When Men Betray (9 page)

After everyone left, I sank into the chair in the corner of the room and stared, off into space. Threats and round-the-clock security … what had I gotten us into?

Beth and Maggie were going over my notes and organizing messages on the laptop, so I took the opportunity to slip into my bedroom and call Tucker. It seemed like Clovis was on the up-and-up, but I wanted a local's take on him. Tucker told me that Clovis Jones had been the starting linebacker for Tennessee Tech in Cookeville. He'd been a sure thing to be a top draft pick and star in the NFL when a freak car accident had cut his football career short. He now owned his own security company here in Little Rock and was a well-regarded private investigator. Feeling better about things, I went back into the sitting area to get some work done.

I hardly noticed when room service brought in sandwiches. Maggie's stern voice jolted me back to reality.

“You need to eat something before you leave to see Woody.”

“Shit. You're right.” I took a bite of the sandwich Maggie had put in front of me, and it suddenly hit me that I had packed for a leisurely weekend with my daughter. I only had golf shirts and khaki pants for the weekend. I shot up out of my chair and said, “I'm headed to the jail within the hour in golf clothes!” I was about to swear again, but Maggie, borrowing a habit of mine, put her hand firmly on my arm.

Looking a bit uncomfortable, she said, “It's okay, Jack. It occurred to me that you might need different clothes while you were here, so I dropped by your house and picked some up for both of you. Beth, I know most of your clothes are at Davidson, so I wasn't quite sure what to pack for you. I assumed you'd both want to attend the funeral. The bags should be here soon.”

Beth said, “Whatever you brought will be fine. Actually, did you happen to grab my old Seven jeans?”

“Seven jeans?” I was confused. “What do you need with seven pairs of—”

Rolling her eyes, Beth said, “Dad. It's a label.”

Like magic, the bellman knocked on the door, bringing our luggage. He was followed by Clovis and another, much smaller man.

Clovis was trying not to smile as Beth rummaged through her bags,
looking disgruntled. She pulled out khaki pants and a black button-down shirt, an ensemble I had not seen since the summer she worked at our neighborhood coffee shop. I laughed before I could stop myself, recalling how much she despised wearing that uniform. She was not amused.

Clovis had a real knack for knowing when to intervene. “So, Beth, I want you to meet Paul. He won't be your babysitter, but he will be sitting in a chair outside your suite.”

Paul nodded wordlessly. He wasn't much bigger than Woody and wore the same nerdy glasses. I guess I looked a little doubtful.

“Paul may not look intimidating, but he was an NCAA-champion wrestler in his weight class, and is an expert in martial arts. You don't want to mess with him Jack, I'll be out in the hallway with Paul going over some things. Come on out when you're ready to go.”

When the door closed, Beth chuckled. “Martial arts?” she whispered. “Our bodyguard is a retired Power Ranger?”

“Honey, you need to …” I tried to scold, but came up short. Frustrated, I grabbed my bag and jerked it into my room.

I felt better after changing into a sports coat, button-down shirt, and conservative tie. I tried to anticipate the scene at the jail. The press would be salivating for a sound bite, and Woody's lawyer needed to be ready to give them a good one.
Oh my God! Did I just call myself Woody's lawyer?
I had to get that concept out of my head or I would have no chance of convincing others.

C
LOVIS DROVE A
late-model Tahoe. Just looking at it could make a person feel secure. When we got in, I handed him the note I'd saved from the previous night.

He frowned, and I said, “It was in a batch of messages that had been left at the desk before I arrived. What bothers me is that very few people knew Beth was with me.”

“You know, almost anyone could have called her college dorm and found out Beth had left with you. I'll get this to the police, but I don't think it'll do much good. I'll give Paul a heads up as well as Bruce Morgan. But if you ask me, this note is for real. Somebody wants you out of town. I don't know why. But I'm going to take it seriously. You should do the same.”

We rode in silence until we were almost to the county jail. We could see the satellite trucks lining the road as we approached. We parked, and as Clovis came around to open my door, I heard, “There he is! There's Cole's lawyer!” A wave of reporters juggling microphones barged straight toward me. Cameramen, with their cameras held like rocket launchers, were right behind. Clovis began to earn his pay, shouldering through the oncoming wave with ease. The reporters were shouting questions, shoving their cameras and mikes right into my face, but Clovis led interference and the sea parted. Within moments, we were past them and entering the jail.

I went through the usual process a visitor is subjected to when entering a jail or prison. I was relieved to find out that strip searches weren't required of attorneys visiting their clients. I was given a visitor's pass with no comment—just some dirty looks from the jail personnel.

I gathered my belongings and looked around, only to find myself facing Sam Pagano, who was wearing a smile that I supposed he reserved for the press—there was certainly nothing personal about it. All men age, most not so gracefully, but Sam was the exception. I don't mean just from the last time I'd seen him, which had been less than a year ago; I mean from college days. He'd always looked younger than his age, which helped, but to top it off, Sam was flat-out good looking. He had, as Angie once described them, “bedroom eyes,” and had stayed in shape running and cycling, although I did notice the beginning of a middle-age paunch. He's shorter than I am, but has a broad chest and slim hips. His Italian heritage shows in his olive skin, which turns a deep gold every summer. Everyone in the jail except the inmates seemed to be lining the halls to catch a glimpse of the Washington lawyer. Sam was well aware of the scrutiny. His greeting gave no hint of a prior friendship.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Patterson, and welcome to the Pulaski County Jail.” We shook hands. “I need you to sign some paperwork if you don't mind. Please come with me.” He turned on his heel, leading me into a nearby office. As the door shut, we both broke into huge grins, and in an instant, Sam was giving me a bear hug and slapping me across the back.

“Shit, Jack,” Sam said as he stepped back, “we're in one fine mess. But you're still a sight for sore eyes—and here in Little Rock, no less.”

We would have laughed if not for the sadness of it all.

“I don't know what to say,” I told him. “I don't know why I'm here, and I damn sure don't know what to do. I need some help.”

Sam's smile disappeared, and I felt sure that whatever was going to next wouldn't be good.

“Jack, I know you understand the need for that charade out in the hall. Every member of the press is looking for a story, and the last thing either of us needs is some story implying that the county prosecutor is in bed with the defendant's attorney. Right now, in front of anyone, and I mean
anyone
, not just the press, you and I can be polite but certainly can not act like the lifelong pals we are. If you think the press is on your ass, imagine what they're doing to mine. Any hint that I'm anything less than a hard-ass will get me tarred and feathered and run out of town on a rail. Worse, I've got a lunkhead US attorney dying to take over the case and embarrass me while he's at it.”

“Well, Sam, I—”

He cut me off. “I know you've got a lot to say, but hear me out. I've been thinking about what I was going to say for two days. I'm sure your coming here is important to Helen. Whether he knows it or not, I'm sure it's good for Woody. But it isn't good for me, and it's damn sure not good for you. Some reporter is going to start digging around, and they're going to figure out that Russell, Woody, you, and I are all connected, and there'll be hell to pay if they snoop too deep. What I'm trying to say, Jack, is that you should get the hell out before you get stuck in the muck.”

Somewhat taken aback by his fervor, I let out my breath and said, “Well, thanks for the advice—I think. Sam, I'm not a criminal attorney. I can't get Helen to understand that yet, but as soon as I see Woody and figure out how I can help Helen, I'll be gone. I know I run a risk by being here, but I owe it to Helen, Woody, and myself to do what I can. I'd be doing the same for you.”

“Jack, I understand your loyalty. But it's misplaced, and besides, at some point, some reporter is going to figure out why you left Little Rock.”

I controlled the anger welling up and said, “That's nobody's business. There's no reason for it to come up.”

“Yeah, well, say it does. You and Angie are going to become as much of a story as Woody and Russell. I promised I'd never say a word about what happened, but your presence puts me in a very precarious position if it comes to light.”

“Sam, I've thought long and hard about that—you know I'd rather cut off my arm than hurt you in any way. I have no intention of being Woody's lawyer. I just want to do what I can and get out of Dodge.”

There was a brief silence as we each tried to size up the situation. Then Sam said quietly, “Don't tell me again you're not Woody's lawyer, or I can't let you see him. He isn't allowed visitors until he sees the judge. Just do what you have to do and get the hell out of town.”

“All right. I appreciate it.” As we moved to leave, I asked casually, “So when do you plan to withdraw?”

Sam stopped and looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

“What makes you think I'm withdrawing?”

“I just figured you would.”

Sam opened the door, turned his back to me, and said, “You figured wrong.”

A
SHERIFF
'
S DEPUTY
escorted me into a small conference room furnished with a cheap table and a couple of plastic chairs. Another deputy led Woody into the room. He looked pitiful in an orange jumpsuit, hair a mess, glasses bent and askew. His wrists were in handcuffs and he was wearing ankle chains, so he walked with a shuffle. If you ever watch someone chained and shackled, you'll see that every step is a struggle. The leg irons tear at the ankles with each step, thus the term “prisoner's shuffle.” The chain belt and handcuffs restrict the slightest movement, rubbing the wrists raw. Any honest law enforcement professional will tell you that the outward and visible purpose for chains is security but that the real reason is humiliation.

The worst part, though, was that Woody wouldn't look me in the eye. I asked the deputy to remove the handcuffs and leg irons.

“Nope, can't do that.” The man appeared to be rooted to the floor.

I said firmly, “Deputy, I want some privacy.”

He hesitated, but I glared, and he dropped his gaze. “It's your ass.”

I realized that whatever Woody and I had to say to each other probably could be heard through the paper-thin walls and the door anyway. Forget attorney-client privilege.

Woody had slumped down into the chair. I tried starting with a light comment. “Orange is not your color, my friend.”

No smile, no reaction at all. His eyes remained fixed on the table, his face drawn with exhaustion and defeat. “Okay, Woody, let me start with the obvious. You're in deep shit. I'll do what I can to help you, but you need a tough criminal lawyer to keep you alive, and that's not me. But right now, for the sake of the privilege, let's say I am. So keep your voice down and assume anything you say will be heard through these walls or by some bug.”

He looked up and around dully, but quickly let his eyes fall.

“Woody, you're my friend, and I'm not going to abandon you because you screwed up. I've come a long way, so sit the fuck up and talk to me.” That did it.

“I knew you'd come, but I thought it would be for my funeral.”

“What?”

“I'm sorry.” His voice was almost inaudible.

His funeral? It was an odd comment, but I chose to file it away. In my limited time, I needed to attend to his immediate needs. I asked him about the conditions in his cell and was reassured that he was being treated as well as one could hope in an isolation cell in county lockup. I asked him whether he had spoken to anyone after the shooting, and he said he hadn't. He again apologized for bringing me into it. I tried to dismiss his apology, but his voice strengthened and became more insistent.

“I'm the one who's supposed to be dead, not Russell. I figured I could shock some sense into him, but the gun went off.”

“What do you mean? Why did you want to shock him?”

He shook his head sadly. “It doesn't matter. He's dead. My whole plan backfired. He's dead, and I'm alive. Nothing matters anymore. Go home, Jack. I don't need a lawyer. I killed Russell.” He looked me straight in the eye. “I killed Russell, and I want to die.”