BETH 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.
One message surprised me—a call from Lucille Robinson’s personal assistant. Lucy Robinson, the late senator’s wife, had been a friend of Angie’s in college, and they’d stayed in touch after we’d moved to DC. We didn’t socialize, and the last time I’d heard from Lucy was shortly after Angie had died. She’d written me a very warm and thoughtful note. Her assistant’s message was curt: First Lady Robinson would like to see you as soon as possible.
I had no idea what she wanted, but that was one call I’d have to return … and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Suddenly, I realized Beth was in the room, sitting on the sofa with a book on her lap and watching me. “Beth—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were here.”
“It’s okay, Dad. It kind of feels like old times on Sunday night. Remember?”
Of course I remembered. Both Angie and I tried to leave our work at work as much as possible. Angie had her MD, but didn’t practice. She worked in research at the National Institutes of Health. My briefcase stayed in the hall closet until after dinner on Sunday, when I used the evening to organize my upcoming week. Angie and Beth usually joined me—Angie poring over medical journals, Beth doing homework or reading a book. It was a good way to end one week and begin the next, peaceful and unhurried. Angie had spent much of her time in bed toward the end, but on Sunday evenings, I carried her down so we could continue our routine. With Angie gone and Beth at college, the ritual no longer brings the same sense of renewal, but I still bring out my laptop on Sunday nights.
“Give me just a few more minutes, honey, I’m almost through here.”
Another message in the stack made me gasp: Watch for me on the Sunday talk shows. I’m glad to know Woody’s in good hands. Give him my love. Cheryl.
Cheryl Cole, Woody’s former wife. I couldn’t believe she’d want anyone to make the connection. But now she was going to do the round of Sunday talk shows? Surely she had better sense.
The final few notes were from opposing counsel in various cases I was working on, offering to reschedule depositions or meetings. Lawyers love to postpone; it allows them to juggle more balls and continue to bill the client. They come off looking generous while explaining to the client that the delay wasn’t their fault. I’d give these to Maggie.
I moved to a soft, comfortable chair close to the sofa where Beth was curled up reading. Angie used to read the same way—Beth was so much like her mother.
“I’m a little tired. How about you?” I asked, letting out a deep breath.
“How could I be tired? I mean, I’m frightened for Woody, but all of this is … kind of riveting. I am a lawyer’s daughter, you know. All your other cases seemed dull as nails, but this is a murder case. Do you have any idea why he did it? I mean, I know he did it—did he just lose it?”
“I know that something at work was bothering Woody. It seemed to have come up recently, but Helen thought he’d resolved the problem. He showed some symptoms of depression, but any defense would need to establish much more than that to prove insanity. You remember the Andrea Yates case, don’t you? She was the woman from Texas who drowned her five children in a bathtub. Despite all the psychiatric testimony, the jury found her guilty. Woody’s lawyers are going to have a tough time.”
“Why aren’t you going to be Woody’s lawyer? If I were Woody, I’d want you.”
“I want to help Woody and Helen in any way I can, but I’m not a criminal lawyer. I’m not qualified to defend a murder case. Besides, I’m too close. It isn’t unethical to represent family, but it’s usually not a good idea. And Woody and Helen are family. Except for an occasional difference of opinion, usually about nothing important, the ‘Gang of Four’ has been friends for years. I can’t explain why I feel especially close to Woody. Maybe it’s because he’s always seemed sort of vulnerable, especially after the divorce. And when your mom got sick, we practically had to beat him away with a stick, remember? I think he took her death almost as hard as I did.”
“How could I forget? I know you were all close, but, I don’t know, it seemed like a lot, even then.”
“Yeah, but friends like Woody, Sam, and Marshall are hard to come by. We went through a lot together.”
“I still don’t get why we never visited them. They were always welcome at our house—why didn’t we ever go see them in Arkansas?”
“It’s complicated, Beth,” I said, draining my wine.
“Right.” She rolled her eyes. “You know, Helen said something weird to me tonight.”
“What’s that?”
“She said, ‘Your dad doesn’t know it yet, but I think Woody knew he’d come. Only your dad will know what to do with what he finds.’ A little cryptic, no?”