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.”