Between Black and White (7 page)

“That’s because you’re a brawler, Ray Ray. And that’s what Bo needs now.”

Ray Ray laughed and took another belt of whiskey. He was soaking wet. “What Bo needs is a Catholic priest. Now get the hell off my pier, Tommy.”

“Ray Ray—”

“Go on,” Ray Ray said, gesturing with the bottle and sloshing whiskey out of it before taking another sip. “Get. I’ve had enough of this mess. I’d rather drink myself to death than fight at the Alamo, and that’s what going to war with Helen Lewis in Giles County will be like.”

“OK, Ray Ray,” Tom said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I’ll leave you here with your buddy Evan Williams. But before you get too far gone, I want you to ask yourself a question. What would the Man think about all this?”

“Tom, I’m warning you—”

“What would Coach Bryant say about you just turning your back on life? Sitting out on this pier and drinking yourself to death.”

Ray Ray heaved the handle of whiskey at Tom, and Tom ducked down, the bottle whizzing past his ear and falling into the river. “Get the fuck off my property.”

Tom turned and began to walk away. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ray Ray. I’ll be at Bo’s office. Just meet me there around nine thirty.”

“I’ll meet you in hell, Tommy. That’s the next time you’ll see me.”

As Tom pulled his Explorer out of the gravel drive, he could still see Ray Ray sitting on the pier, the rain pelting down on him. It looked like he was talking to himself.

For a split second Tom considered the possibility of associating one of the criminal defense lawyers Ray Ray had mentioned. Horn or Selby. Then as the rain continued to pound the windshield, Tom shook his head.

Ray Ray Pickalew had a lot of problems. He was a drunk. A womanizer. And he’d been written up a couple of times by the Tennessee Bar for ethical violations. A saint he was not, and he probably couldn’t teach a class on criminal law.

But he’s not afraid of a fight, and the nastier the better,
Tom thought. Once engaged, Ray Ray would be on this case like stink on a pig, and there would be only one acceptable outcome.

Winning.

He’ll come around,
Tom thought, nodding his head and pulling onto Highway 31.
Just give it some time . . .

On the pier Ray Ray Pickalew lay on his back, gazing up at the cloudy sky. His legs dangled off the dock, and he was humming a song to himself. He had taken his rain-drenched shirt off, and the wooden dock would probably have been uncomfortable if he wasn’t piss drunk. He closed his eyes, seeing Doris for a split second. In her bathing suit in the Keys, sitting on the bed, watching him get dressed. Then . . . at the nursing home, the orderly coming in to change her diaper. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing an image of his secretary Bonnie’s tits into his brain. It didn’t hold. The images kept coming, a whirlwind of them, mostly of Doris at the nursing home. Slowly and painfully forgetting who she was until there was none of her left. The day he knew her mind was gone for good, he had sat on this same pier all night with a pistol in his hand. Putting the barrel in his mouth a few times but never doing the deed. Never pulling the trigger . . .

Before he passed out, he saw another image. One that came to him in black and white like an old TV reel. Tommy McMurtrie, sweat pouring off his forehead under his helmet as he took his place on the defensive line. Then Trammell under center, looking at Ray Ray down the line of scrimmage just before the ball was snapped and giving him the slightest of nods. Then the ball . . . in the air, a perfect spiral, hitting Ray Ray right in the hands.

Then he was running, the football tucked tight under his arm.

Then a loud sound, like rushing water in his ears, and a crimson 54 rolling over him.

“Bingo!” came a faraway voice. “That a boy, Lee Roy. That’s a way we do it. Now let’s do it again.”

Then he was on the ground, nose pressed to the grass, blinking, managing to roll over, the wind knocked out of him. Then the voice again, louder and coming from high on the tower. “Hey, Pickalew. Get up. Next play, Joker. Get up.”

Was it the voice of God or the voice of the Man?

In 1960 Ray Ray Pickalew hadn’t been sure if there was a difference. Now, just before he passed out on his pier along the Elk River, he still wasn’t so sure.

11

The Giles County Jail had a “consultation room,” where defense lawyers could meet with their clients. The room was not much bigger than a closet, decorated with the same yellow cinder-block walls as the holding cell.

When they were alone, seated in aluminum chairs and saddled up to a square-shaped folding table, the two men just looked at each other for several seconds. Tom was stunned by his friend’s appearance. Bo wore orange prison clothes, and his eyes burned red from lack of sleep. His shoulders hunched forward as he placed his elbows on the table, and his fatigue was palpable. In addition to shock, Tom felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He had not seen Bo in over a year, not since Bo left Tom’s farm in Hazel Green after dropping off Lee Roy in a small crate the previous June.

Finally, Tom broke the silence. “You look like crap.”

Despite his predicament, Bo chuckled, and the sound warmed Tom’s heart. “Thanks for doing this, Professor. So how did the morning go?”

For the next few minutes Tom took Bo through his conversation with Helen Lewis and his discussion afterward with Rick. The only detail he omitted was his trek to the Elk River to see Ray Ray.

“Sounds like the General,” Bo said, shaking his head. “Our first peek at her case will be at the prelim. She always builds a stone wall around the evidence.”

“Bo, so far you haven’t told me much over the phone. We can’t wait for the prelim to start our investigation. I need some leads.” He paused. “What can you tell me about the night of Andy Walton’s murder?”

Bo sighed and looked down at the table. “I got myself in a real fix.”

“In order to help you, Bo, I have to know the deal. Why are you in here?”

“The deal, Professor . . . is complicated.”

“Tell me.”

Bo kept his eyes fixed on the table and smiled. “You remember what I told you last year in Hazel Green about why I came back to Pulaski to practice?”

“Unfinished business,” Tom said. “Your father was murdered by the Ku Klux Klan, and you . . . saw it happen.” Tom paused. “You never told me the whole story.”

“I will now,” Bo said, raising his head and looking at Tom with bloodshot eyes.

“I was only five years old when they hung my daddy. We lived on Walton Farm. My momma worked at the Big House as a housemaid for Ms. Maggie, and my daddy worked the fields. Anyway, on the night of August 18, 1966 there was a big party to celebrate Ms. Maggie’s birthday. Momma was working late at the Big House, and I was home with Daddy. One second I was listening to the radio and throwing a baseball up in the air. Next thing I see these men—I’ve always said there were twenty of them, but it could’ve been ten or twelve. Things look bigger to a five-year-old. Anyway, you get the drift. They had the robes. The hoods. They burned a cross in the front yard and told my daddy to get out there or they would set the house on fire. Before he walked out the door, Daddy told me not to watch, but I didn’t listen. I followed them . . . and I saw it all.

“They drug him about a half mile from the house to this clearing that had a pond that me and some of the other farmhands’ kids would swim in during the summer, encased in a large thicket of trees. They tied my daddy’s hands behind his back and put him on top of a horse and walked the horse over to one of the trees on the edge of the clearing. I swear, Professor, when I saw my daddy tied up, I wanted to run. I wanted to but . . . my feet wouldn’t move. You know that nightmare you have where you can’t move? I lived it. I watched those bastards wrap that rope around a tree branch and tie a noose around my daddy’s neck, and . . . I couldn’t move.

“The leader of the men wore a red hood, and I recognized his voice. I had been around Andy Walton all my life, and I
knew
that the man under the red hood was Andy. Well, Andy says to my daddy—I’ll never forget it—he says, ‘Roosevelt, the Knights of the Ku Klux Klan understand that you have laid your filthy nigger hands on a white woman.’” Bo mimicked the voice. “My daddy then spits in Andy’s face and says, ‘That ain’t what this is about. You and me
both know what this is
really
about,’
but Andy punches him in the nose before he can say anything else. Then Andy whispered something in my daddy’s ear and kicked the horse.

“I . . . I really can’t remember exactly what happened next. My feet started working when I saw Daddy hanging. All I remember is grasping at his legs, crying, and hearing those bastards laugh. Then I saw a boot coming at my face . . .” He paused, shaking his head. “Next thing I know I’m waking up by that clearing, and my daddy is gone. I see his clothes are down by the bank of the pond, so I dive in. I . . .” Bo’s voice had started to shake. “I . . . found his body . . . at the bottom of the pond.”

Bo sighed, looking at Tom. “I told my momma everything that happened, but she was scared. She didn’t want to go to the police. Said they wouldn’t do nothing.” He paused. “She was right. When she wouldn’t go, I got my Uncle Booker, my momma’s brother, to drive me down to the sheriff’s office. The sheriff back then was a man named Hugh Packard. A friendly sort but bought and paid for by Andy Walton. He said he couldn’t prosecute anyone if I couldn’t say that I saw who it was. He laughed and said he’d be run out of town on a rail if he prosecuted Andy Walton ’cause a five-year-old boy recognized his voice. And besides, it looked like a clear case of drowning.” Bo shook his head. “And that’s what they ruled it. Drowning.”

“What about your mother?” Tom asked. “Did she ever—?”

“She left,” Bo interrupted. “Two weeks later I woke up and she was gone. Not even a note.”

“Why?” Tom asked.

“I really don’t know. I . . . was never as close to Momma as I was Daddy. Sometimes before Daddy was killed, I’d be playing in the house or outside, and I’d catch Momma staring at me like she was mad or something, even when I hadn’t done anything.” He shook his head. “But I don’t know exactly why she left. I’ve always thought it was because she was scared. I overheard her talking to my Aunt Mabel a few days after the hanging. Said she knew she was next. Said ‘that monster ain’t goin’ stop till I’m as dead as Roosevelt.’” He sighed again. “She was gone the next morning.”

“How—?” Tom started, but Bo raised a hand up to stop him.

“I’m getting there.” He crossed his arms and squeezed them tight against his body, staring down at the table again. “Aunt Mabel woke me up that morning, and it was still dark outside. Said I needed to put some clothes on and pack my bags. I was goin’ go stay with her and Booker for a while. I asked about Momma, and Mabel said Momma wanted me to stay with her and Booker for a few days. She was trying to sound calm, but her voice seemed off. Like she was out of breath. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know how bad until I got outside and saw Uncle Booker. He was standing by his truck, holding a shotgun, watching the road that led up to the shack. I had never seen my uncle with a weapon of any sort, not even a knife. He was the pastor at the Bickland Creek Baptist Church, and he always preached against violence. He didn’t even go rabbit or squirrel hunting.” Bo shook his head. “But he had a gun that day. Aunt Mabel picked me up and carried me out of the house, and Uncle Booker wasn’t even watching us. He had his gun on his shoulder, his eyes moving up and down the road. Once I was in the truck, I sat in between them, and they didn’t say a word on the way to their house. I must have asked a hundred questions about Momma, but they were stone silent. The only sound I heard was the vibration of the steering wheel that came from Booker’s hands, which were shaking like crazy.

“When we got back to their house, which was the parsonage next to Bickland Creek Baptist, Booker took me inside the sanctuary, and we sat in the first pew, looking up at the pulpit. He didn’t say anything for a long time.” Bo’s lip started to quiver. “Then he told me that Sister—that’s what he called my momma—had left the previous night, and she had asked Booker and Mabel to take care of me. I asked him where she had gone, and he said he didn’t know. I asked him when she would be back, and he said he wasn’t sure. Then he told me that I was welcome to stay at the parsonage for as long as I wanted.” Bo paused, returning his eyes to Tom. His whole body had tensed at the retelling, and his glare was harsh. Tom had to look away for a second. “That turned out to be thirteen years,” Bo finally continued. “I never heard from my momma again.”

“I’m sorry, Bo,” Tom said, feeling another pang of guilt. Bocephus Haynes was probably his best friend in the world.
How could I not know that his mother had abandoned him?

“It’s not something I share with a lot of people,” Bo said, seeming to sense Tom’s thoughts.

Watching his friend, Tom had the strange premonition that perhaps Bo’s father’s death, while unimaginably horrific for a young boy to watch, might in some ways have been easier to deal with than his mother’s abandonment. The lynching was black and white. He could explain it because he saw it. But his mother leaving . . . How could a five-year-old boy ever understand that?

“I’m sorry, Bo. I . . . can’t imagine.” It was all Tom could think to say, and it was the truth.

Bo nodded and wiped his eyes. “They were good to me, Booker and Mabel,” he said. “Never pretended they were my parents, and for the most part never told me what to do. They fed me, kept me in decent clothes, and made sure I went to school.” Bo smiled. “And their kids, LaShell and especially Booker T., became like siblings. LaShell was older. A beautiful girl. Milk-chocolate skin with these thick lips and big”—Bo made a gesture with both palms over his chest—“breasts. I remember walking in the bathroom one day when she had forgotten to lock the door and catching her coming out of the shower, those boobies just bouncing like basketballs.” Bo laughed, and Tom heartily joined in. Both men were relieved to release some of the tension that had enveloped the small room.

“Booker T. now, he was my boy,” Bo continued. “Big old baby-faced son of a gun. Grew up to be a refrigerator of a man, just like that defensive lineman for the Bears. Remember ol’ William Perry? Anyway, we were inseparable growing up.” He shook his head. “A lot of the black folks at the church shied away from me after Daddy died and Momma left. Almost like I had some kind of disease or something they didn’t want to catch. But not Booker T. He didn’t treat me no different than he had before. He . . . was my only friend during elementary and middle school. My brother.”

“Did things change in high school?” Tom asked.

Bo shrugged. “Not with Booker T. He was still my brother and always will be. But things did change with everyone else. In the ninth grade I grew seven inches. By tenth grade I was six foot four and weighed over two hundred pounds. I went from being a benchwarmer on the junior high football team to starting at linebacker as a sophomore at Giles County High. At the beginning of my senior year, Coach Bryant came to Pulaski and watched me play. The next week Coach Gryska, one of the Man’s assistants, called the parsonage and offered me a scholarship to play for Alabama.”

Tom gave a knowing smile. Clem Gryska had also recruited him to play at Alabama almost twenty years before Bo.

“You met Jazz toward the end of college, right?” Tom asked.

“Yeah. Jazz grew up in Huntsville and ran track at Alabama. I met her at an athletic banquet a few months after I blew my knee out.” Bo smiled at the memory. “Funny, I met you and Jazz in a span of a few weeks during the worst part of my college career.”

Tom remembered that Coach Bryant had asked him to talk with Bo about his future after the knee injury. Tom had requested that Bo shadow him during some classes, and Bo had reluctantly agreed, still sullen over the loss of a possible career in the National Football League. Bo’s attitude changed when the Tuscaloosa district attorney asked for Tom’s help on some evidence issues in a murder trial, and Tom arranged for Bo to be a runner for the prosecutor during the trial.

“I’ve never seen a student who wanted to be a lawyer more than you,” Tom said. “Once you watched that criminal trial—”

“I was hooked,” Bo finished the thought. “When I saw that jury hand down a guilty verdict and the sheriff’s deputies lead the defendant away in shackles, all I could think about was Andy Walton being done the same away. I remember I ran back to the campus after that verdict. I didn’t have a car back then, so I pretty much walked wherever I went unless I hitched a ride. When I got to Jazz’s apartment, I was dripping with sweat and out of breath, and she had to fix me some water before I hyperventilated. Once I had cooled off, I told her I was going to law school. That I didn’t care how long it took or what my grades were, I was going to be a lawyer. A lawyer, goddamnit!” Bo slammed his fist down on the table, and for a flickering moment Tom saw the twenty-two-year-old student he’d first met those many moons ago. Bright-eyed with an energy that knew no bounds.

“How did Jazz react?”

“She said I could do whatever I wanted. That
I
,
Bocephus Haynes, could do whatever I wanted and she’d be proud of it.” He paused, looking past Tom to nowhere in particular. “Then she told me she loved me for the first time.” Bo sighed. “Honestly, Professor, I think it was the first time since I was five years old that anyone had said those words to me. I mean . . . I knew that Uncle Booker and Aunt Mabel loved me, but they didn’t say it. And Booker T. and LaShell were kids. That’s just not something kids say to each other. I thought I must have misheard Jazz, so I leaned close to her and asked her to repeat what she had said. Then she took my face in both her hands and said, ‘I love you, Bocephus Haynes.
I love you
.’”