by Webb Hubbell
WHEN MEN BETRAY
WHEN MEN BETRAY
• A NOVEL •
Webb Hubbell
Copyright © 2014 by Webb Hubbell
FIRST EDITION
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hubbell, Webb, 1948
When men betray : a novel / Webb Hubbell.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-8253-0729-4 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Senator of the United States–Fiction. 2. Assassination–Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.U237W53 2014
813’.6–dc23
2013036931
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Cover Design by Michael Short
To
Suzy, Walter and Missy, Rebecca and Greg,
Caroline and Jeremy, Kelley, and George
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This story is set in Little Rock, Arkansas. Although I know the names of all its schools and parks and where everything is located, lovers of Little Rock (of which I am definitely one) shouldn’t expect to recognize its topography, the Pulaski County Courthouse, or find the Armitage Hotel, Ben’s, or Stafford State University. They also shouldn’t believe that these fictional characters and events have any connection with reality—they exist only in the imagination of the author and his readers.
When lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is—to die.
Song from The Vicar of Wakefield
—OLIVER GOLDSMITH
THURSDAY
1
“OKAY, ROSE, WHAT’S so important that it can’t wait? Did somebody die?”
I’d made it clear to Rose, my long-suffering assistant, that I wouldn’t be available this long weekend—no phone calls, no e-mail, nothing. I turned on my Blackberry out of habit while I was waiting for my daughter, Beth, to finish getting ready for dinner. There were no calls from clients, but sure enough, there were half a dozen messages telling me to call the office immediately.
I’m an antitrust lawyer in Washington, DC, so the biggest emergency I could imagine was that one of my clients was about to be indicted. Normally, I would know about it long beforehand. Then again, the Justice Department loves to indict a high-profile client late on a Friday afternoon. With no one available to set bail or to do the paperwork to get the accused out of jail, the poor guy has to cool his heels in a holding tank or worse, leaving the press the whole weekend to repeat the prosecution’s side of the story.
Beth walked out of her bathroom and frowned when she saw me on the phone. She and I had planned this long weekend for months. It was Parents’ Weekend at Davidson College, and I had promised her my undivided attention. As was typical, work was interrupting.
“No one died, Jack,” Rose snapped.
“So tell me what’s so urgent?”
“I really am sorry, but this woman was insistent. She wouldn’t talk to another attorney and wouldn’t tell me why she was calling. She kept saying you needed to call her right away. She was crying and sounded desperate. I couldn’t just ignore her.”
I tried to tone down my impatience. “Who, Rose? Who sounded desperate?”
“Oh, sorry. It was Helen Cole. She said you’d know her. I really am sorry, Jack. … Was I wrong to bother you with this?”
Helen Cole. The very name brought on a flood of memories. Her son, Woody, is one of my best friends.
“It’s okay. You did the right thing. I do know her, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Can I do anything for you here?”
“It’s already past six o’clock; you go home and have a good weekend.” I clicked off the phone, trying not to worry.
“Okay, Dad. You ready to head out?” Beth asked tentatively. “There’s this great running store I want to pop into before it closes. It’s on the way.”
Apparently our weekend would include shopping. Beth was a junior at Davidson College, one of the “southern Ivies,” an excellent liberal-arts school located in the town of Davidson, North Carolina, about twenty miles north of Charlotte. Tomorrow there were all kinds of organized activities on campus, but tonight it was only the two of us. Beth had chosen a favorite restaurant near my hotel in Charlotte.
“Hang on, sweetheart,” I said, punching in a phone number long held in my memory. “I’ll make this quick.”
As my call went through, I didn’t miss Beth’s heavy sigh. Our father-daughter weekend was off to a poor start, and I had a feeling it was about to get worse.
“Hello?” An unfamiliar voice answered the phone.
“Hi, this is Jack Patterson. I’m calling for Helen Cole.”
A muffled voice called out, “Helen? A Jack Patterson. Should I take a message?” It was only a few seconds before I heard a voice I’d known for more than half my life.
“Jack! Thank God you called!”
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Cole?”
“Have you seen? I just … I just can’t believe it. I don’t believe it. He needs … oh, Jack, he needs you! We both need you!” She was almost incoherent.
“Hold on, Mrs. Cole. Please slow down. Has something happened to Woody?” For years, Woody’s mom had asked me to call her Helen, and even though I thought of her as Helen, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. On the other hand, she still used her son’s given name, Philip, and refused to call him by his nickname.
“Haven’t you seen the news?” she asked, her voice breaking into a sob. “It’s all over television. Oh, Lord, it’s terrible. But he couldn’t have done it. Jack, he—” I could hear voices in the background trying to soothe her as she broke down.
“What on earth is this all about?” I gestured at Beth to turn on the TV in her dorm room, mouthing, “C-N-N.”
Mrs. Cole gathered herself and spoke again, her voice shaky. “Jack, you’ve got to straighten this out. There has to be some mistake. Philip couldn’t …”
I didn’t hear the rest of what she said because I was staring at the TV, watching my friend Woody Cole and US Senator Russell Robinson in the rotunda of the Arkansas Capitol. They were arguing heatedly. Suddenly, Woody pulled a pistol out of his coat pocket, thrust it to the side of the senator’s head, and the gun exploded.
Beth gasped in disbelief, covering her mouth with both hands. Woody had shot Russell Robinson in cold blood. It was a horrific scene—the camera jerked away to show people screaming and running, and then returned to the senator, who lay on the marble floor with blood flowing freely from his shattered head. Woody stood beside him looking like a lost child, the gun still in his hands.
“Jack, are you still there?”
“Mrs. Cole—I don’t know what to say. I just saw it. I don’t … I can’t believe that’s Woody.” I tried to gather my wits, but my he
ad was spinning in disbelief.
Helen’s voice quickened, stronger now, “The press is everywhere. I can’t leave the house, and Sheriff Barnes won’t let me talk to Philip. Jack, you have to come. Philip needs you.”
“Oh, Mrs. Cole, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what I could … He’s going to need a good defense attorney. If I can help financially—”
“Jack Patterson, you listen to me. We need you. We need you here, right now.” Her tone brooked no argument.
I took a deep breath. I didn’t need to be reminded of what I owed this woman. “Mrs. Cole, you know I’ll do whatever I can. I’ll catch a flight to Little Rock first thing tomorrow. I’ll be there—try not to worry.”
I put the Blackberry down slowly and looked at Beth, expecting to see dismay and disappointment in her face. Our well-laid plans had fallen apart in a matter of minutes.
“Oh, my God, Dad! What happened? Was that Woody’s mother on the phone? You’re going to Little Rock?” Her reaction didn’t surprise me.
“I’m sorry, Beth, but you saw it—Woody’s in real trouble. I have no clue what happened or what I can do, but Mrs. Cole says they need me. I have to go.”
I could see the wheels turning in her head—and when she spoke, she surprised me. In a tone of voice she’d learned from her mother, she said, “Of course you do. I totally understand. Let me just pack some things.”
I started to protest, but she cut me off as quickly as Helen Cole had.
“Jesus, Dad, it’s fine. We had this weekend set aside, and if we have to spend it in Little Rock, that’s what we’ll do. I mean, I can’t believe this is happening, but … well, if nothing else, I’ll finally get to see where you grew up.” She turned to her dresser.
No argument, no debate, end of discussion—much like my Angie. She seldom insisted on anything, but when she did, there was no mistaking her resolve. Truth be told, if I had to go to Little Rock, it felt better to have Beth going with me.
“Thanks, Beth. I’m glad you feel that way. You can stay with me at the Westin in Charlotte tonight, and we’ll catch an early plane out tomorrow morning. Then we … then we’ll, uh …”
My voice faded, and my mind sort of slipped out of gear. The shock of what I’d seen had sunk in. What’s more, I was about to return to my boyhood home, a place I hadn’t been in almost twenty-five years.
2
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.”
DINNER 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 st
udents 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.”
