The Greatest Player Who Never Lived Page 16

  In a stage whisper, I said to our slightly crestfallen lawyer, “Katharine Leigh is one of the plaintiffs. Statements by adverse parties are not even defined as hearsay under the rules.”

  Wolbrette gave me a tired smile. “I know that, Charley.”

  I still failed to appreciate the futility of our situation. “Well, isn’t that reversible error?”

  Wolbrette said with a noticeable effort to be patient, “If the court of appeal doesn’t dismiss it as harmless error. Anyway, it doesn’t matter if we don’t appeal, does it?”

  “So where do we go from here?”

  Wolbrette shook his head. “Without someone identifying that handwriting as Harold Gladstone’s, we go down.”

  My heart sank. I hadn’t ever considered that the Gladstone family might not be eager to let the world know that their father killed their mother—even though it meant clearing an innocent man.

  But, of course, to their way of thinking, this supposedly innocent man was dead. Why should they want to wash their dirty linen before the world when it wouldn’t help a single living soul? It was an easy way to rationalize their position.

  I found it hard to believe it could end this way, but at that moment I felt I should have seen it coming.

  The sound of Judge Bustafani reentering the courtroom signaled that we were to return to our seats. The judge climbed onto the bench, seated herself ceremoniously, and looked at the USGA’s beleaguered lawyer without a hint of pity.

  “Mr. Wolbrette, call your next witness.”

  He looked down at his note pad, as if searching for some inspired tactical maneuver that would overcome the undeserved obstacles the judge had thrown at his feet with her decisive but clearly erroneous rulings on the evidence. Just when Judge Bustafani appeared to be out of patience, he looked up and said in a resigned voice, “Your Honor, we rest.”

  Sanders was on his feet in an instant. “Judge, there is no evidence that the USGA’s claims have any validity. This so-called ‘confession’ has not been connected to Harold Gladstone—or anyone else, for that matter. For all we know, it’s a product of the overactive imagination of a young man with his own agenda.”

  That last comment made me almost come out of my chair. I must have made a noise, because Wolbrette turned and frowned at me.

  Judge Bustafani raised her hand to cut Sanders off. “I tend to agree with you, Mr. Sanders. Without some evidence to prove that Mr. Wolbrette’s note was written by Mr. Gladstone, there is nothing to support the statements the USGA intends to publish as part of its exhibition that Mr. Gladstone, not this other fellow, killed his wife.”

  She turned to Steve Wolbrette. “I don’t like to issue preliminary injunctions. They’re a headache to enforce. But Mr. Wolbrette, unless you can give me something more, the plaintiffs have made out a prima facie case for relief.”

  Wolbrette rose slowly, clearly searching for something to say. In an instant, I knew it was all coming to an end.

  “Your Honor, we have no additional evidence. On such short notice, …”

  “That’s why it’s called a preliminary injunction, Mr. Wolbrette. It is not a permanent injunction. We’ll have a trial on the merits after you have conducted full discovery. If you think Mrs. Leigh’s testimony is important to your case, you can locate her and take her deposition before the trial.” She looked over at Sanders and arched an eyebrow. “Mr. Sanders, can we assume you will produce your missing client for a deposition?”

  Sanders had no choice but to agree.

  The judge’s remarks made it clear that she considered her ruling to be temporary in nature. I then understood that she wasn’t cutting Wolbrette any slack because she believed he had another bite at the apple. Under ordinary circumstances, she would be right.

  But these were no ordinary circumstances, and Wolbrette couldn’t tell her there wasn’t going to be a trial. He took one last shot.

  “Your Honor, injunctive relief is extraordinary. The plaintiffs have a damage remedy if they are truly harmed. We do not believe they are entitled to suppress this information through an injunction.”

  Bustafani seemed to appreciate his effort. “If we were dealing with a public figure, I might agree. But Harold Gladstone was not a public figure, and neither is his family. There is no overriding public interest in the publication of this information, especially if it is not true.”

  She tapped at some notes in front of her with her pencil. “According to the recent case of Stanford v. Catalonia, which the plaintiffs cited in their brief, I’m compelled to grant the injunction unless someone can testify that your note was written by Harold Gladstone. So ordered.”

  No sooner had she finished than a timid but familiar voice was heard from the rear of the courtroom.

  “I can identify the handwriting on that note.”

  I spun around and saw Katharine Leigh.

  29

  WE HADN’T SEEN her enter the courtroom. Apparently, even the threat of alienation from her own family couldn’t override Katharine Leigh’s conscience.

  Over Walter Sanders’s protests, Judge Bustafani reopened the evidence and allowed Mrs. Leigh to testify. She identified her father’s handwriting under the glares of her brothers. Clutching a handkerchief and obviously fighting back tears, Mrs. Leigh then described how she learned about the document and confirmed the circumstances under which she had given it to me.

  Wolbrette kept his questions simple and asked them slowly. At one point, he poured a glass of water for her. He kept his examination as brief as possible and resisted the temptation to ask why she hadn’t appeared earlier.

  For the first time all day, Sanders was thrown off balance. He stumbled through a short and ineffective cross-examination, which was necessarily awkward because the witness was technically one of his own clients. Her testimony was antagonistic to her brothers, placing Sanders squarely in a conflict of interest. Had he been thinking better, he might have persuaded the judge to recess the hearing to allow him to withdraw and have the brothers and their sister retain separate counsel. None of that occurred to him, however, as he mumbled a final “No further questions” and sat down.

  As decisive as she had been in her earlier ruling, Judge Bustafani was equally direct in reversing herself. “There is positive testimony from one of the plaintiffs that the note in question was written by her father. She did not hesitate to identify his handwriting. This is an admission against interest that is entitled to great weight. Accordingly, I find that the plaintiffs have failed to sustain their burden to show that they are likely to prevail on the merits. The restraining order is dissolved, and the preliminary injunction is denied.”

  With that, the judge banged her gavel to indicate that court was adjourned. Brett Sullivan had me in a bear hug before I knew it, and Steve Wolbrette and I began receiving congratulations from a number of USGA staffers and Executive Committee members.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Gladstone brothers staring hard at their sister, who was nervously gathering her things as she prepared to leave. I rushed over to her, fearing that she might be defenseless if they chose to confront her.

  “Mrs. Leigh, you sure have an incredible sense of timing.”

  She managed a brave smile, but I could see that she was in a great deal of pain over the whole ordeal. “I guess I knew all along that it was the right thing to do, but it wasn’t easy.” Her eyes became watery. “I don’t know if my brothers will ever speak to me again.”

  I gave her an awkward hug and said, “Maybe not, but I bet the Reverend Leigh is very proud of you right now.”

  She smiled again. “Thank you. I know you’re right, but I guess I needed to hear someone say it.”

  She then asked me about Stedman’s exhibition. I was pleased by her interest and introduced her to Brett Sullivan. She quizzed him about the exhibits as well and asked when he thought the displays might be open to the public. Before Mrs. Leigh left, Brett promised to send her pictures of the exhibition that she had now made po
ssible, and I vowed to call her with a personal report on how it went.

  Back at Golf House, Sullivan said to me, “I guess I can finally show you what we have worked up.”

  He took me down a long hallway to the new wing. We went back into a shop that looked to be a combination print shop and computer graphics operation. All of the exhibits had been placed at one end of the room.

  There was more than I expected. The artwork was beautiful, and everything was presented well. It was a funny feeling to see my summer reading material from that dingy conference room brought to life so effectively.

  I told Sullivan how impressed I was. He seemed genuinely pleased. “This was a real challenge for us. Whenever we’ve honored other great players, like Hogan or Nelson, we had all kinds of background reference material. But the whole reason for this exhibit is to create a reference source on this guy.”

  Sullivan pointed to a series of large posters entitled “The Beau Stedman Story.” As he explained, “Instead of laying out old newspaper and magazine articles or books or pictures, we took your report and put it in a story format for everyone to read.”

  If Brett Sullivan wanted my imprimatur, he got it on the spot.

  We spent the rest of the afternoon discussing the schedule for the exhibition. Sullivan wanted it to open in April, to coincide with the start of the golf season. He also wanted me to be there, and even suggested that the media might want to interview me about my part in bringing this to light.

  I told him that April would be a critical time, right before finals, and that I doubted that I could make it then. He seemed disappointed—so much so, in fact, that he ultimately decided to move the opening back until the third week of May, after I had the last of my final examinations.

  I was then given a tour of Golf House and visited with David Fay, the Executive Director, and Frank Thomas, the Technical Director who tests clubs and balls to make certain they conform with the rules. Thomas is supposedly the only person in the world who knows which ball is really longest. Try as I might, I couldn’t get him to tell me which one it was. In fact, he wouldn’t even answer when I just asked him which ball he played.

  I was scheduled to fly out the next day. Sullivan invited me to dinner that evening. We went to a place called the Princeton Tavern, a colonial style restaurant where the food and atmosphere were both good.

  I became more and more excited about the exhibition as Sullivan explained that they would run stories in the USGA’s Golf Journal over the next couple of months about it. There would also be numerous press releases for consumption by the national media. In Sullivan’s words, “The word is about to get out about Beau Stedman.”

  It’s about time, I thought.

  30

  MY SECOND YEAR of law school was pretty much a blur. Both semesters were filled with important courses that demanded a lot of time and attention. As a result, I had little time even to stop and take notice of how quickly the year was moving. Nonetheless, I continued to do well, even in the spring semester when I was fighting the distraction of the approaching exhibition at Golf House.

  For some reason that has never been very clear to me, the only grade given for each course in law school is the grade on the final examination. No other tests are given, and no credit is awarded for class participation. For this reason, law school finals are a nerve-racking experience.

  When it was all said and done, however, I had maintained my class ranking, and the best thing I could say about my second year of law school was that it was over (and that my relationship with my girlfriend Nicole had somehow survived). I had taken some very difficult courses in both semesters, and I figured there was no way my final year of law school could be nearly as tough.

  My last exam was over just five days before the opening of the USGA exhibition on Beau Stedman. I planned to fly to New Jersey for the opening of the exhibition and then home to Birmingham for a week before starting my second summer at Butler & Yates.

  As expected, law firm recruiting had intensified during my second year. I had a number of opportunities to spend my summer working at large law firms in New York or California, but the folks at Butler & Yates had been very good to me, and I was comfortable going back there.

  Besides, Fred Nathan and I had stayed in touch during the year, and I had grown to like him more and more. He had undergone laser surgery on his eyes and was no longer in need of his thick glasses. He bragged to me that it had really elevated his golf game. He said that the thick lenses had distorted things and that he saw everything better now.

  Nathan even claimed that he was now a master on the greens because he could read putts so much better. In fact, he let me know that he had recently broken 80 for the first time and was anxious to renew our golf rivalry as soon as I got settled in for my second summer.

  Nathan was also impressed to learn about the USGA exhibition and even talked about going to the opening. Unfortunately, an IPO was due out the week after, which meant that he wouldn’t have time to sleep that week, much less take a short vacation to Far Hills.

  I arrived at Golf House the day before the exhibition was to open. Brett Sullivan gave me a sneak preview. They had done even more work and, even after having seen the layout before, the exhibits exceeded my expectations.

  There was a section setting forth the story of Beau Stedman. Another exhibit showed a chronological record of his matches against everyone from Jones to Palmer. And then, of course, there was an exhibit with enlargements of Jones’s notes of Stedman’s scores at the “Invitational.”

  The exhibit attempted to explain the mystery surrounding the scores. It turned out that this was the exhibit that most intrigued the USGA staff. There had been a rather animated debate among several of the amateur historians on the staff about what the scores really meant. Although there were several interesting theories, there simply wasn’t enough evidence to support one or the other.

  Through computer imaging, the old faded newspaper photographs of Stedman had been enhanced. In particular, the one with him standing next to Byron Nelson, Jimmy Demaret, and Jackie Burke at Walden in Texas came out well.

  Of course, the most powerful part of the exhibition consisted of the displays showing how the false murder accusation in 1930 drove Beau Stedman underground and deprived him of ever achieving his real potential in the golf world. There was a faded copy, enlarged for display, of the original life insurance policy Harold Gladstone had taken out on his wife, as well as the deed acquiring the Ocean Breakers property. And then there was the original note by Harold Gladstone admitting to the murder and proving Stedman’s innocence. The cooperation of Mrs. Katharine Gladstone Leigh in bringing this to light and clearing Stedman’s name was also conspicuously acknowledged.

  Brett Sullivan had told me to bring my clubs when I last talked with him about my travel plans. When we finished my preview tour of the exhibit, he topped it off with a special treat: Golf at nearby Baltusrol Golf Club.

  Baltusrol is one of the classic golf courses in the East. It has hosted a total of seven U.S. Opens, the earliest in 1903 and the most recent in 1993, won by Lee Janzen. It was also the site of Jack Nicklaus’s fourth Open championship in 1980.

  We had a perfect afternoon for golf, and Sullivan brought along two other USGA staffers to complete our foursome. We were playing the Lower Course, which was the course used for the Open. I was a little intimidated at first; not only was the course imposing, but most of the USGA staff plays to low single-digit handicaps. Sullivan said his index at the moment was 2.3; the others were under 5. After my experience at Augusta, I could no longer claim to be a 10 with a straight face. I told them I played to a 7.

  We agreed to a small wager. Brett and I took on the two staffers, who worked in Championship Administration. From the looks of things, all three of my playing companions had managed to find time to work on their games. My partner knew the course well and told me how to avoid trouble. He was particularly helpful in reading the greens. We made a good team, but not qui
te good enough. When the smoke cleared a little over three hours later, I had lost $10 despite shooting 79.

  It was late afternoon by the time we were done. Sullivan had reserved a table for dinner in the club’s dining room. After a shower and change of clothes, I was hungry. My friend recommended the prime rib and a Merlot.

  I don’t know if it was the excitement of the day, the heavy beef, or the cigars and cognac that we indulged ourselves with after dinner, but I didn’t sleep well that night. In fact, I tossed and turned so much that by morning my bed linen looked that it had come straight off the spin cycle of a washing machine. To make matters worse, I had a nightmare, familiar to law students, that I had slept through a final exam and flunked out of law school.

  I had been through this before. It happened after every exam period, starting with my first year of law school. Sometimes I slept through an exam; other times I couldn’t find the classroom until the test was over.

  Several of my classmates reported the same dreams. So did Cheatwood. He called it the law student’s version of battle fatigue.

  When we talked about it one day, he told me that the law student’s nightmare ranked second only to what he now called the “Van de Velde” nightmare, after the poor Frenchman who—when leading by three strokes—made triple bogey on the last hole of the British Open to lose the championship in a playoff.

  I told him I had no way of knowing how that felt.

  He grinned at me. “Anyone who’s ever won a golf tournament does, though. Especially the first time. It doesn’t matter whether it’s the British Open or the Member-Guest. I remember my first win in college. Coming down 18, I was convinced that the gods of golf were gonna return any minute from a long coffee break, discover that a horrible mistake was being made, and make me play the last hole in Pee Wee Herman’s body.”

  I tried to conjure up that image, but thankfully couldn’t.

  At any rate, my sleepless night made it awfully difficult to get out of bed the following morning. I felt exhausted, and two cups of coffee did nothing to shake the cobwebs that rendered me barely conscious.