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  A GAME OF INCHES

  Copyright © 2016 by Webb Hubbell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information, storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Author. Inquiries should be addressed to Webb Hubbell, 820 East Kingston Ave., Charlotte, N.C. 28203.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  / Hubbell, Webb

  ISBN

  COVER DESIGN BY

  To:

  Suzy, my Razorback Teammates, and George

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  IN 1899, THE Sewanee Tigers of the University of the South reveled in a 12-0 season. Their opponents included the University of Georgia Bulldogs and the University of Tennessee Volunteers. In mid-season the team took an extended road trip, playing five teams in six days. Not only did the Tigers win all five games, each game was a shut out. During this remarkable feat they beat Texas, Texas A&M, Tulane, LSU, and Ole Miss—not a “weak sister” among them. Joe Paterno, former head coach of Penn State, said that this accomplishment by the “Iron Men of Sewanee” had to be one of the most staggering achievements in the history of football.

  Today, the school is better known for its academic excellence as one of the southern Ivies. The Sewanee Tigers still play football, but not in the Southeastern Conference (“SEC”). Instead they play at the Division Three level in the Southern Athletic Association. Their opponents include Rhodes and Millsaps, not Auburn or North Carolina. In 2012, their record was 3-7. The Tigers don’t play to thousands of screaming fans on national TV. They play to small crowds of students, parents, academics, alums, and the stray dogs who run around in the end zone. But the rules of the game are still the same; the scholar-athletes still risk serious injury every practice and game; and the individual effort isn’t any less than in Division One.

  Billy Hopper is a fictional character. He didn’t attend Sewanee, wasn’t awarded a Rhodes scholarship, and didn’t play football for the Tigers. He is simply a compilation of characters I’ve known. The book is primarily set in Washington, DC. You might recognize some of the restaurants and neighborhoods I describe, but the characters and events in this novel have no connection to reality—they only exist in the imagination of this author and his readers.

  PROLOGUE

  ON THE MORNING of March 20, 2016, a drowsy Billy Hopper stretched his arm across the bed in his room at DC’s Mayflower Hotel to discover a woman lying by his side. As his brain began to focus he realized he was covered in blood and that she was clearly dead. He flew out of the bed in horror, backing himself against a wall. His whole body shook as he tried to figure out what to do. He had no idea who she was. She was naked and had been stabbed multiple times. There was so much blood—gulping for air, he called the only man he knew he could trust. Needless to say, every TV or radio sports news show has focused on little else.

  During the previous NFL season, Billy “Glide” Hopper had been the “go to” rookie wide receiver for the newest NFL football franchise, the Los Angeles Lobos. His story of coming from obscurity to rookie success was a sports publicist’s dream until the events of March 20, which quickly became known as the “Mayflower Mutilation.” At just 6 feet, barely 200 pounds, Hopper doesn’t quite fit the image of a pro football player. Baby-faced with golden locks and deep tan, he looks more like a skier or a surfer. He has neither blazing speed nor a whopping wingspan but he does have two things going for him on a field dominated by giant gladiators—a unique ability to elude pass defenders and hands of Gorilla Glue. During the first game of the season, Seattle’s all-pro cornerback was overheard to say. “Coach, I can’t cover that dude. He ain’t fast, but he glides right by me.” The nickname stuck.

  Hopper played college football in obscurity at the University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee. No one from Sewanee goes to the Pros—even the football players are there for an education. He dreamed of a pro career, but not a single NFL scout looked at Billy or considered his 3673 receiving yards as a Tiger. After graduating with Honors in 2013, Hopper spent the next two years earning an MPhil at Oxford on a Rhodes scholarship. As there were no philosophy jobs waiting for him back in Tennessee, he decided to consult his old coach at Sewanee. Sure of Billy’s talents, Coach Samko convinced Billy to attend an open tryout for the new LA franchise. The rest is history. In his rookie year, he had 111 receptions for 1773 yards and 18 touchdowns.

  Hopper’s phenomenal year propelled the first-year franchise Lobos to 4-12 in their first NFL season—a record much better than expected. The team won their last two games of the season including an upset of New England in the last week of the season, knocking the Patriots out of the playoffs. Billy caught three touchdown passes in that game—all highlight reel catches. He was unanimously elected the Associated Press offensive rookie-of-the-year.

  These days all the controversy surrounding Hopper centers on how the sport of football continues to produce off-the-field violence and how it might have prompted Hopper to commit such a heinous crime. Faithful Patriot fans are ready enough to throw this southern kid under the bus, as are the police, politicians, the press, and most preachers. After all, the unidentified young woman was in his bed, he had been drinking at the banquet, and his fingerprints allegedly were found on the murder weapon—a room service steak knife.

  He will surely be charged with murder. Speculation focuses more on the murdered woman—who was she? Not a soul has come forward to identify the body, despite law enforcement’s repeated appeals for help.

  As for Hopper, it seems everyone is ready to condemn him—late-night talk show hosts make crude jokes at his expense, and the media are willing to give anyone an audience and air-time if they can to say they knew Hopper, no matter what they have to say.

  The dam of speculation finally broke at 4:45 p.m. on Friday, April 15, 2016 when the following came across the banner of ESPN:

  Breaking News: The U.S. Attorney for the District of Columbia has charged Los Angeles Lobos’ rookie wide receiver Billy Hopper with first-degree murder in connection with the slaying of an as yet unidentified woman at the Mayflower Hotel on March 20, 2016. Hopper has been in the custody of law enforcement since the incident. He will be arraigned on Monday.

  A second banner left little doubt as to the Lobos’ reaction:

  Billy Hopper’s contract has been terminated, and he has been released from the team. The Lobos will have no further comment.

  * * *

  FRIDAY

  * * *

  April 15, 2016

  1

  PHILANTHROPY IS TRULY a good and wonderful thing, and I am fortunate to be a part of the Margaret and Walter Matthews Foundation. I mean that. But just now, sitting at my desk in DC, I must admit to playing with pencils. I was bored. I’m a lawyer, both by training and profession—administration just doesn’t float my boat. The insistent rumblings of my cell phone interrupted my inner grumblings.

  “Senator Robinson asks that you join her for cocktails this evening at her home. Please arrive promptly at seven.” Nothing else. I was left staring at the phone as it went dead.

  The cool invitation by the Senator’s administrative assistant caught me completely off guard. How did she have my cell number? I hadn’t heard from or seen Lucy Robinson in almost two years. Her assistant’s assumption that I would drop everything on less than four hours’ notice didn’t surprise me—Lucy’s arrogance was legend. But the invitation itself did. The last time I’d seen Lucy, she’d taken me to the woodshed for a well-deserved tongue-lashing.

  After her husband, Senator Russell Robinson, was murdered, Lucy was appointed to fill her husband’s unexpired term as U.S. Senator
from Arkansas. She took to the job like a duck to water, quickly becoming a rock star in a city full of politicians who craved the limelight. A wealthy, attractive, and savvy woman in a world still dominated by men, she is a media darling and frequent Sunday talk show guest. It didn’t hurt that after an appropriate period of mourning Lucy was spotted at Georgetown’s Café Milano on the arm of Charles “Red” Shaw, former marine colonel, billionaire government contractor, and owner of the new Los Angeles Lobos football team.

  I was tempted to bag it. Lucy and I had never been close. Her late husband and I hadn’t seen eye to eye in college—in fact, I couldn’t stand the bastard. But my late wife Angie and Lucy remained friends even after we left Arkansas, and Lucy had supported Angie in her own way as Angie battled ovarian cancer. I was sure the invitation signaled payback time for my having represented the man charged with her husband’s murder. I might as well find out what price she would exact.

  The invitation also meant I had to go home and change into a coat and tie, a tired uniform I tried to avoid whenever possible. Traffic was always a pain from my office in downtown DC to Chevy Chase, and traffic back to Lucy’s Georgetown home would be just as bad, if not worse. At least I had somewhere to go on a Friday night. I usually began my weekend at Pete’s on Connecticut Avenue for Greek food before going home to a bad movie or worse TV. A Saturday morning golf game with my usual foursome at Columbia Country Club was almost always the highlight of my weekend.

  My playing partner, Walter Matthews, and his wife Maggie were in Tuscany, so tomorrow’s game was off. It was just as well—an old friend from Little Rock, Judge Marshall Fitzgerald, had flown in for a short-notice visit, and we were meeting for lunch.

  I decided to catch a ride to Lucy’s, figuring I would need several martinis to endure the evening. Thanks to an eager cabbie I arrived at seven on the dot. Lucy’s household staff was surprised by my timely arrival and didn’t bother to hide their displeasure. I ought to have known better. In DC, it’s a matter of pride to be late, a clear indication of your importance elsewhere. The well-trained butler escorted me into the large living room without a glance, leaving me to peruse the art and décor of Lucy’s stylish Georgetown townhouse in solitude.

  Lucy’s choice of art was fairly catholic——Motherwell, Lichtenstein, and a small Stella but the inclusion of a Gursky photograph came as a surprise. The furnishings were a comfortable mix of antique and contemporary. Everything was in its place, the bookshelves lined with first editions interspersed with objects d’art. I looked for reminders of her deceased husband, Russell, but found none. There were plenty of photographs in silver frames of Lucy with her children, Lucy with President Obama, and Lucy with Red, but Russell was nowhere to be found. Guess she’d moved on.

  I was admiring the Lichtenstein over the fireplace when the waiter brought me a martini, and I heard from across the room, “Dear Jack, I’m so glad you could come.”

  Lucy wore a shimmering full-length blue dress that emphasized her natural attributes almost as well as the elegant strand of diamonds around her neck. She smiled like we were old high school sweethearts, which we definitely were not. She crossed the room arm-in-arm with Red Shaw—the stocky build, strong jaw, and military haircut were easily recognizable. Lucy held out her cheek, and I managed the obligatory air kiss. Red—he insisted I call him that—extended his hand for a vigorous shake.

  “Lucy has told me so much about you. I hope we’ll have time tonight for a real talk.” His voice was a bit raspy, but his tone was genial enough.

  The doorbell rang before I could respond, and Lucy and Red turned to greet their guests.

  The living room quickly filled with men in tailored suits and women in expensive cocktail dresses. I was just about the only man without an attractive woman at my elbow, but I was used to being the odd man out at social events. I recognized a lot of the guests—senators from both political parties, former members of Congress who were now highly paid lobbyists, and a careful assortment of the mainstream media. Tonight was about access and being seen—a DC power event.

  I had to hand it to Lucy—she’d learned the protocol. No one had to wait more than a few seconds for a refilled glass or another tiny hors d’oeuvre. Rather than the expected chatter about the presidential primaries, the conversation centered on Billy Hopper. Everyone had an opinion. The latest scandal at the Pentagon created a second buzz—apparently the Navy had paid billions for the design and construction of a stealth submarine that had sunk somewhat further than expected. Fortunately, the skeleton crew had been able to escape. Red’s company had just been awarded a multi-million dollar contract to recover the wreckage.

  The ringing of a silver spoon against expensive crystal caught our attention, and all eyes turned to Lucy and Red who were now standing at the bottom of the stairs.

  Lucy smiled warmly and spoke, “I want to thank all of my closest friends for coming on such short notice. It means the world to Red and me that you’re here.” Red was beaming ear to ear. Lucy slipped her hand into his.

  She continued, “When my late husband Russell was tragically murdered, I thought my world had come to an end. But thanks to so many of you in this room, I’ve been able to continue his important work.”

  Lucy paused to emphasize the drama. “But something in my life was missing.”

  She waited for the room to go absolutely still, then turned to Red and gave him a look that would have thawed Antarctica. She returned to the crowd blushing. I have to hand it to Lucy—she was a natural.

  “Then Red charged into my life, and once again I’m a complete woman. I won’t share the details of his proposal—Red can really be quite romantic,” she grinned. “But he’s asked me to marry him, and I’ve accepted. We wanted to share this moment with you, our closest and dearest friends, before you read it in the Post. So thank you all for coming and, of course, you will all be invited to the wedding.”

  Immediately an army of waiters bearing crystal champagne flutes entered the room, toasts were given, and Red and Lucy graciously accepted congratulations from all.

  I watched the unfolding scene from the back of the room, sipping on champagne and wondering why in the world I was here.

  I also observed a woman in a deep red dress detach herself from a nearby group and walk directly toward me. I saw that she was quite attractive with full, dark hair, but it was the dress that first caught my eye. Black is the color of choice for most all Washington women—for some reason color is almost unheard of in the posher circles. The dress and her jewelry were understated in a manner that evokes both class and money. She wasn’t bone thin either, another anomaly.

  “You have to hand it to Lucy. Once she set her sights on Red, he didn’t stand a chance,” she whispered as we raised our glasses for another toast.

  I smiled, knowing exactly what she meant. Her first husband, Russell, had experienced a similar assault in college.

  She turned to me, “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Carol Madison.”

  Her smile was warm and contagious, her eyes bright, and she had a distinct southern accent.

  “Jack Patterson.” I extended my hand.

  “I’ll bet I’m not the only one tonight who wonders why you’re here. After all, you did represent her husband’s killer.”

  I couldn’t think of a reason either.

  She rescued my silence with an easy laugh. Her hand slid down my arm and hooked into my elbow.

  “Come on. Let me introduce you to a few people. They won’t bite, and I promise you have nothing to fear from me. Let’s mingle.”

  She worked the room with me as her attachment, and I tried to follow the conversations as I wondered about my new companion.

  Actually, I knew a few people myself, which seemed to surprise her. In fact, it surprised me. But Carol seemed to know everyone, and they clearly knew her. We chatted with a few members of Congress and a couple of cabinet secretaries. They seemed to be comfortable, so I concluded she couldn’t be with the press. She nev
er let go of my elbow and fed my ego by introducing me as “the famous attorney.”

  We spent the next hour making small talk. I’m not a big fan of large cocktail parties. I usually find a corner to shrink into and drink more than I should, but this time I found myself enjoying the evening. Several martinis and Carol’s company didn’t hurt. I lost track of time until I realized most everyone else had left. I was about to get up the nerve to ask Carol out to dinner, when Lucy approached.

  “I am so glad you two met. I had a feeling you’d get along. Red would like a few minutes, Jack. I hope you don’t mind, Carol?”

  Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I thought I detected disappointment in Carol’s eyes. Dinner with Carol sounded much more appealing than a few minutes with Red Shaw, but we both understood Lucy wasn’t really asking.

  If Carol was disappointed she quickly let it go. “Of course. I really need to go anyway my workday is far from over. And again—congratulations, Lucy, let’s plan on lunch soon.” She kissed Lucy on the cheek, and as Lucy turned away, Carol pulled me close and dropped something into my coat pocket.

  “Be careful tonight.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and slipped through the front door before I could respond.

  “Be careful?” What was that about, I wondered as I followed Lucy into her study.

  2

  THE STRAIGHTFORWARD MASCULINITY of Lucy’s study caught me by surprise, but I remembered that the townhouse had originally belonged to Lucy and her former husband. The desk was enormous and all the chairs in the room were covered in dark leather. Bookshelves adorned the walls, filled artfully with designer books and what appeared to be first editions. Photographs of Red and various sports figures had been cozied up in every vacant niche. The wall inside the bookshelf directly across from the desk supported a new, curved Samsung Smart TV. A talking head spouted financial news, but the sound had been muted. The TV remote held a place of honor on the desk. Clearly Red had taken over this part of Lucy’s house.