by Webb Hubbell
“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.”
11
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.”
I was trying to take in what he said—a million questions were buzzing through my mind—when the deputy barged into the room.
“That’s it; time’s up. You’ll have plenty of time with Mr. Cole after Monday. Let’s go.”
I wanted to argue, but I realized that someone had sent him in to break things up. This interview was over.
I turned to give him a hug as we left, but we were suddenly overwhelmed by loud voices and the glare of camera flashes. Someone had let the press in. It was a madhouse, but a madhouse that triggered my instincts. I searched the crowd, but Sam was nowhere to be found; nor was Sheriff Barnes. I addressed the deputy in a loud voice that everyone could hear.
“Tell Sheriff Barnes I will return tomorrow at one o’clock. I expect to have absolute privacy with Mr. Cole, and the meeting will last at least an hour. If he has a problem with that, tell him to take it up with a judge, and I don’t mean any ex parte proceeding. Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I will answer your questions after that meeting.” No way was there going to be a private meeting between the judge and the prosecution.
I felt sure the sheriff and Sam were watching me from somewhere in the building. They could call my bluff and simply refuse access to Woody, but Sam wouldn’t want the press to claim he was denying Woody access to a lawyer, even though he probably had the right to do so given my denial of representation. It wouldn’t look fair, and there were already lots of eyes watching.
The deputy took his own sweet time getting Woody out of that room. Woody looked frightened and a little confused but managed to keep silent as the press pelted him with questions. Clovis had elbowed his way through the crowd, and we were soon safe in his big Tahoe. My phone buzzed before we got out of the parking lot.
“I thought you were getting out of Dodge!” It was Sam.
I strove to keep my voice quiet and impassive. “If you’d given me more time with Woody, I might be gone by now.”
“Unfortunately, my friend, right now most of the world thinks you’re nothing but a lowlife lawyer who’s representing a cold-blooded killer. If I treat you any better than people think you deserve, there’ll be hell to pay. I’ll let you see him tomorrow in hopes you’ll get this guilt-ridden crusade out of your system, but don’t expect any more favors.”
My bluff had worked, but Sam had run out of patience.
“Thanks, Sam. I’ll be out of your hair soon, but while you’re in a giving mood, any chance I can get access to Woody’s computer and file cabinet? Do you have them, or are they still with the state troopers?”
The moment it came out of my mouth, I knew I’d gone too far. I could imagine Sam’s face turning red and expected an outburst. Instead, Sam’s voice was calm, too calm.
“Nice try, Jack. Out of respect for Mrs. Cole, we held off seizing Woody’s computer the day of the murder. When we got there this morning, she gave us some cock-and-bull story that the troopers had taken it. Nice trick, but the jig’s up. Where’s the computer, Jack?”
“I have no idea. Helen told me the same thing. If I were you, I’d ask the troopers. I’m going out to see her now. I can ask her again, but I don’t think—”
Irritated, Sam cut me off. “Jack, I have no reason to believe that you would do something so stupid as withhold evidence, but the longer you stay involved, the more I worry. This is the last piece of advice I’m going to give you: You knew us a long time ago, but you left. Rightfully so, I might add. I may not be an elite Washington lawyer, but make no mistake—I am a damn good prosecutor. Don’t think I’ll suddenly go soft just because it’s you. The same goes for Woody. Our old friend’s in a world of shit.”
“But—”
“No buts. Woody’s not some idealistic kid anymore. He committed the premeditated murder of a senator, and he’ll hang for it if I have anything to say about it.”
12
“BACK TO THE hotel?” Clovis asked.
“No, let’s go to the Coles’ house. I need to see Helen alone.”
Clovis waited for me to say more, but I kept quiet. Even though I desperately wanted to talk about what had just happened, I worried that my thoughts might find their way into the papers the next day. Washington’s “anonymous sources” had trained me well.
Clovis cocked his head in my direction. “I want you to know something. I work for you. Anything you say in front of me never leaves this car. I don’t talk to nobody. If I’m subpoenaed, I’m the most forgetful man you ever did see. Duck-club rules apply in this vehicle and anywh
ere else we go.”
“Duck-club rules?” Actually, you couldn’t grow up anywhere near the Mississippi flyway without knowing about duck hunting and duck clubs, but I wanted to be sure.
“What you say here and do here stays here when you leave here. Makes Vegas rules nothing but penny ante.”
“We could use some duck clubs in DC.”
He grinned. “Ain’t nobody in DC worthy of membership. No offense meant.”
“None taken.” I was starting to like this guy.
I called Maggie to let her know what was going on. “I’m going straight to Helen’s. I didn’t get to spend much time with Woody. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“No worries. Beth and I have plenty to keep us busy. Your friend Tucker Bowie was here for quite a while. He entertained us with tales of your baseball prowess. He claims pro scouts were clamoring to sign you straight out of high school. I had to shoo him away so we could get some work done. Beth and I are going to take a walk after we finish getting organized—with our nice bodyguard, of course. So take your time.”
Most of the onlookers had left the Cole property, but satellite trucks were still parked in front of the neighbors’ homes, taking up both sides of the street. Tents and large umbrellas kept the sun off bored cameramen and reporters sitting in beach chairs. I was amused by the mad scramble as we drove up. They jumped up, scrambling for cameras and microphones. The cords got tangled, and they tripped over each other trying to smooth their clothing and hair while they ran toward our car.
We walked directly to the open door, thanks to Mabel, and into Helen’s home, never acknowledging their presence. I had learned to tune out their questions. Leaving wouldn’t be so easy. They had our fort surrounded.
Helen’s friends were polite when I introduced Clovis as a friend of the family, no questions asked. I didn’t see as many warm bodies as I’d seen the day before, so I made it a point to go around to each one, introducing myself, trying to do a better job of remembering names, and saying a few words about what good friends they were to Helen. This core group of friends was all that Helen Cole had right now.
Helen walked in after a few moments and took my arm. “Let’s go into the study.” I looked around for Clovis and found him already chatting easily with some of Helen’s friends.
She seemed unsteady as I helped her into her usual chair. She was no longer the rock that had supported us all. Pulling another chair up close, so I could sit directly in front of her, I took both her hands in mine and gave her my full attention. “Helen,” I began, suddenly aware that I had called her Helen to her face. It marked a change in our relationship. I was no longer the boy listening to his adoptive mother.
“I know you have lots of questions, but first let me tell you about Woody. He’s okay, considering what has happened and where he is. He’s in a cell by himself, and he’s not in any danger. He says he’s eating. There’s really nothing anyone can do for him right now. I’ll see him again tomorrow, so if there’s anything you want me to ask him, let me know. The most important thing is, he’s alive. For the moment, jail is probably the safest place for him.”
“Did he ask about me?”
“Of course,” I lied, “it was the first thing out of his mouth. He’s worried sick about you.”
That seemed to pick her up a little. “Did he say why he did it?”
Wondering how much I could tell even his mother, I fudged. “There wasn’t much time; so I didn’t ask. He did say he’s very sorry about what happened. But what’s most important is getting him a lawyer before he goes to court.”
I asked Helen to put together court clothes so Woody wouldn’t have to appear before a judge in an orange jumpsuit.
“Surely he has at least one decent suit, one he wore to funerals. He’ll need an ironed white shirt and the most conservative tie he has.”
She laughed and said she wasn’t sure he owned a conservative tie, but promised to find something. I also asked her to pack a backup set of clothes in a separate bag. She seemed confused, but I told her to trust me on this one.
“You and I need to go over the list of calls Mabel and her assistants have kept. I want either Beth or my assistant Maggie to contact any strangers. I don’t want you to return a call from anyone you don’t know.”
With tasks to attend to, Helen seemed stronger. “I’ll get Mabel so we can go over the call list together.” She rose, ready to get to work.
I stopped her. “One more thing, Helen. You told me the state troopers came in and took Woody’s computer and his file cabinet.”
“That’s right. They came that very day, right after it happened. I was surprised how quickly they came. They took everything.”
“Did you ask for any ID?”
“No. They had on uniforms. They looked genuine. Should I not have let them in?”
“Don’t worry about it.” I hoped it was just a case of the right hand not knowing what the left was doing. Otherwise, someone must have known what Woody was going to do beforehand. How else could phony state troopers have gotten to Woody’s house so quickly? That possibility seemed pretty far-fetched—I watch too many movies.
We called Mabel into the study and started by going through the list of friends who had called. The most insistent caller was, no surprise to anyone, Cheryl Cole, Woody’s former wife.
There was no love lost between Helen and Cheryl. Cheryl had cheated on Woody, so she was persona non grata. My gut told me to treat her calls like the other press calls and have Maggie call her, but since she had called Helen, it was her decision.
Mabel was adamant. “Helen, don’t you talk to that shameless woman. She’s up to no good, mark my words.”
“Woody would want me to call her. She probably just wants money, and with Woody gone, she doesn’t know who to call.”
After all these years, Cheryl was still asking Woody for money? I held my tongue, filing that question away on my growing list for Woody.
“Well, I guess there’s no harm in someone else calling her right now,” Helen said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Would you ask your Maggie to deal with this? She sounds very efficient.” Mabel and Helen looked at each other and smiled.
The rest of the calls weren’t worth bothering with. I mentioned again the importance of finding Woody a lawyer—soon.
She laughed, “We already have our lawyer, Jack. You can play your game with the press all you want, but you’re here, and Philip and I are in good hands.” She grabbed my hands, her eyes daring me to disagree. I didn’t have it in me to do anything other than to squeeze her hands back. What in the hell was I going to do?
I told Helen we’d be back tomorrow and thanked Mabel and the faithful few still chatting in the living room. Much as with a hospital vigil, some friends show up every day, and their presence speaks louder than any words.
When Clovis opened the door, I was again greeted with cameras, microphones, and shouting reporters. I was starting to get used to it, not a good sign. “Folks, I have nothing to say. I’m simply visiting an old friend. Have a good day.”
Reluctantly, they wandered back to their lawn chairs, and we made it to the car without incident.
“Where to,” Clovis asked, “the hotel?”
“No, let me call Maggie first, and then I have an idea.” I punched in Maggie’s cell number.
“How’d it go?” Maggie answered.
“Well, just about how you might think. She’s okay. I’ve got some more calls for you to make, but they can wait. There’s one call I’d like you to deal with today.”
I told her about Cheryl Cole, gave her a little background, and suggested some ways to get on her good side. I doubted if my ideas would work, but it was worth a try. If anybody could reach Cheryl, it was Maggie. I asked if they needed me at the hotel.
“Quite the contrary. We’re close to having everything organized. I want to get this finished so we can all have a pleasant dinner tonight. Can you entertain yourself for a while?”
; I told her I thought I could manage.
“We have a couple of hours on our hands,” I said to Clovis. “Do you mind giving me a driving tour of my old town?”
“No problem, but aren’t you hungry?” Obviously, Clovis was.
“Hopefully that’s part of the tour. I only had half a sandwich at the hotel. Don’t suppose Ben is still in business?”
“Ben’s on Pine Avenue?” He looked at me with new respect. “You been there?”
“About a hundred times. I used to call Ben, and he’d say, ‘Jack’s Special and a big cup to go. Be about five minutes.’”
Clovis laughed. “Jack’s Special, huh?”
“Yeah, it was a chopped pork sandwich on white bread with extra barbeque sauce and extra slaw. It was so wet I had to eat it outside or over a sink. ‘Big cup’ meant a tall Pabst in a paper sack, so I could leave without drawing attention.”
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to a weathered shack that looked the same as it had decades ago. The parking lot was dirt and loose gravel. The hickory smoke pouring out of the back kitchen’s exhaust chimney brought tears of joy to my eyes. We entered through the screen door on the side, and I stepped back into my history. It hadn’t changed a bit. Ben still didn’t take credit cards, and the old jukebox was still in place. Ben had fifty years of family pictures tacked to the walls, along with a few pointed political posters—he was a Democrat to the bone and didn’t care who knew. The tables were filled with folks eating barbecue and drinking beer. I left my coat and tie in the car, but I was still way overdressed. The two of us turned a few heads, but not for long. People were there to eat, drink, and shoot the breeze. Nobody was there to rubberneck.
A teenage girl sauntered up to our table. “What’ll y’all have?”
Clovis ordered a short rack and a Coke. I decided to push my luck. “Ever heard of a Jack’s Special?”
