Between Black and White (16 page)

34

Three hundred miles away, in his cell on the A Block of the St. Clair Correctional Facility, Jack Willistone lay on his cot, staring at the concrete ceiling above him. It had been lights-out for at least three hours, but Jack couldn’t sleep.

He’d answered the questions about Martha Booher as well as he could. “An old friend. Met her in Nashville many years ago. She had been a barmaid at Tootsies, the famous bar in Nashville on Broadway Street.” They’d “spent some time together” on Jack’s trips to the Music City, but he hadn’t seen her in years. She’d heard the news and just wanted to say hello and that she was pulling for him. It was . . . “sweet,” Jack had said.

And all of it was true. He’d just left out one minor detail.

Our mutual friend sends his regards. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you when you get out of jail.

It had been the last thing Martha said. Completely innocent, in case their conversation was being recorded. But the meaning came in loud and clear, and it was just as McMurtrie had predicted.

Bone will come for me,
Jack knew.
He’ll come for me, and if I can’t pay . . .

Jack closed his eyes, unwilling to allow himself to panic. A lot had happened since Martha’s visit. He had gotten a break.

Someone
had
come to see him, and he
had
referred that person to Bone. Bone wasn’t stupid. He would know the source of his newfound income. The question, though, was would it be enough?

Jack propped himself on his elbow on the cot and gazed through the steel bars. McMurtrie had put him here. In his whole life, a journey spent hustling some of the smartest and shrewdest businessmen in the country, McMurtrie was the only son of a bitch that ever got the best of him.

He’ll figure it out,
Jack knew, chuckling to himself.
And when he does, Bone will either be dead or in prison for life.
Either way he couldn’t get at Jack.

Jack knew he could answer the riddle for them. But if he did that, he was committed. If they failed, Bone would most certainly come for him. And the referral wouldn’t make a damn. Not paying was one thing. Outright betrayal was another.
I’d be a dead man walking,
Jack knew.

So he’d stay on the fence and hope that McMurtrie would figure it out. Martha Booher was certainly part of it. Booher might lead them right to Bone . . .

. . . if they ever find her.

But she wasn’t the only clue. There was something else.

Something else . . . right under their nose.

35

Bocephus Haynes lowered his chest to the concrete floor. “Forty-five,” he said out loud as if anyone in the cell could hear him. He did five more push-ups and then switched to planks. Five minutes later, when he had reached the point of physical exhaustion, he crumpled to the concrete and rolled over on his back.

Because of the press the case had garnered, Ennis had decided to keep Bo in the holding cell as opposed to moving him to general population. The decision suited Bo just fine, as he had no wish to rub elbows with any of the other patrons of the Giles County Jail. But he’d now been incarcerated for over two weeks, and the boredom and monotony had become almost unbearable.

The cell was pitch dark, but Bo was used to the shortage of light. It was also deathly quiet in the small space, the constant noise of the day ceasing after the warden called for lights out. Bo gazed at the ceiling, trying not to think about the Professor licking his wounds in Hazel Green.
My fault,
he knew.
I shouldn’t have dragged him into this mess.
Bo sighed and closed his eyes. Images of Jazz, T. J., and Lila floated through his brain, causing his heart to ache. They had not come to see him, and in all truth he was relieved. He didn’t want his son and daughter to see him here. And Jazz . . . he couldn’t bear to see her look of disappointment and shame.
I’ve let them all down
. . .

Bo rolled over into push-up position and started another set, trying to will the negative thoughts out of his brain. He had reached ten when he heard the sliding door swoosh open. Figuring it was a corrections officer doing some type of nightly sweep of the jail, Bo continued his push-ups. He stopped when he saw the loafers come into view. That wasn’t the footwear of a corrections officer.

“Got a minute, Bo?” a weary but familiar voice asked.

Bo shot to his feet and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Blinking inside the dark room, he recognized the round face of Mayor Dan Kilgore. The mayor was a bullnecked man with thinning silver hair who usually had a broad grin plastered on his face.

But he wasn’t grinning now.

“What—?”

“Relax,” the mayor said, taking a seat in one of the metal chairs at the desk. “I’ve been meaning to visit you, but I didn’t want to come during normal hours when the press leeches are out.”

“Well . . . thanks. I guess,” Bo said, taking the seat across the small desk from the mayor.

Dan Kilgore had been the mayor of Pulaski for twelve years. Back when he was a city councilman, Kilgore had been a big part of the Klan rally boycott in 1989, and since becoming mayor was constantly pushing progressive programs and measures.

“Bo, nothing we say in here can be used against you. I’ve already covered that with the General, and she understands.”

Bo smiled. “Sure.”

“Believe what you want to believe, but you can talk freely.”

Bo shrugged. “Why are you here, Mayor?”

“To ask you to plead guilty.”

For a moment Bo didn’t think he’d heard him correctly.
“What?”

“There’s still time. Take the deal the General has proposed. It’s . . . better than the alternative.”

“I didn’t do it,” Bo said. “I’m not pleading to nothing.”

“Bo, the evidence—”

“I was framed, Mayor.”

Kilgore smiled sadly. “If you say so. Bo, Pulaski . . . has changed so much over the past two decades. So many good things are happening here, and you’ve been a big part of that. Do you really want all of our progress to go out the window?”

“I didn’t kill Andy Walton. I’m not going to rot away in a prison cell to save this town. My daddy was lynched when I was five years old, and I saw the man that did it. And no one here has done one damn thing about that. Not even you, Mayor.”

“Bo—”

“Let me finish. No one lifted a finger for me, and you want to know why? Because they were scared. Just like you, Mayor. Scared that if Andy Walton was charged with the murder of my father, then Pulaski would be dragged into another story about the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Bo, you know that’s not true.”

“It is true!”
Bo screamed, bringing his fist down on the table. “Now you just want me to take one for the team. Plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit? Why should I do that, Mayor? When has this town ever had my back?”

Kilgore sighed and stood from his chair. He began to pace back and forth in the small space. “You know they’ll come, don’t you?”

“The Klan?” Bo asked.

Kilgore nodded. “My office has been inundated with calls all day long from different factions. Permits have been requested by the Klan for every single day from mid-September until the end of October.”

Bo said nothing as Kilgore continued to pace and rant.

“It’ll be the Heritage Festival on steroids,” the mayor said, referring to the annual rally organized by various Klan sympathizers that was held on the Giles County Square every fall in Pulaski. He sighed again and stuffed his hands in pockets. “Won’t just be them either. The NAACP’s been calling too. And the press . . . it’s going to be the circus of all circuses.”

“What’s the pulse of the town?” Bo asked.

Kilgore let his hands fall to his side. “Nobody knows what to do, Bo. I mean . . . no offense, but you look guilty as hell. And with Jasmine leaving town and resigning from the college . . . I don’t know, I think everyone just feels paralyzed.”

For almost a minute neither man said anything. Finally, Bo spoke. “I’m sorry, Mayor, but I’m not going to plead guilty to something I didn’t do.”

Dan Kilgore nodded solemnly and walked away. When he reached the sliding door, he said, “I’m sorry too, Bo.”

Out in the hallway the mayor’s face told the story.

“No dice?” Helen asked.

Kilgore shook his head. “He says he didn’t do it.”

“Just like every person who’s ever been charged with a crime.”

“Bo Haynes is not a common criminal, General.”

Helen nodded in agreement. “No, Mayor, he’s not. But on August 19, 2011 he killed Andy Walton in cold blood, moved his body to Walton Farm, and then hung him from the same tree where the Ku Klux Klan lynched his father.”

Kilgore smirked. “That’s going to sound good on TV, General. What are you going to do after the trial? Run for governor?”

Helen started to say something but then stopped herself. She’d let the mayor have that one.

Trudging down the hall, the mayor sighed. “You’re gonna be the only winner in this deal, General. The town will lose. Bo will lose. Even if he were to somehow win the case, he’ll still lose. The college will lose. Every damn body will lose except General Helen by God Lewis.” He paused and turned to face her. “You’ll win. You’ll win even if you lose, and the damnable part of it is
you already know
. This case is going to make you a national celebrity.”

“You may not believe this, Mayor,” Helen said, speaking in a calm tone, “but I get no joy in prosecuting Bo, and I certainly don’t relish the idea of putting him to death. Bocephus Haynes is one of the finest lawyers in this state. I have a great deal of respect for him.”

“He says he didn’t do it,” Kilgore said.

“But he did,” Helen replied, her voice devoid of any doubt. “The evidence is overwhelming. If I had any question about Bo’s guilt, I would not be charging him, but . . . he did it.” She paused, crossing her arms against her chest. “I’m sorry, but I have to do my job.”

Kilgore nodded.
Déjà vu all over again,
he thought. Then: “I’m sorry too.”

36

They left The Boathouse five minutes after Darla arrived. They were sitting too close to the band to be able to talk, and there weren’t any other empty seats. Rick closed his tab, and then Darla led him by the hand through the crowd of people to the exit.

A few minutes later they were walking along the dock of boats that lined the harbor, the music from The Boathouse band still playing faintly in the background. Darla had yet to let go of Rick’s hand, and Rick wasn’t exactly sure how to take that. He felt woozy, his head spinning from the alcohol, the panic over having lost Burns, and fatigue and stress from the last few days. He breathed in the salt air, feeling his arms involuntarily shake.

“Thanks for coming,” Rick said, trying to direct his jumbled thoughts back to his purpose for being here.

“You’re welcome,” she said, taking a seat on a white bench that looked out over the harbor. Rick glanced to his left and right, and they appeared to be alone. There were still a few stragglers drinking beers at the outside bar of The Boathouse, but they were well out of earshot. Still holding his hand, Darla patted the place next to her. “Pop a squat,” she said, and Rick smiled. His mother used to say that when she wanted him to sit.

Rick sat on the bench, self-conscious of his right hand, which Darla was still holding, now with both of hers.

“You don’t like holding my hand?” Darla asked, puckering her lips, feigning that her feelings were hurt.

“Uh . . . I . . .”

Darla punched his shoulder and laughed. “Relax, Counselor. I’m just joshing you.” She turned to face him, propping her left knee on the bench so that it touched his side and wrapping his right hand again with both of her own. “I’m sorry, it’s just a habit.”

“What is?” Rick asked, looking at her. The breeze coming off the water flittered her hair, but she made no move to fix it.

“Being touchy-feely. I was a dancer for eight years and”—she paused, smiling at him—“you learn things about men.”

“What things?” Rick asked.

“Most men want to be touched.”

When Rick raised his eyebrows, Darla giggled. “No, silly. Not a sexual touch.
All men like that
.”
She lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes, and Rick felt a warmth come over him that he tried to fight off.

“I’m just talking about physical touch,” she said. “Like this.” She held up their interlocked hands. Then she let her left hand slide up his arm, resting it on his shoulder. “And this.”

Rick felt his cheeks reddening and was glad for the dark.

“Most men are starved to be touched like this,” she continued, running her hand up his neck. “At least . . . the men that came into the club seemed to be.”

“Was Andy Walton?”

The smile faded from Darla’s face. “Very much so,” she said. “Mr. Walton . . . was a very sad man.”

“Sad about what?” Rick asked.

Darla shrugged and leaned into him, wrapping her arms through Rick’s. “Everything. He was dying, did you know that?”

“Pancreatic cancer, right?” Rick asked.

Darla nodded. “He didn’t tell me right off. The first few times he came in, we just sat in the back of the bar, talking. He really liked talking to me. And . . . I could tell he liked the way I touched him.”

“How would you . . . ?” Rick’s voice faltered. Questioning a stripper about how she touched a patron was not something you learned in law school.

“Just like this,” she said, turning to face him. “I’d brush his hair, hold his hand, or wrap my arms through his.” She leaned into Rick, and he blinked his eyes, trying to focus.

“Did you eventually, you know . . . ?” Again Rick faltered.

“Dance naked for him?”

“Yeah,” Rick said, looking away from her.

“Of course,” she said. “Eventually . . .” She shrugged. “My approach to dancing was different than most of the girls. Most of them would prance around in their G-string and throw their boobs in the men’s faces. Every few seconds they’d ask if they could give them a lap dance.” She paused. “Larry always said he needed a few foot soldiers like that. Tall, horsey-looking girls with big breasts who could work the pole and get the small bills from the day laborers and the truck drivers who would stop by. That was important for the success of the club. It set the tone and allowed me to work my magic.” She stopped and eyed him curiously. When he didn’t say anything, she asked, “Don’t you want to know what my magic is?”

“I . . .” Rick gazed into her brown eyes and then looked away, focusing on a boat floating slowly along in the water. “I didn’t want to insult you by asking. I’m pretty sure I know what it is.”

“Then tell me,” Darla said, leaning into him and elbowing him under the rib cage. “Don’t be shy, Counselor.”

“It’s . . . this,” Rick said, shrugging. “What you’re doing right now. The touching. The way you talk. The way you smell . . .”

“Do you like me?” Darla asked.

“Very much,” Rick said.

She smiled. “That’s the magic. Stripping at the highest level is no different than any other business. It’s all about building relationships . . . and I’m good at that.” Darla placed her elbow on the bench and let her hand drop onto Rick’s shoulder.

Beginning to feel warm again, Rick tried to stand. One leg had gone completely asleep, and he stumbled, almost falling into the harbor.
Jesus Christ
. . .

Behind him, Darla was laughing.

Rick gazed down at her and wiped sweat off his forehead. He needed to regroup. “You said Andy told you about the cancer.”

“You’re a cutie, you know that?” She was smiling at him. “I bet you have a girlfriend.”

“Ms. Ford, please . . . I . . .”

“
Ms. Ford
? Oooooo . . .” She narrowed her gaze and wrapped her arms around her left knee, her smile widening. You’re starting to turn me on, Counselor.”

Before Rick could protest again, Darla yawned and stretched her arms above her head. “There is a VIP room at the club,” she finally said. “After Mr. Walton requested that I dance for him, I began to take him up there. The VIP dances cost a hundred dollars for thirty minutes, but Mr. Walton didn’t care about the money. He’d let me dance with him for two or three hours. There were some weeks where he would be the only customer I’d have at night and I’d take home six grand, while some of the foot soldiers had done the pole all night along with ten lap dances and only had two hundred dollars to show for it.” She paused, shaking her head and crossing her arms. “Anyway, after about a month he told me about the cancer.”

“Do you remember when that was?”

Darla shrugged. “Wasn’t that long ago. Maybe the beginning of summer. May, I think.”

“Did he say how bad it was?”

“Just that it was terminal. I think at some point he said he wasn’t sure how long he had left. Could be a year. Could be a few months.”

Rick nodded.
Keep her going . . .

“You said he was a very sad man,” Rick began. “How so? Was it just the cancer?”

“No. That was a big part of it, but there was something else. Mr. Walton . . . had something weighing on him. A secret, you might say.”

Rick felt his stomach catch and took a step closer to her. “A secret?”

Darla nodded and leaned forward on the bench, resting her elbows on her knees. When she didn’t say anything, Rick prompted her. “Did he tell you this secret?”

“Not in so many words,” she finally said.

“What does that mean?” Rick pressed, sitting down again on the bench.

She shifted her gaze to the water. “Mr. Walton said he had done a lot of bad things in his life and he was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“Of dying.” She looked back at him. “He was scared of dying. He said the truth would die with him.”

“The truth?”

“About what he had done.”

They were going in a circle. “What had he done? Did he tell you about the bad things?”

This time Darla did shiver. “He said he done them when he was in the Klan, and a man got killed.” She stopped and squeezed her knees together with her arms. “He said it was his fault. He was responsible.”

“Did he say who he was talking about?”

Darla shook her head. “No, he didn’t. But I’ve lived in Pulaski a long time. You hear things, and I knew the rumors about Bocephus Haynes’s father being lynched on Mr. Walton’s farm. So I asked him about it.”

“How . . . did you ask him?” Rick asked, involuntarily scooting closer to her on the bench.

“I just blurted it out—not subtle at all. I said, ‘Mr. Walton, is Bo Haynes’s father the man that was killed while you were leading the Klan’?”

“What did he say?”

“He didn’t say nothing at first,” Darla said. “He just got the saddest look on his face I’d ever seen. Then he just started nodding.” Darla paused, shaking her head. “It was weird, like I wasn’t even in the room. Then . . .” She trailed off and stood from the bench.

“Then what?” Rick asked.

She wiped her eyes, and Rick realized that she had begun to cry. “Then he said he was going to confess.”

Rick felt the blood almost go out of his body.
“What?”

Darla turned to him, fresh tears running down her cheeks. “He told me that he was going to confess. That he wasn’t going to let the truth die with him. Then”—she choked the words out—“he told me that h
e
’
d done something for me. Something special that would help me move down to the coast.” She paused. “I had told him many times about my dream to move down here and open up an oyster bar. Anyway, sure enough the Monday after he died I got a call from his lawyer. Said I needed to come down to his law office and pick something up. When I got there, the lawyer gave me a manila envelope. He said, ‘Mr. Walton asked that I personally deliver this to you.’ When I got back to my car, I opened it, and there was were ten smaller envelopes inside of it. I opened them one by one when I was back in my apartment, and they all had ten thousand dollars in them.” She paused. “A hundred thousand dollars.” She stopped and looked at Rick. “I left for Destin the next morning.”

For a moment Rick didn’t say anything. Andy Walton had bequeathed a stripper one hundred thousand dollars. Probably just pocket change for a guy like that, but still . . . It was a noble act, Rick thought. Inconsistent with the view he held in his mind of the man. “Going back to the night he said he was going to confess,” Rick began. “When did this conversation take place?”

Darla shrugged. “A couple weeks before he died.”

“Did he say anything else to you?”

She nodded, and fresh tears formed in her eyes. “He gave me the same warning the last few times I saw him.”

“Which was?”

“To not . . . tell . . . anyone.” Her lip quivered with emotion, and Rick felt gooseflesh break out on his arm.

“Did you?” Rick asked.

Darla Ford crossed her arms tight around her chest and bit her lip, looking down at the ground.

“Ms. Ford, did you tell anyone that Andy Walton was going to confess to killing Roosevelt Haynes?”

Slowly, she nodded.

“Who?
” Rick asked.

“Larry,” Darla said, sniffling and leaning her head on his shoulder. “I told my boss. Larry Tucker.”