When Men Betray by Webb Hubbell Read Free Book Online Page B

her.”
    I nodded, trying my best to clean the egg off my face and clothes with a Kleenex. Didn’t work.
    â€œYou 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?”
    â€œWhat kind of clippings?” I asked warily.
    â€œOh, 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 beenblunt, 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