by Webb Hubbell
Beth played on family. “Dad, Woody loves us. Remember when I was so depressed after Mom died? Even after I went to college, he flew to Davidson and spent weekends, letting me cry, scream, and get shit-faced drunk. Use me and say you’ll never be able to explain to me why now, of all times, he won’t trust you. Just tell him to trust you.”
I looked across the room at Jeff. “I know this is all new to you, but feel free to weigh in. I’m interested in what you think.”
“I’ve never met Mr. Cole. Beth told me that eventually, I’d have to run the gauntlet of meeting Sam, Woody, and her Uncle Marshall. What I hear is that your friend wanted to commit suicide and still does. If you’re going to talk him off the ledge, you need to know why he wants to jump. It sounds to me like he thinks he did something wrong, something he couldn’t undo or correct. I’d focus on him.”
I made a mental note not to underestimate Jeff. He’d struck a nerve with everyone, because soon the table was abuzz with ideas as to why Woody wanted to face execution. We could have gone on all night, but I had something I needed to get off my chest. I pushed back my chair and asked if Micki and Maggie could join me upstairs. Maggie laughed and said that, with Walter in DC she had nothing but time on her hands, and Micki said my plans were her plans for the foreseeable future. Beth and Jeff were happy to have some time alone, and Clovis had plenty to do, so I took care of the waiter, and we left the dining room.
Micki grabbed a beer from the mini-bar and Maggie fixed herself a cup of tea. I poured myself a glass of cabernet, and once we were all seated, plunged right in. “If we’re going to have any chance to keep Woody from jumping off that ledge, you both need to know everything, including what happened in Little Rock all those years ago. It’s why I left, and it may give us a clue as to Woody’s state of mind now. I’ve never told this story to anyone, not even Beth, and it’s going to be tough, so let me tell you the whole thing before you ask questions.
“You both know how I met Angie, and about Marshall’s role in our early romance. From the moment we walked to the Union, I wanted to be with her all the time. My friendships with Woody, Sam, and Marshall suffered, but Marshall understood, because he knew Angie, and Sam and Woody did once they got to know her—especially Woody. He had a crush on her. Angie made it easy on all of us by confronting Woody directly. She told him she was only interested in me. It was Angie’s way to confront, where mine was to avoid.
“Cheryl entered the picture, and Woody and Angie’s friendship became just that, a really close friendship. Marshall had always been like a brother to her, and Sam, who had a different girl every other week, leaned on her during each break-up. To a large extent, Angie was our center.
“But there was an inherent problem, and I didn’t get it at the time. Angie was African American, and I was white. I was naïve, and didn’t understand what all the hoopla was about. I had grown up with black kids in Memphis. We’d played together, gone to school together and eaten at each other’s homes. I knew about prejudice—I saw it and heard it every day—but it just didn’t make sense to me and didn’t seem relevant. Besides, I was in love.
“Angie and Marshall caught a lot of grief from their friends, most of whom couldn’t understand why Angie didn’t stick to dating men of her own race. Angie and I were violating an unwritten rule of the times—we could attend class together and say hello as we passed in the halls, but blacks and whites didn’t mix socially.
“By then, Stafford State had a number of black football and basketball players. But as far as the coaches were concerned, playing ball and staying academically eligible was all those players were supposed to do. The football coaches worried that if the all-American baseball pitcher could date a black girl, what might be next—a black football player dating a white girl?
“Woody became more and more concerned. He and Cheryl were part of the same circle as Russell and Lucy. As the team quarterback, Russell heard all the ugly talk on the field and from his coaches, and Lucy heard it from the campus leadership. Woody tried to warn me, but I ignored him. Angie thought maybe we should cool off a little—no way was I going to do that! Then I threw the no-hitter.”
“What no-hitter?” Micki asked, and then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry—no questions.”
“That one is okay. I pitched a no-hitter against the Texas Long-horns. Texas had the best team in the country, year in and year out. Stafford State was good baseball, but Texas was great baseball. The coach usually saved me for our conference games, but this was Texas, and the coach wanted to fill the stands and draw attention to the baseball program.
“Back then, football was king. Only a few diehards went to a baseball game. But for this game, the students filled the bleachers—even the football players came. I think Russell and his teammates hoped I’d get shelled by the Texas batters.
“Well, I had a very good day. I mowed down batter after batter—twelve strikeouts and no walks, almost a perfect game. On the last out, the crowd went crazy, screaming and running onto the field. I found Angie, and in front of everyone, picked her up and gave her a great big kiss. A camera caught the moment. None of us noticed that Russell and his teammates weren’t cheering.
“That picture appeared on the front page of the Democrat the next morning. People went ballistic. Woody gave Marshall a heads-up that Russell’s football teammates were livid. Baseball had taken their spotlight, and the focus of their hatred was that pitcher with the ‘nigger girlfriend.’ Woody got Marshall and Sam together and told them of a plan he had come up with to calm things down. The old gang of four would get together for a night of drinking beer and telling stories. Woody would use the opportunity to get me to agree to back off my public affection for Angie, at least until school was over. Marshall and Sam knew it wouldn’t do any good, but Woody said he was buying, so they figured, what the hell—the beer was free.
“We went to Crockett’s, a joint on the main strip that attracted both college students and locals. Behind the bar was a platinum blonde named Betty who had a husky voice, chain-smoked, and called everyone ‘hon.’
“We were on our third pitcher when Woody got up the nerve to start talking about Angie and me. He sounded confused, like somebody had planted the idea in his head but hadn’t told him what to say. As it turned out, that’s exactly what had happened. Russell had told Woody that he should talk to me about inter-racial dating and the openness of our relationship. In fact, it was Russell who suggested the whole setup.
“By now we were pretty loaded, and I shoved my chair back, already plenty mad. Before I could say anything, a football player burst through the door and yelled out that he needed a beer. I heard Betty say, ‘You look all done in, hon. Where you been?’ So drunk he was weaving, he hollered out, ‘I’m doin’ great! The team’s got that pitcher’s black bitch at the motel, and we’re teaching her what real white men are like.’”
I looked at Maggie and Micki. Their faces reflected shock and horror at what they knew was coming. I kept talking—rushing now, to get it all out.
“I didn’t hit him, but only because I was flying past him and out the door with Marshall right behind me. I didn’t know where Sam and Woody were and didn’t care. I found out later that Sam decked the guy in the bar with an uppercut that broke his jaw.”
My mouth felt like cotton. I took a large gulp of wine. “The motel was about two blocks down the street. One of the doors was open, and a bunch of guys were milling around outside. I surprised them by running straight in. Angie was on the bed, tied spread eagle to the bedposts with ropes. Her clothes had been torn off of her. They had beaten her, and her eyes were swollen shut. There was blood everywhere. … It was the worst sight I’d ever seen. Still is. She was unconscious.” I took a deep breath and clasped my shaking hands together. “I thought she was dead.
“I rushed to untie her, and thanked God that she was breathing. Marshall and Sam were behind me. This massive guy charged into the room and growled, ‘Hey, you fuckers wait your turn. I’m nex
t.’
“Things get hazy here. I remember charging him. I rammed my head right into his groin. I got on top of him and started punching him. I was totally out of control. Sam told me later that two guys pulled me off of him and started beating the hell out of me.” My voice broke, and I had to stop for a minute. “It’s probably a good thing, or I’d have beaten him to death. While all this was going on, Marshall wrapped Angie in a blanket and carried her out the door, running over a couple of guys on the way. He told me he was halfway to the hospital with her when the ambulance caught up with them.
“According to Sam, things got worse in a hurry. Two guys backed him up against the wall and kept him there. We’d had a lot of beer that night, but the adrenaline and horror had sobered us. The guys who were still standing surrounded me and took turns kicking and punching me, but Sam said I wouldn’t quit. He remembers how quiet it was, except for the sound of them hitting me. I kept coming back for more.
“The two guys holding Sam started beating the shit out of him, too. One of the players hit me with something hard on the back of my head, and I went down. They took turns stomping on me … everywhere. I heard my own bones crack. Sam thought I was dead.
“The police finally arrived, and everybody scattered. Sam was hurt but could walk. I was down for the count, and Woody was nowhere to be seen. At the hospital, he told me he had called the cops, but was too freaked out to do anything else but run home.”
Micki asked quietly, “Was Russell there? In the hotel room?”
“I don’t know. Russell told Woody he wasn’t there. He and Lucy swore they were together that night, studying. He also swore to Woody that he would never have let such a thing happen if he had known. Why Woody bought this cock-and-bull story, I’ll never know.
“It was a long while before Angie could tell anyone what had happened. She’d been at the library working on a paper. It was dark when she left, and two guys wearing ski masks jumped her near the shrubs behind the law school. They gagged her and threw her in the back of a van. They wrapped her head in a blanket so she couldn’t see and drove to the motel. They threw her on the bed and tied her arms to the bedposts. There were at least five guys in the room, all wearing ski masks. One of them climbed on her and started ripping her clothes off. She kicked out wildly, so they slapped her face and tied her legs down. They climbed on, one by one. She tried to struggle, but every time she did, she got slugged or slapped. At some point, she passed out. When she’d wake up, there’d be someone else on top, and they’d punch her back into unconsciousness.
“I didn’t see Angie for some time. I was in the hospital for what must have been about two weeks. Helen was with me every day, and I stayed with her after I was released. Angie’s parents flew her to a hospital in New Orleans right away. For a long while, her parents wouldn’t even let me talk to her, much less see her.”
“Jesus,” Micki said, tears in her eyes. “Please tell me those bastards are still in prison.”
“I wish I could. But no charges were brought against anyone.”
“You’ve got to be kidding! How is that possible?”
“Micki, things were different back then. One of these days, I’ll tell you the rest of the story, but it’s not relevant to the task at hand, and I’m not sure I can handle any more right now. What’s important for now is that you both understand the complex relationships that exist. Woody has always felt responsible for what happened, but he still turned a blind eye to Russell’s involvement, whatever it was.”
We were all quiet for a minute, and then Maggie said slowly, “Angie told me some, but I had no idea …” Her voice became tight and angry. “If Russell Robinson planned it, if he was even involved, it ought to come out. The same goes for Woody. How can you still be his friend?”
I was surprised by her ferocity. But then, I’d had years to come to terms with my anger. “Maggie, it was a terrible thing, and it changed our lives, but it’s old history now, history we can’t change by destroying other people. I need to tell Beth, and then it’s time to let it go. I have to let it go.”
We were all drained. I stood and gave them each a kiss on the cheek. There was nothing more to be said, and they soon left me to my own thoughts.
I sank into the chair and put my feet up, trying to shake off the memories.
I thought I had enough to convince Woody that I’d solved his puzzle—either I was right or I wasn’t. Yet that alone wasn’t going to convince him to give in. Woody had made it clear he was willing to go to his grave with the information he’d discovered. Jeff was right—the key to Woody was to discover why he wanted to commit suicide, not why he’d wanted to scare Russell.
Staring at the dark TV, I began to consider another possibility. What if Woody had been so furious with Russell that he did, in fact, commit cold-blooded murder? It was what Sam believed, and Sam had seen a side of Woody I’d never witnessed.
It would be natural for Woody to want to tell me (and through me, his mother) that it was an accident. How often do we do something wrong or thoughtless and say, I didn’t mean it—sorry. What does “sorry” really mean? Usually, it means we’re sorry we got caught. Hadn’t twenty years of practicing law taught me that most people who screw up claim it was an accident and that they didn’t mean it? Could I really represent Woody if I knew or believed he had planned to murder Russell? Lucy had questioned my motivations, but I had sloughed her off. Her words came back with the same bite as when she’d said them: Why are you here, Jack?
I’ve always told myself that everyone deserves an advocate. I’ve represented guilty clients before, but I justified my defense the same way thousands of lawyers do every day, by falling back on the importance of the judicial system. The law is seldom black or white, and a lawyer’s conscience lives in the gray.
This is not helpful, I chided myself. Woody swore Russell’s shooting was an accident. Maybe Woody wasn’t the man I knew, and maybe I was in for some serious comeuppance. But God help me, I believed him.
The way I saw it, Woody’s actions on Wednesday were those of a man planning his own death, not someone else’s. His checkbook showed he’d written a check to Cheryl that morning for ten thousand dollars. He’d had drinks at the Armitage the night before—the bill revealed a very generous $100 tip. His mother had said he was depressed. Yet as far as I knew, he had never had dark moments when he had acted out of character. I wasn’t aware of anything haunting him. His world and his life had been politics and Russell.
I went over the elements of my theory and the clues Woody had left—Jerry Maguire and the little Egyptian ushabti. I couldn’t find any evidence that Woody had been involved in what was going on. … So where was the logic in suicide? Of course, suicide itself is an illogical act. Nothing in my theory seemed to trap Woody—to put him in a position where he felt unable to escape. Besides, he had escaped. Maybe I was just a pawn in his plan to murder Russell. Surely there was a better way to murder a man.
I gave myself another mental shake and reached into my briefcase for the file containing Woody’s note.
Forgive me Jack for butchering-Goldsmith. Take care of Mom.
When a lone man stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe his melancholy?
What art can wash his guilt away?
NO MORE BETRAYALS!
It hit me like the morning light. Woody thought that I would read this after he was dead. He’d written a suicide note meant only for me. As my mind replayed our last conversation, I realized why he’d planned to kill himself.
Now I had less than twelve hours to talk him off the ledge.
TUESDAY
37
I EXPECTED, WELL—hoped to see Brenda when I came down for breakfast, but she was nowhere to be seen. The lobby and dining room were almost empty. With the funeral over, everyone had gone home except the press. I was enjoying my omelet when I saw her walking toward me, smiling brightly. She wore gray sweats and running shoes;
her damp hair was pulled back with a wide black band. Hot and sweaty, with no makeup, she was still a very attractive woman.
She sat down, breathing hard, and quickly downed the rest of her bottled water. She’d been to the hotel gym, and after she caught her breath, we talked for a few minutes about her routine. Then she asked how Woody was doing and what was likely to happen this morning.
I told her Woody was fine, all things considered, and that today was simply an arraignment where the court would take Woody’s plea, probably decline our request for bail, and handle all the legal preliminaries.
“Well, good luck,” she said. “And please, give Woody my best wishes. I still can’t make any sense of what he did, but I feel for him just the same.”
I nodded. “I will. He’ll appreciate it.”
For a long moment, Brenda seemed pensive, playing with the silverware. At last she looked up and said, “Jack, I owe you an explanation.”
“It’s okay, Brenda. You’re an intelligent, attractive woman, and I’d like to get to know you better, but right now—you know I’ve got to concentrate on Woody. I don’t—”
She quickly stood and said, “It’s fine. I understand. Maybe …” She shook her head. “No, it just won’t work.” She gave me a resigned smile, and with a little wave good-bye, walked away.
I sat there a minute, trying to understand, but feeling fairly exasperated. I decided to rely on my grandmother’s good advice. Countless times she’d said, “Jack, it just doesn’t do to think about.”
We had to leave for the arraignment soon, so I went to the lobby to wait for the others. Micki was already there, and I was relieved when Beth arrived a moment later—on time for once. I asked her to sit next to Helen in court. If I managed to convince Woody to let us defend him, I’d need their physical presence and reinforcement. If Woody insisted on pleading guilty … well, then Helen would need all our support.