When Men Betray (2 page)

I
MADE OUR
plane reservations, then sat on my daughter's bed while she packed. I couldn't stop thinking about Woody. The muted images of the murder flashed continually on the TV screen. Woody Cole and I had formed an unlikely but solid friendship in high school. While I played football, basketball, baseball, and all sports in between, a strong breeze could have blown Woody across the street. He stood five feet six-inches tall and weighed 130 pounds soaking wet. He wore thick, dark-rimmed glasses that reminded Sam, Marshall, and me of Woody Allen—hence his nickname. The four of us were the best of friends, almost inseparable.

Woody's adult life was all about politics, initially as a student activist and, ultimately, as the consummate political operative. He'd hitched his star to Russell Robinson's, a college classmate of ours at Stafford State, long before Russell had been elected governor. Besides having managed all of Robinson's campaigns, Woody had served as his chief of staff in the state capitol for eight years. Last fall, Russell was elected US senator in a landslide victory. He was good looking, a former star quarterback, charismatic, and a natural politician. Woody had developed the progressive, populist, and independent themes that had carried Russell to his seemingly effortless victories. Winning the Senate race meant bringing their message to a national audience.

Woody had called me just three weeks ago to solicit my help in garnering financial and legislative support in Washington. He'd said Russell had financial backers in states other than Arkansas, and was eager to show them that he would be a force in the Senate, even as a freshman. My law firm, Banks and Tuohey, had the strongest government relations department in DC.

My response had been immediate. “I know Russell, remember? I don't trust him, never have. You're the only reason I'd even consider getting the firm involved.” I groused for a while, knowing I'd relent.

Woody had said, “I'm not asking you to trust Russell, just trust me.”

“Dad,” Beth said, shaking my shoulder, “are you all right?”

“Yeah—it's nothing. I was just thinking about the last time I talked to Woody. He wanted me to help Russell make some connections in DC, and I was a jerk about it. I never liked Russell, I'll admit, but he was good to Woody. He was actually not a bad governor—could have been a decent senator.”

“If you feel up to it, maybe you should make some calls and try to get the full story on what happened. Wouldn't Sam or Uncle Marshall know?”

She was right of course. I had to focus. I also needed a strong drink.

“I can do that later. Let's head to Charlotte.”

D
INNER THAT NIGHT
at the Mimosa Grill was excellent. I watched my daughter's face as she filled me in on school and the goings-on of her old high-school friends. Beth's honey-colored skin, dark eyes, and coal-black hair mirrored her mother's good looks, although she's not as tall as Angie was. She's lightning quick on the soccer field, and her tenacity as a center forward carries over to every other aspect of her life.

As a teenager, Beth had been quite the smartass. She was a happy kid, but challenging—quick with the comebacks and eye rolls. She knew exactly how to provoke her mother, and I was often caught in the middle as an unwilling referee.

That all changed when Angie was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Beth had been eighteen, a senior in high school. She became sullen and moody—this wasn't a problem she could just shrug off or turn over to someone else. Her schoolwork suffered, and we all sought
psychological help. She was now a junior in college, and time had worked wonders where psychologists couldn't. I was proud, listening to her describe her friends. She was perceptive but kind, finding the humor in things without being cruel.

Over dessert, she changed the conversation abruptly. “You're being so quiet. I mean, it's fine if you're distracted …”

“Sorry, honey. I'm just enjoying listening to you.”

Beth wasn't attacking her cheesecake, so I knew something was on her mind. “Can I ask you a question? I get that you and Woody have always been close, but why is his mom so important to you?”

Here we go
. Between working for various causes and his work as the governor's chief of staff, Woody had stayed with us in DC many times over the years. But since neither Angie nor I could stomach returning to Little Rock, Beth had never met Woody's mother.

“Beth, I don't want to dwell on it, and some of this I'm sure you already know, but my own mother and I didn't get on so well. Mostly, my grandmother raised me.”

“In Memphis … right?”

“Right. My mom worked for a local doctor, and she didn't spend much of her spare time at home. When she remarried, the summer before I was going into tenth grade, we moved to Little Rock with her new husband. It was tough. I missed my grandmother and my friends, and I hated my stepfather. When I met Woody, Helen became sort of a second mother. I spent as much time as I could with the Coles, and Helen was always there for me. She was the one who made sure my college applications were in on time, helped me buy a corsage for prom … things like that. Of course, I grew more independent in college, but Woody, Sam, Marshall, your mom, and I almost never missed Sunday dinner at Mrs. Cole's house. She's a special lady.”

“I bet it was hard moving to a different town as a teenager. I would have hated that.”

“It was a life-changer. I remember my first day like it was yesterday. My stepfather drove me to school. That same morning, Westside High got its first black students. Like other southern cities, Little Rock, in a very public way, had integrated its schools in theory years earlier, but definitely not in practice. The first four African American students at Westside were handpicked volunteers: two girls and two boys. Your
Uncle Marshall was one of them. Those kids walked into school and faced a flood of racial epithets that surprised even me. I thought I was used to foul language and racial slurs, but I'd never heard anything so ugly from people my age before. Maybe I hadn't been listening.”

“Jeez. I didn't know that about Uncle Marshall.”

I shook my head. “Probably more than you wanted to know.”

“No, I'm glad you told me. You never talk about when you were a kid.”

“I know, but look, let's not get mired in ancient history tonight. Let's talk about you. That's what I've been looking forward to.”

“Picking up my fork as if to examine it for spots, I said, “So, who's this fellow ‘Jeff' you keep talking about?” Jeff's name had insinuated itself into our conversation more than an over-protective father might have liked. She'd told me that she had hoped I could meet him this trip, but he was away until Sunday playing baseball for Davidson.

I nearly choked on my pecan pie when Beth casually mentioned that she had met his parents last weekend in Charleston. She gave my hand a little squeeze. “You'll like him. His parents were cool about me—Jeff had already told them, so it wasn't a shock. I was nervous, but they really seemed to like me. We toured the city and had dinner in a great Italian restaurant in the old part of town. I met some of his old friends at a club afterward. We really had a good weekend.”

“Well,” I said, “of course his parents like you. What's not to like?” Beth smiled at that, but waited for me to say more.
Was I really sweating? Get a grip, Jack!
“It … uh, sounds like Jeff is more than simply a good friend. It sounds serious.”

“I guess it is,” she said slowly. “We've been together almost the whole year. I really want you to meet him. Actually, I was thinking maybe he could spend a couple of weeks with us after exams.”

“I don't think so,” I said, a little too suddenly.

She looked away, suddenly interested in what was going on with the other diners. I knew she was trying not to lose her composure. How to deal with this? I didn't want to screw it up. I took her hand, “Beth, look at me. You and I have gone through a lot, and we've always been able to talk. I'm sure Jeff is great, but are you sure. You are awful young?”

“Oh, Daddy, don't get all intense on me.”

She smiled and came around the table to wrap her arms around me.

“It's not like Jeff and I are even thinking about marriage. I think he's great, but we're not there yet.” She sighed good-naturedly as she walked back to her chair. Smiling at me as though she were the parent and I were the child, she said, “But I do want you to get to know him.”

I tried to feel convinced and cleared my throat. “Well, all right. But you didn't tell me you were going to Charleston.”

To which Beth responded coolly, “There are a lot of things I don't tell you.”

A
FTER DINNER
, I stretched out on the sofa in our room to watch the gruesome scene on CNN again, as if I didn't know what to expect. One part of my brain tried to register what my eyes had seen, another simply refused. The gun went off, Russell went down, people panicked and ran, but Woody stood frozen, a shocked expression on his face. Woody had just turned the gun to his own head, when a state trooper grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground. I heard the expected screams, followed by an eerie silence as Woody lay beside Russell, police guns trained on him from all sides. The rotunda appeared otherwise empty except for the bank of microphones where Russell had stood moments earlier. The commentators were at a loss. Why on earth
had
Philip “Woody” Cole shot his long-time friend and boss?

Images of Russell as a star quarterback, as a successful governor, and as a new senator flashed on the TV screen. To the day of his death, Russell had maintained his rugged good looks and still walked and acted with that air of self-confidence unique to quarterbacks. A little over six feet tall, he wore his blond wavy hair longer than most politicians. He had an outdoorsy tan that might have been sprayed on but wasn't.

My problem came when he opened his mouth. Through perfect, professionally whitened teeth, his voice oozed charm. You were his
best friend at first sight, and he gave everyone a nickname, even if you didn't want one. In college, Sam Pagano had been “Sam, my man.” He referred to me as “Beanpole.” We were lucky. Too many of his nicknames were cruel. Yeah, he threw a beautiful pass and commanded respect on the football field, but he never lost his arrogance.

The press also managed to produce images of Woody. These were less flattering than photos from years past. We saw Woody in handcuffs and leg irons as he was escorted out of the capitol. He looked pale, crumpled, and dirty. The media loves negative imagery and ran the degrading pictures endlessly. They push guilt because it sells. Not one image of Woody evoked sympathy. Woody had murdered Arkansas's newest senator; therefore, he must be a monster and had to look like one.

The network switched to the scene at the Coles' house. Satellite trucks were parked up and down the street, beaming sensationalism to the world. Family and friends left the house, only to be swarmed by a pack of reporters and cameramen. Looking distressed and overwhelmed, they mumbled, “Please, leave her alone,” or something inane like, “The family is doing well under the circumstances.” How does one “do well” when your only son has just shot a US senator in front of a national audience? Yet the press seemed indignant that no one had come forward to speak officially for the family—as if every family had a designated spokesperson in case murder or some other gruesome tragedy should befall the clan.

Clive A. Barnes, Pulaski County sheriff, was having his day in the sun. He held a press conference to say that Woody was being held in isolation, under tight security. I'd have bet my bottom dollar that there'd soon be a leak that Woody was under a suicide watch. The leak of potential suicide is an old law-enforcement deception meant to imply the prisoner is guilty and beginning to show remorse.

The sheriff also said that Woody would be held without bail until Monday's arraignment and allowed to speak only with his lawyer. This statement piqued my interest. Maybe my trip would simply entail visiting his mom and meeting with the lawyer to offer financial help.