When Men Betray

by Webb Hubbell

  Her mouth turned down at the corners, and she started to answer, but I extended my hand. “Wait a minute. I need to ask you about another shower thought. You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but hear me out. I’d like to know a little bit about your US attorney. Is he one of the good ones or one of the bad ones?”

  “Christ! Jack, please tell me you’re not thinking about involving the feds?”

  ‘I know, I know—just tell me about him, then I’ll explain what I’m thinking.”

  “He’s one of the worst,” she frowned. “It’s beyond me how he got through the system.”

  What system? There was no system anymore. Nothing but politics and paybacks. In Janet Reno’s days, each potential US attorney’s legal credentials were thoroughly vetted, the associate attorney general reviewed the vetting before giving a thumbs-up, and then Reno herself interviewed the candidate. At first, the nominating senators didn’t like the process, but they quickly learned that it protected them. A few bad apples found their way into the barrel, but it was nothing like what happened during the Bush years.

  “His name is Wilbur ‘Dub’ Blanchard, Junior,” Micki began. “He barely made it out of law school, and through his ‘Uncle Cecil’s’ connections, got a job on our former senator’s staff digging up dirt on judicial nominees.”

  The expression on my face must have reflected my feelings accurately.

  “Exactly,” she said. “So when this US attorney post opened up, Dub managed to get nominated and confirmed right before the election. Rumor has it that Russell had already asked the Justice Department to begin the process of having him removed. Now he’s all over the newspapers trying to promote himself, saying the power of the US government needs to be used to bury Woody. Hell, Sam might have agreed to let the feds have this case if Dub weren’t such an obvious doofus.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I get the picture. Is there anyone in his office you trust? Maybe a deputy who’s been around a while? Someone you can talk with confidentially?”

  “Rodney Fitzhugh. He’s a rock. He’s been there over twenty years, and has served as acting US attorney several times. He’s totally without agenda. Just does his job and goes home to his wife and kids. He’s one of the few prosecutors I would consider sleeping with, but his wife is one of my best friends.”

  “All good to know,” I commented blandly, keeping a straight face.

  “Are you planning something out of left field? Don’t keep me in the dark, partner.”

  “Not to worry. I won’t.”

  Deciding to call it quits for the time being, we found Paul and headed back to the hotel. The lobby was packed with people returning from the funeral, checking out, and trying to look important. They were a somber lot, mostly dressed in black. We rode a crowded elevator up to our room, which I could tell made Paul nervous. Clovis and Maggie were watching the TV coverage. The anchor was commenting on the eulogy and the touching concern the vice president had shown to the beautiful widow.

  Maggie turned to me and said, “Jack, I think you should listen to Clovis for a minute.”

  Clovis was fiddling with the remote. “I told you I didn’t think the nuts would come out until after the funeral. Well, the funeral is over, and just getting you in and out of the courtroom is gonna be a challenge. Apparently, the hotel and the jail have gotten more threats against both you and Woody, and the crowds are getting pretty ugly.”

  I had no response, so he turned the sound back on, and we heard the announcer say, “CNN has just learned of an important development. It seems that US Attorney Dub Blanchard will appear this afternoon on behalf of the United States government. This is an unprecedented move, but after the funeral, the vice president called for swift and certain justice for Senator Russell’s killer and said he would ask the attorney general to insure that the interests of the United States were protected. Exactly what the US attorney has in mind is, for now, a complete mystery.”

  Incredulous, Micki asked, “Are you psychic? Less than an hour ago you asked me about the US attorney, and now we hear he’s going to make an appearance this afternoon.”

  “No, I’m not psychic. I asked for a completely different reason, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried to make a big deal about the fact that Woody, Sam, Marshall, and I are friends. He’ll probably claim it’s up him to be sure the southern good-ol’-boy network doesn’t try to sweep justice under the rug. We can speculate all day about what Blanchard is up to, but it’s time to get ready for battle.”

  We went to our rooms, and as I was changing for court, I remembered to call Lucy’s lawyer. When I told him the opposition research was with Janis, where it had always been, he told me that couldn’t be right. He had called Janis, and she told him that she couldn’t tell him where it was. I explained slowly that she was technically right. As the lawyer for the campaign, she couldn’t reveal either the existence of those files or their location.

  He grumbled a bit about Lucy’s rights, and I enjoyed telling him that the only ones who could authorize the release were Woody or Russell’s executor. I could tell he wasn’t bright enough to figure out how to get Lucy what she wanted, and I didn’t have time to joust, so I told him there was a simple and easy way to get Lucy the files. Simply ask Janis for whatever release form she needed, and Woody would sign it.

  Suspicious, he asked, “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch. Woody thinks Lucy’s entitled to them.”

  Caught off guard, he demanded to know how long all this would take, emphasizing that Lucy was in a hurry.

  “As soon as you get off your ass and get me the release form. Or if you need me to, I can explain the holdup to Lucy.” I’d had just about enough of this guy. He hung up rather impolitely. I finished getting ready and returned to the living room.

  Jeff and Beth were cozied up on the couch, hand in hand. I supposed I would have to get used to this new arrangement. Maggie was ready to go, but Micki was still getting ready, so the rest of us made small talk. She emerged dressed for court in a cardinal-red suit, white blouse, and black patent heels, her features emphasized by carefully applied make-up. With her height and the way the suit fit her athletic body, Micki was not only stunning, she was also intimidating. We had gotten used to her casual style—mostly running shorts and jeans. This was something else.

  Beth whistled, and I caught Clovis and Jeff staring. Maggie pronounced, “Perfect!” I caught Maggie’s eye. I knew that Micki was nervous and had asked Maggie what she should wear. Maggie had convinced her that if she was going to be on the national stage, she needed to look the part. She needed to reflect power, poise, and class. I couldn’t wait to hear what the TV pundits would have to say about my “high powered” co-counsel.

  Micki looked at me and asked, “It’s not too much?”

  I smiled and put on my nearly forgotten southern accent, “Why, ma’am, I’m just proud to carry your briefcase.”

  34

  WHEN MICKI, MAGGIE, and I arrived at the courthouse, there must have been more than five hundred people milling behind the barricades surrounding Courthouse Square. The stately red-brick Pulaski County Courthouse was built in the late nineteenth century in the center of town. It rises three stories, with tall, arched windows on the first floor and slightly smaller windows on the second and third floors. The grounds around it form a giant square lined with huge oak trees shading several park benches and the occasional statue of a Civil War hero.

  Usually, the square is fairly quiet, with only a few people walking in and out of the courthouse, lolling on park benches, or playing chess or checkers. Like most town squares, by the eighties and nineties, it had become a resting place for the homeless, street musicians, and other free spirits. The old building was renovated in the midnineties, and now the police walk a constant patrol, encouraging “undesirables” to relocate.

  Prior to the restoration, the courthouse was a much busier place. Folks went to the square to get marriage licenses, building permits, pay property taxes, and to do
whatever else the local government required. Now, most of the business of county government had moved to a spacious modern building in West Little Rock, and all that remained were the clerks who serve the courts, the judges’ chambers, the offices of the prosecutor, and a small holding jail in the basement. The main jail, where I had interviewed Woody, was in East Little Rock. The public defender wasn’t allowed to office in the courthouse, but had offices across the street in an annex. Public defenders in Little Rock learned to interview their clients either standing in the halls of the courthouse or sitting on a park bench.

  The building itself has towers, on the north and south sides, that rise another two stories. The original architect heard the story that a Yankee engineer had made the north tower of the University of Arkansas’s Old Main several feet higher than the south tower. This architect made sure the Yankee engineer’s message was reversed. The south tower of the Little Rock Courthouse is a good yard taller than the north. The first design for the courthouse’s restoration included raising the northern tower to the same height as the south tower as a symbol of unification—that architect was promptly fired. In some ways, the War of Northern Aggression has never ended.

  Micki told us that the interior had been restored to its original glory, and when we entered the courthouse, it took my breath away. The marble floors glistened, and the staircases were wide and wonderfully worn, where thousands of feet had trod. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high, chair rails graced all the walls, and the light-blue and green paint reflected light where previously the courthouse had been dingy and dark. Every courtroom was slightly different, but each one a classic, with lacquered wooden floors, railings, and wooden benches. The judges’ benches were elevated to convey the power and authority of the court. Ceiling fans hung low, completing the picture. Modern necessities—microphones, recording devices, and wiring were all skillfully camouflaged. Someone had taken a lot of time, effort, and special attention to recreate the courtroom era of Darrow and Bryant.

  Judge Fitzgerald’s courtroom was a little smaller, a little more intimate, but it had the same appointments as the others. The cameramen were setting up and checking the microphones for sound when we arrived.

  Maggie and I sat down at the table farthest away from the jury box. Micki had disappeared almost as soon as we walked into the courthouse, but came in a few minutes later and whispered that, according to his clerk, Marshall was not in a particularly good mood. He was tired of dealing with the press, not to mention the various officials and advocacy groups that had been calling all day. He was currently meeting with the sheriff about increased security, not only for the courtroom, but also for himself and his family.

  “Want to bet who makes the last entrance,” Micki asked, “Sam or Dub, that pompous sham of a US attorney.

  “I’d say Sam—he’ll be late to his own funeral.”

  Micki shook her head. “Sam’s late because he has no sense of time. With this audience, it’ll be Dub. He’ll want to make a grand entrance.”

  Sam walked in looking like he was late for a tee time. Neither he nor his deputies even glanced at our table. The three of us stood, assuming Sam would come over and we’d do the ritual shaking of hands, but his side remained deep in conversation. It was getting awkward, so I took the initiative, walked over, and tapped his shoulder. He seemed surprised to see me, but shook my hand. He looked across the room, saw Micki, and his mouth actually dropped open. He couldn’t stop staring. I’m not sure what surprised him more—her stunning style or the fact that she was with me.

  It was getting close to four o’clock, when the courtroom door opened with a flourish. In walked what had to be US Attorney Dub Blanchard. He was a man of medium height, his thin hair fell short of a high forehead, and he flashed a toothy grin. He wasn’t actually fat—Beth would call him pudgy. As he worked the room, I had to wonder who’d ever thought he’d make a good representative of the United States government. I couldn’t help it—my first impression was that of an older Pillsbury Doughboy.

  He surveyed the courtroom with a frown, miffed that he hadn’t been provided a separate table. Ultimately, he sat at the opposite end of ours, configuring his chair so he could see the judge and so the cameras could get a full view of him. His associates sat behind the rail, and Micki quietly introduced me to Rodney Fitzhugh, who said, “Peggy Fortson told me to tell you hello and that she’s still looking.”

  Peggy was a career deputy in the Criminal Division, one of those career lawyers at the Justice Department who do their jobs, and do them well, regardless of the politics of the current or past administrations. She was the one I had called this morning.

  At that moment, I heard, “All rise, oyez, oyez, the Circuit Court of Pulaski County is now in session, the Honorable Marshall Mathew Fitzgerald presiding.”

  Marshall entered the room looking tired, stern, and a good deal heavier than when I’d last seen him. He carried the ever-present legal pad and didn’t glance at the lawyers, but walked straight to his chair behind the bench and sat. He looked out at the assembled crowd, said good morning, and announced, “This is an informal session of my court. I asked the attorneys for the parties to meet this afternoon to go over some preliminary matters. Normally, we’d do this in chambers. However, this is no ordinary case, and I’ve made an exception.”

  Marshall smiled serenely. “First on my list is the swearing in of Mr. Jack Patterson. Mr. Patterson, I believe there is a member of our bar who will move your admission?”

  Micki stood and said she would. To his credit, Sam said he’d like to second her motion. Marshall said that wasn’t necessary under the rules, but he’d make an exception. Still smiling, he started to say that I was admitted, when Dub interrupted.

  “Your Honor, may the United States be heard?”

  Marshall looked at him, plainly perturbed. “I’m sorry … Who are you, and what standing do you have in this matter?”

  Turning slightly, so he fully faced the camera, Dub puffed out his chest and announced, “Wilbur Blanchard, Your Honor. I’m the US attorney for this judicial district. I represent the interests of the United States of America.”

  As Dub was grinning, Marshall said, “Mr. Blanchard, when addressing the court, please face me. On this matter, you may not be heard. This is an administrative matter, and you have no standing. I received Ms. Lawrence’s written motion this morning. Mr. Pagano has just joined in her motion. The court finds the motion more than adequate. Mr. Patterson, you are admitted for the purpose of this case. A formal order to that effect will be entered tomorrow.

  “This admission is in no way a finding or ruling on the effectiveness of counsel. It is a simple acknowledgement, that we will extend the courtesies of this state’s bar to Mr. Patterson, and of his willingness to abide by our rules. Welcome, Mr. Patterson, and on a personal note, it’s about time.”

  Dub sat down abruptly as a murmur rose from the press gallery.

  “That’s correct. I know the lawyers in this case. Ms. Lawrence has appeared in my court as a public defender and a private attorney on numerous occasions. Either Mr. Pagano or an attorney in his office appears in my court almost daily. Since we still have elected judges in this state, I know about half the lawyers in this county and consider many of them friends. Mr. Patterson and Mr. Pagano both attended high school and college with me. I consider them friends, as I believe they do me.”

  Marshall paused. “These friendships alone are not a basis for recusal and should not give anyone concern about my ability to be fair and unbiased in this case. In addition, confirming that this is indeed a small world, all of us went to high school and college and were friends with the defendant. This is certainly unusual; however, it is not unique in jurisprudence. I have researched the matter. I have also consulted with the other judges of this circuit, the chief justice of this state’s supreme court, and the chairman of the Judicial Ethics Committee. None of them have concerns about my ability to be fair and unbiased. Neither do I. Absent a motio
n from one of the parties, I intend to preside over this matter. I have filed a list of my associations with all three attorneys and the defendant with the chairman of the Ethics Committee. That document will become public tomorrow.”

  There we had it. Marshall had gone to more trouble than most judges would have. The press would go over his disclosure with a fine-tooth comb, searching for something he’d left out or some hint of bias, but I knew Marshall had been thorough, probably including the time we’d skinny-dipped in the city reservoir. He had also preempted Dub, who was probably hoping to make political hay about prior friendships and the “interest of justice.” If Dub were smart, he’d keep his mouth shut.

  Now came the boring part. Marshall went down the list of every detail he wanted to cover, prefaced with, “Tomorrow will run as smoothly as a finely tuned clock.”

  I believed him. More than once, I caught Sam staring at Micki. I knew what was going on in Sam’s mind, and it wasn’t court logistics. I also noticed Dub fidgeting. With nothing to say or do, he was quickly losing his chance at national exposure. The reporters looked bored, and more than likely, the live feed had been turned off.

  Marshall kept to his list, accompanied by the constant drone of the ceiling fans. He sternly warned the media to obey his rules or they would find themselves locked up in the old jail cell in the basement. He admonished the sheriff and Sam’s deputy that there was to be no showboating tomorrow—no bringing Woody in the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit, dirty and unshaven.

  Sheriff Barnes started to say something, but when Micki advised the court that fresh clothes had been provided to the jail, he kept quiet. I was still glad we had a second set of clothes with us; I thought the first set might get lost tomorrow morning. Marshall looked up.