Ginger Snaps Read online

  was “destined for failure.” They suggested, ever so politely, that my

  background rendered me woefully unqualified to head a major foun-

  dation. They were ever so sorry, but they really felt Walter should hire

  someone else. I tried to keep my eyes open.

  Rose, my administrative assistant, stuck her head in the door. “Jack,

  I’m sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Gates is on line one.” A few heads

  turned, and I tried not to smile at our carefully crafted signal. Deliver-

  ance at last.

  I muttered an apology and slipped out the door. The speaker con-

  tinued without even glancing up, as if my presence weren’t important,

  which I thought odd since he had called the meeting to discuss me

  and my “misguided plans.”

  “Sorry to interrupt, Jack, but two guys from the FBI are waiting for

  you in the lobby, and I have Micki on line three—she says it’s urgent.”

  “The FBI? Great. Show them into my office. offer them coffee or

  something. I’ll take Micki’s call first.” I picked up a phone in the office

  adjoining the conference room.

  “Micki, it’s great to hear your voice. Your call has saved me from a

  fate worse than death. What’s up?”

  “Pack your bags, Jack. You have another client in little Rock. This

  one didn’t kill anyone, but he’s in a heap of trouble.”

  I had no idea what she meant, but it was sure to be much more

  interesting than the FBI or the snore of a meeting I had just escaped.

  “okay, I’ll bite. Who’s the mystery man?”

  “I’m kidding about packing your bags, but the client is real—a

  Dr. Douglas Stewart. He was arrested for growing marijuana, lots of

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  it. The DeA has already confiscated everything he owns. So far, he’s

  refused to talk except to say, ‘I want to talk to Jack Patterson.’ I’ve met

  with the wife—in fact, she gave me a nice retainer. I’ve got to hand it

  to you, Jack—you have some interesting friends.”

  I remembered Doug Stewart. He used to work with Angie at NIH.

  Angie had really admired him, thought he was a genius. Doug had

  grown up in Mena, Arkansas, a little town near the oklahoma border.

  He was named a Rhodes Scholar while at the University of Arkansas,

  and, after several years in england, returned to the states to teach

  chemistry and engage in research at the University of Michigan. He’d

  won tons of awards, including the DeWitt, for his work in molecular

  biochemistry. He came east to work at NIH, where he and Angie

  became good friends and colleagues. He was so crushed by her ill-

  ness that it was hard for me to be around him. After the funeral, he

  tried to be a friend, but I was acting out my hermit role. over time, I

  lost track, as I did with most of Angie’s friends. It just hurt too much.

  I pictured him in my mind—tall and lanky, long brown hair, per-

  fectly typecast as Ichabod Crane. I was surprised to learn he’d been a

  walk-on football player for the Razorbacks. He never played a down,

  but practiced all four years on the scout squad. Angie told me his

  office at NIH was filled with Razorback memorabilia, even one of

  those bizarre plastic Uncle Heavy’s Hog Hats. His Chemistry awards

  and diplomas sat in a box in a corner of his office, but his hog hat was

  front and center on his desk.

  Well, I’ll be damned. I had no idea Doug and his wife lived in little

  Rock, my boyhood home. Doug, the Rhodes scholar, arrested for

  dealing drugs? What next? Watching your good friend murder a U.S.

  Senator on Tv took the cake, but Doug ending up a drug dealer was

  right up there. I asked Micki to tell me what she knew.

  “Well, not much. So far, the marshal won’t let me talk to him—

  direct orders from the US attorney. Stewart’s no help at all since he

  insists you’re his lawyer. Gotta be more to it than just grass. Maybe it’s

  meth—after all, the doctor is a chemistry professor. The Feds have

  backed off marijuana busts since Colorado legalized it and other

  states are headed that way. His wife is either a ditz or a con, but she

  knows her husband is in serious trouble. of course, word’s gotten out

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  w e b b h u b b e l l

  that Doug’s asked for you, and the local press is foaming at the mouth.

  I’m surprised you haven’t heard anything.”

  “The FBI is waiting in my office. What a pleasant surprise,” I said

  dryly.

  “He’ll be arraigned on Monday. His wife has hired me, but before I

  show up in court, I thought I better make sure I’ve got the whole story.

  liz says you made some kind of promise to Angie to take care of Doug

  if he got in trouble.”

  “I wouldn’t know the first thing about defending a drug case.”

  “No, and this doesn’t look like that exciting case we dreamed about

  working on together. It looks like a pretty cut-and-dry bust, and I don’t

  see much hope for your friend. He was growing over fifty plants in his

  backyard and had hundreds of seedlings in the garage. He’s looking

  at serious jail time even if he comes clean, cooperates, and that’s the

  end of the story. He told his wife he was growing for his work, and she

  either bought it hook, line, and sinker, or she’s a hell of a liar. I told

  Marshal Maroney I couldn’t imagine you’d consider representing a

  drug dealer. That is, assuming you haven’t gotten so bored with foun-

  dation work that you want to join my detested lot—little Rock’s crim-

  inal bar.” She left the question hanging.

  I didn’t remember any promise to help Doug and was sure Angie

  had no idea he was growing pot, but the prospect of seeing Micki

  again and spending some time in little Rock carried some appeal.

  Anything beat sitting in a conference room with a bunch of founda-

  tion types. But my lawyer’s caution kicked in.

  “Well, I’ve got a lot of irons in the fire here . . ."

  In mid-excuse, I wandered off-course, talking and thinking at the

  same time. Doug had been a friend, uncommonly supportive of Angie

  in those last months. The least I could do was make a quick trip to see

  if I could help. My regular weekend golf game had been cancelled

  because the club was hosting a charity tournament. I could enjoy a

  little golf in little Rock with old friends and try to figure out why

  Doug had gone bad. Angie would want me to go, I told myself.

  “oh what the hell, Micki, I don’t have any plans for the weekend.

  I’ll have Rose check flights and let you know when I’ll be there. Try to

  get word to him that I’m on my way.”

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  “You’re shitting me. I don’t see any reason why you should get

  involved.” Micki was clearly dumbfounded.

  “Well, I know that, but I really don’t have anything better to do

  this weekend, and he’s asking for me, right? He was a good friend to

  Angie, especially when she was so sick. Maybe I can help by telling him

  to trust and cooperate with you. I need a mini-vacation, and I haven’t

  seen you in ages. I’ll see Doug and then you and I can catch up over

  dinner.”

  Micki’s silence was a dead giveaway. Usually she could think and

  talk and stay two beats ahead of the game. Finally, she said, “Well, uh,

  dinner might be a little awkward. I’m seeing someone, Jack, and well,

  you know . . ."

  I was glad she’d put a halt to any expectations before things went

  further.

  “No problem. I’ll stay at the Armitage and take liz to dinner.”

  “Thanks, I knew you’d understand. e-mail Debbie your flight

  schedule, and I’ll make an appointment for you to see Doug. I don’t

  understand why you’re coming, but I’d love your read on this one.

  The wife is a handful.”

  I put the phone down, told Rose to get me an early morning flight

  to little Rock and walked into my office where two burly FBI agents

  were waiting.

  “Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” I asked extending a hand

  that they declined to shake. I relaxed into the chair behind my desk,

  leaving them standing.

  “Mr. Patterson, we understand you represent Douglas Stewart.”

  “You understand incorrectly.” I already didn’t like these guys.

  They looked at each other, and the taller of the two asked. “How do

  you know Dr. Stewart?”

  “He worked with my wife at NIH.” I didn’t offer more, and again

  they exchanged glances.

  “Dr. Stewart has been arrested. He claims you’re his lawyer. If that’s

  not the case, we’d like to explore your relationship with him and what

  you know about his activities.”

  “Then make an appointment. I’m in the middle of a meeting and

  don’t appreciate being called out of it for this.”

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  w e b b h u b b e l l

  “I’d suggest you cooperate, Mr. Patterson. Your wife’s friend is a

  terrorist.”

  A terrorist—horseshit. I dealt with the FBI for years when I worked at

  the Department of Justice. I thought I knew all their tricks. But mor-

  phing a respected scientist into a terrorist?

  “Sorry, but I decline to be interviewed until a meeting has been

  scheduled and my attorney can be present. By the way, he will also

  arrange for the interview to be transcribed.”

  “We don’t participate in recorded interviews, Mr. Patterson. You

  know that.”

  I smiled, indeed aware of their position on recorded interviews.

  They didn’t want any records to exist that could dispute their recol-

  lection of what was said.

  “Then you’re refusing to cooperate with me. Good day, gentlemen.”

  I left them staring and returned to the conference room. Most

  people are afraid to say no to the FBI, rightly afraid of their power to

  destroy a person’s life. I’d represented way too many clients who had

  fallen into their traps. Never, ever meet with the FBI alone—you’ll

  find words put in your mouth you never said.

  Thankfully, the foundation meeting was breaking up. After a few

  empty and insincere remarks, I wished them all well and escaped into

  Maggie’s office to tell her where I was going and that I’d be back

  on Monday. Maggie Matthews had been my assistant, paralegal, and

  right arm when I practiced law at the firm of Banks and Tuohey. Her

  new husband, Walter Matthews, was the president of Bridgeport life

  Insurance Company and chairman of the foundation where I now

  worked—The Walter and Margaret Matthews Foundation. As part of

  my arrangement with the foundation, I have a small antitrust practice

  on the side. Maggie continues in her role as my assistant and para-

  legal, although she’s technically my boss at the Foundation. Don’t ask,

  it works.

  I told her about Micki’s call and my brief meeting with the FBI.

  “I remember Doug. He and Angie were extremely close. Don’t look

  at me that way. They were professional friends. That’s all. You prob-

  ably don’t remember, but he came to your house a lot at the end. You

  should definitely go. It’s about time you got out of the office. It’ll do

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  you good. Take the plane—it’s just sitting on the tarmac. Do you need

  me?”

  When I went to little Rock last year, I didn’t think I needed Maggie,

  but she came anyway and I was glad she did. I knew less about this

  situation than the previous one, but I couldn’t imagine needing her.

  I would see Doug, assure him about Micki’s abilities, play some golf,

  and come home on Monday. I was interested in what could have hap-

  pened to Doug. How did he go from being a research chemist to a

  drug dealer? That answer alone would be worth the trip.

  “No, not this time, but I’ll call if things get messy.” I winked.

  Rose poked her head through the door. “The press is calling; the

  guy from the Arkansas Democrat is getting to be a downright pest. He’s

  holding on line one now.”

  I told Rose to give him to Maggie. Maggie pretended to frown, but

  said she’d take any press calls if I promised to keep my phone turned

  on. I didn’t quite know where it was at the moment, but felt sure it

  was on wherever it was. After checking my calendar, I spent a good

  hour on the phone with my close friend Keith Stroup, founder of the

  National organization for the Reform of Marijuana laws, or NoRMl,

  for folks who like an easy acronym. He gave me a quick update on the

  laws regarding marijuana cultivation and civil forfeiture. Arkansas still

  didn’t recognize medical marijuana, much less recreational use, but

  it was bound to soon. The South always seemed to be an election or

  two behind the curve. Keith felt there had to be more to Doug’s arrest

  than growing marijuana.

  “The Feds are leaving growers and users to the locals. Your friend

  must be part of a cartel or maybe he’s laundering money.”

  I wondered.

  I drove home feeling good about the prospect of a spontaneous

  mini-vacation. I poured myself a glass of wine as soon as I walked in

  the door, noticing I’d left the phone on the bar. I smiled, thinking

  it really was okay to be beyond its reach every now and then. It rang

  almost immediately—I almost jumped out of my skin. I saw Maggie’s

  name and number on the screen.

  “Sorry—I left my phone at home.” She didn’t respond. “Maggie?”

  “I’m not calling to scold. Turn on CNN.”

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  w e b b h u b b e l l

  oh, jeez—surely not again. The last time I’d turned on CNN in

  response to someone’s command, I’d seen my friend Woody put a gun

  to a senator’s head and pull the trigger. I quickly found the remote.

  The banner running across the bottom of the screen read: “World-

  renowned chemist busted. Dr. Douglas Stewart accused of master-

  minding campus drug operation and terrorism.” The host, a Friday

  evening sub, was interviewing none other than “Dub” Blanchard. Dub

  smiled gravely as he railed on about kids, drugs, school grounds, ter-

  rorism, and drug cartels. I knew him to be a media-hungry hack: now

  he was on his high horse, relishing the spotlight. The host smoothly

  fed him softballs, and he hit each one out of the park. Finally, he

  asked if it was true that the drug kingpin’s lawyer was the same Jack

  Patterson who had defended Woody Cole. Dub spit out his response.

  “The last time Jack Patterson came to little Rock he cooked up

  some of his ‘Yankee stew’ to manipulate justice. He’ll find this U.S.

  attorney doesn’t appreciate either his cooking or his tricks. If he

  thinks he’s welcome at my table, he’ll soon find his placemat in the

  outhouse.” The host found all this hilarious, as did Dub, who drooled

  a bit while he laughed. I couldn’t help a laugh myself.

  Maggie had been holding the whole time.

  “Maggie, don’t pack your bags, but you might want to get them out

  of the attic.”

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  SAtuRdAy

  April 19, 2014

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  5

  D

  No matter how many times Maggie explains the economics, I still

  feel guilty every time I use Walter’s plane. But I couldn’t deny it was

  a heck of a lot more comfortable than Delta. Stretching my long legs

  into the aisle and leaning all the way back, I remembered the last time

  I’d flown to little Rock. I’d sworn never to return to little Rock, but

  here I was, returning for the second time in two years.

  This time, as the pilot began his approach, I felt none of the trepida-

  tion, but mulled over the same question that had nagged me before—

  why? Why would a renowned chemist get involved in a drug operation?

  Angie had the greatest respect for Doug and believed that one day he’d

  bring home the Nobel Prize in Chemistry. Neither he nor his wife, liz,

  lived an exorbitant lifestyle. They didn’t have children. I remembered

  they both played club tennis, but as far as I knew he had no other out-

  side activities except watching college and professional football. Angie