by Webb Hubbell
“I don’t think so,” I said, a little too suddenly.
She looked away, suddenly interested in what was going on with the other diners. I knew she was trying not to lose her composure. How to deal with this? I didn’t want to screw it up. I took her hand, “Beth, look at me. You and I have gone through a lot, and we’ve always been able to talk. I’m sure Jeff is great, but are you sure. You are awful young?”
“Oh, Daddy, don’t get all intense on me.”
She smiled and came around the table to wrap her arms around me.
“It’s not like Jeff and I are even thinking about marriage. I think he’s great, but we’re not there yet.” She sighed good-naturedly as she walked back to her chair. Smiling at me as though she were the parent and I were the child, she said, “But I do want you to get to know him.”
I tried to feel convinced and cleared my throat. “Well, all right. But you didn’t tell me you were going to Charleston.”
To which Beth responded coolly, “There are a lot of things I don’t tell you.”
3
AFTER DINNER, I stretched out on the sofa in our room to watch the gruesome scene on CNN again, as if I didn’t know what to expect. One part of my brain tried to register what my eyes had seen, another simply refused. The gun went off, Russell went down, people panicked and ran, but Woody stood frozen, a shocked expression on his face. Woody had just turned the gun to his own head, when a state trooper grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground. I heard the expected screams, followed by an eerie silence as Woody lay beside Russell, police guns trained on him from all sides. The rotunda appeared otherwise empty except for the bank of microphones where Russell had stood moments earlier. The commentators were at a loss. Why on earth had Philip “Woody” Cole shot his long-time friend and boss?
Images of Russell as a star quarterback, as a successful governor, and as a new senator flashed on the TV screen. To the day of his death, Russell had maintained his rugged good looks and still walked and acted with that air of self-confidence unique to quarterbacks. A little over six feet tall, he wore his blond wavy hair longer than most politicians. He had an outdoorsy tan that might have been sprayed on but wasn’t.
My problem came when he opened his mouth. Through perfect, professionally whitened teeth, his voice oozed charm. You were his best friend at first sight, and he gave everyone a nickname, even if you didn’t want one. In college, Sam Pagano had been “Sam, my man.” He referred to me as “Beanpole.” We were lucky. Too many of his nicknames were cruel. Yeah, he threw a beautiful pass and commanded respect on the football field, but he never lost his arrogance.
The press also managed to produce images of Woody. These were less flattering than photos from years past. We saw Woody in handcuffs and leg irons as he was escorted out of the capitol. He looked pale, crumpled, and dirty. The media loves negative imagery and ran the degrading pictures endlessly. They push guilt because it sells. Not one image of Woody evoked sympathy. Woody had murdered Arkansas’s newest senator; therefore, he must be a monster and had to look like one.
The network switched to the scene at the Coles’ house. Satellite trucks were parked up and down the street, beaming sensationalism to the world. Family and friends left the house, only to be swarmed by a pack of reporters and cameramen. Looking distressed and overwhelmed, they mumbled, “Please, leave her alone,” or something inane like, “The family is doing well under the circumstances.” How does one “do well” when your only son has just shot a US senator in front of a national audience? Yet the press seemed indignant that no one had come forward to speak officially for the family—as if every family had a designated spokesperson in case murder or some other gruesome tragedy should befall the clan.
Clive A. Barnes, Pulaski County sheriff, was having his day in the sun. He held a press conference to say that Woody was being held in isolation, under tight security. I’d have bet my bottom dollar that there’d soon be a leak that Woody was under a suicide watch. The leak of potential suicide is an old law-enforcement deception meant to imply the prisoner is guilty and beginning to show remorse.
The sheriff also said that Woody would be held without bail until Monday’s arraignment and allowed to speak only with his lawyer. This statement piqued my interest. Maybe my trip would simply entail visiting his mom and meeting with the lawyer to offer financial help.
Beth emerged from the bathroom, and I sat up on the sofa, giving her room to sit with me. I leaned forward when a reporter asked, “Sheriff, who’s representing Mr. Cole?”
He reached into his back pocket, unfolded a sheet of paper, and addressed the microphones. “I’ve been in contact with the accused’s mother, Helen Cole. I’m told her son’s lawyer, a Jack Patterson from Washington, DC, will be here tomorrow.”
I jumped up from the sofa and yelled, “What?” Stunned, I looked at Beth and said, “I’m not defending Woody. I’m not a criminal lawyer. We’re going to see Mrs. Cole and find out how we can help, but defending a murder case is not part of the equation.”
“Mrs. Cole seems to think you are. What are you going to tell her?”
At that point, I had no earthly idea.
Beth’s iPhone started beeping. She picked it up off the end table and said, “Dad—oh my God! I’m already getting texts. It must be all over the Internet!”
It would be pointless to call anyone to deny I was Woody’s lawyer. I did manage to reach Rose, and asked her to let our law firm’s managing partner know I’d call him sometime tomorrow. I also gave her a terse statement to offer to the press in case they got through to her tonight. “Mr. Patterson is an old family friend. He is traveling to Little Rock to be with the family. He has not been engaged as counsel.”
It was tempting to stay up half the night watching the coverage. I found it addictive, like the news after a hurricane or tsunami. You try to do something else, but your eyes keep returning to the television, horrified by the tragedy, relieved it isn’t your kith or kin. … Only this time, it was.
When I turned off the TV, I realized that my cell phone was flashing insistently. I turned it off too. Better to deal with it all in the morning.
I put my arm around Beth’s shoulder. “Good night, honey. I’m sorry our weekend got messed up. I love you.”
“Stop apologizing. I love you too.”
FRIDAY
4
BETH AND I settled into our seats on the ten thirty a.m. flight out of Charlotte, first class, thanks to miles. She was soon happily buried in the latest People magazine. As the rest of the passengers filed past, I called the office. Rose, as expected, was having a tough day. The phones were ringing like crazy, the press was clamoring outside the office, and, of all days, the techs were upgrading the computer system, so her computer kept “talking” to her. Ron Williamson, our firm’s managing partner, had been stopping by her desk every ten minutes to see if I’d called.
Rose gave a heavy sigh and said, “Thank God for Maggie. She’s been in your office helping me field press calls.”
“Thanks for handling all this, Rose. Don’t forget to give my statement to the reporter from the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. We’re about to take off, but can you put Maggie on real quick?”
I asked Maggie to call Sheriff Barnes’s office to see when I could meet with Woody. “If they have to call you back, have them leave a message with Mrs. Cole. We’ll get to her house as soon as we can. And try to get me a room at the Armitage Hotel.”
When I lived in Little Rock, the hotel had been a house of ill repute, but Woody had told me a while back that it had been totally renovated and was now the best hotel in town.
Maggie said, “Will do, and good luck. Call us when you change planes in Atlanta, and we’ll update you. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Ron you’re already in the air.”
Rose was right—Maggie Baxter really was a godsend. She had originally come to Washington with her husband, a British diplomat. She’d decided to stay after he was caught soliciting a male prostitute in DuPont Circ
le and was recalled to London. Maggie had taken a part-time receptionist job at Banks and Tuohey at about the same time I was preparing for my first big antitrust trial. We were short on staff, and Maggie had offered to help nights and weekends to earn extra money. By the end of the trial, she was indispensable. For one thing, she could practically read my mind. As I was cross-examining a witness, she’d hand me the necessary documents before I knew I needed them. After that trial had ended in a particularly successful outcome, meaning that our client could continue engaging in its anticompetitive behavior, I went to the firm’s executive committee and suggested that Maggie become a paralegal assigned to my caseload. The committee was happy to agree, since they could bill out her time at obscene rates, more than triple her salary.
Since then, we’ve become a team, working together on every antitrust matter I’ve handled. She’s also a genius with the press for whom any unreturned call is an insult that can generate a damaging story. A polite callback from Maggie with her lovely British accent tends to soothe even the prickliest reporter. And many times, in the course of returning such a call, Maggie has managed to ferret out useful information.
Many antitrust attorneys use a whole battery of lawyers when trying a major case. With Maggie, only the two of us appear in the courtroom. The visuals are great—Maggie and I on one side and a whole team of lawyers on the other. Our clients learned to appreciate Maggie as much as I did. I always introduced her simply as Maggie Baxter, without the title of paralegal or assistant. Many clients, judges, and opposing lawyers assumed she was an attorney—and I didn’t tell them otherwise.
Maggie embodies everything you’d expect in a proper Englishwoman. She is a striking five feet ten inches, with thick auburn hair ending in a blunt line at her shoulders. She protects her fair English complexion religiously—I’ve never seen her outside without a hat. Comfortable with her height, she has perfect posture. She does walk with a slight limp, the result of a broken ankle when she was thrown from a horse as a child.
She and Angie had been good friends. They spent Saturday mornings at the farmers’ markets, exploring antique shops, and making frequent jokes at my expense, which was okay by me. Maggie had known about Angie’s cancer before I did, and without her strength, I don’t know how Beth and I would have made it through those last grueling months. She is the one person I can talk to about Angie—about how badly I miss her and our life together. To a large extent, Maggie keeps me sane.
As the plane rose, I leaned back, haunted by images of Woody shooting Russell and of Woody lying next to him on the floor of the rotunda. What could have brought them to such an end? Woody abhorred violence, and I was sure he’d never owned a gun. My list of questions was a mile long. I went over each one until they had the effect of sheep jumping over a fence, and I fell asleep.
At some point during the flight, I jerked awake in a sweat, trying to shake off a nightmare about returning to Little Rock and facing angry mobs. They were screaming and yelling at me to go home. Angie and her parents were in the front row. I had no desire to go back to sleep, so I pulled out the Charlotte Observer and the New York Times that I’d picked up in the airport. A photo of Russell and Woody lying side by side dominated the front pages. Both papers described Russell as a progressive, charismatic leader who would have been a force to be reckoned with on the national scene. More troubling were the descriptions of Woody as “a minor aide and hanger-on.”
The Times ran a sidebar about me:
Jack Patterson is a respected DC antitrust lawyer, but is not known to practice criminal law. According to his office, he’s traveling on a personal matter. Mr. Patterson is best known for successfully defending Arcade Oil when it was charged by the Department of Justice with price-fixing and other anticompetitive practices. He worked at the Justice Department’s Antitrust Division before joining the firm of Banks and Tuohey.
Well, that much was true at least.
Beth looked up from her magazine, only to cringe at the image of Russell and Woody. “Anything new? What’s going to happen to
Woody?”
Mulling it over, I gave her the only answer I could. “I don’t know. It looks like he lost it. If the court finds him insane, he’s likely to spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital. If not, he’ll either plead guilty or be tried for murder. The case will be politically charged, and the prosecutor might even ask for the death penalty. It could stretch on for years with appeals. Ironically, my friend Sam Pagano is now the prosecuting attorney. He was Little Rock’s public defender but was elected prosecuting attorney not long after you went off to college. He and Woody had a falling out a few years ago, but their friendship has a long history. Since the crime occurred in Pulaski County, it would normally be Sam’s to prosecute.”
“He can’t try the case himself, can he? I mean, if he and Woody know each other?”
“Prosecutors don’t typically try their friends for murder, no. Sam will recuse. Still, I need to make a mental note to call him. If he’s going to be on the sidelines, maybe he can help me figure out what happened and how I can help.”
We had a little time to kill in Atlanta, so I checked in with Maggie and Rose, as promised, then bit the bullet and called Ron Williamson. Ron is in his mid-fifties, very short, very focused, and wound tighter than a drum. He’s the managing partner because clients love his tenacity and willingness to do anything the client wants. I don’t think much of his style or his tactics, but Ron has made the firm plenty profitable. He knows that my antitrust skills and reputation attract corporate clients, so he generally leaves me alone, and I do the same.
Ron was blunt. “Tell me you’re not representing Woody Cole. Tell me you’re going anywhere but Arkansas. Tell me you haven’t lost your damn mind.”
“Look, I am going to Little Rock, but not to represent Woody. I’m going for one reason and one reason only—to help Woody’s mother. Don’t worry, Ron. I’ll be back on Tuesday, ready to protect the inalienable rights of our clients to price-gouge and monopolize.”
“Good man. Now what in the hell do we do about those hacks asking the firm to comment?”
“Rose and Maggie are dealing with them. Relax, Ron—this is a temporary storm. And hey, think of the publicity.”
Ron grumbled but sounded calmer. “Speaking of publicity, Jerry Prince called last night. Called me, I mean. Not you. He wanted to make sure you weren’t going to represent this murderer. You need to deal with whatever he’s worried about. We damn sure can’t afford to piss him off.”
“He called me, too—said he had something to discuss. I’ll return the call as soon as you and I are through.”
With that, Ron happily let me off the phone, and I immediately called Jerry.
Gerald “Jerry” Prince is the general counsel at Arcade Oil, the firm’s biggest client. His message to me said that he had an important matter to discuss. I wondered if it had to do with Woody or if something new had come up. Whatever the issue, Ron was right about one thing: it doesn’t pay to ignore your best client’s calls.
“Jack, where in the hell are you?” I recognized Jerry’s voice, but he sounded different somehow. I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I explained what had happened and assured him that I was only visiting Little Rock in order to help Mrs. Cole arrange her son’s defense. I asked what I could do for him, but Jerry was oddly vague and said it could wait until I returned to DC.
“Jack, I have to question your judgment on this Cole matter. You have no business going down there. It doesn’t look good. It’s a mistake.” His tone was flat, almost unfriendly.
He needed repeated assurances that I wasn’t going to represent Woody. He finally seemed to believe me, and we agreed to meet at my office late Tuesday afternoon.
“Look,” he said before signing off, “if you get stuck in Little Rock, I’ll send the corporate jet. It’s important I get you back … the sooner the better.”
It sounded like Arcade Oil was in serious trouble. I put away my
phone and sighed. First Woody, now Arcade. I sent Beth to buy some Tylenol.
5
THE NEXT FLIGHT was smooth, and I woke from another strange dream to discover that it was already four thirty and we were landing. While Beth went to get the rental car, I called Maggie.
“Jack, things are heating up. I’m getting more calls, more questions. Reporters want to know how you know the murderer, and the partners want you to do some damage control and condemn Woody publicly. I also have a long list of attorneys offering their services.”
That was to be expected. In the days of twenty-four-hour news coverage, lawyers clamor to represent high-profile criminal defendants. Lawyers who really know how to handle a prime-time murder trial are scarce, but plenty vie for the chance to get the TV exposure.
I rubbed the bridge of my nose and sighed. “First thing, we need to find a good criminal-defense attorney, someone within reasonable distance of Little Rock. Put in a call to Gloria at the NACDL.”
“Wait, Jack, I’m not familiar with the NACDL.”
“Sorry, Maggie. We don’t usually have much need for the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers, do we? The executive director is Gloria Parra; she should be able to give us a good list.”
“Thanks. I’ll get with Rose, and we’ll take care of this. I’ve made the reservations at the Armitage. I’ll be there tomorrow. Funny thing, Jack, they said they were expecting my call.”
“What? Wait—you don’t need to come. I’m only here for a couple of days.”
“Jack, despite your denials, the world thinks you’re defending Woody Cole. The press is descending on Little Rock, and you’ll be their focal point until he gets a lawyer. Like it or not, you’re going to need my help. Anyway, it’s not a problem. Walter’s flying me down in the Citation.”