by Webb Hubbell
“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.”
I tore it open. It contained a small key and a handwritten note.
Forgive me Jack for butchering Goldsmith. Take care of Mom.
When a lone man stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe his melancholy
What art can wash his guilt away?
NO MORE BETRAYALS!
Woody
7
MY DISAPPOINTMENT WAS tangible. I sure didn’t see anything in the note that could explain this mess. I mean … poetry? I handed it to Helen.
She read it and, with a confused look on her face, asked, “What on earth does that mean? And the key? What’s that for?”
I was as confused as she was. “I have no idea. Wish I did.”
Bewildered, we both just sat there, staring at the note and the key. Then Helen said, “I almost forgot to tell you. Sheriff Barnes told me you can come to the county jail tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock.”
Good. One less thing to worry about. I reminded myself that I needed to call Sam Pagano.
“Thanks. I’ll be there, but until things get sorted out, don’t talk to the press or even your friends about what you’ve told me, and especially not about the note. Blame me if you have to, but don’t say anything to anyone. Don’t even answer the phone. It’s too easy to get tr
apped. Do you have friends who can stay with you and handle the phone?”
“They’ve all offered. I tell you, it’s like a funeral. It’s like Philip died.” This time, the pent-up emotions came rushing. I held her and let the tears over the last days’ events flow.
After a time, she pulled away and looked at me with swollen eyes. “Now look what I’ve done. Your shirt is soaking wet.”
“It’s fine, Helen.” I smiled. “It’s okay—God knows I’ve cried on your shoulder more times than I can remember. It’s my turn to get wet.”
Helen smiled at that. “Why don’t you ask Mabel about taking the phone messages? I want to talk to Beth. She reminds me so much of Angie.” She patted my arm and smiled. “How are you, anyway?”
“Well, you know, some days are better than others. I have Beth, except now she’s away at school.”
As we walked out of the study, she held my arm and whispered, “Well, now you have me again … and Woody.” Before I could say a word, we were back in the living room.
Beth looked concerned. “Everything all right?”
I nodded, and Helen asked, “Beth, will you help me upstairs?” Beth looked a little uncertain but let Helen take her arm.
Mabel and I went to the kitchen, where she had saved a piece of pecan pie for me. Helen must have told her it was my favorite. I was hungrier than I thought, so I grabbed a plate and helped myself to the honey-baked ham, fresh biscuits, and cheese-grits casserole on the counter. I didn’t even notice that she had opened a bottle of wine until we both sat down.
She placed a full glass and the bottle in front of me and, with a wink, said, “I hope this wine is okay. I found it on the shelf.”
I looked at the label and choked. It was a Château Margaux—purchased by miserly Woody two nights ago? I’d been poured one of the world’s best wines to drink with my ham, biscuits, and cheese grits. I started to protest but thought, why not? Why isn’t it exactly the right wine? Some things weren’t right, for sure, but there was nothing wrong with the wine.
I returned Mabel’s wink and said, “It’s very nice. Thank you.”
Mabel, nobody’s fool, poured herself a glass.
“Here’s the drill,” I told her. “It’s a lot, so please let me know if you’re not up for it. First, don’t let Helen be here alone for the next few days.”
She nodded.
“Don’t let her answer the phone, and don’t let anyone you don’t know into this house. They may beg to use the bathroom or use the phone, but don’t let them in. The media has a hundred tricks to get in the door. Even if someone tells you he’s a policeman or an attorney, he’s not to come inside the house. Have them call me.” She took a sip of wine and gave me a nervous smile as I fished in my wallet for my business card. “Don’t worry, I don’t think anything will happen—that mob will wear out in a day or so. Helen’s lucky to have a friend like you. Thank you.”
“No,” Mabel said, “thank you. We’ve all been the beneficiaries of Helen’s kindness. We’ll be here as long as she needs us. It’s your being here that makes the difference.”
Smiling, she left the kitchen to arrange shifts for handling the phone and staying with Helen. I poured myself a little more wine. No sense letting it go to waste. The woman who had already been handling the phone brought me the log she was keeping. There were calls from news-show producers asking Helen to appear on Good Morning America, 60 Minutes, Today, local news shows, and the list went on.
I could just hear the pitch: We think only one side of the story is getting out. We’ll be very sympathetic; you owe it to your son to tell his story. Then, if Helen said she’d consider it, the producer would say, Can you hold a second? (George, Leslie, Matt) just wants to say hello. Then, the star would come on the line and say warmly, Thank you so much for coming on my show. I look forward to meeting you and hearing what happened in your own words. The trap would be set—no one wants to offend a TV star. After poor Helen had appeared on the show looking like a deer in the headlights, everyone would shake their heads and wonder why on earth she had ever agreed to an interview. I’ve heard this scenario described too many times by too many clients.
I wandered back into the living room and enjoyed all the photographs at a more leisurely pace—Woody and me, Woody with Sam and Marshall, some with all of us. I paused before a picture of Woody and Angie—we had all been such close friends.
The ring of the doorbell disturbed the peace. Mabel went to the door and returned to the living room with a state trooper. He was the same one who had escorted us through the mob earlier.
“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Patterson, but the guys in the press want to know if you’re going to give them a statement. They want to set up a bank of microphones.”
I said, “Sure, tell them to go ahead. While you’re here, Officer, can I have a few words? Mabel, can you join us?” I directed him to the kitchen and caught him eyeing a chess pie on the counter.
“Would you like a piece of pie?” I asked him.
Mabel jumped in. “Let me get it—y’all sit down at the table. I’ll get you something to drink, too. How ‘bout a glass of milk?”
The smile on the officer’s face was answer enough. I thanked him for protecting Helen and explained that until things settled down, only friends would be allowed in the house. I asked him to help Mabel if there were any trouble. The trooper nodded his assent, enjoying his chess pie and milk with the same relish that I’d had in savoring my pecan pie and Margaux.
As he was leaving, Beth bounded down the steps with a huge smile on her face.
“Helen said—” She hesitated, and then quickly said, “She told me to call her Helen. She apologizes for not coming down to see us off, but she’s really tired.”
It was time to go.
The press lights were blinding. That’s why people who are interviewed at night always raise their hands to their foreheads, trying to shield themselves from the light. I walked straight to the bank of microphones and waited for the swarm of reporters to calm down. I put on my courtroom voice and began. “I won’t answer questions. Mrs. Cole won’t give interviews. She hopes that all of you will respect her privacy. Until counsel is retained, I’ll serve as the family spokesperson, and I’ll notify you tomorrow as to where you should direct your inquiries. I know you won’t, but I wish you would let Mrs. Cole have some peace. Thank you.”
I turned and headed to the car at a quick pace. Beth was already at the wheel, the state trooper standing by her door. As I neared the car, something struck my cheek. Beth looked at me in horror, but it was just egg dripping down my face, which I tried to wipe off with my shirtsleeve.
Next time, I’d bring a towel.
8
BETH DROVE SLOWLY through the crowd lining the street outside of Helen’s house, but she talked a mile a minute.
“Helen’s great, Dad. She insisted I call her Helen. She told me some neat stories about Mom! Did you know Mom used to write Helen every month? She’s going to get the letters out of her attic to show me. Can you imagine? There must be a hundred letters! Anyway, I can see why you love her.”
I nodded, trying my best to clean the egg off my face and clothes with a Kleenex. Didn’t work.
“You guys must have been quite a crew. She went through this huge photo album of you and the guys—she called you ‘her boys.’ Did you know she kept your press clippings?”
“What kind of clippings?” I asked warily.
“Oh, basketball and baseball for the most part. Mom told me you were a pretty good baseball pitcher, but I didn’t know you were an all-American in college.” Beth had been all-Metro in soccer her last two years of high school, but her mother’s illness had taken a toll, and she’d missed all-American consideration.
We caught the media circus unawares at the hotel. I enjoyed watching them scramble as we eased through the revolving door. I’d already done enough damage today with the press, so I was glad to escape their grasp. Beth wanted to call Jeff and take a long, hot ba
th. I ordered a bottle of wine and took a quick shower to wash off the dried egg. I chose not to turn on the TV. If they were showing my comments, I’d be in a bad mood all night. I looked glumly at the pile of new messages the front desk had left for me. My Blackberry voice-mail was full. I decided to check the Blackberry and leave the rest for Maggie to organize tomorrow.
Most of the voice messages were from members of the press or my worried partners. Of the countless e-mails, I started with Maggie’s most recent message. She’d be here tomorrow morning. Walter was going to spend the day with his regional manager but hoped we could all have dinner. She said she had a personal letter for me from Ron Williamson and a message from Jerry Prince asking me to call again. In understated language, she noted that several of my partners had come by to inquire when I might return. Translated: When the hell would I quit fooling around and get back to work? She ended up by telling me to be careful.
Sipping my wine, I decided to thumb through the hotel messages after all. I stopped at one from Sam Pagano, saying he’d meet me at the jail at twelve thirty, before I met with Woody. I wondered how he knew when I was seeing Woody.
The latest group of messages was just plain hateful, telling me that I wasn’t welcome, or worse. I threw those in the trash. Some people just need to be angry.
I turned to the stack of messages that Brenda, the hotel manager, had handed me when we checked in. The first couple of them were in the same vein as the previous stack. The next one stopped me cold. It consisted of two sentences printed by computer in large, bold type.
LEAVE TOWN OR YOU WILL REGRET IT. THINK OF YOUR DAUGHTER-DON’T YOU EVER LEARN?
Who had known that Beth was coming? This note had been delivered to the hotel before I’d checked in. Even if the person who wrote it didn’t know Beth was with me, whoever it was knew I had a daughter. It was a threat that went to my very core. Other messages had been blunt, even crude, but this one was different. I returned it to its envelope and hid it in a drawer. I’d give it to Sam tomorrow.
