At the second-floor landing, Tom turned to his left toward a closed door with a sign above it that said “District Attorney General.” Tom was about to knock when a voice rang out from down the hall.
“She’s not in there.”
Tom turned and saw a plump middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses heading his way. “Where . . . ?” he started, but the woman walked past him and pointed toward a set of double doors. Adjacent to the doors was a sign that read “Circuit Court.” The woman cracked open the door and peeked inside. Then she waved toward Tom. “She’s in the courtroom,” the woman said, pointing through the doors. “Do you have business with the General?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said, slightly jolted by the woman’s use of the military title. He was going to have to get used to hearing the word “General” in reference to the head prosecutor, which was a practice peculiar to the state of Tennessee.
“OK,” the woman said, opening the door wider and motioning with her head for Tom to enter. “In the jury,” she whispered as Tom stepped through the opening. Before he could say thank you, the door closed behind him.
For a few seconds Tom took in the scene. He had been in a lot of courtrooms in his lifetime, but he had never had his breath taken away until now. The first thing that stood out was the balcony. Eerily reminiscent of the courtroom in the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, there was a balcony where spectators could sit if the main area was full. Of course, in To Kill a Mockingbird, which took place in rural south Alabama, the black spectators sat in the balcony and the whites sat on the main floor. Tom figured that the original intent of this balcony was also segregation. He doubted many cases these days required upstairs seating.
But this one might, he thought. When Bocephus Haynes was tried for the capital murder of Andy Walton, former Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Tom figured every seat might indeed be taken.
Tom lowered his gaze to the gallery on the main floor, where he saw four separate seating areas with five or six rows of built-in wooden chairs that folded up like theater seats. The gallery converged on a railing, which separated spectators from the lawyers and the judge. Just beyond this railing were two tables, one of which Tom knew would be the prosecution’s table, and the other the defense table. Between the two tables was a built-in box with a high-backed chair inside. Is that the witness stand? Tom wondered, squinting at the box and walking toward it. He ran his hand over the wood and then swept his eyes around the courtroom again. Has to be, he thought, noticing that this box faced two rows of six built-in high-backed swivel chairs. The jury, Tom thought, seeing that just beyond the jury chairs was the judge’s bench, which rose twice as high as the witness box.
“Interesting setup, huh?” A sharp female voice cut through the air, and Tom felt his entire body tense. He moved his eyes to the jury chairs and at first didn’t see her. Then a hand shot up from the back row.
Tom took a couple more steps and finally saw General Helen Lewis slumped in a jury chair with a file jacket in her lap. She wore a black suit, and her lips were painted bright red with lipstick. Scratching one stockinged calf with the toe of her other foot—her heels were lying in a pile underneath her chair—Helen smiled at him. “Tom McMurtrie.”
“Helen,” Tom said. “Been a long time.”
Over the years Tom had run into Helen Lewis at various seminars put on by the American Bar Association, where they both had been speakers. Though not friends, they had developed a mutual respect for the other’s abilities and reputation. He extended his hand, and she stood to shake it, looking him directly in the eye. Her handshake was firm, and her eyes were the greenish-blue color of the Gulf.
“Are you lost, Tom?” she asked, her bright-red lips curving into a grin. “You are a long way from Tuscaloosa.”
Tom chuckled and then turned away from her. “This setup is interesting,” he said, pointing at the witness box. “I haven’t seen anything like it. In every courtroom I’ve ever been in, the witness stand has been adjacent to the judge’s bench. Here, it’s—”
“Right in the center of the room,” Helen finished his thought, and walked toward the witness chair.
Tom noticed that she made no move to put her heels on. Her comfort level made him a bit uneasy. It was as if she were walking around in her own home. She stopped when she reached the witness box and turned to him.
“Front and center, facing the jury and the judge.” She paused, smiling. “I think it’s the way a courtroom should be. Everything that’s important happens right here,” she said, patting the back of the chair. “All testimony. All evidence.” She paused. “Everything else is just for show.” She stepped toward Tom, the smile gone from her face. “You’re here because of Bo Haynes, right?”
Tom nodded.
“You taught him in law school, didn’t you? He was on one of your trial teams.”
Again, Tom nodded. “You seem to know a lot about me.”
“Not really,” Helen said. “I just know a lot about Bo Haynes. He’s the only black trial lawyer in town, and he’s very good. He used to do a lot of criminal defense back in the late ’80s and early ’90s, and we had dozens of cases against each other.” She paused. “I always do a study of my opponents when I face them in court.”
“And what did you learn about Bo?” Tom asked, smiling at her. But the gesture wasn’t returned. Helen’s emerald eyes blazed with intensity.
“Having grown up in Giles County myself, I knew a lot already. I was just starting in the DA’s office here when Bo was an all-state football player at Giles County High. I remember when Bear Bryant came to Pulaski to watch him play. You woulda thought the president was in town. Police escort to the stadium with sirens blaring. State troopers everywhere. It was the damnedest thing I’d ever seen.”
Tom smiled, thinking of a similar scene from his own past. “The Man knew how to make an entrance.”
“The Man,” Helen mocked. “I think I’ve heard Bo call him that too. The Man. Is that an inside thing?”
Tom shrugged. “I guess. If you played for Coach Bryant or spent any time around him, he was . . . the Man. It’s a hard thing to describe.”
“Whatever,” Helen said, waving a hand in the air. She returned to her seat in the back row of the jury and crossed her legs. Again, Tom was taken back by the familiarity with which she treated the courtroom. “Anyway, everyone in Pulaski followed Bo’s college career. It was hard not to. The local newspaper always mentioned how many tackles he had made in a game, stuff like that. The articles stopped after he blew his knee out.” She paused, squinting up at him. “The rest I learned from doing a little digging. Law School at Alabama, where he was on your national championship trial team. Clerked a summer at Jones & Butler, the law factory in Birmingham. Then back here after law school. Hung a shingle on First Street a block north of First National Bank, and he’s been in that same office for the past twenty-five years.” She paused, chuckling with what sounded to Tom like admiration. “Starting out as a black lawyer in this town in the mid-’80s was not much different than being a female prosecutor. Not many of us around. In Bo’s case, none. He cut his teeth on criminal defense and workers’ comp cases and then started attracting the lucrative personal injury plaintiff cases by the mid-’90s.”
“I always thought it was strange that he came back here,” Tom said, purposely testing Helen’s knowledge, as he had learned the answer to that riddle himself last year.
“Not to me,” Helen said. “Or to anyone else in Pulaski.” She cocked her head at Tom. “And I think you might be playing possum with me, Tom. I think you know the reason too.”
Tom kept a poker face, giving away nothing. Helen Lewis was a different animal. Unlike almost every other lawyer he’d been around for the past several decades, male and female alike, Helen paid Tom no deference for being a longtime law professor. She didn’t address him as Professor, as so many of his colleagues did, and she didn’t seem awed in the least by his association
with Coach Bryant.
“Why don’t you remind me?” Tom asked.
Keeping her head cocked to the side, Helen glared up at Tom. “Because ever since he was five years old, Bocephus Haynes has claimed that Andy Walton and twenty members of the Ku Klux Klan murdered his father. Bo came back to Pulaski for revenge.” She paused, crossing her arms across her chest. “And early last Friday morning he got it.”
“Sounds like an opening statement,” Tom said, forcing a smile. Tom knew he had just heard the theme of the state’s case against Bocephus Haynes.
This time Helen returned the smile. “I thought you were a law professor, Tom.”
“I was. For forty years. But now I’m practicing again.”
“And you and your partner hit Willistone Trucking Company last year for ninety million dollars in Henshaw County, Alabama.”
Tom was impressed. He figured most lawyers in Alabama had heard of the verdict, but Helen was a Tennessee prosecutor. “How did you hear about that?”
“Because it was in the goddamn USA Today. Legendary law professor hits big verdict in Alabama. Yada, yada, yada. Aren’t they making a movie about it?”
Tom shrugged, his face turning red. “I hadn’t heard anything about that.”
“Well, they should.” She chuckled. “The best part of that verdict is that you beat that arrogant, overrated prick Jameson Tyler.”
Now Tom laughed. “You know Jameson?” Tom asked.
“Unfortunately, I’ve met him at several ABA meetings. You taught him too, right?”
Tom nodded.
“I was also glad to see Jack Willistone put out of business,” Helen continued. “Jack had been running trucks up and down Highways 64 and 31 for years, collecting speeding tickets that always seemed to mysteriously disappear before we could prosecute them.” She paused, shaking her head in disgust. “One of Jack’s biggest customers was Andy Walton. If you hadn’t put Jack in jail where he belongs, I bet his sorry ass would be at Andy’s funeral tomorrow.”
For a moment an awkward silence fell over the courtroom. Then the smile faded from Helen’s face.
“What can I do for you, Tom?” she asked.
“Helen, we need to obtain some discovery from you,” Tom said. “What do I—?”
“Hold it,” she interrupted, raising her hand to stop him. “Tom, are you telling me that you are going to represent Bo in this case?”
Tom nodded, forcing a smile again. “Yes. What did you think I was doing here?”
Helen didn’t smile back. “I was hoping you were here as a concerned friend and former teacher.” She paused, recrossing her legs. “Bo is charged with capital murder, Tom. He shot Andy Walton in cold blood, hanged him from a tree on Andy’s farm, and then set his body on fire. The evidence is overwhelming.”
“We’d like to see some of this evidence,” Tom said.
Helen peered up at him. “Tom, you are barking up the wrong tree coming down here out of state, having been out of the courtroom as long as you have. As an old friend, I would strongly encourage you to not get involved. One big trucking verdict in Alabama doesn’t mean you’re ready for a capital murder trial in Tennessee.”
“We’d like to get some discovery from you,” Tom said, keeping his voice calm despite the surge of anger he felt. He was tiring of Helen’s act.
Helen sighed and shook her head. “There is no discovery in a criminal case in Tennessee before the grand jury issues an indictment and the defendant is arraigned, Tom. You would know this if you tried criminal cases in Tennessee on a regular basis. I really wish you would reconsider what you’re doing.” She gazed at him with mock sympathy. “I would hate for your legacy to be tarnished.”
Tom managed a grin. “I’m not worried about that, Helen.” He held out his hand, and she stood to shake it. “My notice of appearance will be filed first thing tomorrow morning.”
Tom started to walk away, and Helen’s voice called after him. “You’ll need local counsel, Tom. You can’t just waltz down here from Tuscaloosa and enter an appearance in a capital murder case. Since the primary thrust of your practice is in Alabama, you’ll need local counsel.”
When he reached the double doors, Tom turned to face her.
“And don’t think I’m going to educate you the whole way,” Helen continued. She had sat back down and had begun flipping through her file again. “That’s really not my—”
“Raymond Pickalew will be our local counsel, General,” Tom interrupted, addressing her for the first time by her formal title. “I believe you know Ray Ray.”
Helen looked up from the file, her eyes widening in bewilderment. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come.
He had finally rattled her.
“And if you aren’t going to be forthcoming with the state’s evidence, we’ll be requesting an expedited preliminary hearing.”
Tom opened the door.
“The prelim is the defendant’s right,” Helen said, her voice as hard as iron as she scowled at Tom from across the courtroom.
“I know it is,” Tom said, smiling at her and closing the door behind him.
10
The law office of Raymond Pickalew was located on First Street, about a block south of the courthouse square and two doors down from Bo’s office. The receptionist, a big-busted redhead named Bonnie who dressed in jeans and a low-cut sweater, said that her boss was working from home today. He lived in a cabin just off the Elk River about twenty minutes south of town. She had no qualms giving Tom the address of the cabin and Ray Ray’s cell number but said, “He’s bad about not answering it.”
On the way to the cabin, Tom called Rick and filled him in on the meeting with Helen.
“I need you to research the requirements for change of venue in a capital murder case in the State of Tennessee.” He paused. “If there’s any way possible, we need to get this case out of Pulaski.”
“It’s that bad?” Rick said.
“Pulaski is a small town, kid. Everyone here is probably familiar with Bo’s backstory, which is entirely consistent with a revenge killing.” He sighed. “We have to try.”
“What does Bo say?”
“I haven’t seen him yet. Still doing the groundwork. Visiting hours at the jail are this afternoon, and I’ll discuss venue with him then.”
“Professor, do you think he did—?”
“Doesn’t matter what I think right now,” Tom interrupted. “It’s too early to be making snap judgments. The bottom line is that Bocephus Haynes is my friend, and he saved my ass last year when I was feeling sorry for myself on the farm.” Tom paused, feeling heat behind his eyes. “I owe him.”
“I do too,” Rick said. “He saved Dawn’s life during the trial last year. If he hadn’t found her when he did, Willistone’s henchman might’ve . . .” He trailed off, and Tom began to slow down as he saw the sign for the Buford Gardner Bridge. Bonnie had said to take a left on Highway 31 just past the bridge. Tom clicked his blinker, knowing it was time to end the call.
“Listen, Rick, that reminds me. Can you talk to Powell?”
“Of course, but why?” Powell Conrad was an assistant district attorney in Tuscaloosa County. He was also Rick’s best friend.
“Because Andy Walton was thick as thieves with Jack Willistone.”
“Really?” Rick asked, his voice incredulous.
“That’s what General Lewis said. Anyway, we need to get an update on Willistone from Powell.” He sighed. “And we may have to pay the bastard a visit in prison. We need to know all we can about the victim.”
Silence for several seconds on the other end of the line. Then: “OK.” The trepidation in Rick’s voice was palpable, and Tom felt a little himself. Neither one of them relished the idea of seeing Jack Willistone again.
“One last thing,” Tom said, seeing Ray Ray’s cabin up ahead. “I need you to research the requirements for out-of-state admission to Tennessee in a criminal case and draft the necessary paperwork.”
; “We’ll need local counsel, right?” Rick asked.
“Right,” Tom said, turning into the gravel drive that led up to the small cabin. “And I’m about to speak with Ray Ray now.”
“Ray who?”
Tom smiled. “I’ll call you later.”
He found Raymond Pickalew fishing off his pier. His old friend sat in a lawn chair and wore a navy-blue T-shirt, tattered khaki shorts, and a crimson visor with the letter A stenciled on the front. Even sitting down, his bare feet propped on a cooler, Ray Ray displayed the long, wiry muscles that had made him an excellent wide receiver.
“What do you say, Ray Ray?” Tom said, smiling at his old teammate.
Raymond Pickalew had been called Ray Ray since he was a baby. His father had suffered from a bad stutter, and when he tried to say “Ray,” it always came out “Ray Ray.” His mother had wanted him to just go by Ray, but when his two-year-old sister started calling him Ray Ray, she adopted it too, and before long everyone in town did. Ray Ray made all-state at Giles County High in football and went on to play at Alabama, graduating in 1960. Law school followed, and then back to Pulaski, where Ray Ray had been a general practitioner specializing in divorce since the late ’60s.
Ray Ray had a grin that seemed to curl up past his cheekbones, which made him always look like he was up to no good. It was his trademark, and though he hadn’t seen Tom in years, he gave it now, standing from his lawn chair. “Well, shit fire and save the matches. Tommy goddamn McMurtrie.” He set his rod and reel down and gave Tom a bear hug, and the strong scent of Miller High Life enveloped Tom’s nostrils. “How in the hell are you?”
“Just fine, Ray Ray.”
Ray Ray sat down and pulled two Miller High Life cans from his cooler. He pitched one to Tom and popped the top on the other one. “How about a taste of the champagne of beers?” he asked, smiling and taking a long sip from the can. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, Tom. How long’s it been?”
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