Bo raised his eyebrows. “You talking about her divorce.”
Tom nodded. “She may be the meanest prosecutor in the state of Tennessee, but her ex-husband took her to the cleaners in their divorce. And you know who his attorney was?”
Now Bo smiled. “Ray Ray.”
“When I mentioned that we would be associating Ray Ray as local counsel, I thought the General was going to faint.”
Bo sighed, the smile fading from his face. “OK, Professor, I trust you. But dealing with Helen Lewis as a party in a divorce proceeding is a little different than going to battle with her in a capital murder trial.”
“Can you think of anybody in Giles County who would be a more effective local counsel than Ray Ray?”
When Bo didn’t answer, Tom held out his palms.
“OK, you got me,” Bo finally said, plopping down in the aluminum chair across from Tom.
“Bo, did you go to the Sundowners Club the night of Andy Walton’s murder?”
Bo shook his head. “Absolutely not. I haven’t been to that place since I investigated it during the Willistone trial last summer.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“OK,” Tom said, satisfied. “Ray Ray is going to go out there today and start interviewing employees. Any thoughts?”
Bo nodded. “The owner of the Sundowners is Larry Tucker. Tucker is still a card-carrying member of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan. Outside of Andy Walton, who I know was there, the only other person that I am almost positive participated in my daddy’s lynching is Larry Tucker. I seriously doubt that Tucker will want to be helpful or cooperative to our defense, but Ray Ray’s a good person to send out there. I’m sure he’s dropped a lot of dollar bills in the Sundowners.” Bo sighed, then snapped his fingers. “The bartender, Peter Burns, should be helpful if he can. Burns is who gave me the information you used to cross the trucker’s widow in the Willistone trial. He owes me, because I represented him a few years back on a DUI and he was acquitted. If he’s still around, you need to talk with Burns. From what I recall, if anything happens in that joint he knows about it.”
“Anything else?”
“Talk with the dancers. I bet Andy had a favorite.”
Tom jotted some notes down on his pad and then looked Bo in the eye. It was time to change direction. “Why did you break the surveillance camera at the gate to Walton Farm?” Tom asked.
Bo sighed. “Honestly, Professor, I don’t remember doing that. I was . . . very drunk.”
“You told me yesterday that you went to the clearing every year on the anniversary of your father’s death. How could you do that if the farm had a gate and video surveillance.”
“In years past I would park along Highway 64 and hop a low part of the fence a good distance away from the cameras. This year Andy put a new barrier around the place. I mean, it’s like the Great Wall of China now.”
“So how did you get to the clearing on the night of the murder?”
Bo stared down at the table. “My cousin, Booker T., he farms the land out there . . . He gave me the code.”
It was the answer that Tom expected, but it was no less damaging or significant. “I need to speak with him as soon as possible,” Tom said. “Can you give me his number?”
Bo did, shaking his head as he called out the digits. “You think Helen will charge him with something?”
“You tell me,” Tom said. “Sounds like it’s a decent possibility. Accessory to trespass or even—”
“Accessory to murder,” Bo finished the thought, closing his eyes.
19
George Curtis stood in the kitchen, watching his sister through the open slit in the blinds. Even at sixty-nine years old, her once-golden hair now solid white, Maggie Curtis Walton was still a beautiful woman. When they were younger, George had always thought of Linda Evans from her Big Valley days when he would watch his sister, six years his senior, ride horses on the farm. These days, with her white hair cut shorter, she often reminded George of Ellie Ewing from the nighttime soap Dallas.
Now, four days removed from her husband’s brutal murder and just an hour after his graveside funeral service, Maggie sat in a rocking chair on the porch, holding a leather-bound copy of the Holy Bible tight to her chest. Her exhaustion was palpable.
George knew that getting through the funeral had been torture for his sister.
Due to the mutilated condition of Andy’s body and Maggie’s shock at the gruesome nature of her husband’s murder, George had decided against a visitation, and a viewing had been out of the question. Instead, he had organized a private graveside service at Maplewood Cemetery. So, with temperatures hovering just under one hundred degrees, approximately fifty people, most of them friends of Maggie’s from church and the Junior League, sweated and fanned their way through the ceremony, which was officiated by the Reverend Walter Griffith of First Presbyterian. General Helen Lewis, Sheriff Ennis Petrie, and several deputies were on hand as well, but they were mostly there to keep curiosity seekers out. Andy’s longtime attorney, Charles Dutton, as well as the mayor of Pulaski, Dan Kilgore, were also present. Mayor Kilgore seemed especially sad, though George suspected that the politician’s demeanor had more to do with the bad publicity the town was receiving in the aftermath of the murder than any grief he felt over Andy’s death.
All of the guests, at George’s request, stayed clear of Maggie, who spent the service sitting on the front row of chairs, her hands clutching the same Bible she clung to now. Even after Reverend Griffith had finished his eulogy and people began approaching the coffin to pay their respects and leave flowers, Maggie remained glued to her seat, her posture perfectly erect as she stared blankly at her husband’s coffin.
Maggie’s eyes carried the same listless look now as she gazed over the railing at the night sky. Below her and in all directions the hills flattened into fifteen hundred acres of the best farmland in all of Giles County—property that had been in the Curtis family since before the turn of the century. Above her a ceiling fan whirled full blast, cooling the porch slightly, but the unrelenting heat still made the setting a bit uncomfortable. Sweat rolled down Maggie’s cheeks and neck, but she made no effort to wipe it off.
Feeling a pang in his heart, George forced himself to turn from the window and look at the three men who had gathered in the kitchen parlor. Counting George, they were the last remnants of the lynch mob that hanged Franklin Roosevelt Haynes on the northeast corner of this farm in 1966.
Originally, there had been ten, but in the years since the lynching, their number had gradually dwindled as accidents, bad health, and age began to catch up with them. With Andy’s murder, there were now just the four of them left. George made eye contact with each of the other men in the kitchen. Then, taking off his glasses, he spoke. “She hasn’t said a word since seeing the body.”
The other men remained silent, their eyes focused intently on George.
“I’ve given her several Valium, and I’m sure I’ll have to give her an Ambien to sleep.” He sighed. “I’ve never seen her like this. Not even after Drew . . .”
Drew Walton had been the only son born of the marriage between Andy and Maggie Walton. Drew had been a straight-A student at Giles County High and then went on to David Lipscomb in Nashville to study music. At nineteen years old he’d been found lying in a bathroom in a bar on Music Row, a heroin needle stuck in his arm. Dead of an apparent overdose. Though Maggie never let anyone utter the word “suicide” around her, George had always thought the boy had killed himself.
“Drew wasn’t lynched like a field nigger, Doc.” Larry Tucker, owner of the Sundowners Club, spoke in a whiskey-soaked Southern drawl and rubbed his scruffy beard, a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. “Andy was.” Larry paused and stepped into the middle of the parlor, moving his eyes around the room. “On her land.” He looked George dead in the eye. “Your family’s land, Doc.”
“He was killed at your club, Larry,�
� George said.
“That’s right,” Larry said, his bloodshot eyes again moving wildly around the room. “He was. The question, gentlemen, is what are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing.” The voice came from behind Larry, and he turned around to face it. “Nothing?” Larry asked, squinting at the man.
“Nothing,” Sheriff Ennis Petrie repeated. “If he’s guilty, then Helen Lewis will make sure that he is put to death. The General is undefeated as a prosecutor, and the preliminary investigation indicates that Bo is guilty as sin.”
“I don’t think we should trust a cunt to do a man’s job,” Larry said, stepping closer to the sheriff, spittle flying from his mouth as he spoke.
“Helen Lewis has bigger balls than you do, Larry,” Ennis said. “There is nothing for us to do.”
“Spoken like a yellow-bellied, chicken-shit politician if there ever was one,” Larry said, placing his hands on his hips and continuing to gnaw on the toothpick.
“That’s enough, Larry,” George said. “Ennis has a point.”
“Ennis can suck my dick,” Larry said, pausing with his mouth open, toothpick dangling.
“No, thanks,” Ennis said. He was still wearing his badge and uniform and lowered his thumb to his gun holster. “Don’t fuck with me, Larry.”
Larry smiled at the sheriff, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Your backbone has gotten almost as soft as your belly, Ennis.” Then he turned his head and looked around the room. “Goddamnit, fellas, come on! Andy Walton would roll over in his grave if he thought his family and friends were just gonna lie down and let a damn lady prosecutor avenge his death. Tape up those vaginas and remember who you are and where you came from. Tennessee chapter for life, remember?”
Ennis stared back at him, making no attempt to hide his disgust. “The rest of us got out of the Klan a long time ago, Larry. Andy got out too, remember? You’re the only one still carrying the banner.”
“Oh, come off it, Ennis. Everyone in here knows the only thing you care about is that precious badge on your chest. What? Don’t you think we can take the nigger out without you being implicated?” His mouth curved into a wide grin. “I know a guy, Ennis. A guy used to come in my club last year. A fixer of things, you might say. He actually approached me earlier tonight. Called me from a pay phone and offered to take Haynes out. Said he had a score to settle with the nigger.” Larry paused and licked his lips, his eyes dancing around the room before they returned to Ennis. “My guy could take Bo out, and everyone in here would be as clean as the brass on that badge of yours. Come on, man. Don’t you see Ms. Maggie out there? How can you stand there and tell us to back off?”
Ennis took a step forward and stuck his index finger into Larry’s chest. “The fact of the matter, you ignorant redneck piece of shit, is that some of us here have more at stake than others.” The sheriff nodded at the other remaining guest in the room, and they both stepped toward the door. When Ennis grabbed the knob, he turned and looked only at their host. “Doc, I’m sorry about Andy, and I’m damn sure sorry that Ms. Maggie saw him hanging from that tree. But my advice is to stay the hell out of Helen’s way and let her do her job. Pride and family honor don’t change the situation. Bo is guilty and is going to be put to death for it. There is nothing for us or anyone else to do.”
When they were gone, George looked out the window again and watched the sheriff’s cruiser move steadily down the long and winding gravel driveway to Highway 64 below.
“Well . . .” Larry said. “What’s it gonna be, Doc? Are we gonna hold our dicks and do nothing? Or are we gonna do something?”
When George didn’t answer, Larry continued. “George, if we’re gonna leave things to Helen, we at least need to address McMurtrie. He’s the reason Jack Willistone is sitting in a prison cell instead of filling my club up with truckers wanting lap dances. If we can take McMurtrie out, we’ll make Helen’s job a lot easier.”
Still looking out the window, George lowered his eyes to his sister, who continued to rock slowly back and forth in the chair. Finally, he turned back to Larry. “You said you knew a guy.”
20
On the outskirts of Lawrence County, Tennessee, about thirty miles north of Pulaski, is a small village called Ethridge. Within this village is the largest per capita Amish settlement in the southern United States. Everyone in Ethridge wore the community’s traditional gear. Black pants, black jackets, and black hats on bearded men. Long black and white dresses with white bonnets for the women. Transportation was limited to horse-drawn buggies, and the only food eaten was grown in the fields nearby.
If a person was aiming to disappear from society, it was a pretty good place to be. It was also a good place to stow away valuables taken from another life, as the police were unlikely to stop a man pulling a horse-drawn carriage.
Inside the dark log cabin, JimBone Wheeler, a.k.a. the Bone, lit a lantern with a match and smiled, enjoying the genius of his setup. People left the Amish alone, and for the most part the Amish left their own alone. When he had come to visit Martha Booher, his “aunt,” back in June, Martha told the village folks who had asked that he was her nephew from the Franklin village whose wife and unborn infant had died in childbirth in the spring. He would be helping her with the chores around her house from time to time on weekends when he could spare a trip.
No one had asked a single further question. Everyone was too busy tending to their fields and tackling the daily grind of living.
As the police had never been able to snap a photograph of him and all the descriptions from Tuscaloosa and Henshaw had been vague, the drawing the police had put out among the neighboring counties, including Lawrence County, looked nothing like Bone. The picture showed a large man with a strand of stubble on his face and short dirty-blond hair, wearing a golf shirt and khaki pants. Now Bone had a full beard dyed a dark brown, with long brown hair and, of course, the black hat, pants, and jacket of an Amish man. He suspected he could probably walk into the sheriff’s office and ask for directions and no one would pay him a second’s mind.
“How long are you staying?” Martha asked as Bone took the lantern and walked to the back of the cabin. They had barely spoken on the buggy ride from Lawrenceburg to Ethridge. Martha, having been raised Amish, was not a big talker anyway, which to Bone’s way of thinking made her the perfect companion.
“Couple hours,” he said, feeling for the cell phone in his pocket. He’d left his number when he’d reached out to Tucker this afternoon, and he knew the phone would ring soon. They won’t be able to resist . . .
Bone stepped out the door of the cabin and walked toward the barn in back. It was over ninety degrees outside, but Bone barely noticed. Weather had never bothered him much. Cold, cool, warm, or hot, it made no difference. There was only the job at hand. That’s probably why the military had suited him so well. But the army hadn’t paid for shit, and being a fixer for people like Jack Willistone did. For Bone it all came back to the moolah. Spend a few years of your childhood hungry, and a person gains an appreciation for the almighty dollar and its importance in life. Let the hypocrites worship Jesus, Muhammad, or whoever. The Bone sat at the altar of Benjamin Franklin.
That’s why the end of his partnership with Jack bothered him so much. Haynes and old man McMurtrie had cost him over one hundred thousand dollars cash and put Jack in jail. Bone had promised himself when he crawled to shore after jumping off the Northport Bridge that he would get even with both of them, and now the pieces were finally in place. Of course, as sweet as the revenge would be, it would come with a price.
JimBone Wheeler never worked for free.
Once inside the barn, Bone shut the door, leaving him in darkness except for the glow from his lantern. He walked past the two horse stables to the rear and knelt on the saw grass floor, feeling around for the loose plank. When he found it, he set the lantern down and pulled. Underneath, Bone saw his goodies.
Putting his gloves on, Bone quickly made sure everything was
there. Two rifles, three twelve-gauge shotguns, a six-pack of revolvers, a toolbox full of knives of all sizes, and, finally, several work tools that could double as weapons. Satisfied that he had everything he needed, he put the plank back in place and stepped on it, making sure it was secure.
Then, retrieving the lantern, he started to walk away. He was halfway to the barn door when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket.
He answered on the second ring, listened for several seconds, and then said, “I’ll take care of it.”
Smiling, he slid the phone back in his pocket and walked the rest of the way to the house. He had been right. They couldn’t resist.
When he reached the bedroom, Martha was nude from the waist down, sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed. Her blouse and bonnet remained.
“Are you ready to pay rent?” she asked, the slightest hint of a smile playing on her lips.
Looking her over, Bone was relieved to see that Martha continued to violate the Amish rule prohibiting the shaving of body hair.
“I probably need to go soon,” Bone said, but he was already taking off his suspenders. His business wouldn’t start for several hours and . . . he needed to keep his “aunt” happy.
At forty-six years old, Martha Booher was just a few years older than Bone, but the plain-Jane wardrobe of the Amish, combined with the age difference, made it easy for her to pass him off as her nephew.
“You can spare an hour for a lonely Amish woman, no?” She ratcheted up the Pennsylvania Dutch accent and began to unbutton her blouse, revealing two of the largest and fullest breasts Bone had ever had the pleasure of fondling. For some reason they made him think of whole milk and Nebraska.
“Leave the bonnet,” Bone said, placing the lantern on the bedside table and climbing onto the bed. Bone loved the bonnet . . .
21
Booker Taliaferro Washington Rowe Jr. had been called Booker T. since the time he was born to distinguish him from his father, whom everyone just called Booker. Booker T. had played left tackle for Giles County High School on the same team with Bocephus Haynes and even now, as he approached middle age, maintained the massive build of an offensive linemen. “You won’t be able to miss Booker T.,” Bo had said. He was right. A few minutes after arriving at the Legends Steakhouse—Booker T.’s only condition for the meeting was that Tom buy him dinner—Tom saw a mountain of a man enter the restaurant. Arms like pythons, a barrel chest, and a neck that rose to his chin like a tree trunk. Tom held his hand up, and the massive man nodded and headed his way.
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