When Men Betray

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When Men Betray Page 5

by Webb Hubbell


  I finished the wine in my glass and poured myself another, hoping it would help me lose an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

  Most of the final messages were from self-proclaimed experts offering their forensic, psychiatric, and legal services. Both the prosecution and defense employ experts during major trials, and the media hire them by the dozen to enhance or validate their reports. These guys all make a bundle, but sometimes they trip over their own expertise. I once had a jury in stitches when an economic expert, testifying for the opposing party at $450 per hour, couldn’t explain a video of himself offering exactly the opposite opinion on a news magazine show earlier in the month. His client was not laughing.

  One message surprised me—a call from Lucille Robinson’s personal assistant. Lucy Robinson, the late senator’s wife, had been a friend of Angie’s in college, and they’d stayed in touch after we’d moved to DC. We didn’t socialize, and the last time I’d heard from Lucy was shortly after Angie had died. She’d written me a very warm and thoughtful note. Her assistant’s message was curt: First Lady Robinson would like to see you as soon as possible.

  I had no idea what she wanted, but that was one call I’d have to return … and I wasn’t looking forward to it.

  Suddenly, I realized Beth was in the room, sitting on the sofa with a book on her lap and watching me. “Beth—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”

  “It’s okay, Dad. It kind of feels like old times on Sunday night. Remember?”

  Of course I remembered. Both Angie and I tried to leave our work at work as much as possible. Angie had her MD, but didn’t practice. She worked in research at the National Institutes of Health. My briefcase stayed in the hall closet until after dinner on Sunday, when I used the evening to organize my upcoming week. Angie and Beth usually joined me—Angie poring over medical journals, Beth doing homework or reading a book. It was a good way to end one week and begin the next, peaceful and unhurried. Angie had spent much of her time in bed toward the end, but on Sunday evenings, I carried her down so we could continue our routine. With Angie gone and Beth at college, the ritual no longer brings the same sense of renewal, but I still bring out my laptop on Sunday nights.

  “Give me just a few more minutes, honey, I’m almost through here.”

  Another message in the stack made me gasp: Watch for me on the Sunday talk shows. I’m glad to know Woody’s in good hands. Give him my love. Cheryl.

  Cheryl Cole, Woody’s former wife. I couldn’t believe she’d want anyone to make the connection. But now she was going to do the round of Sunday talk shows? Surely she had better sense.

  The final few notes were from opposing counsel in various cases I was working on, offering to reschedule depositions or meetings. Lawyers love to postpone; it allows them to juggle more balls and continue to bill the client. They come off looking generous while explaining to the client that the delay wasn’t their fault. I’d give these to Maggie.

  I moved to a soft, comfortable chair close to the sofa where Beth was curled up reading. Angie used to read the same way—Beth was so much like her mother.

  “I’m a little tired. How about you?” I asked, letting out a deep breath.

  “How could I be tired? I mean, I’m frightened for Woody, but all of this is … kind of riveting. I am a lawyer’s daughter, you know. All your other cases seemed dull as nails, but this is a murder case. Do you have any idea why he did it? I mean, I know he did it—did he just lose it?”

  “I know that something at work was bothering Woody. It seemed to have come up recently, but Helen thought he’d resolved the problem. He showed some symptoms of depression, but any defense would need to establish much more than that to prove insanity. You remember the Andrea Yates case, don’t you? She was the woman from Texas who drowned her five children in a bathtub. Despite all the psychiatric testimony, the jury found her guilty. Woody’s lawyers are going to have a tough time.”

  “Why aren’t you going to be Woody’s lawyer? If I were Woody, I’d want you.”

  “I want to help Woody and Helen in any way I can, but I’m not a criminal lawyer. I’m not qualified to defend a murder case. Besides, I’m too close. It isn’t unethical to represent family, but it’s usually not a good idea. And Woody and Helen are family. Except for an occasional difference of opinion, usually about nothing important, the ‘Gang of Four’ has been friends for years. I can’t explain why I feel especially close to Woody. Maybe it’s because he’s always seemed sort of vulnerable, especially after the divorce. And when your mom got sick, we practically had to beat him away with a stick, remember? I think he took her death almost as hard as I did.”

  “How could I forget? I know you were all close, but, I don’t know, it seemed like a lot, even then.”

  “Yeah, but friends like Woody, Sam, and Marshall are hard to come by. We went through a lot together.”

  “I still don’t get why we never visited them. They were always welcome at our house—why didn’t we ever go see them in Arkansas?”

  “It’s complicated, Beth,” I said, draining my wine.

  “Right.” She rolled her eyes. “You know, Helen said something weird to me tonight.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said, ‘Your dad doesn’t know it yet, but I think Woody knew he’d come. Only your dad will know what to do with what he finds.’ A little cryptic, no?”

  SATURDAY

  9

  I FOUGHT WITH my pillow all night, plagued by bizarre dreams. Naturally, the wake up call came about the time I started to get some real sleep. I didn’t hear Beth stirring, so I showered and headed to the hotel restaurant for breakfast and my first look at the morning papers.

  Brenda Warner stood in the door of the restaurant, ready for the day in a well-cut suit and pearls. Pearls must be a southern thing, since I seldom saw them in DC anymore. I smiled at her and said, “You’re up early.” I liked the way she had pulled her hair straight back into a low ponytail, emphasizing her striking face.

  “Hazard of the job,” she said, returning the smile, and led me to a booth against the far wall. She handed me a menu and told me that the hostess had called in sick. “I’ll be right back.”

  The restaurant was very nice—too nice, really. I like breakfast best in a small dive, where kitchen aromas permeate the room, the coffee is hot, the country sausage is freshly ground, and the biscuits are so rich they don’t need butter.

  Ms. Warner returned with the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette and, to my surprise, the New York Times. She motioned for a waiter and then went back to her temporary post at the door. The waiter brought me coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice, and I ordered a real southern breakfast of eggs, hash browns, and sausage. Grits swimming in butter don’t have to be mentioned—they’re a given.

  The front page of the Democrat was devoted entirely to the late senator and the funeral service. As Ms. Warner had told me, the vice president planned to attend, along with the state’s congressional delegation, political leaders, governors from surrounding states, aspiring presidential candidates, and assorted movie stars. There was nothing on the front page about Woody, but as I turned to page two, I almost dropped my coffee.

  COLE’S LAWYER ARRIVES

  Jackson “Jack” Fenimore Patterson arrived in Little Rock yesterday, checking into the Armitage Hotel and meeting with Helen Cole, the mother of accused murderer Philip “Woody” Cole, at her home.

  The article went on to describe my two encounters with the press, as well as my history in Little Rock, focusing on the fact that I’d played baseball for Stafford State until an injury ended my pitching career. At the end of the article, the Democrat did mention that I’d denied I was Woody’s lawyer, but went on to quote a “knowledgeable legal source” that it was merely a matter of time before I announced my representation.

  One glowing editorial eulogized Senator Robinson and was, followed by another that called for a complete investigation of Russell’s murder. It stated gravely that it was i
mperative to determine whether Russell’s murder was the work of a “lone assassin” or a conspiracy of terrorists. I halfway expected it to say, Or some demented group of fanatics who didn’t cotton to politicians in general.

  I was sickened to see Woody already labeled an assassin and hypothetically linked to the kinds of groups that he’d fought against all his life. Woody was the one who had moved Russell from a conservative Democrat to a practical progressive. Woody’s personal politics were much further left than those of his protégé.

  The New York Times editorial began with, “The Country Is Watching.” The message was that the country would be watching Little Rock to make sure there was a complete investigation—that justice would be put to the test in Little Rock, Arkansas. “It remains to be seen whether justice will prevail for this member of Little Rock’s elite.”

  Now Woody had been elevated from potential terrorist to part of Little Rock’s elite. The Times was consistent in its opposition to the death penalty, but it came as close as I’d ever seen to supporting it. The editorial concluded by calling for the US attorney general to monitor the case closely and to step in if justice for Senator Robinson and his family were denied.

  The enormity of it all started to sink in. I’d been focused on the people I knew: the Coles, the Robinsons, and Sam Pagano. But this was not simply about people I knew. Why Russell had been killed and who else might be linked to the tragedy were legitimate questions. Every action taken by anyone involved would undergo scrutiny. Unless there were a simple explanation, conspiracy theorists would dominate the airwaves and the Internet. Every aspect of Woody’s life would go under the microscope, and unless I got out of town quickly, there would be no way I’d escape the lens. I felt a powerful urge to pay the bill, check out of the hotel, and hightail it back to DC.

  Although, on some level, I’d known all of this since the first time I saw the shooting on CNN, I just hadn’t wanted to face it. Yet Woody was my friend, and loyalty trumped common sense. Until I heard Woody’s story from his own mouth, I wouldn’t be satisfied.

  Reaching for my coffee cup, I realized that Brenda Warner was standing beside the table.

  “I apologize for intruding. Do you mind if I sit down?”

  “Not at all,” I said while trying to stand.

  She waved me down. “Don’t get up—it’s impossible in these booths. But I appreciate the gesture.”

  The waiter immediately brought her a cup of coffee.

  She seemed to be a little nervous. “Mr. Patterson, I knew Woody Cole fairly well. I worked with him planning receptions, political dinners, and other events. He was intense, but I can’t believe he’d commit a violent act. Sometimes he would drop by after work, and we’d have a drink in the bar. He talked about you quite a bit, so in a way, I feel that I know you. I hadn’t seen Woody for a couple of weeks when I got a call from him out of the blue last Wednesday. He said, ‘I expect you to get a call from my friend Jack Patterson in the next couple of days. When you do, I want to make sure he can get a room at the Armitage. Do I need to give you my credit card?’

  “I told him we had plenty of room, and at the time we did. I tried to get more details, but he said, ‘He doesn’t know he’s coming.’ That seemed pretty strange, but Woody is a friend and a very good customer.”

  She took a sip of coffee, then wrapped both her hands around the cup, as though to steady them. “With everything else going on, I totally forgot about his request until Maggie called. I wasn’t sure what to do, so I called the hotel’s lawyer, who insisted that Woody’s call be reported to the police. He did it for me, but I felt I owed it to Woody to tell you.” She lowered her eyes as if she had betrayed a friend’s confidence.

  “Don’t be worried about the police,” I said quickly. “I’d have insisted you tell them if your lawyer hadn’t. It’s much better than for them to find you in Woody’s phone log. The police would have questioned you as though you had something to hide. Don’t give it another minute’s worry.”

  She nodded and seemed to relax a little. We exchanged pleasantries, agreeing to call each other Brenda and Jack. I promised to give her regards to Woody when I saw him this afternoon. She excused herself, leaving me to my thoughts. I admit, my first thoughts were to admire her backside as she walked away. I hadn’t really noticed a woman in that way since Angie had died. Why now, and why here?

  But the real questions were, why had Woody left me a note about betrayal, and why had he asked Brenda to reserve a hotel room for me? From the video of the murder, it appeared to me that Woody had wanted to shoot himself after he’d shot Russell. He’d known that no matter how much I didn’t want to, I’d come home to be with Helen if he died. But reserving a hotel room was strange behavior. Worse, it was an act of premeditation. I signed the ticket, charging it to our room, and went upstairs.

  Beth still wasn’t up, which was probably a good thing. I needed to organize my thoughts. I sat down at the desk in the sitting area. It was too early to call people, so I made a list of things I needed to do. First on the list was to find a good criminal lawyer and then, to determine how much money Woody had on hand to defend himself. He never seemed to care about money, clothes, cars, or anything else material, so I doubted he had much. For as long as I had known her, Helen had been a widow living on her husband’s railroad pension, so I doubted that there was anything other than her house she could pledge to pay for Woody’s legal defense. The thought of how quickly she might lose her home was sobering. I was willing to help, but I didn’t want to give Woody’s lawyer a blank check.

  Sometime, through all my tossing and turning last night, I had come up with a solution, to one problem at least. I was concerned about what to do with the note and key Woody had left for me. Right then, I had them both in my briefcase. I couldn’t ask an associate in my firm to do any research, but I could hire my own counsel.

  When I had been at the Justice Department, I worked on occasion with Mitch Purdue, who ultimately became deputy assistant attorney general of the Civil Division. I had run across him recently at a Georgetown Law alum reception. He’d told me he’d retired from the Justice Department and was now a professor of ethics at Georgetown. I still had his card in my briefcase. I looked at my watch. It was still fairly early, but I figured him for an early riser. He answered after the first ring. I explained that I needed to hire him and wanted our conversation to be privileged.

  “Jack, I know where you are. I’m glad you had the good sense to call someone before you get yourself in real trouble. I’m happy to give you advice, but let’s be clear; I want no part of the sideshow that’s going to be the murder trial of Philip Cole.”

  “I have no intention of being part of any sideshow either.”

  I quickly told him about the note and key from Woody, my conversation with Helen about Woody’s state of mind, and Woody reserving a room for me at the hotel. He asked whether I’d ever represented Woody or Helen before and a few other basic questions about my relationship with Woody.

  Then he asked directly, “Are you going to represent him?”

  I assured him I wasn’t … that I would make that clear when I saw Woody later that day and would tell Helen the same thing when the time was right. He wanted to think the problem over and cautioned me about what I should or shouldn’t say if I were questioned before he got back to me.

  Before I could thank him, he said, “Jack, as a friend, I’m telling you to get out of there. From all I see on TV and read in the papers, there’s about to be a modern-day lynching of your friend, and the press would love to find someone else to hang with him. I know you’re acting out of friendship and loyalty, but those values have no meaning to the sharks. You’re fair game as long as you’re the one out front helping the Cole family. Don’t let them bring you down.” On that ominous note, we hung up.

  I was thinking about Mitch’s depressing advice when Beth emerged from her room, still drowsy and still in her pajamas. She wanted to order room service. I agreed, but couldn’
t help adding, “It would help if you got dressed. And don’t forget to order hot water for Maggie’s tea. She should be here pretty soon.”

  Keeping Arcade Oil happy was next on my list, so while I waited for Maggie, I called Jerry Prince again. I figured he’d be on the golf course, but to my surprise, he answered the number Ron had given me almost immediately.

  “Jack, I’m sure relieved to hear your voice.”

  “Sorry—hope I didn’t call in the middle of your backswing.” Every Saturday morning from March to October, Jerry could be found playing golf at Burning Tree in Bethesda.

  “It’s raining cats and dogs, and gin rummy doesn’t start until after lunch, so you’re in luck. When are you coming back? Do you need the jet? We can have you back before dark. “

  “Maggie will be here in a while. I’ll have her check plane schedules, or I may be able to hitch a ride with another client. If travel becomes a problem, I’ll get back to you—I promise. It’s a very generous offer”

  “Great. I want you back here as soon as possible. Several members of the executive committee, including Don, saw you on TV and they’re pretty upset. You’re good at your job, but an assassin’s lawyer doesn’t fit the image they want for their outside counsel. I told them you were only acting out of loyalty to the mother and would never represent Woody Cole. That better be the case, Jack.”

  I felt the frustration building. “I don’t know how many times I have to say it. I’m not Woody’s lawyer.”

  Jerry had no real response to that, so we signed off, agreeing to stay in touch.

  I wondered what could be so important to Arcade, but I had learned from experience not to ask a client to confide in me over the phone.

  There was a quick rap on the door. “I’ll get it!” Beth, now dressed, came sailing out of her room, made a beeline to the door and let Maggie in.

 

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