When Men Betray (6 page)

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

M
Y 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 trapped. 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.

B
ETH 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 bath.
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.

I finished the wine in my glass and poured myself another, hoping it would help me lose an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

Most of the final messages were from self-proclaimed experts offering their forensic, psychiatric, and legal services. Both the prosecution and defense employ experts during major trials, and the media hire them by the dozen to enhance or validate their reports. These guys all make a bundle, but sometimes they trip over their own expertise. I once had a jury in stitches when an economic expert, testifying for the opposing party at $450 per hour, couldn't explain a video of himself offering exactly the opposite opinion on a news magazine show earlier in the month. His client was not laughing.