Martha . . . Dabsey had thought to herself. Then she had said it out loud. “Martha . . .”
She had tried to forget about it by calling her husband, Steve, about dinner. But when she had reached for the telephone, she had seen the flyer. It was hidden under a bunch of magazines on her desk. Something Officer Springfield had dropped off three weeks earlier. Dabsey had snatched the flyer and looked at the photograph. An old driver’s license picture that had been blown up. The name below the photo had caused her heart to skip a beat. Martha Booher.
“If you see this woman, please call the sheriff’s office immediately,” the flyer had said at the bottom of the page.
Walking down First Street, Dabsey removed the flyer from her purse and looked at the photograph again. Then the name below it. Martha Booher.
That’s her, she knew. That was the woman on Friday. Dabsey knew that she was not a smart woman. But she had been gritty enough to obtain her GED after having to quit high school when she got pregnant. And determined enough to scratch out an LPN degree at Martin Methodist, which allowed her to not just sign patients into Dr. Curtis’s office but also to administer medications, take blood, and obtain histories. She wasn’t smart, but she wasn’t stupid either. Maybe a little slow, but not stupid.
It was her, she knew. The walk-in on Friday had been Martha Booher.
Dabsey took out her cell phone. She felt guilty for not talking with Dr. Curtis first, but he wouldn’t be at the office all week, and she didn’t want to bother him. She knew he didn’t pay attention to those kinds of things anyway. She doubted that he’d ever even seen the flyer.
I’ll tell him when he calls in today, she resolved. Then she dialed the number on the flyer.
49
At 8:45 a.m. the courtroom was quiet as a mouse. There were no cameras. No reporters. And outside of Maggie Walton, who sat in the front row nearest the prosecution table, there were no spectators.
Tom scratched at his beard, still not quite comfortable with facial hair, having been clean shaven most of his career. His bruises had basically healed, but there remained a reddish hue that the beard helped to conceal. Below the counsel table he’d conspicuously placed his cane, which he continued to need for walking, though he was now strong enough to eschew the wheelchair. The knee was not going to get better until he could have it surgically repaired, but he had delayed any procedures until after the trial. For now the cane and a boatload of Advil would have to do.
Tom looked across the nearly empty courtroom, allowing his eyes to settle on Mrs. Walton, or “Ms. Maggie” as he’d heard Bo refer to her. She was an attractive, striking woman with her thick white hair and ankle-length black dress, perfectly suited for a woman in mourning. She sat with her shoulders back and held what looked like a Bible in her lap. She is certainly playing the role of the grieving widow, Tom thought, wondering if Ms. Maggie’s manner of dress and Bible toting were her own idea or something encouraged by the General to play to the jury.
Rick had tried on several occasions in the lead-up to trial to meet with Ms. Maggie, but she didn’t return any of his calls. Finally, Dr. George Curtis had left a message that if Rick called his sister again, he was going to notify the police.
Seeming to sense that she was being watched, Ms. Maggie turned her head and looked at him. Caught redhanded, Tom forced a smile, but she didn’t return the gesture. Instead, she turned away from him and seemed to whisper something to herself, which Tom would’ve guessed were words like “Of all the nerve.”
“She’s a cold glass of water, huh?” Bo said, placing his hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“Arctic,” Tom said, smiling at his friend. Bo wore a navy-blue suit, white shirt, and light-blue tie. It was nice to see him in something other than jail clothes. “How you holding up?” Tom asked.
Bo shrugged. “Nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs,” he said. “But I’m glad to be out of that cell.” He paused. “I can’t believe you’re here, Professor. After the beating you took . . .”
“They’d have to kill me to keep me out of this courtroom,” Tom said.
Bo’s eyes started to water and he looked away.
“I know we’ve gone over this, Bo, but Rick is going to do most of the legwork in the trial. Opening statements, the examinations, and closing argument. I’m flying copilot this week. My health—”
“I’m just glad you’re here, Professor,” Bo interrupted. “That’s enough for me.”
“Awful quiet in here,” Rick said, joining them at the defense table. Dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, blue shirt, and red tie, he appeared sleek and ready for battle.
“That’ll change very soon,” Tom said. “Once the jury is in the box, it’s going to be like Bryant-Denny Stadium on a fall Saturday.”
Media coverage of jury selection was prohibited by Tennessee law. “But once the jury is selected,” Judge Connelly had informed them earlier that morning, “I’m going to allow the case to be televised.”
Tom was a little surprised that Helen Lewis hadn’t objected. His research regarding cameras in the courtroom revealed that when jurors realized that the case was being seen all over the world, they were more likely to make sure they were being very cautious. The biggest example of this was probably the O. J. trial, where a jury acquitted Simpson of the murder of his wife. But Tom knew that Helen Lewis loved the fact that this case was going to be national news.
“Where is Ray Ray?” Tom asked, turning around in a circle and seeing no sign of their local counsel. “This is his part, for God’s sake.” The case would begin with jury selection, and the defense team would be leaning heavily on the thoughts and advice of Ray Ray Pickalew. Tom also wanted the jury pool to see Ray Ray sitting at the table with them. Tom and Rick were strangers to the area, but Ray Ray was part of the community.
“I don’t know,” Rick said.
Tom glanced at his watch. 8:52 a.m. Eight minutes till go time. He looked down at his legal pad but didn’t read his notes. His mind was lost in thought. He felt a hand tug on his arm, and he looked up into the eyes of General Helen Lewis.
“Last chance. Life sentence. Eligible for parole after thirty years for good behavior. This will be our last offer.” Helen fired off the plea deal like it was coming out of a machine gun.
Tom leaned over the table and whispered the deal into Bo’s ear. Without hesitation, Bo shook his head, never looking Helen’s way.
“No,” Tom said, turning back to her.
“Suit yourself,” Helen said, but her voice sounded as if she was not displeased in the least that Bo had refused. In fact, Tom thought he heard a giddiness in her tone, which made him cringe. Again, he couldn’t help but think of the O. J. case. Win, lose, or draw, Helen Lewis was going to come out of this trial as one of the most famous lawyers in the country.
“Professor, Bo, look!” Rick whispered loudly, pointing to the entrance to the courtroom. Tom and Bo both turned to see Ray Ray Pickalew standing in the front door. On his right, clutching his arm, was Jasmine Haynes. Behind them was a tall, gangly teenage boy.
“Oh my God,” Bo said under his breath as he blinked his eyes to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he looked at Tom, who was nudging him toward the door. “Go,” Tom mouthed, and Bo forced his wobbly legs to move.
The former Jasmine Henderson, whom Bo had called Jazz since the first time they met, had milk chocolate skin, her hair brown and wavy and cut to just below her neck. She wore an elegant navy dress with an orange corsage above the heart. “You’re . . . beautiful,” Bo managed.
Jazz smiled, though her eyes had filled with tears. “You’re gonna win,” she said.
Then, unable to control himself any longer, Bo pulled her to him, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for being here.”
“Lila is with Momma in Huntsville,” she whispered into his ear. “She’s just too young . . . but I brought T. J. with me.”
Bo looke
d past his estranged wife to his teenage son. He held out his hand for T. J. to shake, but the boy grabbed him in a bear hug. “I love you, Dad. I’m here for you, dog.”
“I didn’t do it,” Bo said, looking at T. J. first, then Jazz. “I didn’t kill him.”
Jazz nodded, wiping her eyes. “We know. Ray Ray said you were framed. He said you’ve been the victim of a rush to judgment.”
Bo glanced at Ray Ray Pickalew, who was going over the jury list with Tom and Rick. He started to call his name when the bailiff’s voice cut through the air like a knife. “ALL RISE!”
As the attorneys rose to their feet, Jazz kissed Bo on the cheek. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too,” Bo said. He gave her one last squeeze, and Rick escorted her and T. J. to a spot on the front row.
“Please be seated,” Judge Connelly said. When everyone had followed her instruction, the judge cleared her throat and spoke into a microphone that had been placed on the bench. “The court hereby calls for trial the case of The State of Tennessee v. Bocephus Aurulius Haynes. Is the state ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Helen Lewis said.
“Is the defense ready?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tom said.
“All right then,” the judge said, turning to her bailiff. “Let’s bring in the jury pool.”
“How in the hell did you get her here?” Tom whispered under his breath to Ray Ray as the jury venire filtered in.
“Who do you think her divorce lawyer is?” Ray Ray said, flashing his Joker grin.
“Ray Ray, no.”
“Relax, Tommy. They’re just separated. She still loves the son of a bitch. But”—he winked—“even if they did end up breaking the knot, it would be in Mrs. Haynes’s best interests if her ex-husband weren’t facing lethal injection. Take it from me, it ain’t easy collecting alimony from men on death row.”
Tom shook his head and smiled despite himself. “Somehow you take a heartwarming moment and shit and piss all over it.”
“It’s a gift,” Ray Ray said. “Now let’s find Bocephus a jury of his peers.”
50
By 4:00 p.m. they had selected a jury. Eight men and four women. Eleven whites and only one black. The lone African American juror was Delray Bender, who had been on the “maybe” list for the defense team due to his presumed resentment of Bo using a different auto mechanic service.
“This is the jury of my peers,” Bo whispered, gazing out at them as they took their seats in the twelve chairs that would face the witness stand. “I should start picking out my coffin.”
“It’s not the dream team,” Ray Ray whispered back, “but Woody Brooks ain’t all bad. He’s white and a retiree, but he’s also fairly liberal. He lives in my neighborhood, and his house was the only one I can remember with an Obama sign in it.” Bo watched Mr. Brooks take his seat. When the white-haired man was in his chair, he looked over at Bo with cold eyes.
“If you say so,” Bo said.
“Millie Sanderson is also OK,” Ray Ray continued, and Bo nodded. He knew Millie as well. She was a civics teacher at Giles County High. Had T. J. not transferred to the Huntsville City School system in the fall, he would have had Millie for civics. Midforties, red hair, and green eyes, Millie was an attractive woman with a nice smile. “I bet Millie was on Helen’s strike list and they ran out of strikes before they could get rid of her,” Ray Ray continued.
Five minutes later Judge Connelly recessed the trial for the day, saying they’d start with opening statements in the morning.
“If we could buy a little more time, then maybe JimBone would surface,” Tom said after the jury had adjourned. “I still think he did the deed at Larry Tucker’s beckoning. If we can catch JimBone, he might want to deal.”
“Susan would deny any motion to continue at this point,” Ray Ray said, heading for the door and looking at Rick. “I’d start working on my opening.”
“Where are you going?” Tom asked him.
“My work here is done, fellas. The jury is in the box and my brain is fried. I’m going to get drunk. Maybe try to get laid too. It’s been a while. I’ll see y’all in the morning.”
“Ray Ray . . .” But the shutting of the door cut Tom’s voice off.
“Just let him go, Professor,” Bo said. “He’s right. He finished his role.”
But Tom wasn’t listening. He left the courtroom and caught up with Ray Ray out in the lobby, grabbing his friend by the arm before he could walk down the stairs. “What the hell, Ray Ray? We need you tonight to prepare for tomorrow.”
“No, Tommy. What we need is to prove that Larry Tucker was part of the lynch mob that killed Bo’s father. That’ll pack Darla Ford’s testimony with some bite and provide a clear motive for Larry to do the deed.” He paused. “Larry’s our best shot, and we both know it. The murder happened at his club. If we can show motive too, we might be able to spread some reasonable doubt on the case against Bo.” He slapped Tom on the shoulder. “I’m on it, Tommy, but I won’t do any good hanging around Bo’s office.” He paused. “I’m going to have to go dog-and-bone it.”
The two men nodded at each other, and Ray Ray began to descend the stairs.
“Hey, Ray Ray,” Tom called after him.
“Yeah.”
“Be careful.”
51
George Curtis jumped to his feet when he heard the knocking. He had been asleep on the couch with Matilda in his lap, and the cat screeched as she tumbled off of George and onto the floor. The doctor paid her no mind.
He looked at his watch. It was 9:30 p.m. Who the hell would be knocking on my door at this time of night? George walked to the front door and peeked through the blinds. Sheriff Ennis Petrie was standing on the stoop, dressed in full uniform. He held what appeared to be a folder in his hand. This can’t be good, George knew, but there was no use in delay. He undid the dead bolt and opened the door.
“Evenin’, Ennis,” he said, eyeing the sheriff. “What can I do for you?”
“George, we need to talk.”
Two minutes later they were holding mugs of instant Folgers. Ennis sipped his with both hands. “Thank you. This hits the spot.”
“Long day?” George asked, still unsure of why Ennis wanted to talk to him.
“Yeah. In court all day with the General on Bo’s case. Listen, George . . . who is Martha Booher?”
“Who?” George asked, feeling a cold tickle on the back of his neck. Jesus Christ, Dabsey . . .
“Martha Booher,” the sheriff repeated. “She signed in for an appointment with you last Friday. According to Dabsey, she was a new patient, and you don’t normally take on new patients.” He paused. “But you saw Ms. Booher.”
Behind his glasses, George’s mind was a jumbled mess of emotions. He knew he needed to handle this carefully. “Ennis, I vaguely remember talking to a lady that wanted to be my patient during my lunch break last Friday, but I told her I didn’t have any additional space.”
“Dabsey said she normally tells patients you’re full up, but you instructed her that you wanted to see Booher.”
George shrugged. “So what if I did? Look, Ennis, all I remember about last Friday is that I had a full slate of patients. I’m almost seventy, and I can barely remember what happened yesterday. I keep patient charts so I can remember their diagnoses, and since I didn’t treat this woman you’re talking about, I don’t have any recollection of her other than telling her I didn’t have room. Why is this lady so important to you?”
Ennis pulled a blown-up photograph out of the folder he had with him. “Because Martha Booher is believed to be an important witness in a three-state manhunt for a man named James Robert Wheeler, a.k.a. JimBoneWheeler. Wheeler is the prime suspect in a murder case in Alabama, an attempted murder charge in Florida, and he was seen at the Sundowners Club as early as fourteen months ago. My office has been passing this photograph of Martha Booher around town for the past month, and I gave one to Dabsey in your office. Dabsey recogni
zed the woman’s name from the sign-in sheet at your office, and she said the woman looked very similar to the photograph in the picture.”
George inspected the photograph. “I’m sorry, Ennis. I had no idea. I’m in my own little world treating patients, and Dabsey screens a lot of this kind of stuff from me.”
“So you had no idea we were looking for her when you spoke with her at lunch last Friday?”
George shook his head. “But I remember her now,” he said, smiling. “She’s . . . a pretty girl. That’s why I told Dabsey to let me talk to her.”
“Because she was pretty?”
George held out his palms. “Guilty as charged. I handled it myself, because I wanted to talk to a pretty lady.”
Ennis nodded, giving no indication whether he believed George’s response or not. “How long did you talk with her?”
George shrugged. “Maybe five minutes. I remember I gave her a few recommendations of other doctors in the area.”
“Did she say she was from Pulaski?”
Damnit, George thought. He was laying it on too thick. “Uh . . . no,” he said. “I guess I just assumed that she was.” He stopped, satisfied with his answer. Who wouldn’t assume that?
“Did she drive a car to the appointment?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Dabsey said she didn’t remember seeing a car. Her desk is situated so she can see when cars pull in the driveway to park in the back of your office, and she knows the make and model of most of your patients. She said she would’ve remembered seeing a strange car, and there wasn’t one. She also said she saw no cars parked out in front of your office when she walked to lunch.”
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