Between Black and White (25 page)

65

Ray Ray Pickalew didn’t show for court on Thursday morning. Given the man’s condition the night before, Tom couldn’t say he was all that surprised. Still, it was disappointing.

Damnit, Ray Ray,
Tom thought, feeling the first pangs of regret at having associated his old teammate as local counsel.
He’s come up lame at the finish line.

“Any word from Ray Ray?” Rick asked as the jury began to filter into the courtroom.

Tom turned to him, and his young partner had the bloodshot eyes of a trial lawyer entering the latter stages of a courtroom battle.

“Nothing,” Tom said. As he eased himself into his seat, using the cane for balance, Tom could feel his own fatigue setting in. His knee was also throbbing, and the Advil had stopped providing any relief.
We’ll probably finish today,
he told himself.
Tomorrow at the latest. Suck it up, old man.

As he started to ask Rick a question, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. As nonchalant as he could be—he didn’t want the jury to see him checking his phone—he took it out and set it on the table between him and Rick. He tapped the screen so that the text message would be visible. Glancing down at the screen, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

The sender was Ray Ray Pickalew, and the message was short and sweet:
I think I’ve found a witness who puts George Curtis AND Larry Tucker at the scene of Roosevelt Haynes’s lynching. Will bring him this afternoon.

Tom nudged Rick with his elbow and tapped the screen again, which had gone black after a few seconds. Tom watched as his young partner’s eyes grew wide. “So that’s what he’s been doing,” Rick whispered.

Tom nodded and turned his eyes back to the witness stand. He stifled the urge to smile.
How could I have ever doubted Ray Ray?

For the first time since being retained as Bo’s lawyer, Tom allowed himself to think of victory.

If Ray Ray Pickalew had indeed found a witness who could place Dr. George Curtis and Larry Tucker at the scene of Roosevelt Haynes’s lynching in 1966, then Andy Walton’s intention to confess would be a powerful motive for murder. And with motive . . .

Again, Tom fought the urge to smile as his heart raced in his chest.

. . .
we might just win this thing.

66

By the time the Lawrenceburg First Church of God bus arrived on the Giles County Courthouse square, the time was 9:15 a.m. Bocephus Haynes and his legal team would have long since arrived and gone inside the courthouse.

JimBone Wheeler followed the brigade of Klansmen off the bus, knowing that he would likely only have one shot to complete his mission. But that was OK. One shot was better than no shot—especially after spending all of yesterday in the safe room at the Sleepy Head—and he was pleased with the plan he had developed in just a matter of seconds last night.

He knew the prosecutor who’d stayed the night at the Sleepy Head and the detective who’d camped out at the Huddle House had followed the bus into Pulaski. From his seat in the back row, he’d caught sight of an unmarked black police car tailing the bus about a mile outside of Lawrenceburg.

Bone knew that had to be them, and the knowledge had made him smile under his white hood.
Gotcha
, he had thought.

Now, standing on the square surrounded by hundreds of other white-hooded and white-robed men, Bone waited for part two of his plan to unfold.

In the trunk of the orange Dodge Charger, Cappy Limbaugh knew they’d waited long enough. He turned the lever in the back of the trunk down and leaned into the carpeted wall, and the wall folded down into the backseat of the car. Moving as quickly as his stiff limbs would carry him, he crawled through the opening, with Martha Booher right behind him. He shut the opening and then slowly raised his head to look around. The parking lot of the church was full of cars, but he saw no people and no sets of eyes. “Let’s go,” he whispered. Grabbing the keys that Bone had left on the floorboard of the passenger-side backseat, Cappy cracked open the door just a hair and stepped outside, motioning for Booher to do the same. Then he shut the door, clicked the keyless entry lock button—he had modernized the car just a bit—and tried to walk as nonchalantly as possible across the parking lot full of cars to the Chevy Silverado parked near the rear of the church, where Pastor Leo Jacobs’s house was located.

As he climbed in the front seat of the unlocked truck and grabbed the keys from under the mat on the floorboard, Cappy saw Pastor Leo staring at him through the blinds of the large picture window at the front of the house. The reverend nodded, and Cappy returned the gesture, turning the key as Martha Booher climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

Pastor Leopold Jacobs, minister of the First Church of God, was for all intents and purposes as fine a man as Cappy had ever known. A great preacher in the pulpit and unafraid to handle a rattlesnake if it meant the collection plate would rise. Church attendance had doubled since Pastor Leo had taken over as minister in 2002.

But Pastor Leo was a bachelor—his wife lost her battle with breast cancer in 2006—and he had certain primal needs that his occupation hamstrung him from fulfilling.

So every Thursday night for the past three years, Pastor Leo had met Ann Reynolds, whose husband was a trucker and was rarely at home, in Room 106 of the Sleepy Head Inn. Cappy understood and embraced the hypocrisy of it all. To Cappy Limbaugh, it made perfect sense that a minister who preached the gospel on Sunday would commit adultery with one of his married parishioners every Thursday. To Cappy’s mind, the sooner a person embraced the hypocrisy of life, the sooner he might find real happiness.

Regardless, Pastor Leo was indebted to Cappy, a situation that had paid great dividends when Bone said he needed a place to hide his truck. Raising his right hand in salute, Cappy put the Chevy Silverado in gear and pulled out of the driveway.

Behind him Pastor Leo closed the blinds in the picture window.

“What do you make of this?” Wade asked.

They had followed the bus all the way to Pulaski and were now parked in front of Reeves Drug Store on the east side of the square.

Powell grunted and continued to stare out the windshield. Finally, he sighed. “I’m sorry, partner. I guess I’ve led us on a wild-goose chase. I . . .” He stopped, shaking his head. He grabbed the door handle and then took his hand off of it. “I swear, though. Something about all this has my antennas up. It stinks. Why the hell is Cappy Limbaugh marching in this damn parade of clowns?” He surveyed the square, where there were now hundreds of Klansmen marching.

Wade pointed at the door to Reeves. “Come on, partner, let’s grab some more coffee. A shot of caffeine may open our eyes.”

Powell followed Wade out on to the sidewalk and then did a sweep of the entire square with his eyes. “Wade, just for shits and giggles, could you call one of those Lawrenceburg deputies and see if that orange General Lee look-alike is still parked out in front of that church?”

“Sure thing. Whatcha thinking?”

Powell grunted. Then: “I was just thinking that if I wanted to kill someone on this square, I’d be dressed in a white hood and robe. Unless you had a bird’s-eye view, how could you tell who was doing the shooting?”

“Brother, I think you really need that cup of coffee. We saw Cappy Limbaugh in his car. We saw him drive to that bus and get on it. There was no one else with him.”

“He was wearing a costume the whole time. We never saw his face.”

For a long moment Wade just looked at Powell. Then, sighing, he nodded his head. “True.” He walked to the Charger and reached inside the open window, grabbing the microphone. “Yeah, give me the Lawrenceburg Sheriff’s Office,” he blared.

“Wade,” Powell said, his voice scratchy from lack of sleep, “have them search the car.”

“There’s no probable cause for a search, partner. What crime do we suspect him of?”

“Harboring a fugitive,” Powell scratched back. “Abandoning his car on private property. Anything. Just see if someone can get in that car.”

“What will they be looking for?” Wade asked.

“The trunk,” Powell scratched. “See if there’s anything in the trunk or backseat showing that another person could’ve been in the car. And have someone drive by the Sleepy Head. If Limbaugh is sitting in there right now running the front desk, then someone else drove to that church.
Someone else
could be out here.” Powell pointed to the Klansmen, most of whom were now gathered on the south side of the square, milling in front of Rost Jewelers and the Sam Davis statue.

“Powell, that’s crazy talk.”

“Just do it, brother,” Powell said, walking over to the wrought-iron bench in front of Reeves and sitting down. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a bad premonition. As a prosecutor and a trial lawyer, you learned to trust your instincts and hunches, and Powell knew something was terribly wrong.

67

As expected, the first witness for the prosecution on Thursday morning was Larry Tucker. After the surveillance video was introduced showing Bo’s Lexus pulling out of the exit at 1:20 a.m., Helen asked Larry where he was on the night of the murder.

“I was at the home of Tammie Gentry, one of the dancers at the club.” Then he added, “I’ve been seeing Tammie for almost a year.”

Short, sweet, and devastating,
Tom thought.

At 11:30 a.m., after concluding her case with testimony from a DNA specialist showing that the blood and hair follicles found in the cargo area of Bo’s Lexus matched that of Andy Walton, General Helen Lewis addressed the court. “Your Honor, the state rests.”

68

Judge Connelly recessed for lunch, but Tom didn’t want to leave the courthouse, not when Ray Ray could show up any minute with the most important witness in the case. He sent Rick out for sandwiches and waited at the counsel table. When his knee began to ache so bad he couldn’t stand it any longer, he got up to move around, walking with his cane through the second-floor lobby and finally stopping to look out a window.

The number of Klansmen on the square was enough to take his breath away. He had heard of Klan rallies and gatherings that rivaled this, but he had never seen one. Tom also noticed a few orange ribbons attached to the front doors and windows of some of the businesses. In fact, as he surveyed the square more closely, it appeared that the majority of people who weren’t wearing the white robe and hood of the Klan were dressed in orange. Tom smiled, thinking again of the subtle brilliance of Jazz’s corsage.

“It’s a circus, isn’t it?”

Tom turned toward the harsh voice, and Maggie Walton was standing behind him. As on the three prior days of trial, she wore a conservative black dress, and black gloves covered her hands. Her face carried little makeup, and the lines of age were visible on her forehead. But standing right next to her, Tom had to admit that she had a natural beauty about her.

Without waiting for Tom to answer, Maggie added, “Andy would have hated this.” She crossed her arms and stood next to him. “He spent the last three decades of his life trying to distance himself from the Klan.” She sighed. “And now here they are. Using his murder as a pretext to try and rally support for their cause.”

“It’s pretty sad,” Tom said, not really knowing what to say. “What do you make of the orange ribbons everywhere?”

She scoffed. “Just as ridiculous. Like holding an umbrella up during a hurricane. I wish everybody here would just ignore the Klan. What? Do they think dressing up in orange and supporting a murderer makes the town look any better?” She paused. “Idiots. Just like Bo’s wife with her stupid corsage.”

Tom raised his eyebrows and turned to face her.

“Oh, I’ve noticed that. She must think she is so smart.” Maggie smirked and then let out another sigh. “This whole thing is an outrage and an embarrassment.” Her voice was clipped and hard. “Bo could end this circus if he would just plead guilty.”

“He won’t do that, Mrs. Walton. Bo didn’t kill your husband.”

She scoffed and shook her head. “He’s going to end up getting the gas chamber.”

“Lethal injection,” Tom corrected. “Tennessee uses lethal injection to put prisoners to death.”

“Whatever.”

Tom felt stung by the coldness of her tone. “Aren’t you the least bit concerned that someone else might have done this?” Tom asked.

“No, I’m not,” Maggie said, her voice devoid of any doubt. “Bo did this. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Really?” Tom said. “Were you aware that Andy was going to confess to murdering Roosevelt Haynes?”

Maggie creased her eyebrow and placed her hands on her hips. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Why would Andy confess to something he didn’t do?”

She’s either in total denial or she’s a pretty good actress,
Tom thought, deciding to press the issue. “Mrs. Walton, Darla Ford is going to testify that a few nights before his murder, Andy told her that he intended to confess to killing Roosevelt Haynes. Interesting, isn’t it? Seems like a lot of folks would have motive to kill Andy if he was about to confess.” He paused. “Your brother, for instance . . .” He left it hanging out there and started to walk away.

As he entered the courtroom, he saw Maggie Walton’s reflection through the glass in the doors. Her hands remained on her hips and her mouth was open in shock.

Tom hoped he would see the same reaction when Ray Ray’s witness testified that her brother participated in Roosevelt Haynes’s lynching.