at the remains of the café. She knew that the U.S. would never sell a rocket system to Hamas.

  Beth and I spent an hour or so wandering the property. We talked about her studies at school, Jeff’s plans after his residency, where I should move, and on and on. It was nice to have time alone with her, but before too long it became apparent that we both needed to get back to our own lives.

&nbs
p; The “day or two” turned out to be that afternoon. They had found a flight out that evening and were gone before I knew it. When the SEALs found out that Stella had gone to Little Rock, their enthusiasm waned, and they left the next morning. John Robert offered to stick around, but I told him he needed to get back to his mom and his own life.

  Maggie, Brian, and I spent the rest of the week tending to details and enjoying the quiet. Maggie and I took long walks around the grounds. She showed me where the foundation and retreat center would be located, and we talked about how the day-to-day operations of our office should run now that Brian was on board.

  We purposely chose to avoid the cable news outlets and Internet news, sticking to the Post and the New York Times, and the national evening news. Fortunately, the cameras hadn’t caught my encounter with Hartman. The administration was in full cover-up and “national security” mode, calling my theory about a purposeful plan to sell arms to allies without congressional approval a “pure fantasy.”

  Lucy was enjoying another day in the sun, calling for bipartisan investigations and hearings on every news and social media outlet. One thing was for sure—when she got a tiger by the tail, she didn’t let go.

  Red told me she was irritated because I didn’t share everything with her beforehand. He also mentioned that my seat at their wedding reception had improved. I would be seated a few tables closer to their table, and nowhere near Carol and Hartman.

  Ken Chandler and the Post were relentless in their coverage; they had my road map and a head start. It also helped that Ken had been digging for months with Rachel’s help. He had an ample supply of sources within the Pentagon and the intelligence community who helped plug every hole in the story I had painted at the National Press Club. Ken easily discovered that at least five other contractors beside Rouss had engaged in exactly the same activities. Moreover, it was determined that Hartman’s lobbying firm was the registered lobbyist for all.

  One of Ken’s sources had actually been present when Hartman and several other lobbyists pitched the need to do away with the Pentagon’s conflict restrictions. The meetings occurred at a posh resort in south Florida attended by high-ranking officials at State, Defense, and the White House. I’m just waiting for pictures to show up on Facebook after those present deny attending.

  Peggy reported that the man Clovis brought back from St. Louis was cooperating with the JAG, the FBI, and the Montgomery County police. Within days after his ill-fated appearance at my press conference, U.S. Attorney Donald J. Cotton had resigned—apparently he wanted to spend more time with his family. But time with his family didn’t prevent him putting together a committee to explore his chances of becoming Virginia’s next Attorney General. In his farewell to his staff, he complimented everyone for helping break open the scandal over the abuses by military contractors and the unsavory attempt to frame Rachel Goodman. What a jerk. I intend to give a healthy contribution to his opponent.

  Rabbi Strauss and I had dinner one night at the Bombay Club, one of my favorite DC restaurants. Over tandoori trout and a nice Oregon Pinot Gris, we talked about Ira Goodman. In her journal, Rachel had laid out in exact detail why she thought the extreme right-wing element of the Israeli government had ordered the rocket attack on her husband. I told him I expected the Israeli government to launch a full investigation into Rabbi Goodman’s death.

  As always, he was non-committal, but promised to do what he could. I reminded him that Ira was an American citizen, and that if there were no investigation, I could sue the Israeli government on behalf of Rachel’s estate.

  “So that’s what you’re after, more money for her heirs.” He tried to look disgusted.

  “No, that’s not what I want, and you know it,” I said raising my own voice. “Rachel spent two years of her life getting to the bottom of the administration’s scheme to get rockets to Israel without congressional approval. She never spent a dime of the money she received from Israel. Her reward was to be labeled a spy and then killed. I want the same thing Rachel wanted—for those responsible for Ira’s death to take responsibility. We want justice for Ira. And I want justice for Rachel. One way or the other, I’m going to get it.”

  Fortunately, Strauss made amends for his erroneous assumption, and we were able to finish the meal in relative tranquility. I doubted that either my threat or my little tirade would have any effect on the Israeli government, but at least I’d given him something to think about.

  I had called Ben that afternoon and reached him just as he was cleaning up after the lunch crowd.

  “Jack! Good to hear—Yes, ma’am, thank you. Well, we do try—Jack, give me just a second.” I could hear the tail end of their conversation, the scrape of chairs on linoleum, then the sound of a door closing abruptly, followed by silence and finally, “Sorry, Jack—I can talk now. What’s up?”

  I brought up the subject of the money that had been in Parra Bank, and he said, “You keep every dime. You earned it, Jack.”

  “I can’t do that. Even after expenses and paying Micki the fee she deserves, there’s more than a million dollars left. I can’t just leave it in my trust account.”

  “Rachel didn’t take their money, and neither will I. What would I do with a million dollars? Buy a bigger boat? The one I have is fine. I own my restaurant free and clear, and it supports Linda, the boys, and me. Give it to charity, but I don’t want a penny of that money.”

  It was good to hear the old energy back in the voice. I told him we could talk about it later.

  I contacted the lawyer for Rouss, then Peggy, even Carl Clifford, who had taken over for Cotton—no one wanted anything to do with that money, like it was blood money. But money is money, nothing more, and I had an idea to propose to Ben when the time was right.

  I enjoyed a long lunch with Red, at Morton’s, of course. He made me swear a series of blood oaths before admitting he had spent a couple of days with Judy Spencer.

  “Harold had a dark side. He loved to gamble, and he seldom lost. Las Vegas sent a jet for him four times a year for a week of gambling, and he took advantage of the freebies—luxury suites, booze, food, and women. Judy knew all about Vegas because he bragged about his escapades when he came home. He was brutal in his honesty.

  “You know, when he wasn’t playing cards or bragging, he was a model husband and father. He was well-respected in the defense contracting business, both for his brains and his ability to lead. Many a defense contractor tried to hire him, but he was as loyal to Rouss. He just had a dark side.”

  “Why did Judy stay with him?” I asked.

  “Who knows why one person stays with another. You’ve met her—she’s as smart and classy as any woman I’ve known. I tried many times to get her to leave him, but she always refused. I knew her way before Lucy was in the picture and chased her as hard as I’ve chased anything in my life. I usually get what I want, but not this time.”

  “Is it a problem for you? Now that she’s a widow?” I asked.

  “That’s why I went to see her. I had to know where we stood before I married Lucy. She was as cool as a cucumber. We had a nice dinner, talked non-stop, and she let me fly her to wherever the hell she is now. But she made it clear we had no future together. My ego likes to think she’d had enough of men on account of Harold, but who knows? I know I need to let it go.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Red. I’ve met her—she’s definitely a class act, but some things aren’t meant to be. Remember the Rolling Stones? ‘You can’t always get what you want, but you just might find you get what you need.’” My Mick Jagger imitation was pretty bad—Red almost lost his wine.

  “So you think Lucy is what I need?” he laughed. “Thanks for listening. It feels good to tell someone I trust about the one that got away. Speaking of, I hear that Carol and Eric are constant companions now. What happened?” he asked.

  “You asking about Carol and me, or the right-cross that decked Hartman?”

  “Both, I guess.”

  “It w
ould be easy to say that punch was about Rachel’s murder, or Ira’s, or Harold’s, because I do believe Hartman was the puppet-master. He’s the only one who has the contacts in both the administration and the defense industry to pull it off. But all I remember is seeing his arm around Carol like he owned her, that arrogant grin, and him saying I’d weakened this country. Something inside of me had enough.”

  Red laughed, “Remind me not to get fresh with your mermaid, if I ever get the chance to meet her.”

  “As for Carol, we were great together. She is everything a man should want in a woman, but we are both married to our work, and, like Judy Spencer, who knows why something doesn’t work out.”

  “Said like a true gentleman! Why do I think you aren’t telling me everything?”

  “For the same reason I don’t think you’re telling me everything about Judy Spencer.”

  We agreed to leave it at that, and drank toasts to our respective loves and losses . . .

  A few days later Maggie and I closed up the house on the shore and returned to DC. Walter had returned from his business meetings, and the three of us enjoyed a nice dinner. He congratulated both of us on the results of our work and gave me hell for involving Maggie in such a dangerous case—all in the same breath. The next day, Brian and I were trying to figure out how to reorganize the office, when Peggy Fortson called, no flirting this time.

  “Jack, the Attorney General intends to send his resignation to the President. He’s scheduled one last meeting with Richard Ewing, and he wants you to attend.”

  I asked, “Are you okay?”

  “This is tough, but you know me—I’m a survivor. I’ll clear you through security. Come to the AG’s conference room at three this afternoon. Thanks.”

  The Attorney General’s office was adjacent to a very large conference room—think thirty or forty people—on the fifth floor of Main Justice. A large, ornate table that sat on a very old oriental carpet dominated the room. The carpet still bore the evidence of Brumis, Robert Kennedy’s hulking Newfoundland and constant companion. Today, Attorney General Bertram Sharp was sitting at its head. The Deputy Director of National Intelligence, Richard Ewing, sat on his left, and I sat on the right, flanked by Peggy Fortson. My presence was clearly offensive to Ewing.