Free When Men Betray by Webb Hubbell Page B

“It was in a batch of messages that had been left at the desk before I arrived. What bothers me is that very few people knew Beth was with me.”
    â€œYou know, almost anyone could have called her college dorm and found out Beth had left with you. I’ll get this to the police, but I don’t think it’ll do much good. I’ll give Paul a heads up as well as Bruce Morgan. But if you ask me, this note is for real. Somebody wants you out of town. I don’t know why. But I’m going to take it seriously. You should do the same.”
    We rode in silence until we were almost to the county jail. We could see the satellite trucks lining the road as we approached. We parked, and as Clovis came around to open my door, I heard, “There he is! There’s Cole’s lawyer!” A wave of reporters juggling microphones barged straight toward me. Cameramen, with their cameras held like rocket launchers, were right behind. Clovis began to earn his pay, shouldering through the oncoming wave with ease. The reporters were shouting questions, shoving their cameras and mikes right into my face, but Clovis led interference and the sea parted. Within moments, we were past them and entering the jail.
    I went through the usual process a visitor is subjected to when entering a jail or prison. I was relieved to find out that strip searches weren’t required of attorneys visiting their clients. I was given a visitor’s pass with no comment—just some dirty looks from the jail personnel.
    I gathered my belongings and looked around, only to find myself facing Sam Pagano, who was wearing a smile that I supposed he reserved for the press—there was certainly nothing personal about it. All men age, most not so gracefully, but Sam was the exception. I don’t mean just from the last time I’d seen him, which had been less than a year ago; I mean from college days. He’d always looked younger than his age, which helped, but to top it off, Sam was flat-out good looking. He had, as Angie once described them, “bedroom eyes,” and had stayed in shape running and cycling, although I did notice the beginning of a middle-age paunch. He’s shorter than I am, but has a broad chest and slim hips. His Italian heritage shows in his olive skin, which turns a deep gold every summer. Everyone in the jail except the inmates seemed to be lining the halls to catch a glimpse of the Washington lawyer. Sam was well aware of the scrutiny. His greeting gave no hint of a prior friendship.
    â€œGood afternoon, Mr. Patterson, and welcome to the Pulaski County Jail.” We shook hands. “I need you to sign some paperwork if you don’t mind. Please come with me.” He turned on his heel, leading me into a nearby office. As the door shut, we both broke into huge grins, and in an instant, Sam was giving me a bear hug and slapping me across the back.
    â€œShit, Jack,” Sam said as he stepped back, “we’re in one fine mess. But you’re still a sight for sore eyes—and here in Little Rock, no less.”
    We would have laughed if not for the sadness of it all.
    â€œI don’t know what to say,” I told him. “I don’t know why I’m here, and I damn sure don’t know what to do. I need some help.”
    Sam’s smile disappeared, and I felt sure that whatever was going to next wouldn’t be good.
    â€œJack, I know you understand the need for that charade out in the hall. Every member of the press is looking for a story, and the last thing either of us needs is some story implying that the county prosecutor is in bed with the defendant’s attorney. Right now, in front of anyone, and I mean
anyone
, not just the press, you and I can be polite but certainly can not act like the lifelong pals we are. If you think the press is on your ass, imagine what they’re doing to mine. Any hint that I’m anything less than a hard-ass will get me tarred