“Great work, Deputy,” Wade said, nodding his head.
“It’s not great unless we find her,” Hank said.
“All right then,” Powell said, slapping his hands together. “You got copies of her photograph for me and Wade?”
Hank nodded and pulled a folder out of the front passenger seat of the squad. “Photographs of Booher and Wheeler. My hunch is that JimBone’s been hiding out here with her.” He paused. “I mean, think about it. What better disguise for Wheeler than to blend in with the Amish? Given how adept he’s been at changing his appearance and that he was seen at Kathy’s Tavern with a beard, I think that’s got to be it.”
They all looked at each other, the intensity palpable. If what Hank said was true, they were very close to finding the most wanted man in three states. “Everybody packing?” Powell asked, slapping the holster on his side. It was unusual for Powell to carry a gun, but this was a bizarre situation. Hank was double holstered, and Wade opened up his jacket to reveal a Glock 41 pistol tucked into his pants.
Powell nodded. “Let’s roll then.”
56
Similar to the preliminary hearing, Helen Lewis began the trial by establishing motive. In order, she called all four eyewitnesses to the confrontation at Kathy’s Tavern—Cassie Dugan, Clete Sartain, Dr. George Curtis, and even Maggie Walton. Mrs. Walton had been particularly effective, Tom thought, describing to the jury her private interaction with Bo after the other three had left the bar. “I was just trying to get him to leave my husband alone,” Maggie said. “But I fear that finding out Andy was dying sent Bo over the edge.” Tom objected to the characterization, and Connelly sustained, but the damage was done.
By day’s end Tom knew that there wasn’t a shadow of doubt in any of the minds of the jurors that Bocephus Haynes had the necessary motive to kill Andy Walton.
“The first day of trial is always bad for the defense,” Tom had whispered to a downtrodden Bo after Judge Connelly had adjourned the jury. “You know that.”
“I know. I just hope to hell it gets better,” Bo said as the sheriff’s deputies led him away.
Me too, Tom thought, closing his eyes and putting his head in his hands. But not tomorrow, he knew. Tomorrow the General would put on the physical evidence—the real strength of her case.
It’s gonna get worse before it gets better, he knew, opening his eyes and packing up his briefcase.
57
By 6:00 p.m. Hank, Wade, and Powell had covered almost every square inch of the Amish settlement in Ethridge. The good news was that numerous people had recognized Martha Booher’s picture, and they were even able to locate her cabin. The bad news was that no one had seen Booher on the settlement in over a week, and a search of her cabin revealed absolutely nothing. It was essentially bare.
Several people remembered that Booher’s nephew, whom they all described as a “large man,” had come to stay with her for a while a few months back, but none had gotten a great look at him. None were able to identify the man as JimBone Wheeler from the photographs.
Their last interview turned out to be the most productive. Booher’s next-door neighbor, Linda Whitaker, said that Martha had been going to Lawrenceburg a lot in the last month. She would take her nephew there in the wagon, and she’d come back without him.
As the sun began to set, they gathered around Hank Springfield’s squad car, each drinking black coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Finally, Powell said what they were all thinking. “We’ve got to cast a net around Lawrenceburg. If JimBone Wheeler is still operating in this area, that’s where he is.”
“Got to be,” Wade agreed.
Nodding along, Hank called the number for the Lawrence County Sheriff’s Office.
58
In Room 107 of the Sleepy Head Inn, JimBone Wheeler took off his Klan garb and sat down on the bed. Martha Booher lay on her side next to him.
“Well . . . ?” she said.
Bone shrugged and took a Busch Light Draft can out of the six-pack that Cappy had bought at a convenience store on the way back. He took a long swig from the can and offered one to Martha, but she refused.
“Going to be hard . . . but not impossible. They came out the doors to the east side today, which I suspect is the side they’ll always come out. They also entered from the east, and Haynes’s office is on the east.” He paused, taking another swig from the can. “There are a lot of factors. I need the crowd to be fairly large around them, but not so big I can’t get close. With Haynes being brought in and out of the courthouse by the deputies . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t know. The trial is probably going to last a couple more days, so I’ll have at least four to six more chances.”
“What if you can’t get close enough?”
Bone shook his head and drained the rest of the beer. “I will.”
59
Melvin Ragland had been the Giles County Coroner since 1981. Melvin was a tall, thin man whose typical manner of dress was a pair of khaki pants and a short-sleeve, white button-down with two pens in the pocket. On Wednesday morning Melvin was the first witness called by the prosecution. He had added a blue blazer and red tie to his daily ensemble and took the stand in the calm and easy manner that you would expect from someone who had testified hundreds of times over the past three decades.
Methodically, like a tested surgeon, Helen took Melvin through his experience as a coroner, going over his expertise in determining the cause and time of death in thousands of cases. After establishing his acumen in forensics, Helen got right to the heart of it.
“Dr. Ragland, did you have an opportunity to examine the body of Andy Walton?”
“Yes, ma’am, I did. On the morning of August 19, 2011, Mr. Walton’s body was taken to our crime lab, where I performed an autopsy.”
“And can you tell the jury your opinion as to the cause of Andy Walton’s death?”
Melvin adjusted his eyes toward the twelve juror seats and leaned forward in his chair. “Andy Walton died as a result of one gunshot wound to the head.”
“And were you able to determine the type of gun that killed Mr. Walton?”
Ragland nodded, still looking at the jury. “Twelve-gauge shotgun. A shell casing found under Mr. Walton’s vehicle was twelve-gauge buckshot. I compared the entry and exit points of the shot to those of a twelve-gauge buckshot shell, and they were identical.”
“Were you able to reach a conclusion as to the time of death?”
“Yes. Based on the statements of the witnesses at the Sundowners Club, who saw Mr. Walton alive at just after 1:00 a.m., and the surveillance tape of Mr. Haynes’s vehicle leaving the club at 1:20 a.m., it was my determination that Mr. Walton died at approximately 1:15 a.m.”
Helen nodded at Dr. Ragland. “Thank you, Doctor. I have no further questions.”
“Cross-examination?” Judge Connelly turned to the defense table.
Tom and Rick had long decided not to cross-examine Dr. Ragland, because there were no points to be gained. “We have no questions at this time,” Tom said. “However, we reserve the right to recall Dr. Ragland during our case-in-chief.”
“Very well,” Connelly said. “The witness is excused for now, but Dr. Ragland”—Connelly glanced his way—“don’t leave town.”
“I haven’t in twelve years, Judge,” Ragland said, which elicited some laughs from the jurors.
Smiling to herself a little, Connelly turned her attention to the prosecution table. “Call your next witness, General.”
The next witness called by the prosecution was Dr. Malacuy Ward from the State Forensics Lab in Nashville. Dr. Ward was a scientist who specialized in ballistics. After establishing his credentials as an expert, Helen had Dr. Ward take the jury through the difficulties in tracing whether a particular shotgun was used in the commission of a crime. Dr. Ward testified that there was no way to trace whether a “projectile,” as he called it, came from a particular weapon, because a shotgun leaves no barrel markings on the lead projectiles in a shell as it’s
fired. However, if an empty shell casing was retrieved, it was possible to determine if that shell casing was fired from a particular shotgun by extractor marks on the brass base. Helen concluded in grand style, taking a plastic baggie from the evidence table and handing it to Dr. Ward.
“Dr. Ward, did we ask you to compare an empty shell casing found at the scene of Andy Walton’s murder to a particular shotgun seized in the investigation?”
“Yes, you did. I compared the shell you provided with a shotgun registered to Bocephus Aurulius Haynes.”
“And you are aware that Mr. Haynes is the defendant in this case?” Helen pointed at Bo.
“Yes.”
“And please tell the jury what your testing revealed.”
Ward leaned forward and looked at the jury. “After testing the empty shell casing with the shotgun registered to Mr. Haynes, we found an exact match. The extractor marks on the casing from the empty shell matched Mr. Haynes’s shotgun.”
Almost in unison all of the jurors turned their eyes to Bo. Of all of the physical evidence, Tom knew that this, with the possible exception of the surveillance video from the Sundowners, was the most damning. An empty shotgun shell fired from Bo’s gun was found within a few feet of where Andy Walton was killed.
“Thank you, Dr. Ward. I have no further questions.”
Tom kept his cross-examination short and to the point. “Dr. Ward, you are aware that the lead projectile, or in layman terms, the buckshot that killed Andy Walton, was discovered, correct?”
“Yes, that is my understanding.”
“But you performed no testing on the actual buckshot, did you?”
Ward shook his head. “No. As I indicated earlier, you cannot trace the ballistics on the projectile. That would have been a futile exercise. The shotgun does not leave any barrel markings on the projectile.”
“And there is no way to test for sure whether the shot that killed Andy Walton came out of the empty shell casing that you examined.”
“Correct.”
“So, isn’t it true then, Doctor, that there is no way to determine whether the empty shell casing traced to Bo Haynes’s shotgun actually came from the shell that killed Andy Walton?”
Ward shrugged. “Yes. That is true.”
“Thank you, Dr. Ward. No further questions.”
60
At 3:30 p.m. Booker T. Rowe was called to the stand, with Helen promising the court that he would be a short witness. As Bo’s massive cousin trudged toward the witness chair, Tom let his eyes drift to the gallery, which was again filled to capacity. He noticed that for the third straight day, Jasmine Haynes had attached an orange corsage to her dress just above her heart. Curious, Tom had asked Jazz about the garnish this morning. “When the Klan marched in 1989 with the Aryan Nation, the people here protested by putting orange wreaths and ribbons on all the business doors,” she had explained. “Orange is the international color of brotherhood. Bo and I were part of that protest, and I guess I’m . . . trying to send a message.”
Tom thought the idea was both subtle and brilliant. And as his eyes moved across the courtroom to the balcony above, he noticed a number of other people wearing shades of orange, and some of the women, white and black alike, had mimicked Jazz’s corsage. The message was getting across . . .
Tom eventually lowered his eyes to the front row behind the prosecution table, where Maggie Walton again wore the garb of a widow in mourning—black dress, black gloves, and the Holy Bible in her lap. He couldn’t help but be struck by the contrast between the spouses of the victim and the defendant. Maggie, sitting like a statue in her black garments and white hair, and Jazz with the orange flower over her heart, arms locked with her teenage son’s. He tried to imagine what the scene looked like on television, and he figured Jazz and T. J. had to appear more sympathetic than Maggie. It wasn’t much, but given how bad the first two and a half days of trial had gone for the defense, Tom would take points wherever he could get them.
Helen was as good as her word, and Booker T. was in the witness chair less than an hour. First, the General covered Booker T.’s providing Bo Haynes with the code to the gate leading into Walton Farm. “So the defendant would easily have had access to Walton Farm on the night Andy Walton was murdered?”
In a defeated voice, Booker T. had agreed.
Then Helen took Booker T. through his relationship with Bo. That he and Bo were cousins and they had grown up in the same house after Bo’s daddy had died and his mother left town. Helen ended with Booker T. testifying that he had heard Bo say on “numerous occasions” that he would one day kill Andy Walton. He could not remember the last time he’d heard Bo say those words, but it was within the last year. Then, unprompted, Booker T. shrugged and volunteered, “He said that all the time.”
There was a stirring in the gallery, and Tom saw Jazz take hold of T. J.’s hand in the row behind the defense table. Moving his eyes to the other side of the courtroom, Tom noticed that Maggie Walton had crossed her arms and was staring at Bo with smug satisfaction.
“No further questions,” Helen said, knowing that she couldn’t have asked for a better ending to her examination.
At first the flippant manner in which Booker T. had volunteered the statement angered Tom, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Bo gripping his fists underneath the table. Then he saw the opening Booker T.’s demeanor provided. Tom led with it on cross, beginning the first question before he was even out of his chair.
“Mr. Rowe, you never reported Mr. Haynes to the police on any of these occasions when Mr. Haynes said he was going to kill Andy Walton, did you?”
Booker T. shook his head. “No, sir. I didn’t.” His voice was both annoyed and angry.
“Why?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Helen Lewis was out of her chair, and her own annoyed look made Tom know he had just hit the sweet spot if he could get it in front of the jury. “The reasoning behind why Mr. Rowe didn’t report Mr. Haynes on these prior occasions is completely irrelevant.”
“Overruled,” Judge Connelly said, waving her hand at Helen like she might be a fly. “You opened the door to this, General. I’m going to allow it.”
“Thank you, Your Honor. Mr. Rowe, do you remember the question?”
“Very well,” he said, his deep voice carrying out over the entire courtroom. Tom imagined that he sounded like a preacher to those watching on television. “I never reported Bo’s statements saying he was going to kill Mr. Walton to the police, because I never thought Bo would do such a thing.”
Having scored the only points he could, the rest of Tom’s examination focused on Bo’s affinity for visiting the clearing where his father was murdered. Just as he had told Tom during their encounter at the Legend’s Steakhouse, Booker T. told the jury that the clearing was “exactly where he would expect Bo to go” on the anniversary of his father’s murder.
Finally, Tom walked over to the evidence table and picked up the twelve-gauge, holding it with his palms out, first for the jury to see and then showing it to Booker T. “Mr. Rowe, do you recognize this gun?” Tom placed his thumb on the initials on the handle.
“Sure do,” Booker T. said, smiling. “That is Bo’s shotgun.”
“And how do you recognize it as Bo’s gun?”
Booker T. pointed at the handle. “It’s got his initials on there. ‘BAH.’” Booker T. paused. “I gave Bo that gun, and I stenciled the initials on there. Gave it to him when he came back here to practice law.”
Keeping his eyes on the jury, Tom asked his next question. “Mr. Rowe, on the occasions where you saw Bo at the clearing on Walton Farm, did you ever know him to bring this shotgun with him?”
Booker T. smiled and looked directly at the jury. “Every single time.”
“And did he ever tell you why he always brought the gun?”
“Didn’t have to. I know why. There’s wild animals on that farm. Bobcats, deer, snakes.”
“Do you carry a gun when you walk the farm duri
ng your work?”
Again, Booker T. looked at the jury. “Every single time.”
Tom nodded, watching the jurors. “Thank you, Mr. Rowe. I have no further questions.”
61
The net thrown over Lawrenceburg had turned up nothing. Hank, Wade, and Powell, along with all available deputies in the Lawrence County Sheriff’s Office, had searched every square inch of Lawrence County, and there was no sign of JimBone Wheeler.
On Wednesday evening at 6:00 p.m. they ended the search where it had begun the day before. The Sleepy Head Inn.
The Sleepy Head had seemed like an ideal place for JimBone, because customers typically paid in cash and didn’t have to show ID. Every room was searched both days, and there were no clues leading to JimBone.
“I bet he’s gone,” Hank said, kicking gravel across the parking lot. “On to bigger and better things.”
Wade nodded, but Powell gave a quick jerk of his head and grunted.
“We should have gotten him by now,” Wade offered, but Powell just grunted again and walked a few paces away, his hands stuck deep in his pockets.
“What now?” Hank asked, the defeat evident in his voice. “I should probably get back to Pulaski.”
Wade nodded and extended his hand. “We appreciate your cooperation, Deputy.”
“What are y’all going to do?” Hank asked, taking out his keys.
Wade turned to Powell, who had kneeled down and was skipping a few stray stones across the lot as he gazed at the setting sun. “I think we’re gonna stick around for a little while longer.”
Hank nodded, then leaned in close to Wade. “Is he OK? He hasn’t so much as said a word in the last few hours.”
Wade smiled. “He’s fine. That’s just his way.”
As Hank pulled out of the gravel lot, Wade squatted next to Powell. “Well, brother, what’s our play?”
Powell skipped a few more stones and finally stood, wiping his hands on his jeans. “You’re the investigator, Wade. What do you think?”
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