Bo said nothing, gazing back at Ennis with blank eyes. He had seen too many clients burned by their own tongues at this stage of a case. Bo also knew that there was a video camera rolling from just behind the glass, recording every word, every sound, and every movement. Bo had represented enough criminal defendants to know the way this song and dance worked.
“No problem,” the sheriff said, pulling out a card from his pocket, prepared for Bo’s lack of cooperation. “You have the right to remain silent,” Ennis began, speaking in a clear, deliberate voice as he read from the card. When he finished, he put the card back in his pocket and peered at Bo.
“Bo, we’ve known each other a long time.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “So I’m going to forego any bullshit. The physical evidence that we have found against you in the first eight hours of this investigation is conclusive and overwhelming. If that weren’t enough, you’re the only person with the necessary motive to commit this kind of atrocity, and it’s been simmering for decades. There are four eyewitnesses who heard you threaten to kill Andy Walton at Kathy’s Tavern just a few hours before we found him hanging from a tree on his farm. An eye for an eye, right, Bo?”
Bo stared blankly back at Ennis, thinking about the confrontation at Kathy’s and the words he had used. No, he thought, sitting still, in no way betraying his fear. Jesus Christ, no.
Finally, after Bo hadn’t said anything for several seconds, Ennis sighed. “Bo, the evidence reflects that earlier this morning, just three hours after you threatened to make Andy Walton pay for his sins eye for eye, tooth for tooth, you shot and killed Andy in cold blood and then hung his body from the same tree limb where you have always claimed your father was lynched by the Ku Klux Klan.” Ennis spoke in a measured voice, but his eyes blazed with fury. “Then you set his corpse on fire and almost burned his farm to the ground.” He paused. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
Bo maintained his blank stare for a couple of seconds. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to nod his head.
Ennis blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. “OK . . . what?”
Bo took a sip of water from the Styrofoam cup on the table, his eyes never leaving the sheriff’s. Finally, he spoke. “I’d like to call my attorney.”
The sheriff smirked and gave a quick nod in the direction of the glass wall. Bo knew the cue. The video had been turned off.
“So that’s how you’re gonna play it?” Ennis asked, a rhetorical question, as he knew Bo was not going to respond. The sheriff started to say more, but his voice was drowned out by the swooshing sound of the metal door opening and sliding shut, and then the clacking of high heels on concrete.
Helen Evangeline Lewis, District Attorney General for the 22nd Judicial District of the State of Tennessee, walked into the cell, a faint smile playing on her lips. At almost sixty years old, Helen was a striking figure, with her pale skin, black hair, and bright-red lipstick, and these features were only intensified by the black suit and high heels she typically wore. Though her face was a bit tight from Botox, she was not an unattractive woman. Scary looking maybe, but not unattractive. The confidence and self-assurance with which she carried herself made her both intimidating and seductive. And a holy terror to deal with in the courtroom.
The sheriff rose from his seat and gestured for Helen to take his place. As she did, Bo watched her, noticing how her body almost slithered, her movements smooth and calculated. Like a poisonous snake.
“So the great Bocephus Haynes wants a lawyer,” she said, her voice reeking with sarcasm. “Don’t you find that comical, Bo?” She smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes.
“A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client,” Bo said. “I’m sure you’ve heard that one before, General.”
She cackled. “I have. But you? Bo, you’ve de-balled almost as many lawyers in this town as I have. I can’t imagine you trusting your life to anyone in the defense bar here.”
“I didn’t say I wanted a lawyer,” Bo said, glaring at her. “I said I wanted my lawyer.” He paused. “My lawyer ain’t from around here.”
Helen abruptly stood and looked down at Bo, her green eyes burning with intensity. “Well, he better be good.” She started to turn away but then returned her gaze to Bo. “Given the mutilated condition of the body and the multiple felonies involved, we don’t have a choice in the punishment we’ll seek.” She paused, her eyes and voice betraying no emotion. “I’ll ask for the death penalty.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Bo thought he saw Ennis Petrie flinch, but Bo didn’t look at the sheriff. He kept his gaze locked on Helen, forcing himself to remain calm, though he felt goose bumps breaking out on his arms and the back of his neck. “I’d like to call my attorney now.”
8
Thomas Jackson McMurtrie winced as the cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He had silenced the phone at the beginning of the mediation but had forgotten that the damn thing would start vibrating if a call came through. His bladder had been scoped yesterday afternoon, and though the news was good—he was clean as a whistle—the procedure was still uncomfortable and made him stiff and sore. Being seventy years old probably didn’t help much either, a fact his urologist and longtime friend, Bill Davis, teased him with every time Tom complained. “Cancer-free for a year, old man,” Bill had said, slapping Tom on the back at the end of yesterday’s appointment. “That peace of mind is worth a little ‘torture,’ isn’t it?” “Torture” was Tom’s word for the scope, the chemo washes, and pretty much everything Bill had done to treat the masses that had popped up in Tom’s bladder last year. But his friend was right. A clean scope was worth a little pain.
Tom tried to remind himself of this fact as the vibration from the phone caused his stomach and pelvis to tighten, which sent a shot of pain through his groin. His right foot had also fallen asleep, and he wiggled his toes in his loafers to increase the circulation.
Tom was curious about the call—few people had his cell number—but he could not answer it. The mediator was making his final plea.
“Tom, I think everyone agrees that the driver of the rig was negligent when he pulled out in front of Mr. London. Jameson just believes you guys should come off the policy limits to account for your client’s”—he paused—“possible contributory negligence in not being able to stop or avoid the collision.”
Before responding, Tom glanced to his right. Next to him, his partner, Rick Drake, leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table, looking ready to pounce. Their eyes met, and Tom nodded at him to take the lead, stifling a smile. That boy is always itching for a fight, he thought.
“Jerome London was a sixty-two-year-old grandfather of three who was on his way to pick up his granddaughter from preschool at the time of this accident,” Rick said, his voice sharp and edgy. “Mr. London had a perfect driving record—no tickets and only one accident in his whole life—and his pickup truck was in mint condition, having been serviced just one week earlier. The two eyewitnesses at the Waffle House on McFarland, who were sitting in booths with an unobstructed view out their window when the collision occurred, both say that Mr. London hit the brakes immediately once the 18-wheeler pulled onto the road. The only person in the world who says different is Jameson’s accident reconstructionist, Eugene Marsh, who has never given an opinion that a commercial truck driver was negligent. We took Jameson to verdict last year in the Willistone case in Henshaw County, and the jury came back with a verdict of ninety million dollars. I’m sure Jameson remembers that case very well. Marsh was Jameson’s expert in Willistone, and the jury’s verdict shows just how impressed they were.” Rick paused, licking his lips and placing his hands palms down on the table. “George, Mr. London lost his life in this accident. The policy limits here are one million, and if you ask us the defendant is getting a bargain. Mr. London’s son, Maurice, wants this to be over, so he has agreed to accept the limits today at this mediation, but there is no way on God’s green earth that we are going to let him take
less.” Eyes burning with intensity, Rick held up his index finger. “One last thing, and it has to be said. This case is pending here . . . in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You know, George, the home of the Crimson Tide. My partner was a member of Bear Bryant’s 1961 national champions, and a video clip of him sacking the quarterback in the Sugar Bowl is shown every fall Saturday on the Jumbotron at Bryant-Denny Stadium as a hundred thousand fans go crazy. He was a law professor for forty years at the University of Alabama, and every judge and lawyer in this state, including you, George, has a copy of his Evidence hornbook in their office.”
Rick snorted and stood from his chair. “The bottom line is that we have the facts, and no jury in Tuscaloosa, Alabama is going to find against us. Jameson would have better luck getting a jury of elves to convict Santa Claus at the North Pole.”
Rick began to pack up his briefcase, his face red and his hands trembling slightly. Tom also stood, placing his hands in his pockets and eyeing the mediator.
George McDuff Jr. rubbed his neck and smiled. “Rick, I know all about the Willistone case in Henshaw County. I think every lawyer in the state of Alabama has heard about that verdict. And you don’t have to tell me about the Professor’s accomplishments. I think I was ten when Tom left my dad’s practice to be a law professor.” He looked at Tom, his eyes turning sad. “I think it was one of Dad’s biggest regrets that he couldn’t get you to stay.”
Tom nodded, looking past George out the window of the conference room. In the distance he could see the lights to Bryant-Denny Stadium. “I believe your father knew that I had to come to the university,” Tom finally said, meeting George’s eye. “That I . . . was made an offer I just couldn’t refuse.”
“He said Coach Bryant asked you to come.”
Tom nodded.
“Well . . .” George clasped his hands together and looked from Tom to Rick. “I can’t say I blame y’all for not backing down from the policy limits. I’ll pass the word on to Jameson. Did you want to stick around to see—?”
“No,” Rick interrupted, shutting the briefcase. “Jameson knows where to find us.”
They walked down the stairs in silence. George McDuff’s law office was a two-story stand-alone building on University Drive, eight blocks from Tom and Rick’s own office off of Greensboro. As they stepped outside into the sunlight, Rick finally spoke. “You think I came off too strong in there?” His tone was defensive, and Tom glanced at him, smiling.
“Oh, no, you were very subtle.” He paused. “The Santa Claus thing might have been a bit over the top . . .”
Now it was Rick who smiled. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
They reached Rick’s car, a thirteen-year-old Saturn the color of rusted gold, and Rick slipped his briefcase in the back, and they both took off their jackets.
“You ever gonna trade in this ball and chain?” Tom joked, tapping the top of the Saturn with his palm. “I think you can probably afford an upgrade.” Though Tom and Rick were not able to collect anywhere close to the full ninety million awarded in the Willistone case—Jack Willistone was sent to prison, and he and his company had declared bankruptcy—they had received the three million in policy limits, resulting in a legal fee of one million dollars. And in the twelve months since the verdict, the firm of McMurtrie & Drake had obtained seven-figure settlements in three other cases. They were on a roll, but you sure wouldn’t be able to guess it by looking at Rick’s car.
“You sound like Dawn,” Rick said, climbing in the driver’s side of the Saturn and leaning over to manually unlock Tom’s door.
“You should listen to her sometimes,” Tom said, getting in. “She’s probably the smartest member of the firm.”
“True enough,” Rick said, putting the car in gear and backing out of the parking space. As he straightened the car to exit the lot, a figure was blocking their way, palms out to stop them.
“Should I hit him?” Rick asked, his voice giving away only the slightest hint of humor.
“Nah,” Tom said. “I think your little stunt back there may have just paid off.”
Rick left the car running, and he and Tom got out of the Saturn. The man blocking their exit walked briskly toward them, a toothy grin playing on his face.
“Gentlemen, aren’t we being a little rash? The mediation hasn’t even been going an hour.”
“Jameson, you knew our position before we ever got here,” Rick said. “You knew we wouldn’t settle for less than the limits. This was a dog and pony show for your client so a mediator could tell them to pay out. You know what’s going to happen at trial. It will be Willistone all over again.”
Jameson Tyler, managing partner of Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in the state of Alabama, crossed his arms, his smile fading away. “Big talk for a boy who didn’t have much to do with that verdict. As I recollect it, the Professor here saved your ass in Willistone while your case was dying on the vine.” Jameson took a step closer. “Must be nice riding Tom’s coattails, Rick.”
Rick’s face flushed red, and he started to step forward, but Tom moved in front of him. “That’s enough, Jameson. Rick is right. We told you beforehand that we wouldn’t budge from the limits.”
Jameson sighed in exasperation. “Tom, practicing law is as much a business as it is a profession. My clients are businesspeople. They deal in dollars and cents.”
Tom squinted at Jameson and stepped toward him, invading his space so that the other lawyer had to take a step backward. “You continually disappoint me, Jameson. Exactly when did you sell out, son? When did the billable hour become your moral compass in life?”
Jameson didn’t flinch or blink. “You’re one to talk, Professor. You’re nothing more than an ambulance chaser now, collecting settlement checks like the rest of them. Have you tried a case since Willistone?” He paused, leaning forward. “Willistone was a fluke, Tom, and we both know it. But you and your minion here have used it to scare a few insurance companies into shelling out big money to settle instead of dealing with the circus of trying a case against you in Alabama. Here’s a news flash for you, Tom. We’re all sellouts, and you’re no different than anyone else.”
Tom felt his cell phone vibrate again in his pocket, but he didn’t move to answer it. He was shaken by Jameson’s words. Like his former student, though, he didn’t flinch. His expression and demeanor remained exactly the same. “See you in court, Jameson.”
Tom turned to go, motioning for Rick to do the same. When his hand touched the door handle, Jameson’s voice stopped him.
“No, you won’t.”
Tom glanced at Rick, who was unable to suppress a smile. Then he peered back at Jameson. “Excuse me?”
“My client doesn’t want to go to the circus either. They’ll pay the limits.”
Twenty minutes later the mediation settlement agreement was signed, and Rick and Tom were back in the Saturn, heading toward the office. Rick had just called Maurice London with the good news and, after clicking the “End” button, plopped his cell phone in the drink holder.
“How was he?” Tom asked.
“Ecstatic,” Rick said. “He just kept thanking me over and over again.”
Rick smiled, but it was obvious to Tom that the boy was still perturbed by Jameson’s comments in the parking lot. His young partner seemed to carry a perpetual chip on his shoulder, never appearing to be satisfied with the success the firm achieved. It was like Jameson Tyler’s voice was always ringing in the boy’s head, telling him that he wasn’t good enough.
Rick had been given an offer to work for Jones & Butler when he was in law school, but the offer was withdrawn by Jameson when Rick got into an altercation with Tom after a law school trial competition. Though Tom and Rick had reconciled and had eventually teamed up for the huge verdict in the Willistone case last summer, Rick still carried the scar of his rejection with him like a badge. Tom wondered if that was why Rick clung to the old Saturn, not able to allow himself any enjoyment of their success until . . .
&n
bsp; . . . until what?
As Rick pulled to a stop in front of the McMurtrie & Drake, LLC sign, Tom was about to compliment his young partner’s handling of the London case but winced as his cell phone vibrated again. He had forgotten to turn the sound back on.
“Goddamnit,” Tom said, twisting in the seat to get his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the face, and the caller ID showed a 931 area code.
Tennessee? Tom thought. There were several people in Tennessee that had his cell phone number, including his son, Tommy, who lived in Nashville, but all of those folks had numbers Tom would recognize. This number was unfamiliar.
“Hello.”
“Professor, where have you been?”
Tom instantly recognized the voice. “Bo?”
“Yeah, dog. Listen . . .” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Tom thought he heard someone shouting in the background. Then Bo’s voice again, strained, a harsh whisper. “I need your help.”
PART TWO
9
On Monday morning, three days after the murder of Andy Walton, Tom rose early and decided to walk the half mile into downtown Pulaski. He had stayed the night at Ms. Butler’s Bed & Breakfast, a charming white-frame house on Jefferson Street three blocks from the Giles County Courthouse. After a hearty breakfast and two cups of black coffee, Tom grabbed his briefcase and began the trek down Jefferson. By the time he reached the town square, he had to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
Built in 1909 after a fire destroyed the old building, the Giles County Courthouse was an architectural marvel. Eight columns lined the east and west entrances, and a dome and clock surmounted the entire structure. As he climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, Tom couldn’t help but gaze up at the top of the rotunda, noticing that the centerpiece of the dome contained the Tennessee state seal, the scales of justice, and a sheathed sword, all on a shield background. Stained-glass windows adorned the north and south walls. To Tom, the building felt more like a cathedral than a courthouse.
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