When Men Betray

By Webb Hubbell

Why would Woody Cole, a peaceful, caring man, shoot a US Senator in cold blood on live television? That's the mystery facing attorney Jack Patterson as he returns to Little Rock, Arkansas, a town he swore he would never step foot in again.     When Men Betray is the first book of fiction from author, lecturer, and political insider Webb Hubbell. A departure from his previous book, Friends in High Places, an account of his rise and fall in Little Rock, Hubbell crafts a deft narrative of mystery and political intrigue. Set in a fictionalized version of his home town of Little Rock, Arkansas, readers will be immersed into the steamy world behind the southern BBQ and antebellum facade-a seedy underbelly of secrets and betrayals. Clever readers may recognize the colorful personalities and locales of the Arkansas political scene.    Jack is supported by a motley but able crew; loyal assistant Maggie, college-aged daughter Beth, feisty lawyer Micki, and his bodyguard Clovis. Together, Jack and his rag-tag team are in a race against time to discover Woody's hidden motive. All he has is a series of strange clues, hired thugs gunning for him, and the one man who knows everything isn't talking. Alliances are tested, buried tensions surface, and painful memories are relived as he tries to clear the name of his old college friend. Jack Patterson will find that even the oldest friendships can be quickly destroyed when men betray

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beaufort Books
• Release date: May 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9780825306624

Webb Hubbell

Webb Hubbell, former Associate Attorney General of the United States, is an author and lecturer. His novels, When Men Betray, Ginger Snaps, and A Game Of Inches, and his memoir, Friends in High Places are published by Beaufort Books. When Men Betray won one of the IndieFab awards for best novel in 2014. Ginger Snaps Won the IPPY Awards Gold Medal for best suspense/thriller. He also writes a daily blog of personal meditations at thehubbellpew.com. 

Book preview

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 head 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 students 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.

I don’t think so, I said, a little too suddenly.

She looked away, suddenly interested in what was going on with the other diners. I knew she was trying not to lose her composure. How to deal with this? I didn’t want to screw it up. I took her hand, Beth, look at me. You and I have gone through a lot, and we’ve always been able to talk. I’m sure Jeff is great, but are you sure. You are awful young?

Oh, Daddy, don’t get all intense on me.

She smiled and came around the table to wrap her arms around me.

It’s not like Jeff and I are even thinking about marriage. I think he’s great, but we’re not there yet. She sighed good-naturedly as she walked back to her chair. Smiling at me as though she were the parent and I were the child, she said, But I do want you to get to know him.

I tried to feel convinced and cleared my throat. Well, all right. But you didn’t tell me you were going to Charleston.

To which Beth responded coolly, There are a lot of things I don’t tell you.

3

AFTER DINNER, I stretched out on the sofa in our room to watch the gruesome scene on CNN again, as if I didn’t know what to expect. One part of my brain tried to register what my eyes had seen, another simply refused. The gun went off, Russell went down, people panicked and ran, but Woody stood frozen, a shocked expression on his face. Woody had just turned the gun to his own head, when a state trooper grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground. I heard the expected screams, followed by an eerie silence as Woody lay beside Russell, police guns trained on him from all sides. The rotunda appeared otherwise empty except for the bank of microphones where Russell had stood moments earlier. The commentators were at a loss. Why on earth had Philip Woody Cole shot his long-time friend and boss?

Images of Russell as a star quarterback, as a successful governor, and as a new senator flashed on the TV screen. To the day of his death, Russell had maintained his rugged good looks and still walked and acted with that air of self-confidence unique to quarterbacks. A little over six feet tall, he wore his blond wavy hair longer than most politicians. He had an outdoorsy tan that might have been sprayed on but wasn’t.

My problem came when he opened his mouth. Through perfect, professionally whitened teeth, his voice oozed charm. You were his best friend at first sight, and he gave everyone a nickname, even if you didn’t want one. In college, Sam Pagano had been Sam, my man. He referred to me as Beanpole. We were lucky. Too many of his nicknames were cruel. Yeah, he threw a beautiful pass and commanded respect on the football field, but he never lost his arrogance.

The press also managed to produce images of Woody. These were less flattering than photos from years past. We saw Woody in handcuffs and leg irons as he was escorted out of the capitol. He looked pale, crumpled, and dirty. The media loves negative imagery and ran the degrading pictures endlessly. They push guilt because it sells. Not one image of Woody evoked sympathy. Woody had murdered Arkansas’s newest senator; therefore, he must be a monster and had to look like one.

The network switched to the scene at the Coles’ house. Satellite trucks were parked up and down the street, beaming sensationalism to the world. Family and friends left the house, only to be swarmed by a pack of reporters and cameramen. Looking distressed and overwhelmed, they mumbled, Please, leave her alone, or something inane like, The family is doing well under the circumstances. How does one do well when your only son has just shot a US senator in front of a national audience? Yet the press seemed indignant that no one had come forward to speak officially for the family—as if every family had a designated spokesperson in case murder or some other gruesome tragedy should befall the clan.

Clive A. Barnes, Pulaski County sheriff, was having his day in the sun. He held a press conference to say that Woody was being held in isolation, under tight security. I’d have bet my bottom dollar that there’d soon be a leak that Woody was under a suicide watch. The leak of potential suicide is an old law-enforcement deception meant to imply the prisoner is guilty and beginning to show remorse.

The sheriff also said that Woody would be held without bail until Monday’s arraignment and allowed to speak only with his lawyer. This statement piqued my interest. Maybe my trip would simply entail visiting his mom and meeting with the lawyer to offer financial help.

Beth emerged from the bathroom, and I sat up on the sofa, giving her room to sit with me. I leaned forward when a reporter asked, Sheriff, who’s representing Mr. Cole?

He reached into his back pocket, unfolded a sheet of paper, and addressed the microphones. I’ve been in contact with the accused’s mother, Helen Cole. I’m told her son’s lawyer, a Jack Patterson from Washington, DC, will be here tomorrow.

I jumped up from the sofa and yelled, What? Stunned, I looked at Beth and said, I’m not defending Woody. I’m not a criminal lawyer. We’re going to see Mrs. Cole and find out how we can help, but defending a murder case is not part of the equation.

Mrs. Cole seems to think you are. What are you going to tell her?

At that point, I had no earthly idea.

Beth’s iPhone started beeping. She picked it up off the end table and said, Dad—oh my God! I’m already getting texts. It must be all over the Internet!

It would be pointless to call anyone to deny I was Woody’s lawyer. I did manage to reach Rose, and asked her to let our law firm’s managing partner know I’d call him sometime tomorrow. I also gave her a terse statement to offer to the press in case they got through to her tonight. Mr. Patterson is an old family friend. He is traveling to Little Rock to be with the family. He has not been engaged as counsel.

It was tempting to stay up half the night watching the coverage. I found it addictive, like the news after a hurricane or tsunami. You try to do something else, but your eyes keep returning to the television, horrified by the tragedy, relieved it isn’t your kith or kin. … Only this time, it was.

When I turned off the TV, I realized that my cell phone was flashing insistently. I turned it off too. Better to deal with it all in the morning.

I put my arm around Beth’s shoulder. Good night, honey. I’m sorry our weekend got messed up. I love you.

Stop apologizing. I love you too.

FRIDAY

4

BETH AND I settled into our seats on the ten thirty a.m. flight out of Charlotte, first class, thanks to miles. She was soon happily buried in the latest People magazine. As the rest of the passengers filed past, I called the office. Rose, as expected, was having a tough day. The phones were ringing like crazy, the press was clamoring outside the office, and, of all days, the techs were upgrading the computer system, so her computer kept talking to her. Ron Williamson, our firm’s managing partner, had been stopping by her desk every ten minutes to see if I’d called.

Rose gave a heavy sigh and said, Thank God for Maggie. She’s been in your office helping me field press calls.

"Thanks for handling all this, Rose. Don’t forget to give my statement to the reporter from the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. We’re about to take off, but can you put Maggie on real quick?"

I asked Maggie to call Sheriff Barnes’s office to see when I could meet with Woody. If they have to call you back, have them leave a message with Mrs. Cole. We’ll get to her house as soon as we can. And try to get me a room at the Armitage Hotel.

When I lived in Little Rock, the hotel had been a house of ill repute, but Woody had told me a while back that it had been totally renovated and was now the best hotel in town.

Maggie said, Will do, and good luck. Call us when you change planes in Atlanta, and we’ll update you. Meanwhile, I’ll tell Ron you’re already in the air.

Rose was right—Maggie Baxter really was a godsend. She had originally come to Washington with her husband, a British diplomat. She’d decided to stay after he was caught soliciting a male prostitute in DuPont Circle and was recalled to London. Maggie had taken a part-time receptionist job at Banks and Tuohey at about the same time I was preparing for my first big antitrust trial. We were short on staff, and Maggie had offered to help nights and weekends to earn extra money. By the end of the trial, she was indispensable. For one thing, she could practically read my mind. As I was cross-examining a witness, she’d hand me the necessary documents before I knew I needed them. After that trial had ended in a particularly successful outcome, meaning that our client could continue engaging in its anticompetitive behavior, I went to the firm’s executive committee and suggested that Maggie become a paralegal assigned to my caseload. The committee was happy to agree, since they could bill out her time at obscene rates, more than triple her salary.

Since then, we’ve become a team, working together on every antitrust matter I’ve handled. She’s also a genius with the press for whom any unreturned call is an insult that can generate a damaging story. A polite callback from Maggie with her lovely British accent tends to soothe even the prickliest reporter. And many times, in the course of returning such a call, Maggie has managed to ferret out useful information.

Many antitrust attorneys use a whole battery of lawyers when trying a major case. With Maggie, only the two of us appear in the courtroom. The visuals are great—Maggie and I on one side and a whole team of lawyers on the other. Our clients learned to appreciate Maggie as much as I did. I always introduced her simply as Maggie Baxter, without the title of paralegal or assistant. Many clients, judges, and opposing lawyers assumed she was an attorney—and I didn’t tell them otherwise.

Maggie embodies everything you’d expect in a proper Englishwoman. She is a striking five feet ten inches, with thick auburn hair ending in a blunt line at her shoulders. She protects her fair English complexion religiously—I’ve never seen her outside without a hat. Comfortable with her height, she has perfect posture. She does walk with a slight limp, the result of a broken ankle when she was thrown from a horse as a child.

She and Angie had been good friends. They spent Saturday mornings at the farmers’ markets, exploring antique shops, and making frequent jokes at my expense, which was okay by me. Maggie had known about Angie’s cancer before I did, and without her strength, I don’t know how Beth and I would have made it through those last grueling months. She is the one person I can talk to about Angie—about how badly I miss her and our life together. To a large extent, Maggie keeps me sane.

As the plane rose, I leaned back, haunted by images of Woody shooting Russell and of Woody lying next to him on the floor of the rotunda. What could have brought them to such an end? Woody abhorred violence, and I was sure he’d never owned a gun. My list of questions was a mile long. I went over each one until they had the effect of sheep jumping over a fence, and I fell asleep.

At some point during the flight, I jerked awake in a sweat, trying to shake off a nightmare about returning to Little Rock and facing angry mobs. They were screaming and yelling at me to go home. Angie and her parents were in the front row. I had no desire to go back to sleep, so I pulled out the Charlotte Observer and the New York Times that I’d picked up in the airport. A photo of Russell and Woody lying side by side dominated the front pages. Both papers described Russell as a progressive, charismatic leader who would have been a force to be reckoned with on the national scene. More troubling were the descriptions of Woody as a minor aide and hanger-on.

The Times ran a sidebar about me:

Jack Patterson is a respected DC antitrust lawyer, but is not known to practice criminal law. According to his office, he’s traveling on a personal matter. Mr. Patterson is best known for successfully defending Arcade Oil when it was charged by the Department of Justice with price-fixing and other anticompetitive practices. He worked at the Justice Department’s Antitrust Division before joining the firm of Banks and Tuohey.

Well, that much was true at least.

Beth looked up from her magazine, only to cringe at the image of Russell and Woody. "Anything new? What’s going to happen to

Woody?"

Mulling it over, I gave her the only answer I could. I don’t know. It looks like he lost it. If the court finds him insane, he’s likely to spend the rest of his life in a mental hospital. If not, he’ll either plead guilty or be tried for murder. The case will be politically charged, and the prosecutor might even ask for the death penalty. It could stretch on for years with appeals. Ironically, my friend Sam Pagano is now the prosecuting attorney. He was Little Rock’s public defender but was elected prosecuting attorney not long after you went off to college. He and Woody had a falling out a few years ago, but their friendship has a long history. Since the crime occurred in Pulaski County, it would normally be Sam’s to prosecute.

He can’t try the case himself, can he? I mean, if he and Woody know each other?

Prosecutors don’t typically try their friends for murder, no. Sam will recuse. Still, I need to make a mental note to call him. If he’s going to be on the sidelines, maybe he can help me figure out what happened and how I can help.

We had a little time to kill in Atlanta, so I checked in with Maggie and Rose, as promised, then bit the bullet and called Ron Williamson. Ron is in his mid-fifties, very short, very focused, and wound tighter than a drum. He’s the managing partner because clients love his tenacity and willingness to do anything the client wants. I don’t think much of his style or his tactics, but Ron has made the firm plenty profitable. He knows that my antitrust skills and reputation attract corporate clients, so he generally leaves me alone, and I do the same.

Ron was blunt. Tell me you’re not representing Woody Cole. Tell me you’re going anywhere but Arkansas. Tell me you haven’t lost your damn mind.

Look, I am going to Little Rock, but not to represent Woody. I’m going for one reason and one reason only—to help Woody’s mother. Don’t worry, Ron. I’ll be back on Tuesday, ready to protect the inalienable rights of our clients to price-gouge and monopolize.

Good man. Now what in the hell do we do about those hacks asking the firm to comment?

Rose and Maggie are dealing with them. Relax, Ron—this is a temporary storm. And hey, think of the publicity.

Ron grumbled but sounded calmer. "Speaking of publicity, Jerry Prince called last night. Called me, I mean. Not you. He wanted to make sure you weren’t going to represent this murderer. You need to deal with whatever he’s worried about. We damn sure can’t afford to piss him off."

He called me, too—said he had something to discuss. I’ll return the call as soon as you and I are through.

With that, Ron happily let me off the phone, and I immediately called Jerry.

Gerald Jerry Prince is the general counsel at Arcade Oil, the firm’s biggest client. His message to me said that he had an important matter to discuss. I wondered if it had to do with Woody or if something new had come up. Whatever the issue, Ron was right about one thing: it doesn’t pay to ignore your best client’s calls.

Jack, where in the hell are you? I recognized Jerry’s voice, but he sounded different somehow. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I explained what had happened and assured him that I was only visiting Little Rock in order to help Mrs. Cole arrange her son’s defense. I asked what I could do for him, but Jerry was oddly vague and said it could wait until I returned to DC.

Jack, I have to question your judgment on this Cole matter. You have no business going down there. It doesn’t look good. It’s a mistake. His tone was flat, almost unfriendly.

He needed repeated assurances that I wasn’t going to represent Woody. He finally seemed to believe me, and we agreed to meet at my office late Tuesday afternoon.

Look, he said before signing off, if you get stuck in Little Rock, I’ll send the corporate jet. It’s important I get you back … the sooner the better.

It sounded like Arcade Oil was in serious trouble. I put away my phone and sighed. First Woody, now Arcade. I sent Beth to buy some Tylenol.

5

THE NEXT FLIGHT was smooth, and I woke from another strange dream to discover that it was already four thirty and we were landing. While Beth went to get the rental car, I called Maggie.

"Jack, things are heating up. I’m getting more calls, more questions. Reporters want to know how you know the murderer,

Reviews for When Men Betray

[memccauley6 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I was beyond thrilled to read a book set in my hometown of Little Rock (and recognized many locations and people whose names were changed). The descriptions of food were especially nice. A fast-paced courtroom thriller - I’m sure that many, many people will rave about it and it will be made into a movie.

That being said, as another reviewer stated it was “tightly plotted”… and also edited within an inch of its life. It read more like a screenplay, all the spark and life had been removed, and the characters were flat clichés. I would probably be harsher if it wasn’t written by a local author.

[bereanna · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book reminds me of a John Grissom novel, but not as manic and possibly more detailed. I like it because we hear the author speak at a luncheon in Pawleys Island plus it was a complicated plot which seems to replicate politics today. (2019)