When Men Betray (15 page)

“Lucy, I'm sorry for your loss and our country's. How are your children?”

“Thank you. My kids are coping, but I'm having a hard time squaring your condolences with why you're here in Little Rock.”

The woman sitting next to me said smoothly, “Mr. Patterson, there are a few matters the first lady would like to discuss.”

“My name is Jack. I didn't get yours,” I turned slightly to the other two, “or yours.”

The answer came from across the desk.

Gesturing, Lucy said, “Her name is Phyllis, and she's my assistant. He's Malcolm Wilkins, one of my attorneys, and Lindsay is a close friend of mine.”

“Why do you need an attorney here, Lucy?”

Malcolm piped up. “You're counsel to Mr. Cole. I thought she should have counsel present.” I didn't even bother to explain that I wasn't Woody's lawyer.

“I'm here at your invitation,” I said to Lucy. “I can only imagine how tough this must be for you. I've been in your shoes, and yet I don't know what to say. Words bring no comfort.”

Lucy's mouth quivered, but she didn't say a word.

“You're correct,” Phyllis said for her. “You are here at the first lady's invitation. She thought it better to raise certain issues with you in person rather than over the phone.”

“Well, I'm here,” I said, speaking directly to Lucy.

“First, she requests that neither Mrs. Cole nor you attend the funeral.”

“I'll certainly respect your request. I'm sure Helen had planned to attend, although she and I haven't discussed it. She cared a great deal for your husband, and always worked the polls on his behalf. She'll be disappointed, but if that's what you want, I'm sure she'll honor your wishes.”

Maybe this response would ease the tension, although I knew Helen would have a hard time understanding.

Lucy's tone betrayed her rural origins as she went for the jugular. “How do you do it? How can you sit here and greet me like you're a long lost friend paying respects? Did you ever stop and think how I might feel about my good friend's husband trying to get Russell's assassin off? Every time your name appears on TV or in the papers, I feel your knife of betrayal. Is a murderer more important than my family? Did you think about it at all, Jack? Does your loyalty to Woody run so deep that you're willing to sacrifice every good memory I have of Angie, Beth, and you? Right now, you represent the worst of your profession—a man who will stop at nothing to defend a cold-blooded killer. Tell me, Jack. Explain it to me.”

“I don't expect you to understand—”

“Why are you in Little Rock?” she cut in. “Angie told me you were never coming back, but here you are. Did you hate Russell so much that you need to dance on his grave?”

I took a deep breath, let it out, and turned to Phyllis. “Is there anything else the first lady requests?”

Flustered, Phyllis started shuffling through the papers in her lap. I could feel Lucy's anger rising across the desk. She wanted something, and I wanted to find out what it was. I spoke directly to her, trying to defuse the moment.

“It's okay, Lucy. I understand where you're coming from. You're angry and need to take out that anger on someone. You're totally justified in being madder than hell at me. But I know you didn't have me come here just to take me to the woodshed. At some point, you're going to get it all out so you can turn on your Lucy Robinson charm and ask me for something. I'm waiting for that, because otherwise, I really don't know how I can help.”

Lucy didn't say a word. The lawyer didn't smile, but the expression on his face told me I had it figured right. It didn't take long for Lucy to compose herself.

Her practiced, elegant drawl returned as she said, in a quiet voice, “Jack, forgive me. I'm sorry I exploded. I've been so upset. … Everything is happening so fast, and there's so much to do … I took it all out on you. Angie's husband, no less. I really am sorry.”

She paused, expecting me to say something. I waited for her to continue.

“I assume Woody is going to plead insanity on Tuesday?”

I had no answer, so I said nothing. Lucy's lawyer shook his head as if to say,
I told you he wouldn't tell you
.

“All right,” she said, her tone now matter-of-fact, “you probably know that during campaigns, you try to anticipate anything negative your opponent may try to dredge up. You hire a research team to do negative research on your own candidacy and even ask the candidate and his spouse to tell the researchers anything that might be viewed in a bad light. For example, I told them I'd experimented once with marijuana in college, even though it made me deathly ill and I never tried it again.”

“I'm familiar with the concept of opposition research,” I said dryly, remembering the many times I'd seen her stoned at Woody's apartment during college.

“Good. Then you know the campaign not only digs up rumors and dirt but also prepares a response. Some woman always turns up who claims she had an affair with the candidate. You figure out how to paint her as a liar; you dig up stuff she's done before. The background of big contributors is checked. Of course, these files are very confidential, and everyone who works on them signs a confidentiality agreement. Well, for some reason, Russell trusted Woody to make sure all that information was protected.”

Lucy's face rearranged itself into a smile. She looked as if she might ask me to take her to the prom. “You're Woody's attorney. I was wondering if you might have those files.”

I didn't, of course, but I wondered about the key Woody had left me, as well as about whatever files had been seized by the state troopers. I noticed that lawyer Malcolm had moved closer to Lucy's chair. I was glad he was there. He might better appreciate what I had to say.

“Lucy, I understand your concern. If I'd been Russell's attorney, I'd have insisted there be a clear understanding of who owns the files—Russell, you, Woody, the campaign, or someone else.”

“They're mine.” Her color was rising again.

“You're probably right. But I wasn't Russell's lawyer, and I don't know what happened. I'll try to find out and inform Malcolm. He may have to go through Sam Pagano, but—”

“Sam Pagano? What's Sam got to do with those damn files? They're my files. I want them back. I want them destroyed! Fix it, Malcolm!”

Malcolm had shrunk back against the wall.

Reaching a hand out to her, I said, “Lucy, please calm down. I'm sure the files will be found, and Malcolm will make sure they never see the light of day. Right, Malcolm?”

He didn't seem to appreciate my humor.

“He damn well better.” She fumbled for a Kleenex and dabbed at her eyes. “Jack, I apologize again. … It was just three days ago.” She looked miserable, but her genteel accent was back in full force. “My staff has raised something else with me, and Malcolm says that I
should discuss it with you—off the record. I'd rather not bring it up, but they insist.”

Uh oh, here it comes
.

“You know Russell was very good to Woody. Generous to a fault. He gave Woody his first real job out of college and kept him on the payroll long past his time. After Cheryl left him, Woody was lost. He lived in the past. Everyone suggested that Russell let him go, but you know Russell. He gave Woody odd jobs to keep him busy. Unfortunately, the move to Washington meant leaving Woody behind. I can only guess that Woody got wind of the inevitable and snapped.”

It was a fine performance. The other members of the cast nodded somberly.

“Jack, I have moments of anger and rage. I can't help it. But most of the time, I just feel sad and alone, so alone.”

Not for long, if the cut of that dress is any indication
.

The tone of her voice changed. Not angry, certainly not sad and alone, but pure business. “I've been asked about what should happen to Woody. You know—whether he deserves the death penalty. Well, like the rest of the country, I'm still in shock that a great man like Russell was assassinated. Our country can't be seen coddling assassins. But then, I think, what would Russell say? And I don't know. He might call for justice—that the murderer of a US senator must receive swift and certain justice. But Russell was such a compassionate man. He might have asked for mercy, even for his own killer. I don't know. I just don't know, but I have been asked, and I'm sure I'll be asked again.

“Malcolm told me that if Woody were in prison, he might write a book about Russell, and it might get published. You know, if he was so mad at us that he killed Russell, there's no telling what he might say. That would be horrible for everyone, especially the children. But Jack, somebody he trusted might be able to convince Woody to serve his sentence quietly. If I could be certain, it might help me understand what Russell would say if he were alive. I might come to believe that Russell would have been forgiving … I'm sorry. I know I'm rambling. But you understand, don't you?” She smiled like an ingénue.

I understood her perfectly.

The meeting was over, or should I say, the play had ended. Malcolm
gave me his card and said, with a controlled smile, “We look forward to your response.” Phyllis, at least, said good-bye. Lindsay was still holding up the wall. Lucy came around the desk, held out her hand, and presented her cheek.

She got an air kiss—that was the best I could manage.

I
WALKED AWAY
from the mansion fuming, trying to keep my thoughts under control.

“You okay?” Clovis asked.

“Let's get out of here.” I got in the car and slammed the door.

Angie's good friend—does she think I'm stupid?
The play was over, and I really wanted to write the review. Instead, I took a deep breath and managed a smile. Actually, I'd gotten a lot more out of the meeting than I'd expected. For one thing, Lucy's funeral request had freed up tomorrow morning. Helen would be disappointed, but I was relieved. I'd have felt like a hypocrite.

Plus, I now knew that if Woody wanted to sit quietly in prison, I might be able to give his attorney something to keep him off death row. We'd be dancing with the devil, but Woody might have enough dirt on Russell or Lucy to allow some room for negotiating. The compromise Lucy proposed stunk, probably wasn't legal, and had little chance of success, but it was the first glimmer of hope.

Lucy was right to worry about opposition-research files falling into the wrong hands. They could do tremendous damage to Russell's reputation, and Lucy's too. This type of research could be a treasure trove for the tabloid press—or worse, people intent on blackmail.

Russell had been wise to ask Woody to be in charge of the opposition research. Woody disliked negative and slimy campaigning. He
never discussed secrets—Russell's or Lucy's—and he was always on the pulpit about how political campaigns had turned ugly, dirty, and issueless. I caught myself. That was the Woody I
thought
I knew, not the one who had put a gun to Russell's head. Either way, Lucy had good reason to be worried.

I realized that Clovis wasn't taking the direct route back to the hotel. “Has there been a change in schedule?”

“Nope, we've got company.”

I turned around and saw a black Suburban with tinted windows. “You sure? In DC, maybe—it would be easy to hide in traffic. But here? Who would be stupid enough to tail us when they can be seen so easily?”

“I don't know, but we're about to lose him. Hold on.” The big Tahoe barely managed the sudden U-turn, almost turning over before Clovis regained control. We quickly turned into an alley, and from there, wove in and out of backstreets I'd long forgotten. When I checked the side mirror, we were alone.

“Wow, James Bond, I'm impressed!”

“Don't be. I'm pretty sure they wanted to be seen. Intimidation is the name of the game. But they've made their point. We need to be careful.”

My adrenalin was pumping, and an idea suddenly struck me. “You have Woody's key, right?”

“I do. I'd planned to get a copy made on the way back to the hotel. Why?”

“Drive to the train station.” Clovis nodded. A few minutes later, he pulled into the parking lot.

“We used to hide liquor from our parents in the lockers here. None of us had a car of our own, and our parents didn't miss much, so for a quarter we could rent a locker and store booze in it. There was a liquor store across the street.”

“The Cork?” Clovis asked. “Long gone.”

The Cork—I'd forgotten the name, but I hadn't forgotten the toothless old man who leered at us and talked about pouring pure grain alcohol on his Rice Krispies.

We headed inside to a bank of lockers that looked the same as they
had almost thirty years ago, except that half of them hung open, with the hinges or locks broken.

Clovis pulled the key out of his pocket and asked, “Any idea which one?”