Between Black and White (10 page)

16

When they were back at Bo’s office, Ray Ray said he was going to walk over to the courthouse and poke around the clerk’s office. He knew everyone over there, and he might be able to get a feel for who the judge might be for Bo’s case. Ray Ray said the judge would make all the difference in deciding whether to challenge venue. “If we get Harold Page, we’re fucked and we need to seek a change of venue immediately. Page is an ornery old bastard who seems to hate everyone but Helen Lewis. But if we get Susan Connelly . . . then the choice is not so black and white. Susan is tough on crime, but she’s also fair and, most importantly, smart. Run that by Bo, but I think he’ll agree.”

“Will do,” Tom said, still reeling from the information disclosed by Ray Ray at the Bluebird.
The murder scene is the Sundowners Club
. . .

Tom and Rick’s star witness in the Willistone case last summer had been a stripper employed by the Sundowners Club named Wilma Newton, whose husband was the driver involved in the accident. She had agreed to testify against the company, saying that her husband was forced to speed by the driving schedule he was put on by Jack Willistone. It had been a great plan—the trucker’s widow sticking it to the company. Unfortunately, Jack got to Newton before the trial, and she did a 180 on the stand, testifying that her husband’s schedule was fine. Luckily, Bo had investigated the Sundowners in the days prior to trial and had learned that Jack Willistone and another man—his “henchman,” Bo had called him—had been meeting with Newton in the weeks leading up to trial. Bo’s investigation had given Tom the ammunition he needed to cross-examine Newton on the stand when she had changed her story.

Jack Willistone was now presumably in prison somewhere. But the last time Tom or anyone else had seen his henchman was when he jumped off the Northport Bridge into the Black Warrior River. His body was never found.

“What about the jury pool?” Tom finally asked, trying to stay focused. Venue was a huge consideration going forward. “With everyone knowing Bo’s history with Andy Walton in Giles County, shouldn’t we move for a change of venue regardless of which judge is appointed?”

Ray Ray was shaking his head before Tom finished. “I think that would be an overreaction. By the time Helen is finished, whichever jury is selected is going to know Bo’s backstory, that he was threatening biblical revenge, and on the night of the murder was seen at the very clearing where both his father and Andy Walton were lynched. Revenge, revenge, revenge. The General will saturate the jury with her theme. Plus this case has already received national news coverage. I saw several stories on CNN over the weekend, all of which mentioned that Bo has claimed since he was five years old that the Ku Klux Klan lynched his father.” He paused. “The bottom line is that every jury pool in this state, if not the whole southern United States, has already been poisoned by Bo’s history.”

“But the folks here know Bo. They’ve heard about his backstory their whole life.”

Ray Ray shrugged. “They also know Andy Walton and his Klan history. I think it’s a wash. People here may not like Bo, but no one really liked Andy either. Again”—he held up his hands—“a wash.”

“So it all comes down to the judge,” Tom said.

“Yep. If we get Susan, we stay. If we get Page, we punt.” He paused again. “And pray.”

After Ray Ray had left for the courthouse, Bo’s secretary, Ellie Michaels, came into the conference room with several documents under her arm. Ellie was a plump black woman in her late fifties who had served as Bo’s secretary, paralegal, and receptionist for the past twenty years. Last night, after his interview of George Curtis, Tom had met Ellie at Bo’s office to discuss the case.

Ellie hadn’t hesitated when Tom had asked if she would stay on to help him and Rick with the trial. “I’ve been with Bo Haynes since he was a pup lawyer and had an Afro haircut. In the early days we were lean and times were tight.” She had laughed loud and hearty. “But these last ten years—lordy mercy, Professor. Every time Bo has won or settled a big case, he has given me a bonus off the top.” Wiping tears from her eyes, she had said, “I’ve sent all five of my children and two grandbabies to college off the money I’ve made working for Bo Haynes. I’d walk barefoot through glass for that man.”

Unfortunately, Ellie knew nothing of relevance from the day of the murder. Yes, she knew that August 18 was the anniversary of Bo’s father’s death, and like every year on the anniversary Bo had been in a foul mood. She also knew about Bo’s split with Jazz, and that he was living at the office. “Such a shame, Professor. Those two are still so much in love.” She had grunted. “They’re just both too stubborn to realize it.”

The office had been plundered by the sheriff’s department all weekend, but Ellie had not let them touch any of Bo’s case files without a court order. “I told ’em straight up no one’s going to be violating the attorney-client privilege on Ellie’s watch, and they shut up quick.” Tom had laughed and been genuinely relieved that Ellie was willing to stay on for the trial.

Now she put the papers that would announce their entry into the fray in front of him side by side. All of the documents had the style of the case front and center:
The State of Tennessee v. Bocephus Aurulius Haynes
.

“This is the notice of appearance for you, Mr. Drake and Mr. . . . Pickalew.” Ellie said the word “Pickalew” like she had a bad taste in her mouth.

“I get the feeling you don’t like Ray Ray, Ellie.”

She wrinkled up her nose. “One whiff of the man is enough to give a teetotaler like me a buzz.” She snorted. “I bet if you stuck him with a pick, you could fill up a barrel of whiskey.”

Single-barrel Ray Ray, Tom thought, stifling a smile. “He’s good, though, Ellie.”

“I won’t disagree with you on that. I just don’t like smelling him.” She pointed at the other two documents. “This is you and Mr. Drake’s motion for admission to the state of Tennessee
pro hac vice.
”

“And this is the motion for an expedited preliminary hearing,” Ellie continued. “Mr. Pickalew has already signed everything, so you just need to sign for you and Mr. Drake.”

Tom looked over the paperwork, feeling his heart rate quicken. There was no backing out now, he knew. He signed the documents and handed them to Ellie, who put them back under her arm. Then she smiled down at him.

“What?” Tom asked.

“Wide ass open.”

Tom creased his eyebrows, not getting it.

“It’s what Bo says every time a case is about to start moving.” Her voice began to tremble as she spoke. “He . . . always rubs . . . his hands together and says, ‘All right now, dog, you know what speed we’ve got to take it to now.’”

Tom smiled as Ellie wiped her tears. “Wide ass open,” he said.

17

On the way to the jail, Tom called Rick.

“The Sundowners Club? You have to be kidding?” Rick’s voice was hyper, and Tom could almost feel the kid’s energy from across the phone line.

“I’m not,” Tom said. “Andy Walton was shot and killed at the Sundowners Club, and his body was moved to Walton Farm, where it was hanged from the same tree where Bo’s father was lynched in 1966.”

“Then the body was set on fire.”

“Yep.” Tom pulled into the jail and cut off the ignition. “Listen, Rick, I don’t have much time. I need to go over all this with Bo. Have you talked with Powell yet?”

“Yeah, last night. Powell said Jack Willistone is incarcerated at the state penitentiary in Springville, serving out a three-year sentence. He also said that the Tuscaloosa County Sheriff’s Office is still investigating Willistone’s henchman, whose name is—get this—James Robert ‘JimBone’ Wheeler. Anyway, Powell said he’d be glad to go with us to interview Jack, but he’s finishing up a two-week murder trial himself right now.”

“Arrington?” Tom asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave him alone then,” Tom said, climbing out of the Explorer. “But as soon as it’s over—”

“We’ll go to Springville.”

“Good man,” Tom said.

“Professor, do you think it’s possible that Jack Willistone or JimBone Wheeler could somehow be involved in Andy Walton’s murder?” Rick asked as Tom opened the door to the visitor’s entrance to the Giles County Jail.

“I don’t know,” Tom said. “But I don’t believe in coincidences.”

18

In the consultation room of the jail, Bo was anxious and on edge, pacing as Tom summarized everything Ray Ray had told him. He seemed to be having a difficult time coming to grips with the fact that Raymond Pickalew was going to be part of his defense team.

“Professor, I know we need local counsel, but I hate that motherfucker,” Bo said, scowling, his hands balled into fists after Tom had finished the recap. “The last case I had with Ray Ray, I just about took his head off.”

“The reasons you hate him are exactly why we need him,” Tom insisted. “He’s a brawler, and he’s gone toe to toe with Helen before and whipped her ass.”

Bo raised his eyebrows. “You talking about her divorce.”

Tom nodded. “She may be the meanest prosecutor in the state of Tennessee, but her ex-husband took her to the cleaners in their divorce. And you know who his attorney was?”

Now Bo smiled. “Ray Ray.”

“When I mentioned that we would be associating Ray Ray as local counsel, I thought the General was going to faint.”

Bo sighed, the smile fading from his face. “OK, Professor, I trust you. But dealing with Helen Lewis as a party in a divorce proceeding is a little different than going to battle with her in a capital murder trial.”

“Can you think of anybody in Giles County who would be a more effective local counsel than Ray Ray?”

When Bo didn’t answer, Tom held out his palms.

“OK, you got me,” Bo finally said, plopping down in the aluminum chair across from Tom.

“Bo, did you go to the Sundowners Club the night of Andy Walton’s murder?”

Bo shook his head. “Absolutely not. I haven’t been to that place since I investigated it during the Willistone trial last summer.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

“OK,” Tom said, satisfied. “Ray Ray is going to go out there today and start interviewing employees. Any thoughts?”

Bo nodded. “The owner of the Sundowners is Larry Tucker. Tucker is still a card-carrying member of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. Outside of Andy Walton, who I know was there, the only other person that I am almost positive participated in my daddy’s lynching is Larry Tucker. I seriously doubt that Tucker will want to be helpful or cooperative to our defense, but Ray Ray’s a good person to send out there. I’m sure he’s dropped a lot of dollar bills in the Sundowners.” Bo sighed, then snapped his fingers. “The bartender, Peter Burns, should be helpful if he can. Burns is who gave me the information you used to cross the trucker’s widow in the Willistone trial. He owes me, because I represented him a few years back on a DUI and he was acquitted. If he’s still around, you need to talk with Burns. From what I recall, if anything happens in that joint he knows about it.”

“Anything else?”

“Talk with the dancers. I bet Andy had a favorite.”

Tom jotted some notes down on his pad and then looked Bo in the eye. It was time to change direction. “Why did you break the surveillance camera at the gate to Walton Farm?” Tom asked.

Bo sighed. “Honestly, Professor, I don’t remember doing that. I was . . . very drunk.”

“You told me yesterday that you went to the clearing every year on the anniversary of your father’s death. How could you do that if the farm had a gate and video surveillance.”

“In years past I would park along Highway 64 and hop a low part of the fence a good distance away from the cameras. This year Andy put a new barrier around the place. I mean, it’s like the Great Wall of China now.”

“So how did you get to the clearing on the night of the murder?”

Bo stared down at the table. “My cousin, Booker T., he farms the land out there . . . He gave me the code.”

It was the answer that Tom expected, but it was no less damaging or significant. “I need to speak with him as soon as possible,” Tom said. “Can you give me his number?”

Bo did, shaking his head as he called out the digits. “You think Helen will charge him with something?”

“You tell me,” Tom said. “Sounds like it’s a decent possibility. Accessory to trespass or even—”

“Accessory to murder,” Bo finished the thought, closing his eyes.

19

George Curtis stood in the kitchen, watching his sister through the open slit in the blinds. Even at sixty-nine years old, her once-golden hair now solid white, Maggie Curtis Walton was still a beautiful woman. When they were younger, George had always thought of Linda Evans from her
Big Valley
days when he would watch his sister, six years his senior, ride horses on the farm. These
days, with her white hair cut shorter, she often reminded George of Ellie Ewing from the nighttime soap
Dallas.

Now, four days removed from her husband’s brutal murder and just an hour after his graveside funeral service, Maggie sat in a rocking chair on the porch, holding a leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible tight to her chest. Her exhaustion was palpable.

George knew that getting through the funeral had been torture for his sister.

Due to the mutilated condition of Andy’s body and Maggie’s shock at the gruesome nature of her husband’s murder, George had decided against a visitation, and a viewing had been out of the question. Instead, he had organized a private graveside service at Maplewood Cemetery. So, with temperatures hovering just under one hundred degrees, approximately fifty people, most of them friends of Maggie’s from church and the Junior League, sweated and fanned their way through the ceremony, which was officiated by the Reverend Walter Griffith of First Presbyterian. General Helen Lewis, Sheriff Ennis Petrie, and several deputies were on hand as well, but they were mostly there to keep curiosity seekers out. Andy’s longtime attorney, Charles Dutton, as well as the mayor of Pulaski, Dan Kilgore, were also present. Mayor Kilgore seemed especially sad, though George suspected that the politician’s demeanor had more to do with the bad publicity the town was receiving in the aftermath of the murder than any grief he felt over Andy’s death.

All of the guests, at George’s request, stayed clear of Maggie, who spent the service sitting on the front row of chairs, her hands clutching the same Bible she clung to now. Even after Reverend Griffith had finished his eulogy and people began approaching the coffin to pay their respects and leave flowers, Maggie remained glued to her seat, her posture perfectly erect as she stared blankly at her husband’s coffin.

Maggie’s eyes carried the same listless look now as she gazed over the railing at the night sky. Below her and in all directions the hills flattened into fifteen hundred acres of the best farmland in all of Giles County—property that had been in the Curtis family since before the turn of the century. Above her a ceiling fan whirled full blast, cooling the porch slightly, but the unrelenting heat still made the setting a bit uncomfortable. Sweat rolled down Maggie’s cheeks and neck, but she made no effort to wipe it off.

Feeling a pang in his heart, George forced himself to turn from the window and look at the three men who had gathered in the kitchen parlor. Counting George, they were the last remnants of the lynch mob that hanged Franklin Roosevelt Haynes on the northeast corner of this farm in 1966.

Originally, there had been ten, but in the years since the lynching, their number had gradually dwindled as accidents, bad health, and age began to catch up with them. With Andy’s murder, there were now just the four of them left. George made eye contact with each of the other men in the kitchen. Then, taking off his glasses, he spoke. “She hasn’t said a word since seeing the body.”

The other men remained silent, their eyes focused intently on George.

“I’ve given her several Valium, and I’m sure I’ll have to give her an Ambien to sleep.” He sighed. “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even after Drew . . .”

Drew Walton had been the only son born of the marriage between Andy and Maggie Walton. Drew had been a straight-A student at Giles County High and then went on to David Lipscomb in Nashville to study music. At nineteen years old he’d been found lying in a bathroom in a bar on Music Row, a heroin needle stuck in his arm. Dead of an apparent overdose. Though Maggie never let anyone utter the word “suicide” around her, George had always thought the boy had killed himself.

“Drew wasn’t lynched like a field nigger, Doc.” Larry Tucker, owner of the Sundowners Club, spoke in a whiskey-soaked Southern drawl and rubbed his scruffy beard, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Andy was.” Larry paused and stepped into the middle of the parlor, moving his eyes around the room. “On
her
land.” He looked George dead in the eye. “Your family’s land, Doc.”

“He was killed at your club, Larry,” George said.

“That’s right,” Larry said, his bloodshot eyes again moving wildly around the room. “He was. The question, gentlemen, is what are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing.” The voice came from behind Larry, and he turned around to face it. “Nothing?” Larry asked, squinting at the man.

“Nothing,” Sheriff Ennis Petrie repeated. “If he’s guilty, then Helen Lewis will make sure that he is put to death. The General is undefeated as a prosecutor, and the preliminary investigation indicates that Bo is guilty as sin.”

“I don’t think we should trust a cunt to do a man’s job,” Larry said, stepping closer to the sheriff, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke.

“Helen Lewis has bigger balls than you do, Larry,” Ennis said. “There is
nothing
for us to do.”

“Spoken like a yellow-bellied, chicken-shit politician if there ever was one,” Larry said, placing his hands on his hips and continuing to gnaw on the toothpick.

“That’s enough, Larry,” George said. “Ennis has a point.”

“Ennis can suck my dick,” Larry said, pausing with his mouth open, toothpick dangling.

“No, thanks,” Ennis said. He was still wearing his badge and uniform and lowered his thumb to his gun holster. “Don’t fuck with me, Larry.”

Larry smiled at the sheriff, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Your backbone has gotten almost as soft as your belly, Ennis.” Then he turned his head and looked around the room. “Goddamnit, fellas, come on! Andy Walton would roll over in his grave if he thought his family and friends were just gonna lie down and let a damn lady prosecutor avenge his death. Tape up those vaginas and remember who you are and where you came from. Tennessee chapter for life, remember?”

Ennis stared back at him, making no attempt to hide his disgust. “The rest of us got out of the Klan a long time ago, Larry. Andy got out too, remember? You’re the only one still carrying the banner.”

“Oh, come off it, Ennis. Everyone in here knows the only thing you care about is that precious badge on your chest. What? Don’t you think we can take the nigger out without you being implicated?” His mouth curved into a wide grin. “I know a guy, Ennis. A guy used to come in my club last year. A
fixer
of things, you might say. He actually approached me earlier tonight. Called me from a pay phone and offered to take Haynes out. Said he had a score to settle with the nigger.” Larry paused and licked his lips, his eyes dancing around the room before they returned to Ennis. “My guy could take Bo out, and everyone in here would be as clean as the brass on that badge of yours. Come on, man. Don’t you see Ms. Maggie out there? How can you stand there and tell us to back off?”

Ennis took a step forward and stuck his index finger into Larry’s chest. “The fact of the matter, you ignorant redneck piece of shit, is that some of us here have more at stake than others.” The sheriff nodded at the other remaining guest in the room, and they both stepped toward the door. When Ennis grabbed the knob, he turned and looked only at their host. “Doc, I’m sorry about Andy, and I’m damn sure sorry that Ms. Maggie saw him hanging from that tree. But my advice is to stay the hell out of Helen’s way and let her do her job. Pride and family honor don’t change the situation. Bo is guilty and is going to be put to death for it. There is
nothing
for us or anyone else to do.”

When they were gone, George looked out the window again and watched the sheriff’s cruiser move steadily down the long and winding gravel driveway to Highway 64 below.

“Well . . .” Larry said. “What’s it gonna be, Doc? Are we gonna hold our dicks and do nothing? Or are we gonna do something?”

When George didn’t answer, Larry continued. “George, if we’re gonna leave things to Helen, we at least need to address McMurtrie. He’s the reason Jack Willistone is sitting in a prison cell instead of filling my club up with truckers wanting lap dances. If we can take McMurtrie out, we’ll make Helen’s job a lot easier.”

Still looking out the window, George lowered his eyes to his sister, who continued to rock slowly back and forth in the chair. Finally, he turned back to Larry. “You said you knew a guy.”