Ginger Snaps Page 2
her legal interns almost free access to her office and was always avail-
able for their questions, either about the law or the personal. Debbie
was constantly back and forth with messages and reports. The huge,
sliding oak doors constantly rumbled along their tracks.
Micki really didn’t mind, or even notice. She wanted no part of a
traditional big law firm. Sure, she could make lots of money, but at
what cost? She’d heard about one DC firm that kept cots in the base-
ment, sort of like a dorm, so young lawyers could prove their worth in
billable hours. Not knowledge or appreciation of the law, not empathy
for their clients, just cold, hard time, billed to the client. Micki loved
life and working with real people too much for that sort of drudgery,
no matter what the pay. The day passed quickly, and she relaxed, con-
templating a sunset horseback ride. Debbie’s insistent voice broke
through her reverie.
“Sorry, Micki, but there’s a random woman I don’t know waiting in
the front office. No appointment, says she only needs a few minutes.
I’d say maybe late forties, casually dressed, lots of messy blonde hair.
I don’t think she’s a nutcase—she smells of money. Wait till you see
the rock on her finger. She drove up in a brand new Mercedes con-
vertible. It’s out back, if you want a peek. She won’t tell me why she’s
here. I bet it’s a divorce. oh—and Marshal Maroney wants you to call,
didn’t want to leave a message.”
Micki bit her lip. A call from Maroney always made her nervous.
Hopefully he didn’t have one of her clients in lock-up.
“I need to call Bill first. Tell Ms. Blonde I’ll be right with her.”
Micki was punching in the marshal’s number when she noticed the
black Infiniti parked across the street.
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She hollered out. “Mongo, check out that car across the street, will
you? I saw it there this morning.”
The Infiniti’s driver had recognized both the Mercedes and its
driver. He called Mr. Smith and told him that liz Stewart had just
gone into Micki’s office. Amazed that Smith had been dead-on about
Stewart’s choice of counsel, he pulled away from the curb as instructed
and sped off just before Mongo opened the front door.
The U.S. marshal got right to the point. “Micki, sorry to bother
you, especially on a Friday afternoon, but we’ve got a man in custody
who’s asking for his lawyer.” Micki instinctively knew her sunset ride
and probably her whole weekend were blown.
“This morning the DeA arrested a professor at UAlR—a Dr.
Douglas Stewart.”
The name meant nothing to her.
“The crazy son-of-a bitch insists that his lawyer is that Jack Patterson
fellow. Do you know how I can reach Patterson? The marshal’s office
in DC gave me his law firm’s number, but the firm says he no longer
works there. They either can’t or won’t give me a new number. All I
need to do is confirm Patterson doesn’t know this pothead.”
“What are the charges, Bill?” Micki asked.
“oh, he’s in a shitload of trouble—possession, cultivation, and dis-
tribution of marijuana, a lot of marijuana. Dub held a press confer-
ence about the bust this morning—called him a terrorist, no less. If
you want the details, Dub’s already got the case on his website. The
DeA seized his house, cars, and most everything else. Come to think
of it, I think Stewart lives over near you.”
Micki mulled it over a bit. Jack Patterson didn’t practice law in
Arkansas, nor did he represent drug dealers. His DC antitrust clients
stole their money using more sophisticated schemes. last year, Jack
had reluctantly returned to little Rock to help his boyhood friend,
Woody Cole, against the charge of murdering Senator Russell Rob-
inson. After the case, Jack had returned to DC, and she couldn’t recall
the last time they’d talked.
“Bill, tell the professor that Jack’s not a criminal lawyer. I’d come
down there and tell him myself, but it’s Friday afternoon, and I have a
horse that hasn’t been ridden in more than a week.”
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“Hell, Micki, we’ve told him that. The fellow won’t give an inch,
keeps insisting he’s entitled to speak to his lawyer, and that his lawyer
is Jack Patterson. He told one of my deputies he used to work with
Patterson’s wife. Didn’t she die a few years back?”
“She did. look, maybe this guy does know Jack. let me call him. I’ll
get back to you as soon as I can.”
She sat tapping a pen on her desk calendar, allowing her mind to
drift to Jack. His six foot three inches weren’t Hollywood handsome,
but he was still a good-looking man, the athletic type. His face was
etched with lines of both grief and laughter. She missed his sharp
mind and their easy rapport.
She dropped the pen, stood up abruptly, and walked into the
reception area. The mystery woman, clad in black leggings and a long
pullover that hung off one shoulder, was lounging crossways in the
old, overstuffed armchair Micki had meant to recover. Micki guessed
her to be in her early fifties—very well preserved. She’d clearly spent a
lot of time at the gym and probably with some damn fine surgeons. An
abundance of frothy blonde hair dominated her appearance. Micki
extended her hand, and the woman jumped up from the chair with a
guilty grin. Micki caught the flash of several gold bracelets.
“Sorry to barge in on you unannounced. I’m liz Stewart. You’ve
probably know why I’m here. It’s all over the news. I’m afraid I’ve
gotten my husband into a bit of trouble.”
Micki appraised her coolly for a few seconds, but she didn’t turn a
hair.
“Well, you could say this is a bit of coincidence. Marshal Maroney
just called to tell me he has a Dr. Doug Stewart—your husband, I
assume—in custody. Apparently he’s demanding to speak to my friend
Jack Patterson. let’s talk in my office.” She could see that Debbie and
Mongo were bursting with curiosity.
liz accepted her offer of ice water, and Micki motioned her to a
chair across from her desk. She watched liz settle herself, laughing
breezily.
“Isn’t that just like Doug? Jack’s not going to fly to little Rock for such
a minor matter. You and I can deal with this mess without bothering
him. let me tell you what happened—I’m sure you’ll know exactly how
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to fix it. Those bastards have locked me out of my own house over a few
measly ginger snaps.”
Micki wasn’t sure what to think. either liz didn’t have a clue or she
was running a very good con. Debbie came in with tall glasses of water,
and Micki handed her a note:
No interruptions and plan to stay late.
“The whole thing’s very innocent, but first things first,” liz put her
glass down on a side table and reached for an oversized handbag. “I
need to write you a check. Is ten thousand enough?”
Ten thousand. Most of her clients had a hard time paying her at all,
much less coming up with a retainer. She murmured that it wasn’t
necessary, but liz ignored her, tearing out the check as she continued
her running monologue.
“My good friend, Judy Farrell, has breast cancer. She’s gonna be
fine, I mean it’s not really a bad diagnosis, no lymph nodes, but still,
she was having a really tough time with the chemo. So I made her a
batch of ginger snaps.” liz smiled. “You know what I mean, don’t you?”
Micki felt sure she did, but asked anyway. “I assume you mean they
were laced with marijuana?”
“exactly!” liz exclaimed. “Ginger snaps are so much better than
the brownies we had back in college. Well, they did the trick—Judy
couldn’t stop thanking me. I told her not to tell anyone, but damned
if she didn’t tell her whole book club. Can you believe it? Now it’s all
over town, and the police have Doug locked up. How do we deal with
this? For God’s sakes, I’m supposed to host a cocktail party for my
garden club in two weeks. I’m in the Armitage Hotel for now, but I
really need my house back.”
Micki watched her carefully, trying to keep a straight face.
“Did you sell ginger snaps to anyone?”
/> “Heavens, no!” liz exclaimed. “They’re not Girl Scout Cookies. I
was simply trying to help a friend. Two women from her book club
have asked me for the recipe—can you imagine? Her friend Claire
wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to hang up on her. Maybe she
got mad and told the police. Her husband's a lawyer at the Roma-
towski law firm, you know.”
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“I’m sorry. But I can’t imagine the DeA or even our pathetic U.S.
attorney getting worked up over ginger snaps. Marijuana is still illegal
in Arkansas, but a batch of marijuana-laced cookies hardly justifies
seizing your house. Besides, the Feds have backed off going after mar-
ijuana users since obama said it’s not as dangerous as alcohol. Maybe
they arrested your husband so he’ll give up his source—trying to get
him to roll on his supplier who probably is selling a lot worse stuff.
Where’d he get the marijuana?”
Micki expected liz to hesitate. Most of her clients did at this point;
fearful their source would retaliate.
But liz blurted, “oh, Doug didn’t buy it. I just went out in the back
yard and picked some.”
With a sinking feeling Micki asked slowly, “You mean you had a
marijuana plant growing in the backyard?”
liz didn’t flinch. “oh lord, not just one. We have a whole garden
full.”
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GinGer snaps, my ass, Micki thought. This floozy really had me going.
even now, liz looked comfortable, her expression clueless.
Watching her touch up her lipstick, a flashy coral shade, Micki won-
dered whether she should throw her out on her ear. Now ten thousand
dollars didn’t seem like much of a retainer, and she had to assume the
Feds had frozen the Stewart’s bank accounts by now. She felt sure liz
was just another crook who’d been caught red-handed and come up
with a very creative story.
Almost all her clients lied to her, at least at first–part of human
nature. She wondered what kind of relationship, if any, the Stewarts
had with Jack. one phone call would put that question to rest. She
decided to be direct.
“liz, what exactly is your husband’s connection to Jack Patterson?”
“I’m sorry–I thought you knew. My husband worked with Jack’s wife,
Angie, at the National Institutes of Health. To some extent, Angie’s
cancer is why we moved here. After she died, Doug decided to leave
NIH. He wanted to have the freedom to engage in pure research,
independent of any government grants or control. UAlR’s offer of an
endowed chair was perfect.
“Angie told Doug if he ever needed a lawyer to call Jack, day or
night. At dinner one night she made Jack swear he’d represent Doug.
Jack said, ‘sure, okay,’ but I don’t think he was really listening. I
thought at the time her insistence was strange, almost as if Doug and
Angie knew something the rest of us didn’t.” She paused, staring out
the window.
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If liz was telling even half the truth about the relationship, Micki
owed it to Jack to get as much information as she could, whether she
ended up representing Dr. Stewart or not. She began to probe liz
about their marijuana garden, gently making it clear that Doug was in
serious trouble.
liz babbled on and on about organic fertilizer, grafting, cross pol-
lination, and watering techniques, most of which Micki let go in one
ear and out the other. But she did glean one bit of good news: liz
had money in her own right. Maybe that explained her devil-may-care
attitude. Micki couldn’t turn down a paying client, lying or not. liz
seemed unconcerned at the possibility that the legal fees could run
much higher. The loss of a weekend seemed a small price to pay.
Micki had a hard time squaring her priorities with liz’s. Micki
wanted to meet Doug, learn about the charges, arrange his bail,
and prepare for an arraignment. liz wanted to get her make-up
and clothes back before a Saturday night cocktail party. She seemed
annoyed when Micki told her the marshal would probably release her
personal items sometime the next morning—liz had her regular hot
yoga class at 9 o’clock. Could he have them delivered to her hotel
tomorrow afternoon?
Micki played cat-and-mouse for a while longer, but liz didn’t give
an inch. She finally sent her to Debbie to fill out paperwork. She had
to call Jack before he left his office, and besides, she was fed up with
liz’s act. As they both rose, she closed with the one question she’d
avoided for the last hour.
“liz, you don’t seem to need the money, and your husband’s an
endowed professor. Why on earth was he growing that much mari-
juana? I mean—why a whole garden?”
liz looked confused.
“Why, for his work, of course. Wait, you didn’t think he was selling
the stuff, did you?” She blinked. “oh my God, how could you ever
think such a thing?”
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WASHINGtoN, dC
FRIdAy AFtERNooN
April 18, 2014
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I was having a bad week.
A letter from Montgomery County had arrived on Monday advising
me that my property taxes had doubled. I couldn’t argue with a new
valuation—real estate in the Chevy Case was booming—but double?
Maybe with the extra money the county could manage to pick up the
garbage on the right day and turn off that damned camera on Con-
necticut Avenue that always claimed I was speeding. Probably not.
Why kill a cash cow?
Tuesday, Sophie had gotten tangled in the leash during our
morning walk and gone down hard. She limped all the way home,
so we headed for the vet. The Burnese Mountain Dog had been a
gift from a well-meaning friend after my wife’s death. I’d named her
Sophie after Angie’s mother, fully intending to find her a new home,
but for some reason I never got around to letting her go. The vet
discovered a hairline fracture along with worsening hip dysplasia.
Nothing would do but surgery. I’d always raised a skeptical brow at
my friends who spent inordinate amounts of money on their pets, but
now I found myself in the same boat. How could one damn dog cost
so much money? I told the vet to go ahead. How could I say no?
As a favor to a former colleague, I had agreed to help a young
lawyer who had brought an antitrust suit against certain drug compa-
nies conspiring to keep new products off the shelves until they could
maximize their profits on the old drugs. The case was turning out to
be a real pain in the ass. Big law firms use their clients’ deep pockets
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to overwhelm a solo practitioner with mounds of paperwork. I had
already spent way too much time answering stupid questions posed by
lawyers who enjoyed spending their clients’ money. My job as presi-
dent of Walter Matthew’s new charitable foundation kept me busy
enough without spending days and nights responding to their futile
attempts to overwhelm me.
To top off the week, I was stuck in a conference room on a beautiful
Friday afternoon, trying to pay attention to a group of well-meaning
men and women who droned on and on about how “misguided” our
foundation’s goals were and how under my leadership the foundation