When Men Betray (5 page)

I turned in the direction of the journalist who'd shouted the loudest.

“I don't know what happened yesterday, but I do know Philip Cole. He is one of the finest men I've ever known. He is a man of integrity who has dedicated his life to causes that matter to all of us.”

It made me feel better, but I might as well have been barking at the moon.

T
HE ROUTE TO
Woody's house passed within a couple of blocks of Senator Robinson's residence. Huge oak and hickory trees provided shade for azaleas and dogwoods in full bloom. Little Rock was always spectacular in April. Some of the older homes had been renovated, and their porches were home to jogging strollers and kids' wagons, as well as porch swings. There was never much traffic, except at morning rush hour, when folks used the neighborhood as a shortcut. But the streets were full now. I looked down Russell Robinson's street from the corner, and I could see hundreds of folks holding pictures of Russell. An organized group was standing off to one side, singing—they sounded like a church choir. Others walked by silently, leaving flowers along the wrought-iron fence in front of his home. The scene was eerily calm—so far. I couldn't help but be moved by the outpouring for Russell.

When we neared the Coles' house, the scene was quite different. The adjoining streets were filled with an angry mob shouting and straining toward the house; state troopers were struggling to hold them back. People carried signs saying, “Justice Demands an Eye for an Eye,” “Kill the Kapitol Killer,” and “Cole Chose Death. Give It to Him.” The people's anger had found a target—Woody.

As we drove slowly through the crowd, people shouted and struggled to look into the car. A trooper stopped us, but I showed him
my ID, and he waved us through. As soon as Beth parked the car and we got out, we faced another pack of reporters. I gripped Beth's hand firmly, and we walked straight to the porch of the white two-story wood-frame home. A pleasant sixty-something woman who seemed to have things under control welcomed us at the door.

“I'm Helen's friend, Mabel Foote. Heavens, I'm happy to see y'all. Helen's upstairs resting. Come on in, and I'll get her.”

Helen's two cocker spaniels bounded up to greet me with their tails wagging and their wet, inquisitive noses. I couldn't remember Woody's house ever having been without a dog or two. Beth and I nodded a greeting to the women who filled the living room. They hardly noticed us, so riveted were they to the news program on TV. The furniture was faded and worn, but well cared for. Needlepoint pillows were nestled in the corners of the sofa—probably some of Helen's handiwork. The bookshelves were lined with mementos and pictures of Woody growing up. Prominent on the mantel stood an aging photograph of four college students with their arms around each other—Sam, Marshall, Woody, and me. We were all smiling, looking like we hadn't a care in the world, the ‘Gang of Four.'

We called ourselves that because, for years, in high school and college, we'd been joined at the hip. Woody, ever the non conformist, had given the rest of us all kinds of grief when we'd gone to law school. He'd been sure we would abandon our ideals and cave into the system. Maybe we had. Sam was now Little Rock's prosecuting attorney. Marshall, originally a law-school professor, had become a trial judge. I'd started out as an English major and was now in a private law practice in DC. Despite the years, and my refusal to return to Little Rock, we remained close. They seemed to enjoy coming to DC, and we had all enjoyed the occasional week at the beach.

Many of the framed photographs depicted celebrations at the Cole home and sparked vivid memories of jack-o'-lanterns and ghosts at Halloween, trimmed trees and presents at Christmas, dyed eggs and lavish baskets for Easter, and always, the smell of something baking.

I turned to see Helen Cole coming down the stairs. She looked older but still exuded the grace and charm of a woman who has spent her life giving love and comfort to others. Everyone in the room stood, but she headed directly to Beth.

“Love, you must be Elizabeth.”

Almost on cue, they opened their arms to each other and tears started flowing. The group of friends turned back to the TV, trying not to stare at Beth and Helen. Someone turned up the volume and we heard, “The first comments from the Cole family came this evening from their attorney.”

All of us stopped what we were doing and turned to the TV screen. And there I was … “I don't know what happened yesterday, but I do know Philip Cole. He is one of the finest men I've ever known. He is a man of integrity who has dedicated his life to causes that matter to all of us.”

Helen touched my shoulder. “God bless you, Jack.”

The reporter said, “Mr. Patterson's comments can only further inflame an already tense situation.”

The camera switched to a “legal expert” who said, “Mr. Patterson is clearly in over his head. If Philip Cole has any chance at avoiding the death penalty, they'd better get him a real lawyer in a hurry.”

With a
humph
, Helen picked up the remote and muted the television. “Mabel, darling, would you take Elizabeth to the kitchen and get her something to eat? I need to talk to Jack alone for a few minutes.”

She took my arm, marched me to her study, and shut the door. The study was the place where you talked to Helen, poured your heart out, and knew that whatever you said would never leave the room. Whether it was trouble at home, at school, or with a girl, Helen's study was where you went to confession and found absolution in a mother's love, without the complication of a real mother. I realized that, for the first time, the roles had been reversed.

Her hands reached out as they had so many times when I was young. The last couple of days had certainly taken their toll, especially around her eyes. They were etched with worry lines and ringed with dark circles. I held her silently for a long moment before we sat together on the worn, familiar sofa.

“Well, Mrs. Cole, here I am.”

Her eyes filled with tears as she said, “Here you are. By the grace of God, here you are. I know how hard it must be for you to come back.” I avoided going there and said, “How are you doing?”

“Oh, Jack. I'm a mess. For now, I've just got to stay calm and try to sort things out as best I can. There's got to be a way to make sense of this. We're all Philip has; you know that.”

She was holding an embroidered handkerchief in her hands—I can't remember a time during any of our “sessions” when she hadn't had one. Her constant wringing of it now touched me even more deeply than her words.

“Have you talked to him?”

“Not since the shooting. But I need to tell you some things. Philip came to me a few weeks ago, talking a mile a minute. He told me you'd agreed to help Russell in Washington. He was so excited, Jack, talking about how his years of tilting at windmills were finally paying off. Then the next evening he came home and—”

I interrupted, “Woody still lives here?”

“He moved back in after Cheryl divorced him. Wasn't planning to stay, but he had no reason to leave. I'm surprised he didn't tell you.”

Back into his old room—I hadn't known things were that bad. Cheryl and Woody had been campus activists, involved in every progressive cause of the time. After college, they'd worked on political campaigns, organized protest rallies, and moved in together. To appease Mrs. Cole's sense of propriety, they'd gotten married, but Cheryl had a propensity for getting too close to the candidates. No one mentioned it to Woody, although he had to have known. He would forge ahead for the cause or campaign, ignoring Cheryl's appetite for politicians and power. Eventually, Cheryl had asked him for a divorce. She was having an affair with Little Rock's mayor, who was running for Congress. The mayor had promised to take Cheryl to DC with him, but he lost the election. She went to DC anyway and now works for a congressman who thinks his wife in Illinois doesn't know about Cheryl. Woody never remarried. His only comment about the divorce had been his disappointment that Cheryl hadn't changed the mayor's position on affirmative action. He figured it had cost the mayor the election.

I suddenly realized I had been deep in thought and was hoping I hadn't missed anything, when Helen said, “I could tell that something was eating at him that night. I tried to draw him out, but he clammed up. And he started to act so strange—staying up late, typing like a madman, printing documents. I'd wake up in the middle of the night
and hear the printer going in his room. I'd go check on him, and there'd be papers all over the floor. He tried to brush it off, blaming it on his workload, but it was so unlike him, Jack. He was at it night after night. I went into his room a few mornings after he'd left for work, but it was always immaculate. That in itself was weird.”

“Woody's never made a bed in all the days I've known him.”

“Oh, believe me, I know! I suppose it was my fault for doing it for him all those years. I like things just so in my house. Anyway, I have no idea what was keeping him up so late or what he was doing. I admit that I tried to open his filing cabinet a few times, but I couldn't.”

Helen paused, as if to regain her strength.

“He never told you what was wrong?”
What could have been so bad he couldn't tell Helen?

“No!” she responded, almost in a wail. “He said it was just work keeping him busy. But he looked terrible. I knew something was wrong, but … I did suggest he see a doctor or take a vacation. Or at least call you.”

“I wish he had.”

“It was funny, though. This past Wednesday, when he came down for breakfast, he was my Philip again. He kissed me and said, ‘Mom, I'm sorry. I know I haven't been myself. I've been working the graveyard shift, and it's been hell. When I get home tonight, we'll have a good talk.' He seemed to be his old self.”

“What else was different that morning?”

“Nothing that I recall, except that he carried an extra briefcase. Anyway, that evening he came home in great spirits and insisted we have a glass of wine before dinner. He had brought two very nice bottles home with him. At least he said they were nice. I wouldn't know the difference. We talked about the old days—you, Angie, Marshall, college, even his falling out with Sam.”

“Woody bought nice wine?” I raised my eyebrows. That was hard to believe.

“He said he wanted to celebrate. I asked what the occasion was, and he said, ‘No occasion—just that I've been lost for a while, and now I'm back.' He drank most of the one bottle by himself. The second bottle is still on the shelf in the kitchen.

“That whole evening was just … bizarre, Jack. Philip's not a big
drinker. He kept saying things like, ‘Remember when the guys and I went to Panama City? Remember when Marshall and Jack wore black armbands and Jack almost got kicked off the baseball team? Remember when Angie convinced all of us to go skinny-dipping in the city reservoir?' Well, I did not remember! Those were most certainly not my memories—skinny-dipping? I'm his mother for heaven's sake! He still wasn't … right, but I was glad to see him happier.”

Helen got up and walked over to the secretary desk by the window. She spoke to me over her shoulder.

“The next morning, I woke up when I heard his car pull out of the driveway. I went to his room, and when I saw that he hadn't made up his bed, I hoped things were back to normal. When I got to the kitchen, there was an envelope on the table. It was addressed to you.”

She turned to face me again, holding a white, legal-size envelope in her hand. “The state troopers came to the house after …” She bit her lip, but she held it together and went on: “… they came that Thursday afternoon and searched the whole house. They took Philip's computer and file cabinet, but I didn't see any reason to tell them about this.”

With a hint of a smile, she sat down again and handed me the envelope. “I wanted to call him at work and check on him, but I got busy, and I knew there was supposed to be some kind of special announcement by Senator Robinson at noon. You know the rest. I saw it on TV like everyone else.”

“Did the state troopers question you?” I asked.

“Not for long. They asked if Philip had told me why he was angry with the senator, or if I knew why he shot him. When I said no, they asked if I knew what Philip had been working on, and again I said no. They asked me again, and when I assured them that Philip hadn't told me a thing, they left.”

I nodded. “I can't imagine what a nightmare this must be for you. I'll see Woody tomorrow and hopefully get some answers.”

“Should we see what's in the envelope?” she asked.

I was afraid to open it, especially in front of Helen. What if it was a confession? What if he blamed Helen for some reason? I looked at the front of the envelope. It read, “For Jack Patterson, Attorney—Privileged Communication.”