Between Black and White (8 page)

A hush fell over the room as Tom gave the memory its proper respect. Finally, in a voice just above a whisper, Bo said, “I wish I could say that I hugged her and told her that I loved her too, but . . . I didn’t. I was scared, and I just stood there, my face blank. Like I’d just gotten off a roller coaster and was going to be sick. But Jazz . . . she didn’t act disappointed. She just smiled and whispered in my ear that her roommate was gone for the afternoon. Then she led me by the hand into her bedroom . . .”

Bo leaned back in his chair, and his eyes met Tom’s. “I applied to law school the next week and . . . you pretty much know the rest.”

“You were the best student I ever taught,” Tom said. Then, knowing it was time to move the conversation from memory lane to present day, Tom leaned his elbows on the table and squinted at his friend. “Bo, what specifically is the business you came back to Pulaski to finish?”

Bo’s bloodred eyes blazed with fury. “To put Andy Walton and every one of the bastards that lynched my daddy in a prison cell.” He paused. “And to find out the
real
reason my father was killed.”

For several seconds Tom said nothing, processing everything he’d just been told.

Then, taking a deep breath, he asked the question he’d waited thirty minutes to ask. “What happened the night Andy Walton was killed, Bo?”

“Honestly . . .” Bo began, shaking his head. “I’m not exactly sure. I . . .” He paused and looked at Tom. “It’s going to sound bad, Professor.”

“I don’t care,” Tom said. “To be able to defend you, I have to know everything you remember.”

Bo sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I went to Kathy’s Tavern on First Street, intending to get drunk and then go to the clearing.”

“The clearing—”

“Where my father was lynched,” Bo interrupted. “I go every year on the anniversary of his death.”

“So what happened at Kathy’s?”

Bo grimaced. Then he relayed his confrontation with Andy Walton and the conversation with Ms. Maggie afterward.

When he was through, Tom let out a low whistle. “Jesus, why didn’t you just handwrite a confession?”

Neither of them laughed.

“You really quoted line and verse the ‘eye for an eye’ line from the Bible?”

Bo nodded.

“And then he’s found hanging from a noose on his farm from the exact tree where your father was lynched.”

Again, Bo nodded. “The same limb, according to Ennis. I . . . had pointed it out to him on a number of prior occasions when I tried to get the sheriff’s department to reopen the investigation.”

Tom pulled at his hair, trying not to despair but hearing the words of Helen Lewis play in his mind.
Bo came back to Pulaski for revenge.

“Bad, huh?” Bo asked, but Tom ignored him.

“You said the four eyewitnesses to the confrontation were the bartender Cassie . . .”

“Dugan,” Bo said, completing the sentence as Tom wrote the name down on a yellow legal pad. “The others were Clete Sartain—who was probably in the Klan with Andy, though I can’t confirm that—Andy’s wife, Ms. Maggie, and his brother-in-law, George Curtis.”

Tom wrote each name on the pad, one under the other. “OK, that gives me a place to start. What happened after Kathy’s?”

Bo shrugged. “I got a pint of Jim Beam from my office and took a walk. Ended up at our house on Flower Street that’s now for sale. Just feeling sorry for myself . . . and tying one on pretty good.” He sighed. “Then I went to the clearing on Walton Farm where my father was lynched. I don’t remember much about being there that night, but I know I was there. It had rained a good bit beforehand, and I noticed that my loafers were muddy the next morning.” Bo paused and looked down at the table. “That’s really all I can recall.”

“So you threatened to kill him in front of four eyewitnesses, and you admit to being at the murder scene?”

Bo made no response. He just continued to stare at the table.

“Was anyone with you when you went to the farm or . . . at any time after you left Kathy’s?”

Bo shook his head. “No. I was alone.”

Damnit
, Tom thought. He began to pace back and forth over the concrete floor, working through the problems in his mind. Bo had no alibi, he had motive out the yin-yang, and the physical evidence, which they probably wouldn’t see until the preliminary hearing, was described by the sheriff as “conclusive and overwhelming.” Tom quickly came to a stark and rather obvious conclusion.
I’m in way over my head
.

He returned to his seat and looked his friend dead in the eye. “Bo, I appreciate your faith in me and Rick, but you really need an experienced criminal defense attorney to take this on, preferably someone with local ties. Have you thought about—?”

“I
am
an experienced criminal defense attorney,” Bo interrupted. “What I need is a good trial lawyer who can talk to a Giles County jury. Someone who hasn’t been roughed up by the General and . . . someone I trust. I realize that we’ll need to retain local counsel, but I don’t want a Pulaski lawyer as lead.” He paused, looking Tom dead in the eye. “I want you.”

When Tom didn’t say anything, Bo chuckled, and the bitterness in his laugh was palpable. “I don’t blame you for being scared. I’d be scared too if you asked the same of me in the face of the story I just told you.” He paused. “I
am
scared.”

“Bo—” Tom started, but Bo held up his hand to stop him.

“Professor, I haven’t made a lot of friends
in the legal community in this town over the years. Some of that is probably because I’m the only black trial lawyer in Pulaski. Even though we’re in 2011, I can still feel a subconscious awkwardness around my white brethren of the bar.” He shrugged. “And some of it is just me. I practice alone. I’ve never had a partner, and I typically blow off the social functions the bar puts on. And I am unapologetically aggressive and relentless when it comes to working a case. That approach has made me a successful attorney.” He paused. “But it hasn’t made me many friends . . . and it’s probably cost me my wife and family.”

“Are things with Jazz really over?”

Bo sighed. “I don’t know. Right now we are separated, and Jazz is living with her parents in Huntsville. She’s enrolled T. J. and Lila in the city schools there for the year, so . . . it ain’t looking good.” Bo chuckled bitterly. “I doubt that being charged with capital murder is going to help my cause.”

“When did things start going south?”

Bo shrugged. “They’ve been strained for a long time. She has always thought my obsession with my father’s murder wasn’t fair to her, to our family . . . and she’s probably right. When the kids really started getting dragged into it, she finally had enough.”

Tom felt another pang of guilt as he saw the anguish on his friend’s face.
All that time he was looking out for my butt last year, his own life was in shambles.

Tom tried to shake off his shame and stay on point. “Bo, I’m sure any number of high-profile criminal defense attorneys from across the country would take this case.”

Bo creased his eyebrows. “You think a jury in Pulaski, Tennessee is going to believe some Yankee lawyer over their own elected district attorney?”

“But that happens all the time,” Tom said. “Remember the OJ case. He had lawyers from all over the place.”

Bo smiled and kept his eyes on Tom. “The Juice’s jury was mostly black and all from Los Angeles, and the lead attorney was a brother from LA.”

“You don’t think a high-profile lawyer will be convincing to a jury in Giles County, and you don’t believe a local attorney will take the case,” Tom said, attempting to sum up Bo’s thoughts.

“Not exactly. I’m sure there are a couple criminal defense guys in town that would represent me if the price was right, and we’ll probably have to associate one of them as local counsel regardless. But . . .”

“Not as first chair,” Tom offered.

“I’d be bringing a knife to a gunfight,” Bo said, shaking his head and sighing. “The General has not lost a case since she took office eight years ago.” He paused. “What I need is a lead lawyer who hasn’t been manhandled by Helen but who still knows the terrain and can talk to the folks on the jury on their level. You’re from Hazel Green, Professor. That’s less than thirty miles from here as the crow flies, forty-five by car. You may live and work in Tuscaloosa, but your roots are in this neck of the woods.”

For several seconds neither of them said anything. Then Bo finally broke the silence. “Professor, I know taking on a capital murder case in another state several hours from Tuscaloosa will be a hardship on your new firm, so I’ll agree to pay whatever fee you quote. If it were me, I’d charge a flat fee of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, half now and half when it’s over. Win, lose, or draw. I’m certainly prepared to pay that sum or more. You just name the price.”

“Bo, you don’t have to pay—” Tom started, but Bo slammed his fist down on the table.

“Yes, I do. You get what you pay for in this world, and I don’t want my lawyers going hungry.”

“Bo, this is
your life
,”
Tom said, exasperation finally getting the better of him. “I’ve tried exactly one case in the last forty years. My partner has tried one case in his whole career. Yes, I’m from this neck of the woods, which I guess will help a little, but as your friend, I’d advise you to think this through a little longer and retain counsel with more experience.”

Bo brought his hands together and folded them into a tent. “I have done nothing but think about this decision since the minute I was arrested last Friday morning. My decision now is the same one I came to within two seconds after the handcuffs were slipped over my wrists. I want you, Professor.”

“Why?”
Tom asked.

“Because there’s no one else I trust with my life,” Bo said, his voice cracking with emotion and fatigue. “No one but you.”

12

At 5:00 p.m. sharp, Tom parked the Explorer in front of a redbrick house on Jefferson Street about a block east of Ms. Butler’s. The sign in the yard was black with gold stenciled letters. “Curtis Family Medicine.” Finding Dr. Curtis had been easy—the manager at Ms. Butler’s had just pointed out the front door of the bed and breakfast and said, “Two football fields that way on the left. There’s a sign out front.”

The rain that had poured all afternoon had subsided to a slow drizzle, and the air felt sticky as Tom stepped out of his vehicle and walked up the path to the front porch of the house. He started to knock on the door but then heard a voice to his right.

“Can I help you?”

Tom turned to see a man that looked to be in his sixties sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. Tom was a bit taken back that he hadn’t seen the man on his approach.

“Uh . . . yes, my name is Tom McMurtrie. I was looking for Dr. Curtis.”

“Well, you found him,” the man said, gesturing to himself and standing up. “George Curtis.”

As they shook hands, Tom looked the doctor over. He was medium height with thinning salt and pepper hair. A pair of round wire-rimmed glasses adorned his face, and he was dressed casually in a short-sleeve button-down and khaki pants. His hand felt soft and small, his grip weak.

“Please,” George said, gesturing toward the wicker couch adjacent to his chair. “Have a seat. I just finished with my last patient and was about to make a batch of lemonade. Would you like some?”

Tom accepted, and a few minutes later he was seated across from George on the porch, sipping from a plastic cup. If anything, the air had gotten stickier, and Tom felt sweat pooling underneath his white dress shirt.

“So what I can do for you, Mr. McMurtrie?”

“Please, call me Tom.”

“OK,” George said, not offering Tom the same courtesy.

“I’ve been retained by Bocephus Haynes to represent him on the murder charges brought against him by the state.”

George blinked several times, but his face and body remained perfectly still. Tom thought again of how he had approached the office and not even seen the man sitting on the porch. The doctor’s calm demeanor was a bit unnerving.

“OK . . . Why is it that you want to talk with me? I’m sure you know that the victim, Andy Walton, was my brother-in-law.”

George’s voice betrayed no emotion, but Tom now heard the accent. Southern aristocrat. The kind of voice an actor would use to portray a Southern plantation owner.

“You saw my client and the victim just a few hours before the murder.”

“That’s right,” George said. “Your client threatened to kill my brother-in-law. Said he was going to ‘make him bleed.’” George held up the index and middle fingers of both hands to make the quotation symbol. “I guess he made good on that promise.”

“Were you concerned for Mr. Walton’s life at that point, Doctor?”

George shrugged and took a sip of lemonade, his eyes never leaving Tom’s. “Not really. Andy’s always been able to take care of himself.” He paused. “To tell the truth, I’m shocked that Andy would let anyone, much less Bo Haynes, kill him in the way it went down. Andy . . . was a hard man.”

“He was also dying, right?”

Again, George blinked. “How did you know that?”

Tom considered his response. So far George Curtis hadn’t told him anything he didn’t already know. Tom thought Andy’s cancer was a bad fact for the defense. He could almost hear Helen Lewis in her opening—
If Bo hadn’t taken his revenge when he did, he might never have gotten the chance.
But after several seconds he came clean. “Your sister told Bo at Kathy’s. She told him to let Andy die in peace.”

George grimaced, his first outward show of emotion. “That’s why she blames herself,” he said, shaking his head. “I knew it had to be something like that.” He paused. “She hasn’t said a word since she saw Andy hanging from the tree.”

“She saw?” Tom asked. This was new information.

“Yeah. When the fire department arrived on the scene, the chief said that Maggie arrived just a few minutes after he did.” He paused and shook his head. “I’m not sure she’ll ever be the same.”

“I’m very sorry,” Tom said, meaning it. “Would it be possible to talk with your sister?” Tom knew he was pushing his luck, but Maggie Walton was an important witness.

“No,” George said, his voice hard. “That wouldn’t be possible right now. It’s just too soon.”

The conversation lulled for several seconds, neither of them speaking, and Tom’s sense of discomfort grew. George had an intense gaze that made Tom feel like he was being inspected.

“Doctor, can you think of anyone besides Bo who might have a bone to pick with your brother-in-law?”

George shrugged. “Andy was a polarizing figure in this town. I think there was a general
distaste
for him. You have to understand, Andy didn’t grow up in Pulaski. He came from over in McNairy County. A lot of folks thought his money was dirty. Then there was his association with the Klan. Not sure many people ever got over that. The people here have always had to deal with the town being the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan, but it’s a past that Pulaski has tried to distance itself from. Andy’s involvement as Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee chapter was another black eye for the town. But . . . no one wanted him dead. Andy gave a lot of his
dirty
money to the town. To its businesses and to Martin College and the church.” Curtis chuckled. “What is the old saying? ‘He’s a son of a bitch, but he’s our son of a bitch.’ I think that’s how the town viewed Andy.”

Tom watched the doctor tell the story.
He’s enjoying this
, Tom thought. It was time to give him a jolt. “Did you resent Andy for buying the family farm and saving your father from bankruptcy while you were in medical school?”

“Who told you that?”

“Raymond Pickalew,” Tom said, his lips curving into a smile. “Ray Ray’s an old friend of mine.”

George returned the smile, but there was no humor behind his eyes. As with Helen, the mention of Ray Ray’s name seemed to rattle the doctor. “Professor McMurtrie, it seems as if you are friends with all of the riffraff in town.”

Tom’s grin widened. “Dr. Curtis, it seems as if you might have a—how did you put it?—
distaste
for Ray Ray.”

“Raymond Pickalew is a no-count drunk, and he always has been,” George said, the slightest hint of an edge in his voice. Then, relaxing his shoulders, he leaned back in the rocking chair and wrapped his hands behind his back. “But getting back to your question, the truth is that I was relieved that Andy bought the farm. We all were. He saved our ass and allowed my father to die with dignity. We were all indebted to him for that.”

Bullshit,
Tom thought but didn’t say. He decided to switch gears.

“Do you know Clete Sartain?” Tom asked.

“Everyone knows Clete,” George said, chuckling. “He sacks groceries at the Johnson’s Foodtown and looks just like Santa Claus. He’s lived in Pulaski forever.”

“Was he with you, Andy, and Mrs. Walton at Kathy’s on the night of the murder?”

George scoffed. “He was there, but I wouldn’t say he was
with
us. He just happened to be there. Clete is a regular at Kathy’s.”

“Was Clete in the Klan when Andy was the Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee chapter?”

George shrugged and drank the rest of his lemonade. “He might have been. I wouldn’t know.”

“Were you?”

The humorless smile returned to the doctor’s face. “Well . . .” He abruptly stood up. “I’m sorry to have to run, but I have an engagement at the church later tonight, and I’m going to be late if I don’t go now.”

He didn’t offer his hand to shake.

“Thanks for your time,” Tom said, also standing, but George did not acknowledge him. The doctor walked past his visitor through the front door of the office and closed it behind him.

The sound of the sliding dead bolt was unmistakable.

It wasn’t until Tom had reached the Explorer that he felt the cold chill on the back of his neck.
Professor McMurtrie, it seems as if you are friends with all of the riffraff in town.
The comment by George had struck Tom as defensive at the time, and he had gotten caught up in the back and forth, missing the hidden significance.

Professor McMurtrie
. . .

Tom had not told George that he had been a professor in his former life. How could he possibly know that? As far as Tom knew, today was the first time that he had ever met George Curtis. Unless George had seen the same
USA Today
article that Helen had . . .

No,
Tom thought.
Helen would have paid attention to that kind of news because she’s an attorney and she already knew of me.

It didn’t make sense. Tom had yet to even file an appearance as Bo’s lawyer. George shouldn’t have known anything about Tom.

Maybe he has a source in the DA’s office or the sheriff’s department,
Tom thought, sliding into the front seat and cranking the ignition. He had met with Helen this morning and told her his intention to file an appearance. Perhaps she had updated the family. He had also visited Bo at the jail this afternoon, and a sheriff’s deputy could have called George and given him Tom’s name. Either way George could have then googled Tom and learned all about him.

That’s got to be it,
he thought, easing the car forward and dialing Rick’s number on his cell phone. As his partner’s voice came over the line, Tom took a last look at the medical office. Behind the open blinds of the front window, he saw the shadow of a man watching him. Ray Ray was right, Tom thought, feeling gooseflesh break out on his arms.

The good doctor was a
“strange bird.”