When Men Betray (29 page)

He surveyed the courtroom with a frown, miffed that he hadn't been provided a separate table. Ultimately, he sat at the opposite end of ours, configuring his chair so he could see the judge and so the cameras could get a full view of him. His associates sat behind the rail, and Micki quietly introduced me to Rodney Fitzhugh, who said, “Peggy Fortson told me to tell you hello and that she's still looking.”

Peggy was a career deputy in the Criminal Division, one of those career lawyers at the Justice Department who do their jobs, and do them well, regardless of the politics of the current or past administrations. She was the one I had called this morning.

At that moment, I heard, “All rise, oyez, oyez, the Circuit Court of Pulaski County is now in session, the Honorable Marshall Mathew Fitzgerald presiding.”

Marshall entered the room looking tired, stern, and a good deal heavier than when I'd last seen him. He carried the ever-present legal pad and didn't glance at the lawyers, but walked straight to his chair behind the bench and sat. He looked out at the assembled crowd, said good morning, and announced, “This is an informal session of my court. I asked the attorneys for the parties to meet this afternoon to go over some preliminary matters. Normally, we'd do this in chambers. However, this is no ordinary case, and I've made an exception.”

Marshall smiled serenely. “First on my list is the swearing in of Mr. Jack Patterson. Mr. Patterson, I believe there is a member of our bar who will move your admission?”

Micki stood and said she would. To his credit, Sam said he'd like to second her motion. Marshall said that wasn't necessary under the rules, but he'd make an exception. Still smiling, he started to say that I was admitted, when Dub interrupted.

“Your Honor, may the United States be heard?”

Marshall looked at him, plainly perturbed. “I'm sorry … Who are you, and what standing do you have in this matter?”

Turning slightly, so he fully faced the camera, Dub puffed out his chest and announced, “Wilbur Blanchard, Your Honor. I'm the US attorney for this judicial district. I represent the interests of the United States of America.”

As Dub was grinning, Marshall said, “Mr. Blanchard, when addressing the court, please face me. On this matter, you may not be heard. This is an administrative matter, and you have no standing. I received Ms. Lawrence's written motion this morning. Mr. Pagano has just joined in her motion. The court finds the motion more than adequate. Mr. Patterson, you are admitted for the purpose of this case. A formal order to that effect will be entered tomorrow.

“This admission is in no way a finding or ruling on the effectiveness of counsel. It is a simple acknowledgement, that we will extend the courtesies of this state's bar to Mr. Patterson, and of his willingness to abide by our rules. Welcome, Mr. Patterson, and on a personal note, it's about time.”

Dub sat down abruptly as a murmur rose from the press gallery.

“That's correct. I know the lawyers in this case. Ms. Lawrence has appeared in my court as a public defender and a private attorney on numerous occasions. Either Mr. Pagano or an attorney in his office appears in my court almost daily. Since we still have elected judges in this state, I know about half the lawyers in this county and consider many of them friends. Mr. Patterson and Mr. Pagano both attended high school and college with me. I consider them friends, as I believe they do me.”

Marshall paused. “These friendships alone are not a basis for recusal and should not give anyone concern about my ability to be fair and unbiased in this case. In addition, confirming that this is indeed a small world, all of us went to high school and college and were friends with the defendant. This is certainly unusual; however, it is not unique in jurisprudence. I have researched the matter. I have also consulted with the other judges of this circuit, the chief justice of this state's supreme court, and the chairman of the Judicial Ethics Committee. None of them have concerns about my ability to be fair and unbiased. Neither do I. Absent a motion from one of the parties, I intend to preside over this matter. I have filed a list of my associations with all three attorneys and the defendant with the chairman of the Ethics Committee. That document will become public tomorrow.”

There we had it. Marshall had gone to more trouble than most judges would have. The press would go over his disclosure with a fine-tooth comb, searching for something he'd left out or some hint of bias, but I knew Marshall had been thorough, probably including the time we'd skinny-dipped in the city reservoir. He had also preempted Dub, who was probably hoping to make political hay about prior friendships and the “interest of justice.” If Dub were smart, he'd keep his mouth shut.

Now came the boring part. Marshall went down the list of every detail he wanted to cover, prefaced with, “Tomorrow will run as smoothly as a finely tuned clock.”

I believed him. More than once, I caught Sam staring at Micki. I knew what was going on in Sam's mind, and it wasn't court logistics. I also noticed Dub fidgeting. With nothing to say or do, he was quickly losing his chance at national exposure. The reporters looked bored, and more than likely, the live feed had been turned off.

Marshall kept to his list, accompanied by the constant drone of the ceiling fans. He sternly warned the media to obey his rules or they would find themselves locked up in the old jail cell in the basement. He admonished the sheriff and Sam's deputy that there was to be no showboating tomorrow—no bringing Woody in the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit, dirty and unshaven.

Sheriff Barnes started to say something, but when Micki advised the court that fresh clothes had been provided to the jail, he kept quiet. I was still glad we had a second set of clothes with us; I thought the first set might get lost tomorrow morning. Marshall looked up.

“All right, Mr. Blanchard, you're next on the list. Please address the court, not the gallery. What is it that you want to bring to the court's attention?”

Dub shot up. I could hear him mumble, “Finally.” So could Marshall.

“Your Honor, the United States wishes to intervene in this case.”

Marshall responded evenly, “On whose side?”

Laughter ripped through the gallery, and Dub was flustered, “The prosecution, of course.”

Marshall didn't give him any relief. “Have you spoken with Mr. Pagano?”

“Well, no … this is a very unusual case. We don't normally intervene, but the United States is concerned—”

“Mr. Blanchard, what you suggest is, as you say, unusual. Are you proposing, on behalf of the United States, to intervene in a state murder trial, to prosecute state crimes, without consulting the local prosecutor? Let me take you back to basics: If you seek any form of relief from this court, you must file a motion in writing, just as Ms. Lawrence did to have Mr. Patterson admitted. Moreover, I'd like you to provide legal precedent for this action. Do you understand, Mr. Blanchard?”

Dub had enough sense to nod and keep quiet.

“Let me also suggest that if you decide to file a motion to intervene, it should include your agreement to a gag order that I intend to impose on all the participants in these proceedings. I also suggest you extend to Mr. Pagano the courtesy of letting him know what you propose to do before you do it.”

Not only was this a direct slap, but Marshall had also put the kibosh on any such motion being filed, since it meant Dub had to agree to a gag order—too bad, no more press conferences.

Marshall threw him a single bone. “Until you decide upon a course of action, Mr. Blanchard, I'll ask the sheriff to reserve two seats for your office in the courtroom.”

Dub stared at his associates as if to say,
How do I get out of here?

“Mr. Pagano and Ms. Lawrence, I will not hold you to these answers. I'm just trying to get a feel for my calendar for the next few weeks, and to know what we're facing. I'm going to ask you some questions that are meant to explore the time I need to set aside for this case. Mr. Pagano, what are we looking at in the way of charges against Mr. Cole?”

Sam stood and, with all the gravity befitting what he was about to say, declared: “Your Honor, Mr. Cole will be charged with the premeditated murder of Senator Russell Robinson. The charges will include first-degree murder, felony murder, and possession of a weapon on state property. We are contemplating a few lesser charges, as well. Your Honor, to get to what I assume is your next question—tomorrow the state will announce that it will seek the death penalty for Mr. Philip Cole.”

Sam's statement got the gallery buzzing.

Marshall made a few notes and turned to Micki. “Ms. Lawrence, are we looking at a not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity defense?”

We known it was coming, the question we didn't want to answer yet. Janis Harold had all but sunk any chance of an insanity plea. Micki didn't flinch. “Your Honor, I'm new to this case. I've not had an opportunity to speak with my client. We cannot advise the court on the plea before we meet with Mr. Cole and discuss it with him, which brings me to a request.”

Marshall wasn't satisfied. “Mr. Patterson, haven't you already spoken with Mr. Cole?”

I rose and told him that I'd seen Woody briefly on two occasions and that, yes, I'd begun to discuss the plea. Any good reporter would assume we had already begun to arrange a plea agreement. That's the way criminal defense usually works. He'd be wrong.

“Your Honor, Ms. Lawrence and I want to tell the court what we can within the bounds of the attorney-client privilege. However, until we meet with Mr. Cole tomorrow morning, we simply cannot tell the court how we'll proceed. That's why we filed a motion this afternoon asking that he be available in the courthouse for consultation at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. Neither Ms. Lawrence nor I have had an opportunity to explain fully to our client the law, the courtroom procedures, or the consequences of a plea. Until we do, we can't advise on the formalities of tomorrow's arraignment.”

Sam jumped in. “Even waiving the reading of the indictment?”

Micki answered, “Your Honor, Mr. Patterson and I are not trying to be difficult. This is a unique case, and as the court has recognized, everything we do will be scrutinized.” She walked around the table to stand behind Dub, loving every minute of his discomfort. “We are confident tomorrow will proceed smoothly, but until we've consulted with Mr. Cole, we are simply not in a position to speculate on what he may or may not do. To do otherwise would be a misrepresentation to the court.”

Sam and Marshall both looked skeptical.

“Mr. Patterson,” Marshall grumbled, “I'm having second thoughts about welcoming you to my court, but I'll grant your motion. Sheriff, if there are no objections from the prosecution, please have Mr. Cole available in a conference room at the courthouse, not the holding cell, tomorrow morning. He is to have had an opportunity to shave, shower, and put on the civilian clothes you've been provided.”

The sheriff bit his lip—there was nothing for him to say.

Marshall asked a few more questions and brought the hearing to a close. As he rose, I could tell he wanted to say something to me but thought better of it. Circumstances had brought us to this place, where each of us was called to play a role, and personal feelings had to be set aside. He couldn't ask me about Beth or see her, even though he was probably aware she was in Little Rock. I couldn't tell Sam that Micki wasn't a woman he should let get away. We couldn't all meet at Helen's and reminisce. The world was watching us, and we had to act according to accepted protocols. None of us had chosen to be in this place and time, and I had avoided my role in the opera for as long as
I could, but now we were all helpless before the spotlight. We would each play our part to its conclusion.

The courtroom emptied as soon as Marshall left. Dub headed straight to the bank of microphones set up in the center of the courthouse rotunda. Later, I learned from Beth that he'd railed about the interests of the United States and his concern about backroom deals cooked up by Sam and me.

When the press asked Sam what I was up to, he said, “I'm sure Mr. Patterson thinks he's going to work some DC magic here in Little Rock, and we're all going to just roll over and play dead, but that's not the case. There's plenty of bite left in this old dog, and Mr. Patterson should remember whose backyard he's playing in.”

I'd have to remember that one.

The lead news stories were, of course, about the state's intent to seek the death penalty and the US government's attempt to intervene. Marshall had taken some grief from the media about not recusing, but that had been tempered when a reporter confirmed that Marshall had consulted with the chief justice. The chief justice's opinion was that no other judge in the state would touch the case and that Marshall's reputation was “unimpeachable.”

We joined Beth and Jeff at our suite at the Armitage. Micki did her best to answer their many questions while I fiddled with the hotel stationery, my mind in a thousand different places.

Maggie saw I was distracted and said, “Your leg is bound to be bothering you. Why don't you trade that suit for some jeans and meet me in the bar? We all need a little break.”