When Men Betray (7 page)

One message surprised me—a call from Lucille Robinson's personal assistant. Lucy Robinson, the late senator's wife, had been a friend of Angie's in college, and they'd stayed in touch after we'd moved to DC. We didn't socialize, and the last time I'd heard from Lucy was shortly after Angie had died. She'd written me a very warm and thoughtful note. Her assistant's message was curt:
First Lady Robinson would like to see you as soon as possible
.

I had no idea what she wanted, but that was one call I'd have to return … and I wasn't looking forward to it.

Suddenly, I realized Beth was in the room, sitting on the sofa with a book on her lap and watching me. “Beth—I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were here.”

“It's okay, Dad. It kind of feels like old times on Sunday night. Remember?”

Of course I remembered. Both Angie and I tried to leave our work
at
work as much as possible. Angie had her MD, but didn't practice. She worked in research at the National Institutes of Health. My briefcase stayed in the hall closet until after dinner on Sunday, when I used the evening to organize my upcoming week. Angie and Beth usually joined me—Angie poring over medical journals, Beth doing homework or reading a book. It was a good way to end one week and begin the next, peaceful and unhurried. Angie had spent much of her time in bed toward the end, but on Sunday evenings, I carried her down so we could continue our routine. With Angie gone and Beth at college,
the ritual no longer brings the same sense of renewal, but I still bring out my laptop on Sunday nights.

“Give me just a few more minutes, honey, I'm almost through here.”

Another message in the stack made me gasp:
Watch for me on the Sunday talk shows. I'm glad to know Woody's in good hands. Give him my love. Cheryl
.

Cheryl Cole, Woody's former wife. I couldn't believe she'd want anyone to make the connection. But now she was going to do the round of Sunday talk shows? Surely she had better sense.

The final few notes were from opposing counsel in various cases I was working on, offering to reschedule depositions or meetings. Lawyers love to postpone; it allows them to juggle more balls and continue to bill the client. They come off looking generous while explaining to the client that the delay wasn't their fault. I'd give these to Maggie.

I moved to a soft, comfortable chair close to the sofa where Beth was curled up reading. Angie used to read the same way—Beth was so much like her mother.

“I'm a little tired. How about you?” I asked, letting out a deep breath.

“How could I be tired? I mean, I'm frightened for Woody, but all of this is … kind of riveting. I am a lawyer's daughter, you know. All your other cases seemed dull as nails, but this is a murder case. Do you have any idea why he did it? I mean, I know he did it—did he just lose it?”

“I know that something at work was bothering Woody. It seemed to have come up recently, but Helen thought he'd resolved the problem. He showed some symptoms of depression, but any defense would need to establish much more than that to prove insanity. You remember the Andrea Yates case, don't you? She was the woman from Texas who drowned her five children in a bathtub. Despite all the psychiatric testimony, the jury found her guilty. Woody's lawyers are going to have a tough time.”

“Why aren't you going to be Woody's lawyer? If I were Woody, I'd want you.”

“I want to help Woody and Helen in any way I can, but I'm not a criminal lawyer. I'm not qualified to defend a murder case. Besides, I'm too close. It isn't unethical to represent family, but it's usually not a good idea. And Woody and Helen are family. Except for an
occasional difference of opinion, usually about nothing important, the ‘Gang of Four' has been friends for years. I can't explain why I feel especially close to Woody. Maybe it's because he's always seemed sort of vulnerable, especially after the divorce. And when your mom got sick, we practically had to beat him away with a stick, remember? I think he took her death almost as hard as I did.”

“How could I forget? I know you were all close, but, I don't know, it seemed like a lot, even then.”

“Yeah, but friends like Woody, Sam, and Marshall are hard to come by. We went through a lot together.”

“I still don't get why we never visited them. They were always welcome at our house—why didn't we ever go see them in Arkansas?”

“It's complicated, Beth,” I said, draining my wine.

“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “You know, Helen said something weird to me tonight.”

“What's that?”

“She said, ‘Your dad doesn't know it yet, but I think Woody knew he'd come. Only your dad will know what to do with what he finds.' A little cryptic, no?”

I
FOUGHT WITH
my pillow all night, plagued by bizarre dreams. Naturally, the wake up call came about the time I started to get some real sleep. I didn't hear Beth stirring, so I showered and headed to the hotel restaurant for breakfast and my first look at the morning papers.

Brenda Warner stood in the door of the restaurant, ready for the day in a well-cut suit and pearls. Pearls must be a southern thing, since I seldom saw them in DC anymore. I smiled at her and said, “You're up early.” I liked the way she had pulled her hair straight back into a low ponytail, emphasizing her striking face.

“Hazard of the job,” she said, returning the smile, and led me to a booth against the far wall. She handed me a menu and told me that the hostess had called in sick. “I'll be right back.”

The restaurant was very nice—too nice, really. I like breakfast best in a small dive, where kitchen aromas permeate the room, the coffee is hot, the country sausage is freshly ground, and the biscuits are so rich they don't need butter.

Ms. Warner returned with the
Arkansas Democrat-Gazette
and, to my surprise, the
New York Times
. She motioned for a waiter and then went back to her temporary post at the door. The waiter brought me coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice, and I ordered a real southern
breakfast of eggs, hash browns, and sausage. Grits swimming in butter don't have to be mentioned—they're a given.

The front page of the
Democrat
was devoted entirely to the late senator and the funeral service. As Ms. Warner had told me, the vice president planned to attend, along with the state's congressional delegation, political leaders, governors from surrounding states, aspiring presidential candidates, and assorted movie stars. There was nothing on the front page about Woody, but as I turned to page two, I almost dropped my coffee.

COLE'S LAWYER ARRIVES

Jackson “Jack” Fenimore Patterson arrived in Little Rock yesterday, checking into the Armitage Hotel and meeting with Helen Cole, the mother of accused murderer Philip “Woody” Cole, at her home.

The article went on to describe my two encounters with the press, as well as my history in Little Rock, focusing on the fact that I'd played baseball for Stafford State until an injury ended my pitching career. At the end of the article, the
Democrat
did mention that I'd denied I was Woody's lawyer, but went on to quote a “knowledgeable legal source” that it was merely a matter of time before I announced my representation.

One glowing editorial eulogized Senator Robinson and was, followed by another that called for a complete investigation of Russell's murder. It stated gravely that it was imperative to determine whether Russell's murder was the work of a “lone assassin” or a conspiracy of terrorists. I halfway expected it to say,
Or some demented group of fanatics who didn't cotton to politicians in general
.

I was sickened to see Woody already labeled an assassin and hypothetically linked to the kinds of groups that he'd fought against all his life. Woody was the one who had moved Russell from a conservative Democrat to a practical progressive. Woody's personal politics were much further left than those of his protégé.

The
New York Times
editorial began with, “The Country Is Watching.” The message was that the country would be watching Little Rock to make sure there was a complete investigation—that justice would be put to the test in Little Rock, Arkansas. “It remains to be seen whether justice will prevail for this member of Little Rock's elite.”

Now Woody had been elevated from potential terrorist to part of Little Rock's elite. The
Times
was consistent in its opposition to the death penalty, but it came as close as I'd ever seen to supporting it. The editorial concluded by calling for the US attorney general to monitor the case closely and to step in if justice for Senator Robinson and his family were denied.

The enormity of it all started to sink in. I'd been focused on the people I knew: the Coles, the Robinsons, and Sam Pagano. But this was not simply about people I knew. Why Russell had been killed and who else might be linked to the tragedy were legitimate questions. Every action taken by anyone involved would undergo scrutiny. Unless there were a simple explanation, conspiracy theorists would dominate the airwaves and the Internet. Every aspect of Woody's life would go under the microscope, and unless I got out of town quickly, there would be no way I'd escape the lens. I felt a powerful urge to pay the bill, check out of the hotel, and hightail it back to DC.

Although, on some level, I'd known all of this since the first time I saw the shooting on CNN, I just hadn't wanted to face it. Yet Woody was my friend, and loyalty trumped common sense. Until I heard Woody's story from his own mouth, I wouldn't be satisfied.

Reaching for my coffee cup, I realized that Brenda Warner was standing beside the table.

“I apologize for intruding. Do you mind if I sit down?”

“Not at all,” I said while trying to stand.

She waved me down. “Don't get up—it's impossible in these booths. But I appreciate the gesture.”

The waiter immediately brought her a cup of coffee.

She seemed to be a little nervous. “Mr. Patterson, I knew Woody Cole fairly well. I worked with him planning receptions, political dinners, and other events. He was intense, but I can't believe he'd commit a violent act. Sometimes he would drop by after work, and we'd have
a drink in the bar. He talked about you quite a bit, so in a way, I feel that I know you. I hadn't seen Woody for a couple of weeks when I got a call from him out of the blue last Wednesday. He said, ‘I expect you to get a call from my friend Jack Patterson in the next couple of days. When you do, I want to make sure he can get a room at the Armitage. Do I need to give you my credit card?'

“I told him we had plenty of room, and at the time we did. I tried to get more details, but he said, ‘He doesn't know he's coming.' That seemed pretty strange, but Woody is a friend and a very good customer.”

She took a sip of coffee, then wrapped both her hands around the cup, as though to steady them. “With everything else going on, I totally forgot about his request until Maggie called. I wasn't sure what to do, so I called the hotel's lawyer, who insisted that Woody's call be reported to the police. He did it for me, but I felt I owed it to Woody to tell you.” She lowered her eyes as if she had betrayed a friend's confidence.

“Don't be worried about the police,” I said quickly. “I'd have insisted you tell them if your lawyer hadn't. It's much better than for them to find you in Woody's phone log. The police would have questioned you as though you had something to hide. Don't give it another minute's worry.”

She nodded and seemed to relax a little. We exchanged pleasantries, agreeing to call each other Brenda and Jack. I promised to give her regards to Woody when I saw him this afternoon. She excused herself, leaving me to my thoughts. I admit, my first thoughts were to admire her backside as she walked away. I hadn't really noticed a woman in that way since Angie had died.
Why now, and why here?

But the real questions were, why had Woody left me a note about betrayal, and why had he asked Brenda to reserve a hotel room for me? From the video of the murder, it appeared to me that Woody had wanted to shoot himself after he'd shot Russell. He'd known that no matter how much I didn't want to, I'd come home to be with Helen if he died. But reserving a hotel room was strange behavior. Worse, it was an act of premeditation. I signed the ticket, charging it to our room, and went upstairs.

Beth still wasn't up, which was probably a good thing. I needed to organize my thoughts. I sat down at the desk in the sitting area. It was
too early to call people, so I made a list of things I needed to do. First on the list was to find a good criminal lawyer and then, to determine how much money Woody had on hand to defend himself. He never seemed to care about money, clothes, cars, or anything else material, so I doubted he had much. For as long as I had known her, Helen had been a widow living on her husband's railroad pension, so I doubted that there was anything other than her house she could pledge to pay for Woody's legal defense. The thought of how quickly she might lose her home was sobering. I was willing to help, but I didn't want to give Woody's lawyer a blank check.