LISA ECKENROD, head of Walter Matthews’ day-to-day security operation, was waiting on the apron where our plane landed in DC, along with a half a dozen security officers. Lisa had impressed me with her toughness and smarts the first time we worked together. Walter had a keen eye for talent; it wasn’t long before he elevated his former head of security, Martin Wells, to the board room and promoted Lisa. I hadn’t expected to find her waiting but wasn’t surprised when I saw Big Mike. When I asked about the show of force, she frowned.
“Let’s see—you were kidnapped, almost killed, and left in a swamp to die, before you were rescued by a beautiful scientist during a fierce tropical storm. What do you think? You’re lucky we weren’t told to pick you up in an armored van. Maggie’s orders were to bring you straight to the office. I think you have some explaining to do.” But her frown had turned into a smile, followed by a grin as she took my arm.
Maggie Baxter and I had been friends and partners for many years, long before she became Maggie Matthews. She wasn’t an attorney, but she knew the law and she understood what made people tick, an invaluable asset in any profession. Her marriage to Walter had been icing on the cake for all three of us.
It wouldn’t be easy to explain why I had agreed to represent David Ruple without consulting her, not to mention why Clovis and I had been in New Orleans in the first place. For someone who supposedly wanted to back away from our practice so she could spend more time with her husband, she sure kept an eagle eye on me. But how could I complain? She’d saved my bacon more than once.
Maggie was sitting at the reception desk when we walked in. Lisa and Big Mike waved and made a hasty exit. Maggie turned to me and said coolly, “Why don’t you, Clovis, and Brian meet me in a few minutes in the conference room. I’ve got a couple of things to clear up, shouldn’t be more than a minute or two.”
I had decided evasion might be a good course of action.
“Take all the time you need. I need to call Red about his stadium deal, and Clovis needs to get back to Little Rock.”
“Don’t even think about it, Jack Patterson. Into the conference room, all of you.” She walked into her office, closing the door firmly behind her.
Maggie only addresses me as “Jack Patterson” when I’m in hot water. The three of us tucked our tails between our legs and did as we were told. She took her own sweet time. I was about to remind her who was boss when she backed through the door carrying a tray that held three cups of coffee and half a dozen blueberry muffins. I jumped up to take the tray, and she took the chair opposite me. Clovis looked relieved, but there was to be no chit-chat; she was all business.
“First, Jack. Both Micki and I are aware that Novak hired a New Orleans ‘family’ to protect Beth—with your blessing. We’ve known for some time but decided not to raise the issue. Neither of us approve of the choice you made, but Beth is your daughter, and so far, she and Jeff are still alive and well, so…” She paused, but since I basically agreed with her, I said nothing. Obviously still irritated, she continued, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, please tell me why someone wired $100,000 into our trust account this morning. And who is Gloria Ruple? I have a feeling she may replace Red Shaw as my least favorite person in the world. She is one pushy woman.”
I apologized for keeping her in the dark, explaining that I had no idea we’d have a new client until after the lunch with Tom Thibodeaux. I reminded her that I’d been otherwise occupied until yesterday, avoiding any mention of Abby.
Her brows shot up at the name Thibodeaux. I had no doubt she would ferret out all the details of my recent adventures, probably sooner rather than later. My escape was only temporary.
“Okay, Jack.” Her tone indicated just the opposite. “Stella is on her way to DC; her flight should touch down any minute now. One of Lisa’s people will bring her here directly from Dulles. Clovis, I’ve booked a room for you at the Madison. You and Stella can work from this office—you’ll need to stay in DC for—well, at least until this case has been resolved. Stella is already working to update our phone and computer security. You and Lisa are meeting this afternoon to discuss Jack’s protection.”
I tried to interrupt, but Maggie cut me off.
“You have no say in this matter, Jack. Surely you don’t think your adversaries will just go away?” She focused a frosty glare on me but didn’t wait for a response. “Once again, you’ve taken a case from a dubious source who you know engages in, shall we say, “shady” practices. I’ve decided we’ll take no chances. Clovis and Lisa will make sure you’re guarded twenty-four hours a day until this case is over. Lisa has also upgraded my security. I assume you’ve already made similar arrangements for Beth and Jeff. Or do I need to do that as well?”
“No, I’ve already made the call,” I replied. At least I’d done one thing right.
“As for the new client, why don’t you tell me what you know. All the Court documents are under seal, although I understand Clovis has a box for Brian to organize. Your meeting with Mrs. Ruple is at the Willard at four o’clock. You’re lucky that she didn’t meet you at the airport.”
Relieved to be off the hook, I recounted what I had learned from Royce and Lula. Hoping to regain some control of my troops, I assigned the first tasks that came to mind. Maggie agreed to begin the process of getting me into the jail to meet David. Brian would contact David’s former partners and interview his girlfriend.
I didn’t look forward to meeting Gloria, especially before I met with David. The last thing I needed was an overprotective and demanding mother who could easily make matters worse. Then again, I cautioned myself, “You haven’t met the woman yet; don’t make assumptions.”
The day had caught up with me; I could feel myself slump, exhausted more mentally than physically. Clovis bluntly advised me to take a nap and left to meet Stella at the Madison. Brian followed almost immediately, carrying the box of files under his arm. Maggie produced a bottle of Perrier from the wine fridge, and we toasted our friendship. She told me how angry she’d been at first, and how worried she and Walter had been when I went missing.
“At least you’re still alive. We couldn’t help but wonder…” Her voice trailed off.
I knew she wanted to ask about Abby. Maggie tended to be overprotective when it came to the women in my life; she had good reason. I didn’t volunteer, and she changed tactics.
“Jack, we have a nice law practice. Red Shaw’s issues alone could keep us in the black without taking on any new clients, especially those who might get you killed. I can’t do this anymore. You’ve got to promise me this one is the last!”
She was right. I didn’t need to be putting myself or her at risk, much less for a client whose ‘family’ didn’t blink an eye at a little extralegal behavior. But I couldn’t promise. How could I have seen this coming? I didn’t even know David Ruple existed before New Orleans, and I could hardly have refused the invitation.
My ‘Big Business’ clients can cause serious economic damage to the competition and even to our country, but as far as I know they don’t kill people or traffic young men and women. Every lawyer worth his salt dances on the edge of his conscience from time to time. If we don’t engage in criminal behavior, our code of ethics gives us license to defend just about anyone or any entity. But the edge has its hazards, requiring good judgment and thoughtful decisions. Maybe this time… but no. It was simple: I owed Tom Thibodeaux.
After Maggie had finished lecturing, and I had apologized for about the thousandth time, I did call Red about the stadium in San Antonio. He already knew what had happened. Somehow, he always did. He gave me bloody hell for a few minutes, then told me to be more careful. Red never minced words.
“What in the hell? There’s bound to be a woman involved. When will you ever learn, and do I get to meet this one before she gets you killed?”
I promised to introduce him to Abby when the Lobos played the Saints later this year. I wondered how he and Maggie knew so much. Maggie always complained about Red’s brusk manner, but I felt sure they got along better than she let on.
She left to call Walter, and I managed to get a quick nap before Mike arrived to drive me to the Willard. I told him I would much rather walk; he could meet me there.
“Sorry, Jack, but no way. Mrs. Matthews orders. I’m to stick to you like glue until this case is over. It’s my job, not to mention what Lisa would do if I let anything happen to you, so please cooperate.”
I gave up. But he did let us walk; it was only a couple of blocks.
I love the renovation of the Willard; the lobby is fabulous, but I’m not a big fan of the bar. It’s a favorite of tourists, lobbyists, Congressional staffers, even the occasional Member. But it’s too small, noisy, and crowded for my taste, a poor meeting place if you want to hear what your companion has to say—not that anyone really listens. I didn’t know what Gloria Ruple looked like, but when I walked through the doors, I had no difficulty recognizing her—at four in the afternoon, she was the only woman in the room.
She was seated at a very visible table near the round bar: a dark-haired woman wearing sunglasses, bright red lipstick, and a black cocktail dress; an enormous red Chinese scarf was draped around her shoulders. A half-empty martini glass sat on the table in front of her. She didn’t move a muscle when I approached her table.
“Mrs. Ruple?” I hesitated. “My name is Jack Patterson.”
She lowered her glasses, giving me a slow once-over, then lowered them into place, took a sip of her martini, and said, “Well, don’t just stand there; sit down. It’s about time you showed up.
“I hope you’re a better lawyer than the usual mouthpieces Royce hires, or my boy is in deep shit.” She raised her hand and snapped her fingers, “Keith, bring this man a martini with extra olives. Hendricks okay with you, Jack? Or do you want some of the fancier stuff. Did you know they make gin in Vermont with honey? Not for me!”
I thought about declining. A martini at four in the afternoon was too early even for me, but I sensed the martini was part of a test. “Hendricks is fine, thanks,” I agreed. “And, no, I didn’t.”
The bartender delivered my martini, along with a separate bowlful of olives, obviously not for me. Equally obvious, it wasn’t Gloria’s first encounter with the bartender.
After he left, Gloria asked, “Now, what have you done to get my son out of jail?”
“So far, nothing. I haven’t even met him yet.”