The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Page 14

  My second-year courses were all meaty. That fall I had taken income tax, corporations, evidence, environmental law, and federal courts. There wasn’t a weak sister in the bunch. I don’t know what possessed me to try to take on so much all at once, but it left me no time to do anything else.

  And that included getting Stedman’s story before the golf world. Cheatwood’s friend in the Georgia State Golf Association had given me the name of Max Humphries, an historian on the faculty of the University of Georgia in Athens who also happened to be a member of the USGA’s Museum and Library Committee. I didn’t get to call Humphries until sometime in October, when I first came up for air. He was sufficiently intrigued by my story to refer me to Golf House. The staff there was nice but noncommittal. They asked me to submit a proposal in writing.

  The last thing I needed was to write an essay on how I had spent my summer vacation. On top of all my course work, I was hard at work on my first case note for the law review, which at that point was in its second rewrite.

  Still, it had to be done if the project was going to move forward. It took practically an entire weekend, but I managed to put the whole thing together. The report described how I came to find out about Stedman, how all of the facts were supported by documents in Jones’s files, and how this great player was deprived of an opportunity to compete for golf’s major championships because of a false murder accusation. I concluded that this was a wrong that the USGA needed to right. That Monday morning, I mailed it to Golf House.

  I didn’t hear anything for three weeks. During that time, I tried to convince myself that perhaps it wasn’t so important for the world to know about Beau Stedman after all. It was my way of preparing for the disappointment I expected in the form of a short and concise rejection letter.

  I never did get a letter, however. Instead, I got a telephone call one rainy afternoon in late October (it always seemed to be raining in New Orleans) while I was trying to decipher the various exceptions to the hearsay rule. The caller identified himself as Brett Sullivan. He said he was the curator for the USGA Museum at Golf House.

  Sullivan began by apologizing for not getting back to me sooner, but he explained that construction on the new wing of the headquarters had just been completed and everyone was in the midst of moving their offices. “I couldn’t get a letter out to my mother right now, much less do business,” he laughed. “I don’t even know where my computer is. Come to think of it, I can’t find my secretary, either.”

  I liked Sullivan’s sense of humor. I wasn’t exactly a museum kind of guy and so hadn’t known very many curators of museums, but I had expected them to be stuffy. Sullivan was definitely not stuffy, and I was pleased by that.

  He seemed excited about telling Stedman’s story. In fact, Sullivan suggested that perhaps I hadn’t aimed high enough with my proposal. Rather than just publishing an article about my discovery, Sullivan ventured that he was thinking about putting on an exhibition about Stedman’s remarkable life in the USGA Museum.

  I was flabbergasted.

  The USGA’s exhibitions, Sullivan assured me (as if I needed assurance), were first-rate. He described a recent one on caddies that had photographs and historical artifacts (some of which originated in the eighteenth century) relating to caddies in Scotland and the United States.

  He cautioned me, however, that an exhibition was nothing without good exhibits. Certainly, Jones’s notes could be mounted in shadow boxes and placed under glass, and the old newspaper clippings and photographs would be helpful, too. Even so, Sullivan made it clear that he expected it to be a small exhibition. “Better to be small and leave them wishing there were more than to try to make a big deal out of too little.”

  Fortunately, I had organized and collected all of the Stedman materials in one place before I left Butler & Yates. I suggested to Sullivan that he contact Fred Nathan. He did, and Nathan shipped the materials to him.

  Sullivan called me a couple of weeks later. It was early November by this time. “We’ve just finished sorting through everything,” he told me. “We’re always interested in anything having to do with Bobby Jones, but the real story is about this fellow Stedman. Jones’s personal notes about this guy’s golf have been the talk of this place.”

  Sullivan lamented the lack of photographs or other souvenirs, but indicated that they could “spruce up” the exhibit with numerous pictures from their archives of Jones. He told me he was ordering artwork for large posters detailing Stedman’s playing record against the great champions of the past. He also was having a couple of the letters describing the matches enlarged to poster size as well.

  Sullivan invited me to come to Golf House. He wanted my personal approval of the layout of the exhibit before announcing a schedule. “This has been your baby, and we want to make sure you’re happy with it.”

  I was touched. Unfortunately, I told him, I was also approaching a nightmarish final exam schedule. That’s how we arrived at my coming to Golf House between Christmas and New Year.

  My reverie ended when I saw the sign pointing to Golf House. Under its blanket of snow, the USGA headquarters looked like a picture postcard. I regretted not having a camera.

  The place was nearly deserted, and I was able to park right next to the front door. As soon as I was inside, I met Sullivan face-to-face for the first time. I’m not sure what I expected him to look like, but I suspect I was looking for someone with a pipe and smoking jacket. Instead, he looked more like a golfer, dressed in a cotton sweater with the USGA insignia and the words “USGA Staff” over the left breast.

  He didn’t look very happy to see me, however.

  Grabbing me by the sleeve, he took me into his office and closed the door.

  “I just got served with these this morning.” He handed me a sheaf of papers. Reading quickly, I recognized them as the pleadings of a lawsuit. The caption read “Michael Gladstone, et al. versus United States Golf Association.”

  “What’s this?”

  “Gladstone’s family has sued us. Even got a restraining order. We’re shut down until further notice. I tried to reach you before you left, but you were already gone.”

  I was dumbstruck.

  “How can they do this?”

  Sullivan managed a half-hearted laugh. “You tell me; you’re the one who’s in law school.”

  I looked at the papers again. The petition claimed that the exhibition would cause irreparable injury to the family by falsely accusing Harold Gladstone of murder. It further stated that no court had ever authenticated the documents relied upon by the USGA to assert that Harold Gladstone, not Stedman, was the true murderer of Mrs. Gladstone and that the USGA had no basis to reach the conclusions it did, much less to invade the privacy of the Gladstone family by publishing them to the world.

  I looked up at Sullivan again. “According to this, the restraining order only lasts ten days. There’s a hearing set then to determine whether it should be kept in place until we can have a full-blown trial on all of this.”

  Sullivan shrugged. “I’ll have to take your word for it. We faxed the papers to our lawyers a couple of hours ago. I expect they’ll tell us where to go from here. I’m afraid you came all this way for nothing.”

  I remembered enough from my civil procedure and remedies courses to know that injunctions were not favored under the law. Judges didn’t like issuing them because it was hard to define with certainty what conduct was enjoined. That would be a problem here.

  There were First Amendment issues involved, too. Didn’t the USGA have the right, if not the duty, to disseminate information about the history of the game? Surely, I thought, it was important to set the record straight. My mind was spotting all kinds of issues, as if this were a question on a law school exam. Unfortunately, this wasn’t moot court; it was the real thing.

  The upcoming hearing would be crucial. The Gladstones would have the burden to prove to the court’s satisfaction that allowing the exhibition would result in the publication of false info
rmation that would harm them to such an extent that the damage would be irreparable. This was a fancy way of saying that a suit for money damages after the fact wouldn’t be sufficient to repair the harm that would supposedly be done by the exhibition.

  It came down to this: If the court believed the Gladstones, Stedman’s story would remain buried with him.

  26

  THE LAW OFFICES of Brewer, Czechowski & Newland occupied four floors of the Madison Tower in midtown Manhattan. While it wasn’t a particularly large firm by New York standards, its 100-plus lawyers dwarfed Butler & Yates.

  Brewer, Czechowski & Newland had been retained by the USGA to defend the suit brought by the Gladstones. After evaluating the pleadings, the lawyers decided that I was needed as a witness for the hearing. It was scheduled to begin on the following day, which also happened to be the first day of classes for the spring semester.

  I was meeting with Steve Wolbrette, who was one of the three lawyers who made up the litigation team for the USGA. Wolbrette appeared to be in his mid-forties. He was not from New York originally; that much I could tell from the way he spoke. I guessed he was from somewhere in the Midwest. He was about 5′ 8″ or so, built like a fireplug, and had the self-assured manner of an experienced trial lawyer who had seen enough combat to know exactly what to expect and how to prepare for it. And, of course, he wore the blue pinstriped suit that was the uniform of every tall-building lawyer.

  As Wolbrette showed me into his office, he said agreeably, “They tell me you’re a law student at Tulane. Good school. We’ve got a couple of lawyers from there.”

  I assumed this was his way of making me feel at ease. I also knew that we weren’t there for small talk. I just nodded.

  He took my silence as his cue to get down to business.

  “Charley, I want to be up front with you. The hearing tomorrow will probably decide whether this exhibition on Beau Stedman will ever see the light of day. The USGA is a nonprofit organization. It likes to spend its money promoting the game, not making lawyers rich.”

  I must have given Wolbrette a forlorn look, because he quickly forced a smile in an effort to ease my disappointment in what he was saying. “You remember the litigation with Karsten Solheim over the square grooves?”

  I did, and said, “That’s the case where the USGA grandfathered in square-grooved clubs.”

  “Right. We always felt we could have won that case, but it would have cost several million dollars to prove our point. Solheim knew it, too. His lawyers flooded us with discovery, and the Executive Committee voted to settle.”

  Wolbrette looked at me intently. “Brett Sullivan told me what this means to you. Means a lot to him, too. But I have to warn you: Based on past experience, if we don’t beat this restraining order at tomorrow’s hearing, Golf House is likely to fold on this one.”

  I understood what he was saying. It made sense that the USGA would prefer to spend its money on junior golf, turf-grass research, equipment testing, and minority recruitment instead of showing that some dead caddie had been denied his place among the legends of the game. Besides, getting involved in controversial litigation only jeopardized its fund-raising efforts.

  I understood it, but I didn’t like it. In fact, it kinda put me off. While turfgrass research and junior golf were certainly important, so was the USGA’s mission to protect the history of the game, I thought.

  Wolbrette must have sensed what I was feeling. “Look, I’m not saying that any decision has been made. I just want you to understand how important this hearing is.”

  I nodded. “I think I understand the issues. They have to satisfy the judge that they’re likely to win on the merits and that no other remedy but an injunction will protect their interests.”

  Wolbrette smiled. “You must have made a good grade in civil pro.”

  “What happens if we win tomorrow?”

  “We hope they quit. If the judge says they’re not likely to prevail on the merits, we don’t think they’ll want to throw good money after bad. After all, the same judge will decide the case on the merits. If she’s not impressed with her first look at their case, she’s not likely to change her mind later. You’ve gotta figure they’re gonna take their best shot tomorrow.”

  That made sense.

  Wolbrette continued to explain the practicality of our situation. “Besides, if they took it farther and lost the trial on the merits, it would prove you’re right once and for all to the entire world. I doubt they want that.”

  I sighed when he finished. “So it looks like neither side will take this past tomorrow.”

  Wolbrette nodded in agreement and opened his file as a signal that my preparation for the witness stand was about to begin in earnest.

  I could tell he had been through this drill many times before. He handed me a sheet of paper entitled “What to Expect When You Testify.” It explained that I would be under oath and obligated to tell the truth. In order to give accurate testimony, it admonished me that it was important to understand each question and to ask for clarification if I didn’t.

  Wolbrette pointed to the middle of the page. “This is an important point. If you don’t know the answer to a question, say so. It’s not a test; you don’t get points for guessing. Just because you’re asked something doesn’t mean you’re supposed to know the answer. You’ll get in trouble if you speculate.”

  I nodded to indicate that I understood.

  “Another thing: Just answer the question. Don’t worry about what else they may ask you or answer questions you think they should have asked. Leave that to us.” He smiled. “Try to remember: If they ask you the time, you don’t need to tell ’em how to make a watch.”

  I laughed at what must have been an old lawyers’ joke.

  “We want to keep your direct testimony short and sweet. It’ll cut down on their cross. The judge tomorrow is Sarah Bustafani. I don’t know her, but I hear she runs a pretty tight ship. We ought to get done in one day.”

  I was pleased to hear that. I didn’t need to miss any more school than necessary.

  I did have a question, though. “I’m curious; why’d they sue the USGA in its own backyard?”

  Wolbrette pursed his lips. “Good question. It ought to work to our benefit, but from what I hear Judge Bustafani doesn’t play golf, so I don’t know how much of a home court advantage we’ll have.”

  He held up a stack of photocopies. “I looked into the jurisdictional issue just out of curiosity. These are some of the lead cases. Best I can tell from reading them, we would have had enough to fight them if they had filed in South Carolina, but maybe not enough to win. I guess they didn’t want the delays; it would just add to the publicity.”

  Litigation strategy was new to me, so I was a little reluctant to offer any more observations, but I ventured the comment that it seemed to me that filing the lawsuit would cause just as much publicity as the exhibition.

  Wolbrette shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe so. They filed a motion for a protective order to have the proceedings placed under seal. We’re researching that issue now. We think the weight of public opinion will be on our side, so we’d like this to be out in the open.”

  Wolbrette and I spent the next couple of hours walking through my direct examination and covering what we expected the Gladstones’ lawyers to ask me on cross-examination. I left his office at mid-afternoon and agreed to meet him early the next morning at the county courthouse in Piscataway.

  27

  WHEN I ARRIVED at the courthouse, Brett Sullivan was waiting for me. After shaking my hand, he led me down a crowded hallway past an interesting cast of characters who were awaiting criminal arraignments. As we walked, he said, “Our courtroom is way on the other end of the building. I was afraid you’d have trouble finding it, so I thought I’d meet you out front.”

  We then passed the courtroom reserved for Family Court. The people waiting for that court to begin the day’s business looked no happier than the criminal defendants we had just pas
sed.

  We finally turned down another long hallway and passed beneath a sign that said, “Civil Court.” The scenery suddenly changed. The lawyers were dressed better, and so were their clients.

  We reached Courtroom D and immediately encountered a whole cadre of USGA staffers and Executive Committee members. Brett introduced me to a number of people whose names I recognized as some of the leading lights of the golf world. It kind of embarrassed me, to be honest, that they were all gathered together because of some notes I had found in old law files back in Atlanta.

  “Looks like I stirred up a whole lot of trouble, Brett. Sorry.”

  He smiled. “Think nothing of it. If you ask me, this is about the raison d’ être of the USGA. What you see is a show of support.”

  “Yeah, but what will happen to that support if we don’t win?”

  “Let’s play it one stroke at a time for now. We can worry about the rest later.”

  We found a place to sit in the front row directly behind Steve Wolbrette. As I sat down, I noticed the large seal of the State of New Jersey on the wall behind the bench. The mill-work throughout the courtroom was very impressive and lent a solemn air to the occasion. Some people might have regarded such trappings to be irrelevant, but I couldn’t help but feel that they encouraged a sense of decorum and civility that my law professors seemed to believe was fast disappearing from the American legal scene.

  At that moment, Judge Bustafani entered the courtroom. She was a fairly attractive woman I guessed to be in her early fifties. And her urgent bearing suggested that she was all business.

  In fact, her demeanor immediately reminded me all too much of some of my distaff classmates who wouldn’t lighten up during our entire first year of law school. People without a sense of humor often seemed to lack a sense of proportion as well. I didn’t know enough about Judge Bustafani to make those kinds of judgments about her just yet, but her serious mien and furrowed brow worried me.