When Men Betray

by Webb Hubbell

  Micki said she’d never been so psyched for an arraignment.

  “That’s because you’ve never had one like this before. Neither have I.”

  “Doubts … do you have any?” She looked serious now.

  “Can’t afford to. I had my doubts last night, but today it’s full steam ahead.”

  “Amen to that,” she said, and we left for court.

  The press was waiting for us, mikes out, begging for comment, which we refused to provide. As we neared the courthouse, we could see a huge throng of people milling around outside the partitioned square. Concession stands were selling coffee and Krispy Kremes. Various special-interest groups held their banners high, shouting uselessly at no one in particular. Satellite trucks seemed to be everywhere. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought the vice president was still in town, ready to announce his candidacy for president.

  Once we were in the courthouse, Clovis pulled me aside and told me what he’d found out about hotel security. He assured me that he had a plan B, and I told him to go ahead.

  A deputy sheriff took us to a small conference room, where we were to meet with Woody. When the door opened, there stood Woody, still in handcuffs and leg shackles, in yesterday’s dirty orange jumpsuit. He had bruises and cuts all over his face, was unshaven, and looked like he had been dragged behind a truck.

  Micki blew up. “What happened? You bastards let them get at him, didn’t you?”

  The deputy edged backward, but Micki was in his face, shouting expletives, threatening to get the judge, and swearing to get the badge of every deputy involved. When she slowed down, she led Woody by the arm back to the holding area, where she would personally see to it that he got a shower, a shave, and proper medical attention. She grabbed the second suit of clothes and was still railing at the deputy as they left the room.

  Micki reacted more strongly than I could have. Despite Marshall’s orders, I had expected the sheriff and his deputies to produce Woody in the humiliating prison garb, looking half deranged. It happens all the time. Law enforcement loves for the defendant to look as guilty as possible on first impression, parading him handcuffed and shackled in front of the press. Their purpose is two-fold. They want the public and the potential jury pool to see the accused in the worst light possible, to overcome any sympathy. They also want to humiliate the accused and show him who’s in control. It’s the first step of many designed to break his spirit. Forget presumption of innocence—the technique is highly effective. In high-profile cases, there’s an added element of pure malice.

  Micki returned, still in a huff. She let everyone know that the judge’s clerk had been informed of the sheriff’s antics. A deputy had told her the jail claimed Woody’s clothes had been “accidentally” sent to the cleaners. The cleaners didn’t open until nine o’clock, but they had every intention of getting the clothes here by ten. He also said that Woody had been “roughed up” when he was allowed outside last night. He’d gotten in a fight with another inmate. Pure bullshit. It had been a set-up, and he was lucky to be alive.

  “I don’t believe a damn word of it,” she said, “and neither will the judge.” Both deputies left before Micki could lay into them again.

  “Woody’s cleaning up now and should be back shortly. I told them no restraints when he’s with us. I said if they parade him in front of the cameras in cuffs and irons, I’ll have the case dismissed for jury tampering.”

  Micki paused, running out of steam. “Now comes the hard part, partner. He’s all yours.”

  Woody was returned to us shaved, washed, combed, and dressed in the suit we’d brought. He looked ready to lecture a classroom on political science, except his shoulders were slumped and his body language shouted “guilty.” I gave him a new pair of glasses I’d purchased the day before. The deputy removed the chains, and Micki sat down next to him. I wasn’t above seating a pretty woman alongside him. In fact, when I suggested this sexist ploy to Micki, she said she’d sit on his lap if it would get him to cooperate.

  Woody looked her over. “You must be Micki. Jack told me I’d like you. I wish we were meeting under different circumstances.”

  Hot damn. A glimmer of the Woody I knew, already moving on Micki. Things were looking up.

  Micki played along. “You listen to Jack, and we might just get that chance.”

  Woody’s face fell. “I’m sorry, I can’t do that. I shouldn’t have wasted your time. I intend to plead guilty this morning and ask the court to expedite the execution. I know I promised to give you a little time, and I know you’ve planned a big long sermon to get me to change my mind, but don’t waste your breath.”

  Whatever I argued next had to be timed right, so I decided to buy myself a little time. “I don’t give up that easily,” I told Woody, “but no matter what, I have to prepare you for what will happen today in court. Before the court will hear any plea, there are preliminaries to be dealt with. The court will ask us direct questions that we have to go over with you. If we don’t, some lawyer down the road can use our failure and argue ineffective assistance of counsel. So pay attention to Micki, and then you’re going to listen to me.”

  Micki seemed a little surprised by my strategy, but she was quick on her feet and took Woody through every step of an arraignment: the questions the judge would ask about whether he had been taking any medication, whether he was speaking of his own free will, and whether he had been coerced in any fashion. She also went over the questions that the judge would ask us as counsel. Woody recoiled slightly when Micki told him that Helen and Beth would sit right behind our table in the front row of the gallery. Then she went over how important it was not to react to anything Sam said. She told him we’d request bail, but the request would likely be denied.

  As she methodically went through the procedure, Woody seemed to relax and become more at ease. Micki made a reference to Judge Fitzgerald—Woody looked at me and asked. “Marshall’s the judge?”

  I nodded.

  He chuckled. “The band’s getting back together, but it’s gonna be one sorry tune.”

  “Yep. Just like that night at the bar. You brought us together then, and now you’ve brought us together again.” Woody winced and hung his head. I paused for a few seconds, and then said, “I guess you didn’t plan on being here, but things don’t always work out as planned, do they?”

  Woody looked up. “So you believe me on that?”

  “I do, but I may be the only one who does except your mom, Beth, and maybe Micki. But I’m not here because I think the shooting was accidental. I’m here because my friend is in trouble, so I came running. Not because I thought you were innocent; I came to help, period. I ask only one thing in return—that you trust me. Trust me to help you, your mom, and the people who love you, including my daughter.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t let you try to get me off. I killed Russell, and I refuse to let you drag him through the mud—stomp on his grave. I know that’s what you’ll do, and I can’t let you do it. I know how you felt about Russell.”

  “So you don’t trust me?”

  “What do you mean? Of course I trust you.”

  “No, you don’t. If you did, you’d say, ‘Jack, I’ll let you defend me if you don’t trash Russell,’ but that’s not what you said. I’m asking you to trust me. Put any condition on the defense you want, but let me stop the betrayals. Isn’t that what you wanted? No more betrayals?”

  Woody shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “I know exactly what you meant. I also know why you wanted to scare Russell and why you wanted to commit suicide and why you want to die now. It’s not about Jerry Maguire or some Egyptian figurine. It’s about your false notion of betrayal. I’m asking you to believe in me and trust me. Do you remember the last time you said those words to me?”

  I knew from his look that he did.

  “You called me and asked me to trust you. Remember? You think you betrayed me with that p
hone call. Well, you didn’t. You were simply doing what Russell asked you to do, just like you did in college.”

  Woody’s face turned ashen.

  “You didn’t think I knew, did you? Lucy let it slip in a phone call years ago. You trusted Russell then, and you trusted him when he asked you to call me to host a fundraiser. You said, If you don’t trust Russell, trust me. I won’t betray you, Woody. If you could trust Russell, over and over, why can’t you trust me this one time?”

  Woody was thinking, but I didn’t have him yet.

  “You wrote ‘no more betrayals,’ but if you plead guilty and ask to die, you’ll commit a huge betrayal. You’ll betray a lifetime of work against the death penalty; you’ll betray your mother and Beth, who believe in you; you’ll betray me by getting me involved to the point my life’s at risk; but most of all, you’ll betray yourself.”

  “What can you do?” Woody shot back. “Accident or not, I killed Russell, and I can’t let you destroy his legacy. He was a good man. He wasn’t perfect, but I believe he would have done the right thing in the end.”

  Woody had always been blinded by Russell’s light. You love people in spite of their flaws—sometimes because of them. Woody’s flaw was his blind loyalty to Russell. Good people like Woody are often drawn to serve a higher cause, and in that service, they sometimes let basic responsibilities and instincts slip away. Woody was about to carry his loyalty to Russell, literally, to the grave.

  “If my plan works, I can’t promise that Russell will come out smelling like a rose any more than I can promise that you’ll get off scot-free for killing him—because I don’t think you will. And I don’t think you want to. What I can say is, I won’t trash Russell in putting forward your defense, no matter how much I might like to. I don’t believe in stomping on graves either. My intent is to expose the people who used Russell and you in a way that keeps you alive and leaves Russell as much dignity as possible.”

  We fell quiet for a minute or so.

  “Woody,” I said at last, “I’m not asking for your cooperation. All I ask is that you let me try. The whole thing could blow up in my face.”

  I realized my gaffe the moment those words were out of my mouth, but instead of being offended, Woody said, “Your sense of humor sucks, Jack, but I guess I can trust you with my life for a few more days. Tell me what you want me to do.”

  WE EXPLAINED THAT he didn’t have to say a thing. Micki talked to him about how to look when he entered the courtroom, how he should greet his mother and Beth so that the press wouldn’t write about his having an “evil smile” or “awkward greetings.” The media could blow up the simplest of gestures.

  After Woody was taken back to the holding area, Micki patted me on the back and said, “Good job—I thought he’d never give in. I assume that the ‘betrayal’ part was about the rape?”

  “Partially. I think Woody came to realize that Russell had betrayed him more than just that one night. But make no mistake—Woody didn’t change his mind because of betrayals. He knows that if he pleads guilty, I’ll trash Russell for sure. He got me to promise to ease off on Russell, in exchange for a few days of a ‘not guilty’ plea. He doesn’t think I can pull this off, but he has bought my silence for now. I know Woody. He thinks he has the better end of the deal.”

  “Does he?”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  38

  THE COURTROOM WAS full when we arrived. Maggie was waiting at our table. Helen, her friend Mabel, Beth, and Jeff sat on the front row right behind the rail. I came around to hug Helen, explaining that Woody had a few bruises and cuts but otherwise was all right. I also whispered that he was cooperating—a slight exaggeration.

  I soaked in the electric atmosphere of the packed courtroom. The judge had allowed video cameras positioned unobtrusively, but there’d be no photographs. All electronic devices were checked at the door. No laptops, iPads, cell phones. No exceptions. Any violators would find themselves in the holding cell downstairs.

  Marshall had a section roped off for the pool reporters and twenty other reporters from the various services. Rodney Fitzhugh and an associate sat in the place reserved for the US attorney. Rodney had told Micki that Dub thought the judge had been unfairly hostile toward him—he would keep his distance.

  At precisely ten o’clock, we heard the “All rise” and duly rose as the Honorable Marshall Matthew Fitzgerald entered the room. He cut a very imposing figure.

  Marshall put his yellow legal pad on the bench and asked whether the prosecution and the defense were ready. The clerk announced the case, and Marshall asked that Woody be escorted into the courtroom. I was glad to see he wasn’t handcuffed or shackled, but two burly officers held his arms tightly as they led him to our table.

  Marshall asked, “Is the defendant willing to waive the reading of the indictment?”

  Micki said he was.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Marshall went through all the preliminary matters. So far so good, but the tension in the courtroom was building.

  He took his time before asking somberly, “Having waived the reading of the indictment, how does the defendant plead?”

  Micki rose to a very imposing height in her heels.

  “The defendant pleads not guilty on all counts, Your Honor.” Her voice was full of conviction.

  The murmurs in the courtroom grew to a growl, and Marshall gave a sharp rap with his gavel.

  “Ms. Lawrence, if the defendant intends to argue insanity or diminished capacity, you are required to notify the court promptly of that intention so I can supervise the examination of the defendant. May I take it that I should make such arrangements?” His formal manner accented the gravity of the moment.

  “Such arrangements are not necessary, Your Honor. Our plea is ‘not guilty.’ We do not intend to establish that the defendant had, or now has, diminished capacity.”

  Marshall raised his eyebrows, Sam leapt to his feet, and the gallery grew even louder, resulting in another firm rap of the gavel.

  Marshall gave me a long, suspicious look before reacting. “Well, we’ll proceed with binding over the defendant until trial at a date that will be set in the future. A pretrial order regarding discovery will be entered, but I hope the parties will voluntarily comply without any problems.”

  “Your Honor,” Micki quickly interjected, “what about bail for my client?”

  Sam spoke before Marshall could reply. “Your Honor, the defendant is charged with the cold-blooded murder of Senator Russell Robinson. It would be unprecedented to allow a killer out on bail under such circumstances.”

  “The court will deny bail at this time. Ms. Lawrence, if your concern is for the safety of the defendant, you may rest assured I’ve discussed this issue with the sheriff, and he will be well protected.” The press had no idea what the court was talking about, but they could see the cuts and bruises on Woody. “If you want a bail hearing, file a motion with this court. I’m not inclined to grant bail, but I’ll keep an open mind. Anything else? … If not, I’ll meet with counsel soon to hammer out dates for the trial. I usually do this a few weeks after the arraignment, unless your client intends to waive our state’s Speedy Trial Act.”

  Marshall had asked just the right question. Micki looked at Sam, waiting for him to say something.

  “Your Honor,” Sam said, “the state will oppose any attempt to delay a trial. The people of this state and this nation deserve a quick and speedy resolution of this matter. The defendant’s not-guilty plea is an insult to the senator’s family and our justice system. We ask this court to set this case at the earliest possible date. The state is ready to try this case tomorrow.”

  Marshall stopped him. “I appreciate your interest in justice, Mr. Pagano, but my question was to Ms. Lawrence concerning her client’s position on the Speedy Trial Act.”

  She didn’t look at Marshall, but stared at Sam, a clear challenge. “Your Honor, I take it that Mr. Pagano means what he says. The defense does not waive it
s right to a speedy trial, and moreover, we request an immediate preliminary hearing. Since Mr. Pagano is ready to try this case tomorrow, he shouldn’t mind a preliminary hearing.”

  She turned to the judge. “I apologize, Your Honor. This is certainly your call, but I checked with your clerk, and your calendar is free for both tomorrow and Thursday. Of course, if Mr. Pagano was merely blowing smoke, we understand.”

  Marshall could have put his foot down right there, but I think he was enjoying the tension between Micki and Sam. He waited for Sam, who knew he was in a corner. Micki didn’t let him retreat either. No one could misunderstand her body language. She was challenging Sam on all fronts. For a second, I felt sorry for him. He was probably imagining the headline: “Prosecution Not Prepared. Cowed by Defense.”

  Marshall had waited long enough. “Mr. Pagano, what says the state?”

  Sam turned from Micki’s gaze to Marshall. “Your Honor, if Mr. Cole is not willing to waive a preliminary hearing, then the state asks it be set as soon as possible, even if that means tomorrow. I admit the timing is unexpected, as is the defendant’s unwillingness to waive this procedural hurdle; however, the state will be ready.”

  Marshall looked over to me as he said, “Well, Ms. Lawrence, as they say … be careful what you ask for. The court will hold a preliminary hearing in this matter beginning tomorrow at ten o’clock. I want the lawyers in my chambers at nine. Bailiff, please return Mr. Cole to the sheriff. Counsels, please join me in my chambers after we are adjourned. Are there any other matters before the court?” He banged his gavel and was up and out before anyone could say a word.

  As we walked into chambers, Sam’s expression said, All right, you got the best of me, but don’t count on it happening again.

  For her part, Micki played innocent, a tentative smile hovering on her face.

  Marshall hung his robe on the rack, sat in the chair behind his desk, and motioned for all of us to sit. “All right, Jack, what in the hell is going on? Yesterday, you told me you hadn’t had a chance to consult with your client. Today, you’re asking for an immediate preliminary hearing. Micki has surely advised you that all I need to find is whether the prosecution has enough evidence to proceed to trial. Excuse me, Micki, I should be addressing you both, but this ploy has all the hallmarks of my old friend.” He returned his gaze to me. “If you’re trying to make a mockery of this court or trying to put on some kind of prima facie case for ineffective assistance of counsel, you’ve got another thing coming. I admitted you to the bar of this state yesterday. I’ll have you removed quicker than a jack rabbit if I catch you trying some trick.”