I WOKE UP the next morning to the irresistible smell of hot coffee and bacon. It was only six thirty, but Clovis was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, and a tiny saint from heaven was cooking bacon and hash browns. As she took a pan of golden-brown, homemade biscuits out of the oven, she asked me how I liked my eggs. As soon as I sat down, hot coffee appeared in front of me.
Clovis was grinning like he’d just discovered the secret to life. In between bites he said, “Jack, meet Bea Taylor. Bea’s one of the best cooks I know, and she used to work at Senator Robinson’s duck club. We talked last night, and she told me that Lucy let her go after the shooting. She said she’d be happy to cook for us for a few days. I figured she could stay here, and maybe y’all could talk after court today.”
Even if she hadn’t been Russell’s duck-club cook, Bea’s breakfast was enough for me to put her on the permanent payroll. But I had a feeling she could be the break we were hoping for.
ON THE RIDE in to court, both Micki and Maggie asked me what was up. I reminded them that patience was a virtue, another of my grandmother’s favorites. Wasn’t a breakfast like the one they’d just enjoyed worth a little mystery?
If anything, the crowd outside the courthouse looked even larger. Dozens of signs bobbed up and down calling for justice for Russell and his family and for Woody’s head. We went directly to the judge’s chambers. We didn’t have time to meet with Woody, but I figured, if I didn’t see him, he couldn’t tell me he had changed his mind.
At precisely nine o’clock, the door to Marshall’s office opened, and we were invited in. I had a chance to look around while we were waiting for Sam. Marshall’s robe hung on the old-fashioned coat-rack in the corner. His desk was completely clear except for the ever-present yellow legal pad and cheap ballpoint pen. The credenza behind his desk was covered with a dozen or more pictures of his boys and wife.
Sam rushed in trailed by his three deputies. Marshall asked if there were any problems. Micki said no. He then asked if there were any problems with our sharing information. Again, no problems. He nodded, seemingly satisfied, then looked at me. “Jack?”
“Your Honor, I’ve got two concerns right now. I’ve given the prosecutor the note and key Mr. Cole left for me. I’ve also told him the location of the locker that the key opens and given him its contents. When I first got to Little Rock, Mrs. Cole told me that some men claiming to be state troopers came to her home and carted away Mr. Cole’s computer and file cabinet. Sam has concluded that whoever entered Mrs. Cole’s home, they were not, in fact, state troopers, and the computer and file cabinet are still missing.”
Marshall raised an eyebrow and looked at Sam.
“Your Honor, Jack’s rendition is essentially correct. I can assure the court we’re trying to discover who the imposters were and the current location of the items taken. We no longer believe that Jack or Mrs. Cole withheld anything. I’ll also say, I don’t believe this has any bearing on the case.”
“Thank you,” I told Sam. “Your Honor, in addition, I heard that Woody’s car was discovered parked at the state capitol. It was immaculate—absolutely nothing in it or on it, including fingerprints. I’m sure Sam will verify this as well.”
Sam nodded in agreement.
“What’s your point, counsel?” Marshall asked.
“Well, it seems unusual that Mr. Cole’s home was raided almost immediately after the shooting, that his car was found without a single piece of paper or even a gum wrapper in it, free of fingerprints, and that no one has any idea who’s responsible.”
Sam was about to respond, but Marshall said, “Counsel, I don’t see the relevance to this preliminary hearing. If evidence is missing, that’s a subject for another day.”
“I understand, Your Honor. One last thing—I’ve been recently made aware that opposition research was done as part of Senator Robinson’s campaign. This sensitive information about the deceased is currently in the possession of Janis Harold, counsel to the campaign. The only persons who can access this research are Mr. Cole and me, as his attorney. I have no idea what’s in these files, but I don’t want something to happen to them, and then later you both say you didn’t know about their existence. Too many files have disappeared already.”
Sam’s deputy prosecutor spoke up. “That’s easy. We’ll just advise Ms. Harold not to release the files until we decide what to do about them.”
Marshall looked at me, and I shrugged. As long as I wasn’t the one holding up their delivery to Lucy, it was fine with me.
Marshall said, “I still don’t see the relevance, but since Sam’s deputy is going to contact Janis, I don’t think you need me. Anything else? … If not, the preliminary hearing will begin at ten o’clock.”
We went directly into the courtroom, which was packed and noisy. Helen was already in her place, flanked by Beth and Jeff. Sitting next to Rodney Fitzhugh was my friend Peggy Fortson, the career deputy attorney general in the Criminal Division at main Justice. I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a binder that Beth had prepared the previous day. I walked over to greet Rodney and Peggy and handed the binder to Peggy.
She weighed the binder in her hands. “Is this all?”
“No, but it’s what I’ve got for now. Call me if it piques your interest. By the way, where’s Dub?”
She laughed. “He’s with my staff, trying to stay as far away from the judge as he can. Don’t worry—I’m sure you haven’t seen the last of him.”
Peggy and I had interned at Justice together during law school and had begun our careers there at the same time a year later. She was extremely smart, vivacious, and had an endearing personality. She turned more than a few heads with her long dark hair and Italian good looks. She’d had to overcome lingering sexism in the male-entrenched Justice Department, but her intelligence ultimately trumped the good-old-boy network. Rather than leave to make money, as I had done, she’d chosen Justice as her career, quickly becoming the lawyer whom all politically appointed attorneys turned to for advice and counsel.
I returned to our table and heard “All rise!”
Sam had brought his A game. He began by calmly outlining the basic case against Woody and carefully going through the elements of what he was required to prove for every charge. He was careful not to overstate his case. If anything, Sam understated the evidence. His burden of proof at this stage was much lower than beyond a reasonable doubt, and as yet, the facts were hardly in dispute. He pointed out that Woody and Russell had argued on occasion, and that, after the senatorial election, Russell had made the decision not to bring Woody with him to DC. No explanations, no suppositions, just the facts. Woody and Russell had been overheard arguing Tuesday afternoon in the senator’s local office. This was a fact I hadn’t known but wasn’t surprised to hear. Now he raised his voice.
“Today you will see a video of one of the most cold-blooded, vicious, and senseless crimes in the history of our state. I apologize for its graphic nature,” he said, looking at me. “I had hoped there would be no need to show these images to the court and the national viewing audience, but the defense’s decision to ask for a preliminary hearing necessitates reliving this horrific scene.”
I felt the eyes of the entire courtroom staring. Woody had kept his bearing neutral during Sam’s statement. Now he placed his hands on his forehead and crumpled his upper body to the table.
Sam concluded his opening remarks with, “Many a murderer acts out of passion or revenge, but few purchase a gun on Tuesday, carefully go about their business on Wednesday, and calmly walk up and execute a United States senator on Thursday. Whatever his reason, this is a textbook example of a calculated, premeditated, cold-blooded murder, for which Philip Cole deserves the maximum punishment provided by law, and in this state, that’s death.”
A string of witnesses for the prosecution established that Woody and Russell had argued Tuesday afternoon. No one knew the nature of the argument, but they’d overheard shouts coming from the senator’s office and recalled that Woody had stormed out of the office, slamming doors behind him.
The gun dealer, a Mr. Massie, established that Woody had purchased the gun Tuesday afternoon. He’d shown Woody how to load it and how to use the safety. Woody had paid cash, signed the appropriate forms, and appeared calm.
On cross-examination, he told Micki he never sold guns to suspicious-looking people or to those who seemed anxious, which Woody hadn’t.
FORTUNATELY, IT WAS past noon when the gun dealer completed his testimony, and the court declared recess until one-thirty. I was hopeful that Sam would take the rest of the afternoon presenting his case, buying me the day I needed. We went to the basement, and Woody was brought to the small conference room where we’d met before.
He was beside himself with remorse.
“I told you I wanted to plead guilty, and now I’m sure of it. Why put Mom, Beth, and everyone else through all this again? Even if you know why I wanted to scare Russell—and you don’t really know anything—I still killed him, and all the rest is just bullshit. I bought a gun, and I blew his brains out. Why can’t you let it be?”
Explaining my theory, the plan, or anything else didn’t make much sense now, so I tried to get him on a different tack. “Well, now that we’re here, why don’t you tell me exactly what you found out?”
Woody smiled wanly. “No way, Jack. I told you I wouldn’t help you trash Russell, and what happened today only reinforces my resolve. By the way, they let Lucy’s lawyer see me. I signed the paper releasing the opposition research. At least all that dirt won’t reach the light of day. Lucy’s probably destroyed the files by now.”
I didn’t tell him I had put a stop to all that this morning. I guess you could call it a premonition.
Micki interrupted. “Even if you won’t help Jack, can you help me with details that don’t relate to Russell? I take it that last Tuesday you did argue with Russell. Did the witness accurately portray your mood after your meeting? You stormed out, slamming doors?”
Woody nodded agreeably. Micki’s natural charm must have softened his resistance.
“Then you went to Janis Harold’s office, and right after meeting with her, you bought the gun and ammunition. Was the gun dealer’s account of what happened accurate? Were there any differences from his memory and yours?”
Woody said no.
“Thank you. Now, after you bought the gun, what did you do?”
Hesitating a little, he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I went to the bar at the Armitage and had a few drinks. Maybe more than a few. I don’t really remember.”
Micki stayed close to his face, looking him in the eye. “Did anybody see you there? Did you sit at the bar? Did you talk to anybody?”
He seemed oddly confused. “No, I sat where I usually sit, in the corner. There’s this cute waitress—Nicole. I ordered a drink and flirted a little. She’s very sweet and takes good care of me. Brenda Warner came over to my table, and we talked a while. Eventually, I left and went home.”
Micki glanced across the table at me. “Did you drive yourself or take a cab?”
Woody looked sheepish. “I guess I shouldn’t have driven.”
Micki gave him a sweet smile. “That’s okay, you’re not charged with DWI. I’ll give you a pass this time.”
I had to give her credit—she had him talking. I knew when to keep quiet.
Woody told her he had come home, steered clear of Helen, and gone straight to his room, where he sobered up. He told her about using Wednesday to get his affairs in order, spending time with Janis, and coming home with a couple of bottles of wine to drink with his Mom. He declined to talk about Thursday before the shooting and was getting more comfortable refusing to answer Micki. He admitted writing a check to Cheryl. Micki went back over the visit with Brenda, but he had little memory about what they’d talked about. He could tell her what Brenda was wearing, which didn’t surprise me, but the rest was a blur.
Next, Micki tried to get him to be more cooperative with our overall defense effort, using his work against the death penalty to make the argument, but she got nowhere.
“Look,” Woody said, “I’ll go along with Jack for this hearing, but the result won’t change. When I’m bound over for trial, I want you both to get out of my way. I appreciate your effort, but all it does for me is prolong the nightmare. Every night when I try to sleep, the shooting plays over and over in my head. Every minute we relive the scene in the courtroom only reinforces my decision.”
It was almost a relief when the guard came to take him away. His resolve to die hung over the room like an ominous cloud. Micki didn’t help my mood when she asked if Brenda had told me that she and Woody had talked Tuesday night, and I had to admit, she hadn’t. Maybe she didn’t think it was important, or perhaps the hotel’s lawyer had advised her not to tell me. I didn’t relish having to ask Brenda about this, but it would have to be done.
I brought up an idea I’d had while Micki was questioning Woody.
She gave me a doubtful look. “You know the first rule of cross is never ask a question if you don’t know the answer, right?”
I pointed out that we weren’t dealing with a jury, that we were merely trying to plant a seed that there might be more to Russell’s shooting than met the eye. I thought it was worth the risk.
“Besides,” I said, “I won’t be asking the question. You will.”