Helen Evangeline Lewis had a cast covering her left shoulder, which was black to match her black skirt, black blouse, and black hair. She smiled at Tom and put her own bouquet of flowers on top of those left by Tom and Rick.
“How are you?” Tom asked, kissing her cheek.
“Better,” Helen said. “I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”
Helen had been shot in the left shoulder, just above the heart. The shell fired by Maggie Walton had missed killing her by inches. She had fallen over on her stomach and played dead until she sensed that Maggie was about to shoot Bo. Despite her dizziness from blood loss, Helen, using the skills she had learned from her early days as a police officer, had pushed herself up and turned to where her right knee was braced on the ground and her left knee was in a squat. She brought the pistol up and fired just before Maggie Walton pulled the trigger on her shotgun. Helen’s shot caught Maggie in the neck just as Maggie fired her weapon, and the shell intended for Bo’s forehead caught him in the right shoulder.
Maggie had wheeled toward Helen, and Helen had fired again, catching the crazed woman in the chest this time. It was her last bullet, and it wouldn’t have been enough. Despite her wounds, Maggie was able to point her gun at Helen.
But she never got another shot off. Helen watched in horror as the right side of Maggie Walton’s face was ripped off her head with the force from the rifle. The sound of the blast was so loud that Helen could hear nothing for several seconds afterwards. She had turned to her right and stared at Tom, who had started to say something to her when she had passed out.
When her eyes had opened again, she was in a dark hospital room, and Tom was sitting in the corner. They had spoken for several minutes before Deputy Springfield had entered the room to question Helen on the events at the clearing.
They had not seen each other again until now. As they sat down in the plastic seats, Helen elbowed Tom softly under the rib cage. “Why didn’t you come back to see me?”
Tom smiled at her. “You needed your rest, and . . .” He paused, sighing and gesturing toward the coffin. “I had some things I had to do.”
She nodded and then gave her head a quick jerk. “Such a shame,” she said. “Such a damn shame.” Then, cocking her head at him, she leaned toward his neck and whispered, “You never told me how you figured it out.”
Tom smiled and whispered back into her ear. “When you weren’t at the station after Curtis’s suicide, I started thinking about where you could be. I remembered what we had been talking about before Ray Ray’s death, and I found the visitation log in my briefcase.” He paused. “This time I read every word.”
She smiled. “You saw?”
Tom nodded. “On August 11, 2011, Andy Walton came to visit Jack Willistone at the St. Clair Correctional Facility. Mrs. Andy Walton. We had never paid any attention to the title column, only focusing on the name. Since the signature looked the same as the other times Andy had visited Jack, it didn’t even register to check the title column.” He paused, shaking his head. “But there it was. On all the prior visits, the title read ‘Mr.’ This time it read ‘Mrs.’, though the writing was a bit of a scribble, and the s on the end was hard to see because it ran up against the black column line.”
“But if you look hard, you can tell,” Helen offered.
“You can,” Tom said. “I’d say I can’t believe I missed it, but actually I can totally believe I missed it. The signature was spot-on. Frankly, I can’t believe that you caught it.”
Helen smiled again. “You have to remember that I have lived in this town for two decades. Andy Walton hadn’t written a personal check in years. Like a lot of wives, Mrs. Walton had learned to forge his signature on things. Hell, she probably could write like him better than he could. And as a woman of the old South, it wasn’t entirely unusual for her to call herself ‘Mrs. Andy Walton.’”
Tom shook his head. “We spoke with Jack Willistone again, and he confirmed that it was Maggie who came to see him, though he said he couldn’t remember what they had discussed.” He paused. “Jack had told us when we went to see him in prison that the answer we were looking for was right under our nose.”
“And he was right,” Helen said. “Mrs. Andy Walton visited Jack Willistone on August 11, and he gave her JimBone Wheeler’s name and contact information. We never got to the specifics, but Maggie admitted that she was the one who hired Wheeler at the clearing. And the visitation log was the tell.”
“What’s the latest with Wheeler?” Tom asked.
“We’re going to keep him here for now, and I think that’s where he’ll stay. We have him dead-to-rights guilty for the murder of Ray Ray—there are six eyewitnesses—and with Booher coming forward, we also have him for the attack on you.”
“Booher turned herself in?”
Maggie nodded. “Two days after Wheeler’s arrest, she walked into the sheriff’s office. Wheeler had given her an exit strategy if he was caught—she was supposed to go to the Caymans with a fake passport—but she didn’t want it. Said she didn’t want to run. She gave us enough information to nail Cappy Limbaugh, the hotel owner in Lawrenceburg, on a conspiracy to commit murder charge. She’ll do some time—probably two years—but she should be out on parole before she’s thirty.”
“A good deal,” Tom agreed. “What about Sheriff Petrie?”
Helen grimaced. “He’s pled guilty and is awaiting sentencing. I suspect he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.” She started to say more, but the preacher raised up his hands and spoke in a loud authoritative voice. “Let us pray.”
Tom bowed his head.
“We come here today not to mourn a death but to celebrate a life well lived,” the minister began, his voice rising so it would reach the back of the tent. “To celebrate the life of a man who lived in this town amongst us almost all of his years on earth. A man who everyone in this tent knew and loved. We come today to celebrate the life of . . .”
Tom closed his eyes, thinking of his tortured friend.
“. . . Raymond James Pickalew.”
“. . . and we ask, dear Lord, that you wrap the spirit of Ray Ray into your loving arms so that he may know the eternal life promised through your son, Christ Jesus. Amen.”
Tom opened his eyes and glanced to his right. Helen gazed forward at the casket, also lost in thought. To his left, Rick Drake’s eyes were moist with tears. Rick had grown fond of Ray Ray during the trial and had watched him die from just two feet away. He was still having frequent nightmares. Behind them in the second row of chairs were a couple of folks from the nursing home where Ray Ray’s wife, Doris, was a resident, including Jennifer Eisel, Doris’s regular nurse. It had been decided by the nursing staff and Tom that Doris, who was in the last stages of Alzheimer’s, should not attend the funeral, as it would only serve to upset her. Also seated, but without showing her customary cleavage, was Ray Ray’s redheaded secretary, Bonnie. To Tom’s knowledge, Ray Ray had no family who weren’t deceased, and Doris’s only living relative, a cousin in Maryland, had decided not to come.
Tom started to turn back around when he noticed movement coming from the back of the tent. Two men were walking underneath. One was a lanky teenager whom Tom remembered from the trial. Next to the teen, another man held two crutches and propelled himself forward, his forehead gleaming with sweat from the effort it had taken in climbing the hill.
Without thinking, Tom rose and walked toward the man. “You OK?” Tom whispered.
Bocephus Aurulius Haynes gave a weary smile and winked at Tom. “Never better.”
“At this time,” the preacher bellowed from the front of the tent, “one of Mr. Pickalew’s friends would like to say a few words.” He paused. “Mr. Haynes . . .”
“Let me past now, Professor,” Bo said, and placed the crutches out in front of him, gracefully maneuvering the final ten feet to the front of the tent. T. J. walked with him and took the crutches from Bo, while Tom stayed glued to his spot in the back of the tent. He couldn’
t believe Bo had made it. His kneecap was basically permanently ruined from the force of the shotgun blast, and the second shot had broken his collarbone. But despite his obvious pain, Bo was here.
“Thank you, Reverend,” Bo said. Tom noticed that everyone under the tent was now standing. Bo cleared his throat. “Ray Ray Pickalew was not my friend. He . . . was a flawed man and did some bad things in his life. But . . . I owe this man something, and I wasn’t able to tell him before he died, so I’ll tell him now.” Bo paused. “I spent forty-five years of my life chasing the truth behind something I saw when I was a little boy. Ray Ray, for all his warts, told that truth. If Ray Ray Pickalew hadn’t have come forward with the truth when he did, I probably would be in jail. Then if that weren’t enough, he took two bullets meant for me. But for Ray Ray Pickalew I’d either be in a jail cell for a crime I didn’t commit . . . or I’d be in this coffin.” Bo paused and looked at the casket, placing a hand on top of it. T. J. grabbed him under his other arm to keep him from falling.
“Thank you, Ray . . . Ray,” Bo said, his voice trembling with emotion. “Thank you.”
They said their good-byes at the Saturn. Bo gave Rick a bear hug and gripped him around the neck.
“You’re still my believer, kid,” Bo said. “My believer.”
“You know it, dog,” Rick managed, wiping tears from his eyes as they both laughed.
After shaking Bo’s hand, Rick climbed into the car and turned on the ignition.
As the Saturn coughed to life, Bo, using the hood of the car as a prop, walked around the vehicle to Tom. The two men gazed at each other for several seconds before Bo leaned in and gave Tom a hug. “You saved my life, Professor,” Bo said.
“You saved mine last year,” Tom said, feeling the heat behind his eyes. “I think we’re even now.”
For a moment neither man spoke. Then Tom put his hand on Bo’s forearm. “Are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. The shoulder is still a little sore, and I’m probably going to be walking with a slight limp the rest of my life. But—”
“That’s not what I mean, Bo. Are you . . . all right? I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Bo said, gazing off at the cemetery. The sun had begun its descent in the west, framing the graveyard with an orangish-red hue. “Truth?” Bo asked.
Tom nodded. “Truth.”
“Truth is I don’t know,” Bo said. “I’m”—he sighed and shook his head—“a little messed up by it all.”
“How are things with Jazz?”
Again, Bo sighed. “Complicated,” he said.
“She loves you, Bo. You know that.”
Bo nodded. “I know. There’s just . . . a lot of water under the bridge.”
“What about . . . what you learned about your father? Have you come to grips with that?”
Bo blinked his eyes and looked at the pavement as T. J. pulled the Sequoia to a stop next to them. “Ready, Dad?”
“Yeah, son.”
Then, turning to Tom, he shook his head. “I don’t know if I’ll ever come to grips with that, Professor. It’s just . . . impossible to really comprehend. But I’ll . . . tell . . . you this.” His voice now shook with emotion. “Since I was in law school, there’s only been one man in my life that I’ve looked to as a father.” Bo paused, the tears now flowing down his dark cheeks. “I named my boy after him.”
Not knowing what to say and feeling his own eyes growing wet, Tom turned his eyes to the young man behind the wheel of the Sequoia and nodded. Thomas Jackson “T. J.” Haynes smiled and nodded back.
“You finished it, Bo,” Tom said, turning and embracing his friend. “You finished it.”
Tom opened the door to Rick’s Saturn and climbed inside. He rolled the window down and yelled up at Bo, who had grabbed his crutches and taken a few steps backward. “So when are you going back to work?”
Bocephus Haynes smiled. “Tomorrow, dog.”
“Tomorrow?” Tom yelled as the Saturn edged forward. Tom saw Bo nod, and then just as the car moved out of earshot Tom heard the familiar words.
“Wide ass open.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I outkicked my coverage when I married the beautiful Dixie Dale Davis fourteen years ago, and I’ve been counting my lucky stars ever since. Dixie has been my rock along this writing journey, as well as a tremendous sounding board for storylines, characters, and ideas. I am so blessed to be able to share this adventure with her.
Our children—Jimmy, Bobby, and Allie—are my greatest joy. They inspire and teach me every day, and I’m so proud of them.
My parents, Randy and Beth Bailey, have helped in too many ways to count. My dad is a gifted storyteller in his own right, providing valuable feedback, and my mom, a retired schoolteacher, is a meticulous proofreader. Whenever I’ve needed something along this journey, the answer from Mom and Dad has been a resounding “yes.” There aren’t enough words to describe how much they mean to me.
My agent, Liza Fleissig, is a force of nature, and her dogged persistence is what every writer wishes for in an agent. I am so grateful for Liza and the entire LRA family.
Thanks to my editors, Kjersti Egerdahl and Clarence Haynes, for their ideas, insights, and expertise. Special thanks also to Alan Turkus, Jacque Ben-Zekry, Tiffany Pokorny, and my entire team at Thomas & Mercer.
A big thank-you to Julie Schoerke, Marissa Curnette, and everyone at JKS Communications for the wonderful publicity they’ve generated for my work.
A huge shout-out to my friends Bill and Melanie Fowler, Rick Onkey, Mark Wittschen, Steve Shames, and Will Powell for reading a draft of the manuscript and sharing their ideas and encouragement.
My father-in-law, Dr. Jim Davis, provided an early read of the story, and his infectious positive energy has been a blessing. Doc and his wife, Janie, have also done much to promote my books.
My mother-in-law, Beverly Baca, has contributed countless hours to helping me and Dixie during this journey. Bev and her husband, Jerry, have given so much of their time and energy to assist us.
My brother, Bo Bailey, and his wife, Amy, have been great supporters and promoters of my dream.
I am grateful for my sisters-in law, Christi Davis League and Denise Davis Burroughs, who have lent their time and energy to attend and promote numerous book events.
My friend and fellow attorney Tom Castelli provided a tutorial on Tennessee criminal law procedure, which for an Alabama lawyer like me was invaluable.
Pulaski residents Chris McGill and Willa Lamb spoke with me about the town’s history and famous landmarks, which was a huge help in the writing of this story.
Joe and Foncie Bullard from Point Clear, Alabama have been amazing friends and supporters of my writing career, and I’m so grateful for them.
Finally, a special thanks to everyone at my law firm, Lanier Ford Shaver & Payne PC.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo © 2012 Dixie Bailey
Robert Bailey’s bestselling debut novel, The Professor, won the 2014 Beverly Hills Book Award for legal thriller of the year. His work in the legal fiction genre was praised—alongside Harper Lee’s and Michael Connelly’s—in the spring 2015 issue of Alabama Alumni Magazine. Between Black and White is the sequel to The Professor and is the second novel in the McMurtrie and Drake legal thriller series. For the past sixteen years, Bailey has been a civil defense trial lawyer in his hometown of Huntsville, Alabama, where he lives with his wife and three children. For more information, please visit www.robertbaileybooks.com.
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