by Webb Hubbell
Walter Matthews, president of Bridgeport Life Insurance Company, is my good friend and golfing partner. Bridgeport is an important client of the firm, and we almost lost them over Walter’s romantic interest in Maggie. They met during Angie’s last months, and Walter fell hard. But Maggie refused to go out with him, citing her longtime policy of not dating the firm’s clients. Walter wasn’t the type to give up, so he decided to resolve the issue by sending his business elsewhere. When he told me of his plan over lunch one day, I almost dropped my fork. I knew I had to come up with a better solution. If my partners discovered the reason Bridgeport’s business was going out the window, they’d show Maggie the door in a heartbeat.
That very next morning, I asked Maggie directly how she felt about Walter. I’d never seen her blush before. She basically offered her resignation on the spot.
I smiled, happy to solve their dilemma. “Maggie, you should have come to me sooner. There’s no reason why you can’t see Walter socially. It’s just a matter of … logistics. We’ll recommend that Laura Clinton at Hankins-Shores handle all of Walter’s personal matters. He won’t be a personal client of our firm, and we can continue to handle Bridgeport’s business. Laura’s a fine attorney—it’s a good solution all around.”
Walter and Maggie have been inseparable ever since. I’m happy for them but dread the day she resigns.
“Are you listening, Jack?”
“Sorry, Maggie, lost you for a minute. Go ahead.”
“I also heard from an old friend of yours, Tucker Bowie? Owns an insurance agency in Little Rock? He’s offered to make an office, phones, and a secretary available for as long as you need.”
“Well, call him back and kindly decline the offer.”
“Jack, don’t be stubborn. Do you have any idea how overwhelmed you’re about to become? You are going to need help.”
“I feel like a broken record. I don’t represent Woody. Anyway, what is Tucker thinking? He should be running in the opposite direction.”
“I explained about the media. His response was that hosting you would probably generate more publicity for his agency than its yearly sponsorship of the Arkansas Bass Tournament. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with that, she hung up.
I smiled—Tucker hadn’t changed. Years ago, in the state championship game against Catholic, we were ahead eight to nothing when Tucker broke up my no-hitter with a clean single to right field. When he came up to bat again in the ninth, coach told me to aim straight for his head—to bean him in retaliation. I refused. Coach was furious, nearly took me out of the game, and told me I wasn’t nearly tough enough to make it in the big leagues. But there’s a difference between being tough and being mean—mean doesn’t make you a better athlete, it just makes you mean. A grateful Tucker and I became friends on the spot.
Beth drove up in the rented Camry. I got into the car and she handed me a little map with directions to the hotel. I felt strangely disconnected from my old hometown. The skyline was different, and many of the buildings I’d known were gone—or at least, I didn’t recognize them. I tried to hide the fact that my palms were sweating and my heart was skipping a few beats. I had sworn that I’d never return to Little Rock, yet here I was.
Woody was right about my not recognizing the Armitage. It had been restored to its former post-Civil War grandeur. We pulled up to the front portico, where a doorman stood waiting. Three satellite trucks loomed across the street, and several lounge chairs were filled with cameramen. They seemed to be half-asleep, but I knew how quickly they could have the lights on, cameras rolling, and a microphone in our faces. I told Beth to make a dash for it.
We jumped out of the car and quickly walked into the lobby. The vultures were stirring across the street, but to my relief, the lobby was quiet. Beth gave the keys to the bellman, and he asked me, “Will you need the car later, sir?”
“Yes, in about thirty minutes.”
I knew I’d made a mistake the moment I said it. I’d just told the pack outside exactly when they could catch me on camera. Oh well. Hopefully, I’d get wiser by the time I left.
The desk clerk said, “We’ve been expecting you, Mr. Patterson. You have quite a few messages, and if it’s convenient, the manager has asked to see you after you’ve checked in. We’ll have your bags brought up to your room.”
I heard a female voice with a cultured southern accent say, “Mr. Patterson.” Turning, I was surprised by the well-dressed woman standing in front of me. “I’m Brenda Warner—the manager of the Armitage.”
Ms. Warner offered a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand. She didn’t remotely resemble my image of a hotel manager; she looked more like the head of a public relations firm. Her emerald green eyes held my attention for longer than was appropriate. Beth caught me staring and smirked, but I managed to get through the introductions.
“I’ve been on the phone with your Ms. Baxter. May I have a few minutes? My office is around the corner.” She walked briskly. Even Beth had to make an effort to keep up. We followed her into a well-appointed office overlooking Main Street. It was large and spacious, with bookshelves lining one entire wall. The shelves were filled with art and travel books, along with pottery and art objects, all arranged with a designer’s eye. The office contained all the accoutrements necessary to a hotel manager, but I noticed it definitely had her personal touch—from the tasteful paintings to the choice of furniture. A crystal vase full of fresh, spring flowers sat on her desk. I glanced around but didn’t see a family picture anywhere. I gave myself a mental shake. What was I thinking?
She gestured toward a small conference table, and we all sat down. “You may have noticed that our lobby is free of reporters. We have a policy against letting reporters or photographers loiter in this space. They’ll honor that policy as long as you don’t try to hold some public event.” She paused.
“Not a chance.”
“Our Century Bar is a very popular spot for attorneys and reporters. You’ll be fair game in the bar, and I promise that anything you say there will be all over town within hours. We have an excellent restaurant, but like the bar, I can’t guarantee your privacy. I’ve increased hotel security for the next few days. Do you have specific needs in that regard?”
“Security won’t be an issue, but I appreciate your efforts with the press. I’m just a friend who’s trying to help. I’m not Mr. Cole’s lawyer.”
Ms. Warner gave me a brief, rather cool smile. “Ms. Baxter told me you’d feel that way. You’ve been traveling and probably aren’t aware of the outpouring of emotion surrounding the senator’s shooting.”
I said, possibly a bit defensively: “I have no doubt there’s been a strong reaction, but it has nothing to do with me. I’m just a friend. I appreciate your efforts, really, but beefing up security seems a tad extreme.”
Ms. Warner raised her eyebrows. “May I be blunt, Mr. Patterson? Anyone associated with Philip Cole is being painted by the press as an agent of the devil. And whether you like it or not, the public at large believes you are defending Mr. Cole. Until you put this misconception to rest, reporters will be on you like ants at a picnic.”
I waved away her concern and she continued.
“I was asked by the advance team for the vice president to find another place for you to stay. I declined that request, and they’ve decided he’ll stay elsewhere. Other officials coming for the funeral have also canceled because I’ve refused to ask you to leave. Frankly, that suits me just fine. We’ve hosted plenty of public figures here in the past. My hotel is still full. Every hotel in town is full, and I don’t have to put up with prima donnas who think a tip is a handshake from their boss, trash the hotel, and then expect me to charge them government rates. I used to work for an oil executive who was a huge pain in the neck, so I know what to expect. You’ve actually done our staff and me a huge favor. I sincerely hope you’ll think of our hotel as an oasis from whatever you face outside our doors.”
I was too astonished to do anything but m
umble, “Thank you.”
“One last thing: Ms. Baxter reserved a two-bedroom suite for you. She’ll occupy the suite across the hall from yours. If you’d like, we can hold your calls until tomorrow. You’ll find most of your messages in your room. … Here are some that were left at the front desk this afternoon.” She handed me several envelopes and looked at Beth. “It’s been nice to meet you, Ms. Patterson. I hope you both enjoy dinner and have a pleasant evening.”
The bellman ushered us into a large, wood-paneled elevator. We got off on the fourth floor, and he opened the door to our suite. Beth looked at me and whistled. “Gee, Dad, what’d you do to rate this?”
We were standing in a richly furnished living area, complete with sofa, plush armchairs, a round dining table, and a desk with all the trappings necessary for computers and Internet. The wall between the two tall windows contained an enormous built-in TV with bookshelves on both sides and a bar and icemaker beneath. Two comfortably sized bedrooms connected to the living room on each side, both of them boasting a separate bath with a shower and soaking tub. It had the rich smell of money. I’d have to speak to Maggie about my budget for this trip.
I tipped the bellman, decided to ignore the stack of messages, and called Helen Cole. She seemed to be a little calmer.
“I’ll be there within the hour. Beth is with me.”
There was a long silence, “Beth? Here in Little Rock? Well it’s about time! Just be careful—that crowd outside the house is like a pack of rabid dogs. The state actually sent troopers in to set up barricades. They’ll know to let you in. Have your driver’s license ready.”
“Is the press that bad?”
“Love, if it were only the press, I wouldn’t need barricades. You’ll see. Have y’all had anything to eat?”
“No, but we can get the hotel to fix us a sandwich to go.”
“Since when have you had to bring something to my house to eat? You think I’m going to let you come all the way down here and not feed you?”
She was indignant, but she was right. There had always been a pot of something mouthwatering simmering on her stove, cookies in the cookie jar, and a fridge filled with surprises—everything a growing boy could want.
Beth and I unpacked quickly and took the elevator back downstairs. As we neared the front door of the hotel, I could see an army of cameras, lights, and reporters surrounding the rental car.
I took a deep breath. “Beth, you sure you’re up for this?”
Beth laughed. “Well, I guess—although this could be my only opportunity to kick back in a fancy hotel suite, order room service, and watch TV without your getting mad.”
“Probably.”
“You’re a rock star, Dad. I’m driving.” She grabbed the keys from the bellman and headed out the door.
Her bravado took the cameramen by surprise, and she was quickly in the car and buckling up before they knew what had happened. Unfortunately, I stopped to tip the bellman.
Most Americans believe strongly in the freedom of the press, and nine times out of ten, the press does its work well. But that can be hard to remember when a pack of reporters descends on you en masse. Their shouted questions were deafening.
“Have you spoken to your client?”
“Why did he murder Senator Robinson?”
“How can you represent a cold-blooded assassin?”
Gradually, I forced my way through the crowd and opened the car door. Someone shouted, “Is Philip Cole a deranged sociopath?”
I felt my anger rise and I almost lost it, but I knew that I had to control myself. Like it or not, the press mattered. From years of dealing with the press as an attorney, I knew I had to be direct and decisive. I opened the car door slowly and said in a calm voice, “My name is Jack Patterson. I’m a long time friend of Helen and Philip Cole. I don’t know any more about the death of Senator Robinson than what I’ve read in the newspapers or seen on TV. I’ve come to Arkansas to see his mother and support the family in this difficult time.”
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.
6
THE 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 E
lizabeth.”
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?”
