When Men Betray

by Webb Hubbell

  Both Marshall and Sam were frowning.

  I pressed on. “What have you got to lose? I’m merely presenting what I intend to prove. Think of it as an opening statement with exhibits not yet introduced.”

  “What you’re asking is very unusual,” Marshall said. “There may be precedent for national-security reasons, but you admit that’s not the case here. The real problem for me is credibility with the media, and more important, with the US attorney. He’s going to holler that we’re up to no good behind closed doors.”

  “I’ve thought about that. Micki told me that the US attorney is a bit of a loose cannon, but his deputy, Rodney Fitzhugh, has been in court from day one. According to Micki, he’s a straight shooter. I’d suggest you ask him to observe. I also noticed that the chief deputy of the Justice Department’s Criminal Division was in the courtroom today. Perhaps you could invite her to sit in as well.”

  Marshall seemed agreeable to the idea, but not Sam. “I’m not so sure. Sounds to me like you’re up to something. I don’t want this preliminary hearing to become some cabal of international intrigue involving spies and spooks. It’s a straight-forward shooting of a senator, not some terrorism trial.”

  I said, “I hear you, Sam. But let’s deal with first things first. If Woody won’t agree to the stipulation, the matter is moot. But if he does, all I’m doing in chambers is giving you a preview of my case. I’ll even provide you my exhibits. I’m just asking you to listen to me make a fool of myself before I do it in front of a national audience.”

  Marshall interjected, “I think it has to be on the record. If I don’t think there’s a reason to keep it from the media, I can release a transcript.”

  “Your Honor, let me suggest you authorize a video recording of the proceeding and release it if you desire. If at any time the court thinks I’m wasting its time, you can shut it down.”

  Sam sighed. “I have a feeling I’m going to regret it, but no objections to a proffer, Your Honor.”

  His deputies were as unhappy with Sam as Micki was with me. Sam didn’t have to tell me I’d used my last bit of capital. If what I did tomorrow was a trick or a scam, we were through, both professionally and as friends.

  Marshall thought for a moment. “All right. I’ll extend the invitation to Mr. Fitzhugh as well as the visitor from DC. If Mr. Blanchard shows up, he will not be allowed in my chambers. My fellow judges on the federal bench may have to put up with his histrionics, but I don’t.

  “If your client agrees to the stipulation, I want to see it in writing signed by counsel. I will personally ask the defendant if the consequences have been explained to him. Do both parties understand?”

  We did.

  Maggie gave our exhibit list and copies of the exhibits to Sam’s deputies. Of course, the exhibits would make absolutely no sense to them.

  Micki, Maggie, and I headed downstairs to see Woody. I didn’t know yet exactly what would be in my proffer tomorrow, but first things first … Woody.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to convince Woody to stipulate,” Micki said forcefully. “I won’t do it. I simply won’t do it.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  She stopped and looked at me like I’d just flown in from Mars.

  “In fact, I want you to convince him not to.”

  42

  WOODY EMERGED FROM the holding cell in the orange jumpsuit he’d worn earlier, as well as handcuffs and leg irons. Micki yelled loud and long enough for the deputy to unlock Woody’s restraints and allow us to give him a cup of coffee. As soon as we were settled, I began.

  “Woody, there’s been a new development. I’m going to let Micki explain things because she’s more passionate about what you should do. Listen to her. There’s no hurry.”

  Sitting next to Woody, Micki couldn’t help smiling. “We got a huge break today. In the rush to bury the senator, there was no autopsy. Neither was there a ballistics test on the weapon, and the bullet was not found. There weren’t even any rudimentary tests performed to establish that the gun in your hand was the murder weapon. These are monumental errors.

  “Without this proof, Sam is on the horns of a dilemma. He tried to convince Marshall they’d met their burden for going to trial, but Marshall correctly told him that he wouldn’t rule on that issue yet. If they rest and Marshall holds they didn’t establish probable cause, or an appeals court says they didn’t, you’ll walk. No jail, no death penalty—you’re a free man.”

  Micki was violating the rule against getting too optimistic, but it was okay, considering the circumstances. She kept rolling.

  “Now … Marshall or an appellate court could rule that the video was enough, but they’ll still have to exhume the body for an autopsy. Sam has proposed two alternatives to his immediate problem. The first is that you stipulate to the cause of death for this preliminary hearing. The second is that he continues to examine his string of eyewitnesses while he gets an order for exhumation. I’m certainly not going to let you concede the cause of death. So, he’s got to exhume the body, and I think his case may be in big trouble. The funeral home is bound to have tried to cover up the damage the bullet did. If they’re lucky, Sam finds the bullet and the ME agrees it caused the death. But by then, we’ve embarrassed his office, and he’ll want to deal for a lesser sentence. More likely, his office will continue to make mistakes, the press will be all over Sam, and down the road, you get a reduced sentence. You’ll be out of prison relatively soon, certainly not stuck there forever.”

  Woody kept his eyes on her, but didn’t react. Micki was frustrated.

  “Do you at least see what I mean when I say we got a huge break?” she asked. “I couldn’t see a way out of this at first, but they’re no longer dealing from absolute strength. They’re vulnerable.”

  Micki looked at me for help, but I was noncommittal.

  “Jack played the nice guy today—he promised the judge and Sam he’d present the stipulation issue to you, and I’m glad he did. No reason to kick Sam when he’s down.”

  Uh-oh—wrong analogy.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “agreeing to the cause of death is out of the question. They’ll have to dig up the body at some point anyway.”

  “No, they won’t,” Woody said.

  “Wha … what do you mean?”

  “I mean they won’t have to exhume the body if I plead guilty.” He looked into Micki’s eyes coldly, as though she were one of his former girlfriends he’d caught cheating on him. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let this go any further. I know you mean well, but I want it over. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  “Oh, Woody—I can’t let you do that. You can’t just roll over. We have a chance, a real chance to have you out of jail really soon.” Her exasperation was obvious.

  “If you can’t let me plead guilty, then I’ll fire you,” Woody said sadly. “I appreciate how much you care, but I’ve made up my mind. If it were anyone but me, I’d be right there with you, all the way. But I can’t allow you to inflict further pain on my behalf. I’m not going to embarrass Sam. I did that once, and I almost destroyed him. And no matter what I think of Lucy, she and her children don’t need to see Russell dug up and sliced open. For what? To prove I killed Russell when the whole world saw me do it, and I know I did it? No, I’m pleading guilty.” He turned to me. “Call Sam, and tell him to stop any attempt to exhume the body. I won’t allow it. If you won’t, I’ll fire you too, and I’ll do it myself.”

  Micki had done her best, but I’d known all along that Woody wouldn’t go for exhumation. For him, exhumation only prolonged the inevitable.

  Woody’s original plan had been for me to discover why he’d killed himself. Either a frightened and horrified Russell would do whatever was right, or I would force him to. Every bit of his plan was about undoing damage, not creating more. Now that Russell was dead and Woody was still alive, Woody had to undo the damage as best he could by dying. I’d been late to learn, but I had at last figured out G
oldsmith. It was in the second verse:

  The only art her guilt to cover,

  To hide her shame from every eye,

  To give repentance to her lovem

  And wring his bosom, is—to die.

  I said softly, “It’s okay, Woody—calm down. I’ll call Sam. I’ll follow your lead on the exhumation.”

  Micki flinched and her mouth popped open, but I continued before she could interrupt. “But I’m going to be your lawyer for one more day like you promised. Then you can fire me, or maybe I’ll quit. All Marshall and Sam want is for you to agree that the cause of death was the bullet fired from your gun. That’s it. Then I get my turn.”

  “What do you mean your turn? I’m telling you, I’ve done enough damage. I’m through.”

  “You won’t believe me if I say the damage isn’t yours, Woody, so I won’t try to convince you. What I need you to hear is this: Sometimes when the train gets rolling, it’s almost impossible to stop. You tried when you brought a gun into the capitol that day, but it was no use. Now it’s time to put a stop to all of this.”

  Woody didn’t respond. He knew I had homed in on the truth.

  “I can’t let you refuse, Woody. It’s not just for you—you’re going to do it for me, and for Sam, and for Marshall. And yes, for Angie. It’s time we closed that chapter in our lives. It’s been over twenty-five years—way past time. You know I’m right, Woody. You owe me, and I’m here to collect.”

  Woody looked at me and then hung his head, “I do owe you, but—”

  I knew what he was going to say.

  “No media, I promise. It’ll just be me talking to three old friends. When I’m through, I’ll make a proposal. If anyone disagrees—no harm, no foul. If there’s no agreement, you can plead guilty. Hearing me out won’t hurt a soul. I won’t say anything that will hurt Russell’s family. I promise you that. Tomorrow, you’ll listen to me for a while. You won’t say a word. You won’t interrupt. Then we’ll have fulfilled our obligations to each other. I’m going to do it, whatever you say. But Woody, grant me this one request—say, ‘Okay, Jack, you get your turn. You get your day.’”

  I waited, watching him think it over.

  He let out a deep breath. “Okay. You get your turn.” He turned and reached out to hug Micki.

  I smiled and thought to myself, some things don’t change. Woody still gets the girl.

  After the guards took him away, I turned to Micki, who hadn’t said a word or moved a muscle. I was suddenly worried she might be the one to quit.

  “Sorry, partner. I didn’t consult you on this one.”

  She looked me straight in the eyes. “You knew he wasn’t going to allow an exhumation, didn’t you? But you let me try. If Woody changed his mind later on, a sharp lawyer would say he shouldn’t have been allowed to stipulate, that his lawyer should be disbarred. But no ethics committee could ever claim I didn’t try to get Woody to fight.”

  I studied my shoelaces.

  “You’re always full of surprises, Jack. But haven’t you taken on a lot? Now that we’re going to stipulate, I don’t see Sam budging. It looks like you’ve lost your leverage. Although, you’ve proved me wrong before. … I hope I’m wrong again.”

  “So do I.”

  43

  CLOVIS DROVE US back to Micki’s in silence. It had been an exhausting day. As we turned into her driveway, I said from the back seat, “I’d like to see Brenda after court tomorrow afternoon.”

  Clovis caught my eye in the rear-view mirror, obviously unhappy, and changed the subject, giving me a series of updates about recent events outside the courtroom. A lip reader had been unable to make out what Woody and Russell were arguing about in the video. Clovis said the man who’d attacked me with the knife had simply walked out of the hospital and disappeared. He’d been under police guard, but somehow, he’d slipped out and was no doubt long gone. Whether he had inside help was a moot point. The special project I’d given Clovis was now moot as well. The rotunda was swarming with law enforcement, hunting for the missing bullet.

  There was one bit of good news: Clovis had found better equipment to show the DVD of the murder footage. We agreed to watch it again after dinner and spend some time interviewing Bea.

  I MADE A beeline to my bedroom. I couldn’t wait to change into some comfortable clothes. Feeling much better, I checked on everyone’s whereabouts. Walter had returned from DC, and it was nice to see Maggie riding horses with him in the twilight. Beth and Jeff were out on the back porch enjoying the sunset. One of Clovis’s guys had taken Bea grocery shopping, and mouthwatering aromas were coming from the kitchen. It was hard to square this idyllic scene with the reason we were here. I walked onto the porch, and Beth handed me a cold beer from a cooler. Micki was way ahead of me, already lounging in a rocking chair.

  She said she had told Beth and Jeff what had happened in chambers after they’d left and that they’d wanted to know if she agreed with my strategy.

  “At first, I said I didn’t, but then, the more I thought about Woody’s reaction, I once again realized that you were playing the hand you’d been dealt. You used my arguments and Woody’s determination to your advantage. My strategy might make me feel good and might even work in an ordinary case, but this is no ordinary case. The key is getting Woody’s cooperation, and twice now, I’ve seen you convince Woody to trust you. Still, I’d bet this ranch you can’t pull it off, and you know how much I love this place.”

  Walter and Maggie walked up to the porch, dusty and smelling of horses, leather, and grass. A good smell. Micki laughed when Walter offered to buy her place on the spot. Clovis told us that dinner wouldn’t be ready for another thirty minutes and that he had a little project for Jeff and me. Smiling broadly, he brought out a baseball glove, a catcher’s mitt, and a bag of balls. He threw the mitt to Jeff, the glove to me, and drawled, “Jeff, ever since I’ve met Jack Patterson I’ve been hearing about his fastball. It’s time for him to put up or shut up.”

  What could I say?

  We walked onto the lawn and after stepping off sixty feet, I began to warm up. Jeff threw like a catcher does to his pitcher, direct and on line. I hadn’t thrown a ball in years, and every movement stretched and pulled on muscles that had been long asleep.

  After Angie and I moved to DC, I’d sometimes take a bag of balls to an empty backstop and throw for half an hour. My mind would return to the summer heat and my grandmother’s back yard, throwing into a net, striking out baseball greats like Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays. I couldn’t throw hard, and my curve ball didn’t have the snap it used to, but I still loved to throw into that backstop, pretending I was in the majors. I taught myself a knuckleball, sinker, and slider, the pitches used by older guys when they lose their velocity, but not their control. Angie never complained about my trips to the empty diamond. She knew that with every throw, I was letting go of a little bit more of the past. After a long weekend in New Orleans with some of her girlfriends from high school, I’d asked her how the reunion had gone. She said it had been great to catch up, but kind of boring after a while. All her friends wanted to do was talk about was high school, old boyfriends, and girls they didn’t like. She said, “You know, if all we do is obsess about the past, we turn our backs to the future.” She was right. I put my glove away.

  Jeff was now in a catcher’s crouch, and my arm had loosened up enough to start throwing hard. Pitching may look effortless, but it takes concentration and skill. As I focused on Jeff’s mitt, I totally forgot about Woody and Russell. Just like Kevin Costner in For Love of the Game, I engaged the mental mechanism and shut out all extraneous noise and distraction. I could have continued forever, but of course, my arm deserted me quickly, so I cried “uncle” after a couple of dozen fast balls and thanked Jeff for indulging me.

  After a few high fives, we turned happily to our cheering fans. It was only a game of catch, but it had provided a much-needed respite from our overworked emotions. Dinner was ready, and the aromas were incredible. Ton
ight, Bea’s specialties included fried pork chops, garlic-and-jalapeno cheese grits, slow-cooked green beans, and those fluffy white dinner rolls that melt in your mouth.

  Just when we thought we couldn’t eat another bite, Bea brought out pound cake she’d made that afternoon. She had sliced it and broiled the slices, so they had crisp, brown edges. She topped each piece with a dollop of vanilla ice cream and fresh raspberries.

  Going back to work was difficult. I just wanted to lie down on the sofa and doze. While we cleared the table, Clovis set up the sophisticated video equipment. Jeff and Beth volunteered to do the dishes, opting not to watch the shooting again. Clovis used his new equipment to slow the disc down so we could see the scenes almost frame by frame. I told everyone my theory, hoping that we would see something to substantiate it. The camera angle made it impossible to see two critical things—Woody and Russell’s faces and Woody’s finger pulling the trigger. The super-slow motion made the aftermath even more sickening and difficult to watch. Worse, there was nothing to support my theory.

  Apparently, it had been wishful thinking on my part. My hope that the DVD would reveal the unlikely had been grasping at straws. It was time to forget about some dramatic discovery that could exonerate Woody.

  Yet, just as when I watched it last night and again in court, I did catch something else. It was much clearer this time. It wasn’t definitive, but it was something. I begged everyone to watch the video one more time and this time, to not watch Woody or Russell, but to focus on everything else. I wanted them to see what I had seen, without my prompting. Clovis ran the video again, and sure enough, it was definitely there.