When Men Betray (23 page)

W
E ORDERED UP
beer and wine when we got to the room. I loosened my tie and sat on the sofa with my leg stretched out to the side. Beth offered to get the pillows, but I told her I didn't need them. It didn't hurt as much as it had earlier, but it still felt good to elevate it. Beth and Micki sat in the comfortable chairs facing me. While we waited on room service, Beth told Micki about her Uncle Marshall.

“Uncle Marshall introduced Mom and Dad. He was around all the time when I was a kid, and I thought he was the most handsome man I knew. He was so sweet, sort of a gentle giant. He'd let me climb and jump all over him. Mom always said Marshall was the big brother she never had, so he became my
Uncle
Marshall.” Beth smiled. “My white friends were sort of scared of him at first. We were all these silly little girls, and he was, you know, big and coal black, way darker than me or Mom. And he always wore this funny hat. But he has a smile that can win over anyone.”

“So you guys stayed close?” Micki asked.

“When I was in high school, he'd send these great care packages—books about Dr. King, Nelson Mandela, and poetry by Maya Angelou. Stuff I'd heard about but had never read. At the same time, he'd tell me his heroes were Mickey Mantle, Chris Evert, and Louis Brandeis. I thought he was kidding, but then he'd spout off their statistics and rave on about the great decisions written by Justice Brandeis.

“Uncle Marshall gave the eulogy at Mom's funeral. He talked about their early friendship and how Mom was his best friend, little sister, and soul mate. It was beautiful. I asked him for a copy after the service. He apologized, but said he hadn't written down a word—he just spoke from his heart.”

Turning to me, she said, “Dad, I love you, but there are some things I can't really talk to you about.” I can only imagine the expression that had been on my face, because she quickly said, “No, don't look at me like that—I don't mean sex. I mean race. For the longest time Uncle Marshall was the only adult I could talk to about being neither black nor white. I'm both, and sometimes, it's been hard to figure out. Mom wasn't much help either. I know she led a pretty sheltered life growing up in New Orleans—private schools and stuff like that, but she had to learn to deal with prejudice in college. I'd try to get her to talk about those times, but she wanted so much to pretend that the same racist shit didn't exist for me. Like, ‘You're empowered. You have role models that I never had.' It was not her favorite subject.” She stopped to take a breath.

“I'm sorry—I have no idea where all that came from, especially now. I haven't seen him much since the funeral, but Uncle Marshall always takes my calls. He's really good about listening and helping me find answers. So in a way, he's been my big brother as well … like Mom's, you know?”

You could have heard a pin drop. I was searching for the right thing to say when room service arrived. Beth looked relieved, and I busied myself with the wine bottle and one of those terrible hotel corkscrews. I poured wine for Beth and me, and handed Micki a cold beer.

I felt an explanation was in order. “Beth's right. Marshall did introduce us—sort of. One day, during my junior year in college, I caught sight of Angie, Beth's mom, as I was coming out of Psych class. She was holding her books to her chest, talking and laughing with a group of friends. She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. I walked right up to her and introduced myself. She didn't say a word, just stared, and her friends started ragging me. ‘What you doing, white boy?' and stuff like that. I didn't budge. She finally said, ‘My name's Angie.' Like a fool, I asked her right then and there if she'd go out with me. Her friends went off on me again, until she said that she didn't think she could, and they all left.

“Angie told me later she thought I was either crazy or that it was some college fraternity prank. I went to Marshall. Yes, he knew Angie Bolden and agreed that she was indeed beautiful.” I looked at Micki, “You said Judge Fitzgerald is a literal guy. That's true. If you tell him to redline a paper, he searches for a red pen. When I asked him if he knew of any reason why Angie wouldn't go out with me, he responded, ‘I don't know why she shouldn't.' I asked for his help, and the next week, Marshall went with me to see her.

“She and her friends had just left class. Marshall's presence must have impressed them, because this time, no one said a word. Angie calmly said, ‘Hello, Marshall.' I remember his words exactly, ‘Angie, this is my good friend, Jack Patterson. He wants to go out with you, and I don't see why you shouldn't.' Her friends were staring, but they kept quiet.

“Angie raised an eyebrow and asked, ‘Well, can you tell me why I should?'

“Marshall laughed and said, ‘No, not really.' To the shock of her friends, Angie ended up taking my arm, and off we went.”

Beth stepped in. “He takes his godfather role quite seriously. A lot of times, a godparent loses track of his godchildren, but not Uncle Marshall. Every year, on the anniversary of my christening, I receive a present from him and a letter. The letters are really quite something. I'll let you read a few someday, Dad. Mom told me that he was very protective of her—just as he is of me now. He's someone I know I can always trust.”

I said, “If he's our judge, we won't have any kind of a leg up on the prosecution. He'll expect the same from me as he would any other lawyer appearing before him, no more, no less. Marshall is one of the smartest men I've ever known. Everyone was surprised when he took the trial bench. We'd assumed he'd end up an appellate judge in the federal system, but he wanted to go where he could interact with people and do the most good.”

Micki said, “You make it sound like he should be on the Supreme Court.”

“Well, I think he'd be a great justice, but it won't happen. There's not a political bone in his body, and the current process would never
let a Souter type on the court again. Those days are over. The process is way too partisan.”

“How did you two meet?” Micki asked.

I thought about how best to explain it. “There were four black students who integrated Westside High the day I started high school, and Marshall was one of them. Sam talked us both into trying out for football, and we showed up for practice on the same day. Despite his size, the coach wanted no part of Marshall playing ball, but he couldn't deny him the right to try out. In retrospect, it's hard to believe. By that time, every major southern university had black ballplayers, as did most high schools.

“The first moment we set foot on the practice field, we heard coach yell, ‘Patterson, Fitzgerald, twenty laps around the track, now!' From then on, coach tried every way he could think of to get us to quit—running laps, laying sprinkler pipes, being blocking or tackling dummies—his tactics were obvious, even to a bunch of teenagers. He knew he couldn't single out Marshall, so I got the same treatment.

“One day, I asked Marshall why he didn't quit. He said, ‘The people who put me in this school told me I couldn't quit no matter what.' It was a matter of honor for Marshall, and I followed his lead. We put up with all kinds of crap, until one day, after a really vicious tackling drill, the team rallied around us, and coach decided to let me practice with the team. I wouldn't unless Marshall did, and coach had to relent.

“Marshall and I never played a down that year, but we made the team. Marshall earned his teammates' respect and good will, but he never played football after that season. He was always happiest reading books.

“Marshall got to know Woody through Sam and me. By junior year, Woody said, sometimes he'd come home after a date to find Marshall and Helen watching TV and eating popcorn. He graduated summa cum laude from State and then went to Yale Law and got a master's in Law at NYU. Definitely not a dim bulb. Anyway, that's the whole story. Sorry to go on like that.”

“He's still a good-looking man, even if he's gotten a little heavy lately. What's his wife like?” Micki asked.

Beth grinned, “Oh, Grace is the exact opposite of Uncle Marshall. She's a whirlwind, always has a million things going on. Their four sons are all athletes, smart, but a handful. She lives in the car, talks a mile a minute, and Uncle Marshall just says, ‘Yes, dear,' to whatever she says or wants. He's never rattled, and I know one thing—he adores Grace and those boys. I bet you can guess their names.”

Micki said, “Don't tell me … Mickey, Chris, and Louis?”

“Yep, you got it—his idols. And the fourth one is named Thurgood for Justice Marshall.”

“Thurgood, after his own namesake too,” Micki added.

Beth and I looked at each other and laughed.

Beth said, “Everybody assumes that, but once, I asked him how he felt about being named after Thurgood Marshall. He laughed and said he wasn't named after Justice Marshall. His mom was a big fan of
Gunsmoke
on TV. She named him after Marshal Matt Dillon—Marshall Matthew Fitzgerald.”

B
ETH AND
I refilled our wine glasses and Micki grabbed another beer, then we got down to business. “Let's move on to the law, Micki. What have you got for us?”

She glanced at Beth and said, “This is pretty basic, but I thought it might be helpful.” She handed us both a short memo. I skimmed the two-pager. It outlined the difference between first-and second-degree murder, along with quirks in this state's laws. I noticed she went into some detail regarding felony murder, the harshest charge Woody could face.

“Thanks. What type of defense do you think we can mount? What are our biggest problems?”

“Well, we have to get through arraignment, discovery, psychiatric evaluations, and who knows what else before we worry about defenses and a trial. Why don't you let me concentrate on the legal aspects of the case? If I get a nibble on my line, I'll holler. You need to work on the more pressing task—what's behind all this, and how do we get Woody to cooperate?”

“That sounds good, but let me throw you a bit of a curve-ball. I want to explore an idea I had in the shower this morning.”

“Fire away.”

“In the federal system, a preliminary hearing is often waived by the defense, but sometimes it can be used to the defendant's advantage. In the O.J. Simpson case, they used the preliminary hearing to learn the facts of the prosecution's case. And O.J., as we all know, got off.”

Beth interrupted, “Wait a minute—what exactly is a preliminary hearing”

Micki said, “A preliminary hearing is sort of a ‘trial before the trial,' except that the judge uses it to determine if the prosecution has enough evidence to force the defendant to stand trial. The judge listens to evidence from both the prosecution and the defense and then determines if there is probable cause to bind the defendant over for trial. Jack, you're not seriously considering asking for a preliminary hearing, are you?”

“I just want to know what our options are. I want to be sure Sam can't avoid one by convening a grand jury or some other maneuver.”

“By state law, the only way to avoid one is for the defendant to waive it. But it's a terrible risk. I've never seen one where the defendant hasn't been bound over for trial. The video of the shooting alone is enough to find probable cause. Plus, Sam gets to see what we've got, which right now is absolutely nothing.”

“Micki, with just what we've already discovered, it's obvious this isn't a simple murder. Too many things don't add up. I honestly don't think Woody is guilty of first-degree murder. But I need time to prove it. Maybe we can use the preliminary hearing to create enough doubt in the minds of the prosecution and the judge that Sam will decide to reduce the charges. Woody's staring at the death penalty. I need to use every arrow in our quiver.”

She looked doubtful, so I decided to let it go—for now. “It was just a shower thought. Some are better than others. Let's take a break. Sorry, but I need to change this bandage. And I'm really ready to get out of this suit and into some sweats. Then I want to hear about your research, Beth.”

I
CHANGED CLOTHES
, Beth took care of my leg, and we all settled in again. “So, Beth, what have you got?”

“Nothing that jumps out. I've listed Russell's major contributors by year, state of residence, and other relevant information on an Excel
spreadsheet. I was able to download all this from his state and federal filings.” She gestured with her head to a corner of the room. “Those file boxes contain the rest of the raw data, and I've tried to summarize that information in a separate file on the computer.”

I jumped in. “I know it's like looking for a needle in a haystack when we don't even know that it's a needle we're looking for.” I could tell Micki was at sea. “Why don't you tell Micki what you've been doing?”

“Well, Dad asked me to identify the major contributors to Russell's campaign. He wanted me to go through the major issues that Russell dealt with during his time as governor and look for any link between contributions and issues. He asked me to be on the lookout for any issue that seemed to be opposed to Woody's philosophy.

“I concentrated on the asset and income filings the senator and his wife made when he ran for office. There's a form you have to file, once you take federal office, that lists your assets and liabilities in broad categories. It's almost impossible to read or understand, but I was looking for any inconsistencies or major changes that may have occurred in the last year. That's a dead end. He also wanted me to do some research on Lucy, including her issues, boards she may have served on, or causes she supported, that kind of thing. Again, not much.

“I took the initiative in one specific area.” She handed me a list she had printed out. “Dad, take a look at these names. After Helen told us that the press conference was about the Arts Center, I decided to research whether any major political contributors had connections to the Arts Center. This would have been nearly impossible if I didn't limit my search, so I excluded in-state contributors, figuring the local press and Russell's opponents had looked at any link between legislation and contributors at the local level.