by Webb Hubbell
“All right, Mr. Blanchard, you’re next on the list. Please address the court, not the gallery. What is it that you want to bring to the court’s attention?”
Dub shot up. I could hear him mumble, “Finally.” So could Marshall.
“Your Honor, the United States wishes to intervene in this case.”
Marshall responded evenly, “On whose side?”
Laughter ripped through the gallery, and Dub was flustered, “The prosecution, of course.”
Marshall didn’t give him any relief. “Have you spoken with Mr. Pagano?”
“Well, no … this is a very unusual case. We don’t normally intervene, but the United States is concerned—”
“Mr. Blanchard, what you suggest is, as you say, unusual. Are you proposing, on behalf of the United States, to intervene in a state murder trial, to prosecute state crimes, without consulting the local prosecutor? Let me take you back to basics: If you seek any form of relief from this court, you must file a motion in writing, just as Ms. Lawrence did to have Mr. Patterson admitted. Moreover, I’d like you to provide legal precedent for this action. Do you understand, Mr. Blanchard?”
Dub had enough sense to nod and keep quiet.
“Let me also suggest that if you decide to file a motion to intervene, it should include your agreement to a gag order that I intend to impose on all the participants in these proceedings. I also suggest you extend to Mr. Pagano the courtesy of letting him know what you propose to do before you do it.”
Not only was this a direct slap, but Marshall had also put the kibosh on any such motion being filed, since it meant Dub had to agree to a gag order—too bad, no more press conferences.
Marshall threw him a single bone. “Until you decide upon a course of action, Mr. Blanchard, I’ll ask the sheriff to reserve two seats for your office in the courtroom.”
Dub stared at his associates as if to say, How do I get out of here?
“Mr. Pagano and Ms. Lawrence, I will not hold you to these answers. I’m just trying to get a feel for my calendar for the next few weeks, and to know what we’re facing. I’m going to ask you some questions that are meant to explore the time I need to set aside for this case. Mr. Pagano, what are we looking at in the way of charges against Mr. Cole?”
Sam stood and, with all the gravity befitting what he was about to say, declared: “Your Honor, Mr. Cole will be charged with the premeditated murder of Senator Russell Robinson. The charges will include first-degree murder, felony murder, and possession of a weapon on state property. We are contemplating a few lesser charges, as well. Your Honor, to get to what I assume is your next question—tomorrow the state will announce that it will seek the death penalty for Mr. Philip Cole.”
Sam’s statement got the gallery buzzing.
Marshall made a few notes and turned to Micki. “Ms. Lawrence, are we looking at a not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity defense?”
We known it was coming, the question we didn’t want to answer yet. Janis Harold had all but sunk any chance of an insanity plea. Micki didn’t flinch. “Your Honor, I’m new to this case. I’ve not had an opportunity to speak with my client. We cannot advise the court on the plea before we meet with Mr. Cole and discuss it with him, which brings me to a request.”
Marshall wasn’t satisfied. “Mr. Patterson, haven’t you already spoken with Mr. Cole?”
I rose and told him that I’d seen Woody briefly on two occasions and that, yes, I’d begun to discuss the plea. Any good reporter would assume we had already begun to arrange a plea agreement. That’s the way criminal defense usually works. He’d be wrong.
“Your Honor, Ms. Lawrence and I want to tell the court what we can within the bounds of the attorney-client privilege. However, until we meet with Mr. Cole tomorrow morning, we simply cannot tell the court how we’ll proceed. That’s why we filed a motion this afternoon asking that he be available in the courthouse for consultation at eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Neither Ms. Lawrence nor I have had an opportunity to explain fully to our client the law, the courtroom procedures, or the consequences of a plea. Until we do, we can’t advise on the formalities of tomorrow’s arraignment.”
Sam jumped in. “Even waiving the reading of the indictment?”
Micki answered, “Your Honor, Mr. Patterson and I are not trying to be difficult. This is a unique case, and as the court has recognized, everything we do will be scrutinized.” She walked around the table to stand behind Dub, loving every minute of his discomfort. “We are confident tomorrow will proceed smoothly, but until we’ve consulted with Mr. Cole, we are simply not in a position to speculate on what he may or may not do. To do otherwise would be a misrepresentation to the court.”
Sam and Marshall both looked skeptical.
“Mr. Patterson,” Marshall grumbled, “I’m having second thoughts about welcoming you to my court, but I’ll grant your motion. Sheriff, if there are no objections from the prosecution, please have Mr. Cole available in a conference room at the courthouse, not the holding cell, tomorrow morning. He is to have had an opportunity to shave, shower, and put on the civilian clothes you’ve been provided.”
The sheriff bit his lip—there was nothing for him to say.
Marshall asked a few more questions and brought the hearing to a close. As he rose, I could tell he wanted to say something to me but thought better of it. Circumstances had brought us to this place, where each of us was called to play a role, and personal feelings had to be set aside. He couldn’t ask me about Beth or see her, even though he was probably aware she was in Little Rock. I couldn’t tell Sam that Micki wasn’t a woman he should let get away. We couldn’t all meet at Helen’s and reminisce. The world was watching us, and we had to act according to accepted protocols. None of us had chosen to be in this place and time, and I had avoided my role in the opera for as long as I could, but now we were all helpless before the spotlight. We would each play our part to its conclusion.
The courtroom emptied as soon as Marshall left. Dub headed straight to the bank of microphones set up in the center of the courthouse rotunda. Later, I learned from Beth that he’d railed about the interests of the United States and his concern about backroom deals cooked up by Sam and me.
When the press asked Sam what I was up to, he said, “I’m sure Mr. Patterson thinks he’s going to work some DC magic here in Little Rock, and we’re all going to just roll over and play dead, but that’s not the case. There’s plenty of bite left in this old dog, and Mr. Patterson should remember whose backyard he’s playing in.”
I’d have to remember that one.
The lead news stories were, of course, about the state’s intent to seek the death penalty and the US government’s attempt to intervene. Marshall had taken some grief from the media about not recusing, but that had been tempered when a reporter confirmed that Marshall had consulted with the chief justice. The chief justice’s opinion was that no other judge in the state would touch the case and that Marshall’s reputation was “unimpeachable.”
We joined Beth and Jeff at our suite at the Armitage. Micki did her best to answer their many questions while I fiddled with the hotel stationery, my mind in a thousand different places.
Maggie saw I was distracted and said, “Your leg is bound to be bothering you. Why don’t you trade that suit for some jeans and meet me in the bar? We all need a little break.”
35
MAGGIE WAS RIGHT—I did feel better after I changed my clothes. I called the front desk to check on the availability of the private dining room. Then I called Clovis to ask him to join all of us downstairs for dinner in about an hour.
Maggie was waiting for me in the bar, Scotch in hand. It looked tempting, but I had to keep my wits about me tonight. I settled for a cabernet.
She didn’t beat around the bush. “What’s wrong? I can tell you’re wound tighter than a drum. And don’t tell me it’s the courtroom—you’re more comfortable there than in a La-Z-Boy.”
I took a long sip of wine and smiled.
“No, it’s not that. I loved being in the old Little Rock courtroom. In that atmosphere, I could see myself as Atticus Finch, defending the innocent and railing against bigotry and injustice.”
“Are you still thinking about the knife attack?”
“Maybe I should be, but no; it’s Woody. My objective judgment tells me I should let Micki try to get him a sentence that doesn’t include execution. If he refuses to cooperate … well, just walk away. Woody killed a man, and I can’t change that. Whatever his reasons, whatever he found out about Russell, nothing changes that one fact.” I swirled the wine in my glass and sighed. I seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.
Maggie nodded, her face openly empathetic.
“Remember the line from The Godfather, ‘It’s not personal, it’s strictly business?’ In most every other case I’ve handled, it’s been strictly business. My clients are corporations, and all their problems can be fixed by money. This time it’s personal, and it’s Woody’s life at stake. So what if he thought he’d be dead by now. How can I ignore the note and clues he left me? How can I just let him die? Even if I can get him to cooperate, how can I be sure I’m not doing this out of some shining-knight fantasy that I can make everything right?” The wine almost spilled as I set the glass down too hard. “Bottom line—I need to be sure that what I’m doing is the right thing for Woody, not for me.”
Maggie put a gentle hand on my arm. “Why don’t you walk away? You could, you know. You’ve comforted Helen, and you’ve found Woody a great lawyer. Is it because you walked away from Little Rock once before? Because Jack, whatever happened …”
“No, that’s one of the things I’ve worked through. Last time, I left because of Angie—to protect her—and it was the right decision. There wasn’t much choice, and I had no way of controlling events. This time, what happens is in my control, at least somewhat. I have a theory and a plan, but I shouldn’t move forward unless I’m certain that I’m doing the right thing for Woody, regardless of what he says he wants. What happens if my theory is wrong and my plan backfires? I’ve already screwed up my career—what if I make things worse?”
“How can you possibly make things worse for Woody? He’s already staring at death. And maybe it was time to leave Banks and Tuohey, time to start something new. Besides, if I know you, your cockeyed plan is exactly what Woody needs. How can I help?” Maggie Baxter looked ready to battle giants. I gave myself a mental shake—it was time to fish or cut bait.
“You just did. No more wavering. You’re right—my plan is cockeyed, and I’m far from having what I need to pull it off. I have to convince Woody to trust me, to believe his life is worth living. A lot of pieces have to fall into place, pieces I don’t have yet, and we need a break. If it doesn’t all come together, if it turns out I’m wrong—well, Woody’s toast.”
Maggie waved away my doubts. “Without you, he’s already toast.”
“The biggest hurdle right now is Woody himself. We’ll talk about it tonight, but if Woody doesn’t give me a little wiggle room, I won’t have a choice. I’ll have to leave it with Micki.”
“With no regrets. You should have no regrets.”
“But I will. When a man chooses to end his own life, the burden of the act falls on the people who love him. He’s free, but they’re left with grief compounded by guilt and anger. It’s painful, and many never get over the guilt. Helen doesn’t deserve—”
Maggie squeezed my arm. “I’m convinced we’re all here for a reason. Persuading Woody to live may be your ‘why.’ You won’t fail.”
Now that my doubts and fears were out in the open, I suddenly felt energized. Somehow, we were going to pull this off.
We finished our drinks and walked to the private dining room. Beth and Jeff were already sitting together, lost in their own world. Watching them, I had a flashback to Angie and me at that age, in love and willing to face whatever life threw at us. I was oblivious to the problems a mixed-race couple would face in Little Rock. Angie wasn’t, but she had been willing to take it all on. I hoped their love was strong enough to overcome the hurdles they’d face. I also hoped that wherever they landed, people’s attitudes had improved.
Clovis and Micki soon arrived, and after we had given our orders to the waiter, I began. “I want to apologize for my lack of focus and for being, well … a little testy. I’ve had each of you working on pieces of a puzzle, but I haven’t told you why or what I’m looking for. The reason is simple—I wasn’t confident that I was close to being right. I halfway expected you to come up empty, but you haven’t. And because you haven’t, I have a plan. I want you to hear me out, and then I want you to shoot holes in it. If, at the end, we all agree it’s worth going for, we’ll put all our time and energy into carrying it out.
“I’ve also got to convince Woody to go along with my scheme. I’d like your advice on that, because if he won’t, we’ll all be packing up except for Micki, and we’ll have made her job a lot harder.”
Micki grinned. “Lay it out, partner. It’s time everyone knew.”
I gave them the high points of why I thought Woody had acted as he did and why he had been so distressed. I told them what our strategy would be for tomorrow morning and how we thought Marshall and Sam would react. This was a gamble on our part, and we knew we’d have to be flexible. If we were right about their reactions, we just might get a full-blown preliminary hearing on Wednesday and Thursday. That would give us at least until Friday to come up with the proof we needed to support my theory about the oil companies’ involvement with Russell. If we couldn’t get the documentation and evidence we needed by the end of the week, then we’d have to resort to plan B, which essentially entailed Micki trying to cut a deal for Woody’s life.
By the time I’d finished my spiel, the waiter was wheeling our dinner through the door. We kept the conversation light through the salad and entrees, listening to Micki as she told us about her horses, her 200 acres west of town, and what she hoped to do with the property. After the plates were cleared and coffee had been served, Clovis returned to the issues that concerned him.
“If you’re right about all this, we’re into some serious shit, and somebody has a huge interest in seeing you dead.”
“Not to mention Woody,” I added.
“You got that right. If Woody found out what you think he did, I’m surprised he’s still alive. These people don’t play games. His life in prison won’t be worth a plug nickel; he’ll be dead on arrival.”
His blunt assessment produced an uncomfortable silence. After a bit, I cleared my throat.
“I’m worried about Woody right now. As you pointed out, Clovis, bad things happen to people in jail, and the quicker Woody is permanently silenced the better for the bad guys. The same probably goes for me. The irony is that if they hadn’t tried to chase me off or kill me, I’d probably be home playing with the cat. I take it you think my theory has some plausibility?”
Clovis nodded slowly. “I guess I do.”
Beth jumped in. “Now I understand what I was doing, but why didn’t you just tell me to begin with? I wasted a lot of time on dead ends.”
I explained that I had to eliminate any other possibilities. “It’s like modern medicine—they run a bunch of tests to eliminate what you don’t have before they tell you what you do have, which is what they thought you had all along.”
“What should we be looking for now?”
I gave her a few ideas, including going back over Russell’s legislative agendas and getting more information about Russell’s support for the Arts Center.
I turned to Micki. I knew she was on board with tomorrow’s trial tactics, but now she was grappling with the consequences. I waited while she tried to formulate her thoughts.
“Your theory is so off the wall that no sane lawyer would agree to be a part of it. It currently has no support by way of real evidence. If you’re right, you’re likely to be killed, and probably the rest of us for good measure. At best, we could be found in contempt of
court.”
“I take it my partner says no?” I asked.
“Whatever gave you that idea? I’m in. It’s going to be a lot more exciting than defending some dope dealer who claims he was playing go fish with his mother all night.” Micki drained her glass of wine and laughed.
Not for the first time, I thought, Sam Pagano, you’re an idiot. I looked around the room. Everyone looked ready to march through fire. I thought of Gimli’s line in The Lord of the Rings: “Certainty of death? Small chance of success? What are we waiting for?”
“Okay. Let’s take a break and then figure out how to sell it to Woody.”
36
WHEN EVERYONE HAD settled down with a fresh drink, Clovis led the way.
“First, my expertise is security, not law, but if he were my friend, I’d tell Woody his plea won’t work. A bunch of bleeding hearts will take up his cause and drag it out forever. Meanwhile, he’ll be on death row where he’ll be cooped up all day long and won’t see the sun for more than an hour a day. That existence really will drive him insane. He’s better off cutting a deal and getting into a regular-prison environment, where at least he’ll have access to a library, mail, and human contact. Extended solitary makes hell attractive.” His matter-of-fact assessment was chilling.
Maggie was next. “I’d talk about what effect this will have on his mother. She might be able to live with her son accidentally shooting someone. But for a son to give up on life, how can a mother handle that? I see a sort of honor in wanting to plead guilty and take what’s coming, but to ask to die goes too far. Unconsciously, he’s inflicting immeasurable pain on the people he loves.”
Micki stuck to the law. “Talk to him about the process. He’s entitled to have a jury hear his story. We have a chance to convince them that he never intended to kill Senator Robinson. We have a chance at second degree and an outside chance at manslaughter. If he’s worried about the senator’s reputation, tell him we don’t have to attack the victim in order to defend him.”