When Men Betray (4 page)

T
HE NEXT FLIGHT
was smooth, and I woke from another strange dream to discover that it was already four thirty and we were landing. While Beth went to get the rental car, I called Maggie.

“Jack, things are heating up. I'm getting more calls, more questions. Reporters want to know how you know the murderer, and the partners want you to do some damage control and condemn Woody publicly. I also have a long list of attorneys offering their services.”

That was to be expected. In the days of twenty-four-hour news coverage, lawyers clamor to represent high-profile criminal defendants. Lawyers who really know how to handle a prime-time murder trial are scarce, but plenty vie for the chance to get the TV exposure.

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and sighed. “First thing, we need to find a good criminal-defense attorney, someone within reasonable distance of Little Rock. Put in a call to Gloria at the NACDL.”

“Wait, Jack, I'm not familiar with the NACDL.”

“Sorry, Maggie. We don't usually have much need for the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers, do we? The executive director is Gloria Parra; she should be able to give us a good list.”

“Thanks. I'll get with Rose, and we'll take care of this. I've made the reservations at the Armitage. I'll be there tomorrow. Funny thing, Jack, they said they were expecting my call.”

“What? Wait—you don't need to come. I'm only here for a couple of days.”

“Jack, despite your denials, the world thinks you're defending Woody Cole. The press is descending on Little Rock, and you'll be their focal point until he gets a lawyer. Like it or not, you're going to need my help. Anyway, it's not a problem. Walter's flying me down in the
Citation.”

Walter Matthews, president of Bridgeport Life Insurance Company, is my good friend and golfing partner. Bridgeport is an important client of the firm, and we almost lost them over Walter's romantic interest in Maggie. They met during Angie's last months, and Walter fell hard. But Maggie refused to go out with him, citing her longtime policy of not dating the firm's clients. Walter wasn't the type to give up, so he decided to resolve the issue by sending his business elsewhere. When he told me of his plan over lunch one day, I almost dropped my fork. I knew I had to come up with a better solution. If my partners discovered the reason Bridgeport's business was going out the window, they'd show Maggie the door in a heartbeat.

That very next morning, I asked Maggie directly how she felt about Walter. I'd never seen her blush before. She basically offered her resignation on the spot.

I smiled, happy to solve their dilemma. “Maggie, you should have come to me sooner. There's no reason why you can't see Walter socially. It's just a matter of … logistics. We'll recommend that Laura Clinton at Hankins-Shores handle all of Walter's personal matters. He won't be a personal client of our firm, and we can continue to handle Bridgeport's business. Laura's a fine attorney—it's a good solution all around.”

Walter and Maggie have been inseparable ever since. I'm happy for them but dread the day she resigns.

“Are you listening, Jack?”

“Sorry, Maggie, lost you for a minute. Go ahead.”

“I also heard from an old friend of yours, Tucker Bowie? Owns an insurance agency in Little Rock? He's offered to make an office, phones, and a secretary available for as long as you need.”

“Well, call him back and kindly decline the offer.”

“Jack, don't be stubborn. Do you have any idea how overwhelmed you're about to become? You
are
going to need help.”

“I feel like a broken record. I don't represent Woody. Anyway, what is Tucker thinking? He should be running in the opposite direction.”

“I explained about the media. His response was that hosting you would probably generate more publicity for his agency than its yearly sponsorship of the Arkansas Bass Tournament. I'll see you tomorrow.” And with that, she hung up.

I smiled—Tucker hadn't changed. Years ago, in the state championship game against Catholic, we were ahead eight to nothing when Tucker broke up my no-hitter with a clean single to right field. When he came up to bat again in the ninth, coach told me to aim straight for his head—to bean him in retaliation. I refused. Coach was furious, nearly took me out of the game, and told me I wasn't nearly tough enough to make it in the big leagues. But there's a difference between being tough and being mean—mean doesn't make you a better athlete, it just makes you mean. A grateful Tucker and I became friends on the spot.

Beth drove up in the rented Camry. I got into the car and she handed me a little map with directions to the hotel. I felt strangely disconnected from my old hometown. The skyline was different, and many of the buildings I'd known were gone—or at least, I didn't recognize them. I tried to hide the fact that my palms were sweating and my heart was skipping a few beats. I had sworn that I'd never return to Little Rock, yet here I was.

Woody was right about my not recognizing the Armitage. It had been restored to its former post-Civil War grandeur. We pulled up to the front portico, where a doorman stood waiting. Three satellite trucks loomed across the street, and several lounge chairs were filled with cameramen. They seemed to be half-asleep, but I knew how quickly they could have the lights on, cameras rolling, and a microphone in our faces. I told Beth to make a dash for it.

We jumped out of the car and quickly walked into the lobby. The vultures were stirring across the street, but to my relief, the lobby was quiet. Beth gave the keys to the bellman, and he asked me, “Will you need the car later, sir?”

“Yes, in about thirty minutes.”

I knew I'd made a mistake the moment I said it. I'd just told the pack outside exactly when they could catch me on camera. Oh well. Hopefully, I'd get wiser by the time I left.

The desk clerk said, “We've been expecting you, Mr. Patterson. You have quite a few messages, and if it's convenient, the manager has asked to see you after you've checked in. We'll have your bags brought up to your room.”

I heard a female voice with a cultured southern accent say, “Mr. Patterson.” Turning, I was surprised by the well-dressed woman standing in front of me. “I'm Brenda Warner—the manager of the Armitage.”

Ms. Warner offered a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand. She didn't remotely resemble my image of a hotel manager; she looked more like the head of a public relations firm. Her emerald green eyes held my attention for longer than was appropriate. Beth caught me staring and smirked, but I managed to get through the introductions.

“I've been on the phone with your Ms. Baxter. May I have a few minutes? My office is around the corner.” She walked briskly. Even Beth had to make an effort to keep up. We followed her into a well-appointed office overlooking Main Street. It was large and spacious, with bookshelves lining one entire wall. The shelves were filled with art and travel books, along with pottery and art objects, all arranged with a designer's eye. The office contained all the accoutrements necessary to a hotel manager, but I noticed it definitely had her personal touch—from the tasteful paintings to the choice of furniture. A crystal vase full of fresh, spring flowers sat on her desk. I glanced around but didn't see a family picture anywhere. I gave myself a mental shake.
What was I thinking?

She gestured toward a small conference table, and we all sat down. “You may have noticed that our lobby is free of reporters. We have a policy against letting reporters or photographers loiter in this space. They'll honor that policy as long as you don't try to hold some public event.” She paused.

“Not a chance.”

“Our Century Bar is a very popular spot for attorneys and reporters. You'll be fair game in the bar, and I promise that anything you say there will be all over town within hours. We have an excellent restaurant, but
like the bar, I can't guarantee your privacy. I've increased hotel security for the next few days. Do you have specific needs in that regard?”

“Security won't be an issue, but I appreciate your efforts with the press. I'm just a friend who's trying to help. I'm not Mr. Cole's lawyer.”

Ms. Warner gave me a brief, rather cool smile. “Ms. Baxter told me you'd feel that way. You've been traveling and probably aren't aware of the outpouring of emotion surrounding the senator's shooting.”

I said, possibly a bit defensively: “I have no doubt there's been a strong reaction, but it has nothing to do with me. I'm just a friend. I appreciate your efforts, really, but beefing up security seems a tad extreme.”

Ms. Warner raised her eyebrows. “May I be blunt, Mr. Patterson? Anyone associated with Philip Cole is being painted by the press as an agent of the devil. And whether you like it or not, the public at large believes you are defending Mr. Cole. Until you put this misconception to rest, reporters will be on you like ants at a picnic.”

I waved away her concern and she continued.

“I was asked by the advance team for the vice president to find another place for you to stay. I declined that request, and they've decided he'll stay elsewhere. Other officials coming for the funeral have also canceled because I've refused to ask you to leave. Frankly, that suits me just fine. We've hosted plenty of public figures here in the past. My hotel is still full. Every hotel in town is full, and I don't have to put up with prima donnas who think a tip is a handshake from their boss, trash the hotel, and then expect me to charge them government rates. I used to work for an oil executive who was a huge pain in the neck, so I know what to expect. You've actually done our staff and me a huge favor. I sincerely hope you'll think of our hotel as an oasis from whatever you face outside our doors.”

I was too astonished to do anything but mumble, “Thank you.”

“One last thing: Ms. Baxter reserved a two-bedroom suite for you. She'll occupy the suite across the hall from yours. If you'd like, we can hold your calls until tomorrow. You'll find most of your messages in your room. … Here are some that were left at the front desk this afternoon.” She handed me several envelopes and looked at Beth. “It's been nice to meet you, Ms. Patterson. I hope you both enjoy dinner and have a pleasant evening.”

The bellman ushered us into a large, wood-paneled elevator. We got off on the fourth floor, and he opened the door to our suite. Beth looked at me and whistled. “Gee, Dad, what'd you do to rate this?”

We were standing in a richly furnished living area, complete with sofa, plush armchairs, a round dining table, and a desk with all the trappings necessary for computers and Internet. The wall between the two tall windows contained an enormous built-in TV with bookshelves on both sides and a bar and icemaker beneath. Two comfortably sized bedrooms connected to the living room on each side, both of them boasting a separate bath with a shower and soaking tub. It had the rich smell of money. I'd have to speak to Maggie about my budget for this trip.

I tipped the bellman, decided to ignore the stack of messages, and called Helen Cole. She seemed to be a little calmer.

“I'll be there within the hour. Beth is with me.”

There was a long silence, “Beth? Here in Little Rock? Well it's about time! Just be careful—that crowd outside the house is like a pack of rabid dogs. The state actually sent troopers in to set up barricades. They'll know to let you in. Have your driver's license ready.”

“Is the press that bad?”

“Love, if it were only the press, I wouldn't need barricades. You'll see. Have y'all had anything to eat?”

“No, but we can get the hotel to fix us a sandwich to go.”

“Since when have you had to bring something to my house to eat? You think I'm going to let you come all the way down here and not feed you?”

She was indignant, but she was right. There had always been a pot of something mouthwatering simmering on her stove, cookies in the cookie jar, and a fridge filled with surprises—everything a growing boy could want.

Beth and I unpacked quickly and took the elevator back downstairs. As we neared the front door of the hotel, I could see an army of cameras, lights, and reporters surrounding the rental car.

I took a deep breath. “Beth, you sure you're up for this?”

Beth laughed. “Well, I guess—although this could be my only opportunity to kick back in a fancy hotel suite, order room service, and watch TV without your getting mad.”

“Probably.”

“You're a rock star, Dad. I'm driving.” She grabbed the keys from the bellman and headed out the door.

Her bravado took the cameramen by surprise, and she was quickly in the car and buckling up before they knew what had happened. Unfortunately, I stopped to tip the bellman.

Most Americans believe strongly in the freedom of the press, and nine times out of ten, the press does its work well. But that can be hard to remember when a pack of reporters descends on you en masse. Their shouted questions were deafening.

“Have you spoken to your client?”

“Why did he murder Senator Robinson?”

“How can you represent a cold-blooded assassin?”

Gradually, I forced my way through the crowd and opened the car door. Someone shouted, “Is Philip Cole a deranged sociopath?”

I felt my anger rise and I almost lost it, but I knew that I had to control myself. Like it or not, the press mattered. From years of dealing with the press as an attorney, I knew I had to be direct and decisive. I opened the car door slowly and said in a calm voice, “My name is Jack Patterson. I'm a long time friend of Helen and Philip Cole. I don't know any more about the death of Senator Robinson than what I've read in the newspapers or seen on TV. I've come to Arkansas to see his mother and support the family in this difficult time.”