When Men Betray

by Webb Hubbell

  Helen knew the decision had been made, but she still had to argue.

  “Nobody’s going to bother me. I’m not going anywhere except to the funeral and to court on Tuesday. By the way, your man picked up both sets of Woody’s court clothes. I had to borrow some ties.”

  I took a deep breath, stood, and walked over to her. “Helen, about the funeral … I met with Lucy this morning, and among other things, she asked us not to attend the funeral.”

  Helen didn’t respond, so I went on. “I told her I’d honor her request and I believed you would too.”

  Another uncomfortable silence lingered, before Helen held her hand in front of her, as if warding off more bad news, and said, “Don’t say anything else. I don’t like it, but I understand.” Eyes welling up, she turned to Maggie and Beth and said, “I’ve always believed in going to the funeral.”

  I was very angry with Lucy at that moment and thought it was too bad that she couldn’t see Helen’s face.

  Beth jumped up and put her arms around Helen. No one said anything, and I thought about her words. Helen lived by a set of principles that included making gestures of support when one didn’t really have to and definitely didn’t want to. Most of our days aren’t engaged in some epic battle of good versus evil but in the choice between doing a small good versus doing nothing. In Helen’s world, that kindness is returned—when we experienced our own difficulties, we’d turn around and find the room full of inconvenienced people ready to support us. The women sitting in her living room right now were living proof of that.

  Helen wiped her eyes, straightened up, and began to rationalize in a productive way. “Mabel and I can watch it on TV, like we did for Princess Diana’s funeral.”

  I was glad to have that behind us. Once again, Helen had made things easier for me. We needed to move on, so I said, “Beth and Maggie are trying to help me figure out what upset Woody enough to come up with such a crazy plan. I told them the story you told me yesterday, but we all want to hear it again. Tell us again about Woody and those last days before Russell’s shooting.”

  Helen recounted the events in question—Woody depressed, Woody on the computer all night with the printer running, the room cleaned and the file cabinet locked the next morning. She talked about the night before the shooting—Woody being in a good mood and drinking too much. The melancholy made sense, but we were no closer to the why than before.

  I said, “Woody and Cheryl, both, said Russell was about to fire Woody. What do you know about that?”

  Helen looked puzzled. “Woody said that? I can’t imagine his not telling me about something like that.” I noticed she had begun to call him Woody, much as I’d begun calling her Helen.

  “Was Woody going to come to DC?”

  “Oh, no. Woody told me that Russell wanted him to be his chief of staff, but Woody said no. He said the only reason for him to go to DC was to visit you and Beth. He would be traveling a lot, not just to DC, but also to New York, Chicago, and California. Woody was going to set up Russell’s Little Rock office, but then he would change jobs and work for some kind of committee Russell was forming. He told me that’s why he was going to see you. You were going to help him with a fundraiser for the committee.”

  This time I did my thinking out loud. “Woody wasn’t being fired. I bet he was going to set up some form of Super PAC to further Russell’s national ambitions—something that provides a way for heavy hitters to influence elections. He probably was going on the payroll of this new committee, not because he was being fired, but to continue to push Russell’s larger agenda without running afoul of any Senate rules.”

  I turned to Maggie. “We need to see Woody’s attorney, Janis Harold, first thing tomorrow morning. I bet she knows all about this.” She agreed with a nod. I also needed to find out about Woody’s last minute estate planning, but I didn’t want to say anything about it in front of everyone.

  “Helen, do you remember any disagreements between Russell and Woody? Any big issues when he was governor or senator?”

  “The only time they were at loggerheads was over the death penalty. Woody wanted Russell to commute every execution, but Russell wouldn’t have anything to do with commutation. Woody told me he went round and round with Russell, but he wouldn’t budge. He admitted that Russell was right on the issue politically, but thought he should have the backbone to do something unpopular for a change. Woody swore he’d oppose the death penalty until the day he died.”

  I filed that oath away for future use. Maybe it would help convince Woody to change his mind about pleading guilty and dying. It would be ironic for the State’s most influential opponent of the death penalty to insist on suffering the punishment he’d opposed all his life. I remembered that, back in high school, Woody had forfeited the individual finals of the state debate tournament because he randomly drew the position of advocating for the death penalty. Stubborn ass.

  Before we left, I asked the obligatory, “Does anyone have any more questions?”

  I wasn’t expecting Beth’s question, but she had picked up on the one thing I’d forgotten. “Do you know what the press conference was about,” she asked Helen, “the one that was supposed to happen when Woody … when he accidentally shot Robinson?”

  Helen thought for a moment. “Well, no, I don’t. As I recall, Woody said it wasn’t anything important, something about the Arts Center. I didn’t think much about it, since Russell was always helping the Arts Center bring in collections or hold fundraisers. It was his own favorite charity, and he convinced the legislature to increase its appropriations almost every year. It’s really quite nice. You should see it. Some of their collections are pretty famous.”

  I told Helen we needed to be going, so she took my hand and walked us to the door. “Jack, I’ve always counted on you to bring Woody home. I knew no matter how many beers or how much of that awful purple passion y’all drank, you’d get him home.”

  I felt a lump in my throat, but kept my voice even. “You know I’ll do everything I can.” Woody wasn’t just drunk this time; he was drowning.

  26

  ON OUR WAY back to the hotel, we rode in silence for a few minutes while Maggie jotted down some notes and Beth texted Jeff. I wondered whether the Arts Center could be part of the mystery. We needed more answers, not more questions.

  “Let’s find out as much as we can about that press conference. Surely his staff prepared a press release. Beth, if you think it will help, ask Paul to take you to the Arts Center so you can poke around, but do it soon.”

  I took Woody’s checkbook out of my breast pocket. “Maggie, you’d better take charge of this.” She took it from my hand, and as I rattled off more marching orders, I saw her catch Beth’s eye. “What are you two smiling about?”

  Beth said, “It’s just fun to see Jack Patterson, attorney at law, in action. It’s a new experience for me; it’s almost intimidating.”

  As we walked through the hotel lobby, I noticed the door to Brenda’s office was slightly open. I told Beth and Maggie to go on up, that I’d join them shortly.

  Ignoring their smirks, I tapped on Brenda’s door and heard, “Come in.” She was on the phone and seemed frazzled. I motioned that I’d come back later, but she waved me in. Turning away, she lowered her voice, but I heard snippets of the conversation—”This is not a good time,” and “Someone just stepped into the office”—but she didn’t hang up.

  I backed away from the desk and gazed self-consciously at her bookcase. She did have some very nice objects of art—a gold platter inlaid with what I assumed were semi-precious stones, a couple of vases that were modeled after some Egyptian vases I’d seen at the Smithsonian, and various other replicas of Greek and Egyptian art. I heard her put the phone down and turned to face her. She seemed distracted, no return smile.

  “Hey—if it’s a bad time, I can come back.”

  She forced a smile and said, “No, no—it’s okay. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine. The
day’s been pretty uneventful—didn’t fall on any broken beer bottles or anything.” Even though I was playing it light, I felt weird after this morning’s kiss. “I can tell you’re really busy. I should let you get back to work. Why don’t I come by later?” She didn’t object, and I walked out of her office. What’s the matter with me? Keep your mind on the job, Jack.

  Upstairs, Beth asked, “So how was Brenda?” When I gave her a discouraging frown, she sighed and said, “If I need to go to the Arts Center, I’ll get Paul to go with me. Right now, I’m off to the second-floor conference room. Why don’t we plan to eat dinner there so we can keep working? I’ll order something.” Brenda had given us full use of the conference room as a sort of command post. Its long table, with eight surprisingly comfortable chairs, gave us room to spread out all our paraphernalia, which we were accumulating more of each day.

  A text from Walter Matthews popped up saying he was waiting for me in the bar, so after Beth left, I went downstairs to meet with him.

  Walter had already taken a quiet table in the corner. I sat and looked around the room. The posh bar provided the perfect city refuge—oak paneling, comfortable chairs, and no televisions. I ordered a glass of cabernet and asked, “How was your golf game?”

  “Not bad, except for having to wait out a rain shower. Otherwise, it was good company and good golf. A perfect afternoon.” He swirled his scotch thoughtfully. “You know, I spend too much time in DC and not enough time with the lifeblood of my insurance company—the agents and the field underwriters. I’ve learned more about what we’re doing right and what we’re doing wrong this weekend than in a month’s worth of meetings. I don’t suggest you get involved in a murder case every month or so, but it’s actually good for me to get out of the office.”

  “Happy to oblige,” I joked. “I’m glad somebody is getting something out of this weekend. Frankly, I wish we were having this drink at the Nineteenth Hole at Columbia.”

  Walter turned serious. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind, and this is coming from left field, but let me tell you what I’m thinking. Maggie has reinvigorated me, and I’m ready to take on challenges I thought I’d have to leave to the next generation. I’ve gotten off track. I want to do a total overhaul of Bridgeport Life. I intend to return to my original vision for the company when I founded it. I also believe the insurance industry itself has to change. Greed is driving it, and it has lost its purpose in society. We’ve become just another type of financial institution, and we no longer behave prudently, because we know failure isn’t possible. The government’s decided we’re too big to fail. Regulators no longer regulate us, but simply cozy up so they’ll be rewarded with employment when they leave government. Our policies are designed to seduce the middle class with dreams we can’t fulfill. We’ve used innovation and creativity to enhance our profits, not to ease the burden on our policyholders—the people who entrust us with their money. Sorry … I’m on my soapbox. The point is, I intend to make changes to right my own ship, but to make a real difference, I need to be able to sell it to the rest of the industry.” He paused.

  “Yeah, and?”

  He looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “That’s where you come in.”

  “Me? I’m an antitrust lawyer. I don’t know the first thing about insurance law.”

  “I don’t need another lawyer. I need someone who’s forward thinking and whose judgment I trust. While I overhaul my company, Maggie and I want to create a foundation to begin grappling with the larger issues, including our country’s economic model. It’s got to be restructured. We must tilt from consumption to production and investment in infrastructure—away from speculation and outright gambling with other people’s money. We need to educate our employees so they develop transferable skills and competence in technology. Bottom line—our companies have to become caring innovators, not simply profit machines. In America, real change has always started with people like you and me—so why not now? There’s a lot more to my idea, and I think I can get others on board, but my first recruit is you. I want you to head the foundation, be its president and CEO. In case you’re wondering, no is an unacceptable answer. I’ve already enlisted a compensation consultant to design your package, and I’m sure it will be satisfactory.”

  I was stunned. “Well … thanks, Walter. I’m honored. You’re right. This does come out of left field. Of course, I’ll have a million questions, but I’ve got to ask … Why now?”

  “Maggie knew you’d wonder about that. First, let me emphasize that this proposal isn’t something I’ve dreamed up while we’ve been here in Little Rock. I’ve been thinking about these issues for a long time. Yesterday afternoon, I heard from my general counsel, Bill Dean. He got a call from the lead insurance partner at Banks and Tuohey. The partner told Bill that the firm was being ‘forced to consider’ terminating you. He wanted to make sure it wouldn’t affect the company’s relationship with the firm. I’ve given Bill total discretion over such matters, but he wanted me to know what was happening. Since Maggie has resigned, I told her about Bill’s call, and we agreed that I should extend the offer now.

  “We don’t want you to think you need to rush back to DC to save your job. We both think you need to see this thing through. I also want to get my offer on the table first. If word gets out that you’re on the market—if your firm is stupid enough to let you go—you’re going to be swamped with offers.”

  Toying with my wine glass, I said, “I don’t know about that, but it’s very considerate of you to say so. I heard about a partners’ meeting from a friend earlier today. The smart money says I should head home, beg for forgiveness, and get back to work. But your offer is very appealing, and, no, I’m not ready to leave Little Rock just yet. I hope the firm won’t make any decision so quickly, but no matter what happens, I won’t make a move until you and I have talked again. Okay?”

  “Okay. Fair enough.”

  I moved to go. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I’d rather do than stay here and enjoy another glass of wine, but my team is sitting on go upstairs, and I need to get back in the game.”

  “It’s not going well, is it?” he asked sympathetically.

  “It’s hard to get around the fact that my client shot a US senator in front of at least a million witnesses.”

  Walter nodded his head in commiseration and then said, “Before you go, don’t you want to hear the rest of Bill’s story?”

  “Sure.”

  “Bill told the lawyer that he’d always been confident in the way the firm handled our business, which was apparently all the answer the lawyer wanted to hear, because he didn’t ask anything else. However, Bill told me he’d surely reconsider his confidence if they fired Jack Patterson.”

  27

  AFTER LEAVING WALTER, I felt myself reeling a bit and sat down in a lobby chair. In the last few days, I’d been offered an unbelievable job, met an interesting woman, and been forced to confront the distant past. After decades of being away, Little Rock brought back many good memories; almost enough to erase the bad ones. The atmosphere felt good—even seductive.

  My life had changed for the better when I’d moved to Little Rock. I’d made real friends, fallen in love with Angie, and nearly realized my lifelong dream of playing professional baseball. Could I at last call a truce with my old hometown? I didn’t know what was around the corner, but I’d just have to make the turn and find out. The one thing I did know—Woody needed my full attention.

  I took the elevator to the second floor, and I saw Paul standing outside the conference-room door. He quietly asked me if I had a minute.

  “After y’all got back from Mrs. Cole’s, Beth asked if I’d take her to the Arts Center. It was such a nice day, she wanted to walk. We’d gone about two blocks, when I realized we were being followed by a pickup, moving real slow, about a block behind us. Traffic was light, so I could hardly miss it. I gave it a minute or so, but it was a tail all right. I didn’t want to alarm her, so I said I didn’t think we
had enough time before the Arts Center closed and that we should head back to the hotel. She figured out what was going on pretty quick, and she did exactly what I asked. She’s a smart young woman. Clovis already knows about this, and said I should tell you.”

  I gave a little nod to the gods, thankful that nothing worse had happened, but Paul’s report heightened my sense of unease and confirmed the need for security.

  I opened the door and found Maggie, Beth, Micki, and Clovis enjoying the fried chicken that Beth had ordered for dinner. Paul and I filled our plates, got some tea, and sat down at the table.

  Clovis said he had some news. “The police located Woody’s car in a parking lot close to the rotunda. There wasn’t a single piece of paper or anything else in it except the owner’s manual.”

  I was incredulous. “That’s impossible! Woody’s car was always a pit. Wrappers, coffee cups, stale Cheerios, you name it—and it usually smelled, too.”

  “Clean as a whistle. What’s more, there wasn’t a single fingerprint anywhere, not even Woody’s. It’s been wiped clean, inside and out.”

  I had told Micki about the figurine and the DVD of Jerry Maguire that Clovis and I had found in the locker, and she said, “Maybe the people who cleaned out Woody’s car cleaned out the lock box at the train station and left you what they didn’t want?”

  “No, I had the only key. We still can’t make any sense out of the contents. The movie is a mystery. As for the figurine, Clovis looked it up online and best we can tell it’s an ushabti—a small Egyptian funeral statuette. Apparently, it was something buried with a person to serve as a worker in the afterworld in place of the deceased.”

  Clovis read from a single sheet of paper quoting a paragraph from a Wikipedia search:

  “These highly stylized burial figurines commonly depict a body prepared in the traditional Egyptian way, with its arms crossed holding Egyptian artifacts and a headpiece adorning the face of the ushabti. The backs of these small figurines are usually designed with a seed pouch slung over the shoulder and with tools to sow and reap the fields of the afterworld. So, we’ve got a totally clean car, a sports movie, and a copy of an old Egyptian statue. I don’t have any idea what any of it means, but I guarantee you it will drive Sam crazy.”