Between Black and White

by Robert Bailey

  “Based on the civil trial in Henshaw last year, we know that JimBone Wheeler was seen inside the Henshaw County Courthouse sitting by your side. We also know that he was spotted at the Sundowners Club outside of Pulaski on multiple occasions with you.”

  Jack took another drag on the cigarette and blew smoke across the table in Powell’s direction. His face gave away nothing. “So what are your questions?”

  “Tell us what you know about Andy Walton,” Powell said.

  Jack shrugged, tapping another ash in Zorn’s cup. “When Andy made all his money in the ’70s, he started a lumber and logging business over in Lawrenceburg. Walton Lumber. He needed someone to haul freight to various parts of Tennessee and Kentucky, so . . .” He shrugged again. “That was one of our biggest contracts at the time. We had been around for twenty years but were mostly limited to Alabama and the eastern tip of Mississippi. Walton Lumber doubled our coverage and probably led to a half-dozen other contracts.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth but didn’t puff on it. “Landing that deal really put us on our way.” Jack lowered his eyes to the table, the Marlboro hanging out of his mouth like a toothpick.

  “Why you?” Powell asked. “Of all the trucking companies out there, why you?”

  Jack raised his eyes from the table, glaring at Powell. “Because we were the best. The fastest, the most dependable, and the best bang for your buck.”

  “Did you have a prior relationship with Andy?”

  “Not really. I knew of him, I guess, when he was running with the State Line Mob over in McNairy County. But our paths really didn’t cross until he started looking for a freight hauler.”

  “How did you find out he was looking?” Powell asked, and Tom was struck by Powell’s skillful interrogation techniques. The questions were so natural that Willistone barely blinked at them. But we are getting close to the heart of it, Tom knew. Just a few more questions . . .

  “We had a mutual friend. Larry Tucker. I had just helped Larry with the down payment on his club and—”

  “The Sundowners?” Powell interjected, and Jack nodded.

  “Yeah. Anyway, Larry owed me, and Andy and he were friends from way back to Andy’s Klan days.”

  “Did you keep up with Andy over the years?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jack said, taking a drag on the cigarette. “He was a big client, so of course. I’d go dove hunting every fall on his farm, and he normally threw a big party in Knoxville every other year for the Alabama-Tennessee game. We’d return the favor when the game was in Birmingham or Tuscaloosa.”

  “How about JimBone Wheeler?” Powell asked. “When did you meet him?” Again, Tom was impressed with the change of direction.

  Jack smiled and tapped the cigarette several times on Zorn’s cup, though there were no ashes about to fall off. Stalling . . . “Oh, I don’t know. A few years ago.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  Powell glared at Jack. “Greg, perhaps your client needs a reminder of why we’re here.”

  “If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember,” Zorn fired back.

  Jack dropped his cigarette in the coffee cup and pulled another Marlboro from the pack that still lay on the table. Zorn lighted it, and Jack blew a smoke cloud in the air. “Next question,” he said.

  “Describe your relationship with JimBone Wheeler.”

  “Casual acquaintance.”

  “Why was he at the trial in Henshaw last year?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “Did you ever pay him to do . . . jobs for you?”

  “Not that I recall,” Jack said.

  Powell crossed his arms and sighed in frustration. “Sticking to the same old script, huh, Jack? You must really like prison.”

  “Fuck you,” Jack said.

  “Ditto,” Powell said, starting to stand. “Come on, Professor. I told you this guy would be no help.”

  But Tom didn’t move. He was glaring at Jack Willistone, who was giving it right back to him. Finally, Jack laughed. “McMurtrie, why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me what you want?”

  Tom nodded at Powell, who slid several sheets of paper across the table.

  “What the hell is this?” Jack asked, beginning to leaf through the papers.

  “It’s a list of visitors to the jail,” Powell said. “Each sheet has the date, the name of the visitor, and the name of the inmate the visitor has come to see. It also has the check-in time of the visitor and the checkout time. The highlighted names are the people who came to see you.”

  “OK . . .” Jack said. “So what do you want to know?”

  “Why did Larry Tucker come to see you on July 20, 2011?” Tom asked. “It’s on the third sheet of paper.”

  “Money,” Jack said without turning to the sheet.

  “Be more specific,” Tom said, feeling a twinge of excitement. Money was a powerful motive.

  “He said the club’s income was down almost half from the year before. A lot of the reason why was that my trucks weren’t rolling.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked.

  “I mean you boys shut me down last year. We had over a hundred drivers, and on any given week anywhere from twenty-five to fifty of them would be hauling ass down Highway 64 to one of Andy Walton’s businesses in Pulaski, Columbia or Lawrenceburg. We wore that stretch of road out, and the Sundowners was a regular stopover. The Tennessean Truck Stop in Cornersville is just thirty minutes away, so the boys could go off duty at the Sundowners, have a few beers, and look at some skin, and be asleep in their berths less than an hour later, ready for the next haul in the morning. Those that got too drunk would just stay parked in the lot until they were sober. Larry didn’t mind.” Jack took a quick drag on the cigarette. “But that all changed last June. When I was arrested, the Feds launched a full-scale investigation of my company, and all operations came to a halt for ninety days.” He shrugged. “That’s a long time, gentlemen. When my drivers stopped getting paid . . .” Jack paused and took a last drag on the cigarette before tapping it out in Zorn’s coffee cup. “I can’t blame them for leaving. A man’s got to eat.”

  “So . . . are you saying that the federal investigation put Willistone Trucking Company out of business?” Powell asked.

  “Actually, no. McMurtrie over there is who put me out of business.” He paused, chuckling bitterly. “We had to bankrupt after that jury in Henshaw came back with its ninety-million-dollar verdict.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, all we ended up receiving was the policy limits,” Tom said.

  “It doesn’t. I’d have rather paid the ninety million and stayed in business. But we were mortgaged to the hilt, and my arrest, followed by the Feds’ investigation . . . we just couldn’t withstand all of that going on at once.” He took another cigarette out of the pack and placed it in his mouth. “Sad thing is that my logs were clean as a whistle, and they got nothing from any of the boys. Not one damn thing. But for that ridiculous verdict, we’d still be rolling.” Jack squinted at Tom from across the table. “You shut me down, you son of a bitch. You, showing up at the trial when you did.”

  “What did Tucker want?” Tom asked, trying to redirect the conversation back on point.

  “A loan,” Jack said. “Anything I could spare.” Jack leaned toward Zorn, and his attorney lit the new cigarette. “He also wanted to know why the drivers had stopped coming in. He knew about the verdict and my arrest, but he hadn’t heard about the bankruptcy.” Jack puffed on the cigarette. “So I filled him in on the bad news.”

  “And he went away empty-handed?” Tom asked.

  “Like everyone coming in here wanting handouts.”

  “Why didn’t Tucker ask Andy Walton for money?”

  “You’d have to ask Larry about that,” Jack said.

  “During Tucker’s visit, did he mention any other problems he was having?” Tom asked.

  “No, just the money.”

  “Did JimBone Wheeler�
��s name ever come up?” Powell asked.

  Jack shook his head. “No.”

  “Mr. Willistone, I’ve done the math and it appears that outside of your wife and son, the person who came to see you the most was Andy Walton. Does that sound correct?” Tom asked.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “It looks like he came four times, starting on March 1, 2011. His last visit was August 11, just a week before his murder.”

  “If you say so,” Jack said.

  “Look at the last page of the stack.”

  Jack put the cigarette in the cup and flipped through the documents to the last page. He held the sheet out from him and then brought it closer, like someone who needed bifocals might do. Then he smiled.

  “Something funny?”

  “Just you boys,” Jack said. “All right, I see it.”

  “You see the name Andy Walton and the date August 11, 2011?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did he come to see you on August 11?”

  “I really don’t remember much about that day. The first time Andy came, he had a bunch of questions about other freight haulers. Who was good? Who would I recommend? Anyone I’d stay away from? That kind of stuff. When we’d gone under, every Tom, Dick, and Harry had come to Andy, wanting his business. The last couple times . . .” Jack paused, smiling again.

  What is he smiling about? Tom wondered.

  “The last couple times all he wanted to talk about was prison life. How were they treating me? The food? Was I able to sleep? That kind of stuff. I got the feeling . . .” Jack paused.

  “What?” Tom pressed.

  “I got the feeling he was worried he might end up here. In prison I mean.”

  Tom glanced at Powell. Now they were getting somewhere. Based on the documents, “the last couple times” would be August 1 and August 11, 2011, less than a month from Andy’s murder. Powell nodded for Tom to continue the questioning.

  “Did he ever say why or what he had done that might make him so curious about prison life?”

  “Nope. He never said anything at all about that. It was just . . . weird that Andy would take so much interest in my predicament.” Jack laughed and took a quick drag on the cigarette. “I mean, I’d known Andy for thirty years. He was a hard-ass like me. Cared first and foremost about his business. About making money. When we were together, we talked business, and that’s the way we both liked it. After the first visit about freight hauler recommendations, there was no reason for him to come see me. It wasn’t in his interests to visit me and ask a bunch of questions about prison life unless . . .”

  “Unless he was worried about ending up in the same place,” Tom offered.

  Jack nodded. “Nothing else makes sense.”

  “Did he ever say anything to you about his days as the Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the KKK?”

  Jack shook his head. “Never. I think that was a part of Andy’s life that he’d just as soon forget. But I knew about it.”

  “Did he mention anything to you about the killing of a black man named Franklin Roosevelt Haynes in 1966?”

  Jack looked down at the table. “Nothing specific.” Then, looking up, he squinted at Tom. “I do remember him saying on one of his visits that ‘your bad decisions in life have a way of catching up to you.’” Jack laughed. “Course I knew all about that, and I agreed with him.”

  “To your knowledge, did Andy know JimBone Wheeler?” Tom asked.

  Jack smiled, his eyes mean. “Andy knew everyone.”

  Tom glared back at him once more, fed up with Jack’s song and dance. “We are really not in the mood to play, Mr. Willistone.”

  “I don’t give a shit about your mood, McMurtrie. And let me tell you something, you sumbitch. When I get out of this hellhole, I am going to make it all back. Every last cent. You didn’t break Jack Willistone. You just slowed me down a little.”

  “And when you get out of here, you sumbitch, don’t you think JimBone is going to come looking for his payday?” Tom asked, his voice low. “How much did he charge you to trip Mule Morris’s brakes? How about trying to kill Dawn Murphy? Did he do that for free, or did he charge you a fee?” Tom pulled himself up from the wheelchair and leaned his hands on the table, bringing his face to within an inch of Willistone’s. He could smell the inmate’s stale scent. “I’m betting he charged you, and I’m also betting that your financial difficulties have kept you from paying.” Tom lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m betting that the first person you see when you get out of this ‘hellhole’”—Tom made the quotation symbol with his fingers—“is going to be JimBone, and I bet you’re going to look a hell of a lot worse than me when he’s through with you.”

  “Now that’s enough,” Greg Zorn said, placing a hand on Jack’s shoulder and pointing at Tom. “Prof. McMurtrie, please sit down and stop harassing my client.”

  “Don’t get your panties in a wad, Greg,” Powell said, his eyes on Jack. “Mr. Willistone, we think it is in your best interests to cooperate,” Powell said, still sitting in his chair, his voice matter-of-fact.

  Jack Willistone slowly rose from his seat. He smiled, then chuckled. “You boys think you’re so goddamned smart.” He paused, turning to Tom, the smile gone. “You aren’t paying attention, old man. The answers you want are right under your nose. You’re just not looking.” He sighed. “I have to say I’m disappointed in you, McMurtrie. Fucking Yoda, letting a storm trooper like Bone get the best of you.”

  “Mr. Willistone—” Powell started.

  “Get me out of here, Zorn,” Jack interrupted. “These turds have upset my stomach.”

  As Zorn stood to usher Jack from the conference room, Tom held up his hand. “Not yet, Jack. Just a couple more questions. We need to finish going through that list.” Tom pointed at the visitor log on the table.

  “My client is done here, Mr.—”

  “We’ll be quick, Greg,” Tom interrupted. “Now, the visitor log lists a grand total of five people who have come to see you since you were incarcerated.”

  “What can I say?” Jack said, grunting. “I’m a popular guy.”

  “Your wife, Barbara, son, Barton, Larry Tucker, Andy Walton, and . . . one name we didn’t recognize.”

  Jack shrugged. “Just spit it out, McMurtrie.”

  Tom reached across the table and flipped the log to the page he was looking for. Holding his finger on the name, Tom eyed Jack Willistone. “On June 10, 2011 a lady came to you see around 10:30 in the morning. Check-in time is 10:32. Checkout time is 10:45.” Tom tapped the times with his finger. “See that?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s right under your nose, isn’t it?” Tom said, smiling at Jack.

  “Strong in the Force, are you,” Jack said.

  “Who is she?” Powell asked. Then, stealing a glance at Tom, who nodded, Powell leaned across the table and put his finger on the highlighted name: “Who is Martha Booher?”

  33

  The Boathouse is an oyster bar that sits on Destin Harbor. As he and Burns waited for a table on the wooden deck outside the establishment, Rick gazed across the water to Holiday Isle, which was the last stretch of beach before the bridge to Okaloosa Island. Beautiful, he thought, watching a yacht slowly make its way through the harbor to the gap that led to the Gulf of Mexico.

  Feeling a tap on his shoulder, he turned to see Burns holding two longneck Coronas. “Ask and ye shall receive,” he said, passing the cold beer to Rick and looking out at the harbor.

  The trip hadn’t been too bad, Rick had to admit. The Saturn stayed in one piece, and they had only made two pit stops, one just outside of Birmingham and another in Andalusia. In Andalusia, at Burns’s urging, Rick bought a six-pack, and Burns took down five of them before they hit the Mid-Bay Bridge, which took them into Destin. Rick had only had one and didn’t finish it. He knew he needed to keep his wits about him.

  They had parked a few doors down from The Boathouse at a place called The Fisherman’
s Wharf. After a beer at the outside bar there, they’d left the car in the parking lot and walked the hundred yards down Highway 98 to The Boathouse.

  “Where’s Darla?” Rick asked Burns. They were both leaning their elbows on the wooden railing, eyes fixed on the dark water in front of them. In the daylight Rick knew the water would be emerald green. But at 10:30 p.m. it was dark and foreboding.

  “Coming,” Peter said. “Just be patient.” He took a sip of his beer. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Rick nodded. Last fall he had taken Dawn on a weekend getaway to Destin. They had stayed at a place on Holiday Isle and had eaten dinner at The Fisherman’s Wharf. Their waitress at the Wharf had recommended they have a beer and listen to the band at The Boathouse and told them they’d be better off leaving their car at the Wharf and walking. So they had, just as Rick and Burns had done tonight. Rick and Dawn had actually stood right where Rick now stood with Burns, holding hands and talking about nothing in particular.

  “Hey, man. You OK?” Peter asked.

  Rick blinked and turned to his unexpected traveling companion, seeming to see him for the first time. Burns had a three-day growth of brown stubble, with messy dirty-blond hair thinning at the temples and in the back. He wore a Hawaiian shirt and tattered khaki shorts with flip-flops. Rick, who had not had time to change or even pack a suitcase, was wearing gray slacks and a white button-down, no tie, with his sleeves rolled up.

  “Yeah, fine. Just thinking about my girlfriend.”

  “Gotcha,” Peter said, nodding his head as if he understood. “Well, listen, dude. I really appreciate the ride. That was a lifesaver.”

  “When is Darla going to be here?” Rick asked, growing impatient.

  Burns started to say something, but his words were drowned out by loud screams inside and outside the restaurant as the band struck the opening riff of “Sweet Home Alabama.”

  “Yeah!” Peter said, whooping and slapping Rick on the back, forcing him to turn around and look inside the restaurant. Rick saw several nice-looking college-age women swaying back and forth in front of the stage. As if on cue a waitress came up to the two men holding a tray with two shot glasses, a salt shaker, and two limes.