by Scott Pratt
“Go get him,” he said to the Bowers twins. “Let’s get started.”
Darren and David got up to go fetch Maynard Bush. He was being held in the old Johnson County Jail, which was about a hundred feet behind the courthouse, across a small lawn.
The judge sat down behind his desk and we started talking about some of the issues that would come up in the trial. After about ten minutes, I heard what had to be gunshots.
Pop! Pop!
There was a short pause:
Pop!
The second-floor window behind the judge’s desk looked out over the lawn behind the building toward the jail. I got to the window just in time to see Maynard Bush climbing into the passenger side of a green Toyota sedan. A woman was helping him get into the car. She slammed the door, ran around to the driver’s side, jumped in, and the car drove away.
Darren and David Bowers were sprawled in the courtyard. Darren was face down, David was lying on his back. The first thought that hit me when I realized what had happened was that they both had grandchildren.
It took me less than a minute to run down the steps, out the back door, and across the courtyard. David was gasping for breath, blood gurgling from a hole in his throat. Darren wasn’t moving. I pressed my finger against his carotid. No pulse. Two officers from the jail were only seconds behind me. One of them took a look at the two fallen men and raced back inside.
I rolled up my jacket and placed it underneath David’s feet. I took off my tie, folded it, and laid it across the wound in his throat. I put my left hand behind his head and held the tie over the wound with my right, trying to keep pressure on it to reduce the bleeding.
“Stay with me, David,” I said. “You’re going to be okay. Just stay with me until the ambulance gets here.” He didn’t respond. “David! Please, hang in there. You want to see those grandbabies again, don’t you?” His eyes flickered slightly at the mention of his grandchildren, but blood was pouring from the wound and his breath was labored. I didn’t think he was going to make it.
Beside me, a young Johnson County deputy rolled Darren onto his back and started C.P.R. The deputy who’d gone back inside returned with a first-aid kit and three more officers. They helped me replace my tie with a bandage.
“What happened?” one of them said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I heard the shots, looked out the window, and they were down.”
I held the bandage for what seemed like forever, when suddenly, finally, I became aware of sirens; the air seemed to explode with noise and activity. Two ambulances and a crash truck arrived from the EMS station, which was only three blocks away. All of them jumped the curb and pulled to within a few feet of me. Uniformed men and women began to surround me, and I stood and backed off a ways. There was nothing more I could do.
They patched David up as best they could, strapped him onto a gurney, and loaded him into the ambulance. They did the same for Darren, but everybody knew he was already dead.
As they drove away, I stood there in a daze. A thought began to form in my mind, and I instantly felt nauseous. Had Maynard used me to plan his escape? It was routine for attorneys to help their clients set up jail visits — but I was certain the woman I’d seen helping Maynard get into the car had to be Bonnie Tate. I hadn’t actually seen her before, but it had to be her.
I thought about what Maynard said to me that day: “ I ain’t saying I want to marry you or nothing, but you’re a pretty decent dude.”
Decent dude. I dropped my head and began to trudge back to the courthouse. My legs felt as heavy as tree trunks. I noticed my hands and shirt were covered with blood, David Bowers’s blood. Decent dude. As I walked slowly through the courtyard in the bright sunshine on a beautiful June morning in the Tennessee mountains, I felt anything but decent. I felt dirty, and I just wanted it all to end.
July 7
11:45 p.m.
Being a single man with a rather large supply of discretionary income, and having had the opportunity to provide certain legal services to Mr. and Mrs. Gus Barlowe in the past, Charles B. Dunwoody III, Esq. saw no harm in occasionally availing himself of the pleasures of the Mouse’s Tail Gentlemen’s Club. To his closest associates, he privately referred to his adventures at the club as slumming with the naked hillbilly girls. He wasn’t always particularly proud of the things he did there, but as he told his country club buddies, “Pardon the pun, but sometimes a gentleman just has to let it all hang out.”
Gus Barlowe had sought Dunwoody’s advice on a wide range of topics, most of which Dunwoody was not at liberty to discuss. Dunwoody had quickly learned that Mr. Barlowe was an enterprising gentleman who generated large streams of revenue and who required an attorney with a creative mind and a deft touch in order to dissuade curious institutional minds from examining his affairs too closely. Since Dunwoody’s academic and legal backgrounds were steeped in corporate law and international banking and finance, he’d been able to satisfactorily accommodate Gus Barlowe’s needs. The fact that Barlowe paid handsomely, and paid in cash, only made the relationship more palatable for Dunwoody.
Mrs. Barlowe, who had very capably taken over her husband’s affairs since his untimely death, had made the VIP lounge available to him on a Thursday evening in July, and he’d spent two delightful hours with three of the finest-looking floosies he’d ever laid eyes on. Dunwoody had to hand it to Mrs. Barlowe — she had excellent taste when it came to hiring whores. It was getting rather late and Dunwoody was beginning to wind down. He’d ingested a little more cognac than usual and had made three separate trips to the bullpen. God bless Viagra.
Dunwoody was sitting at the bar in the private room, conversing with a topless bartender named Tina, when Mrs. Barlowe suddenly appeared at his shoulder. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and she asked him whether they could talk privately for a few moments. Anything for her, Dunwoody said, and they retired to a small booth in the corner. Mrs. Barlowe shooed the girls away, and lawyer and strip club owner were left alone in the room.
Because Dunwoody had done so much work for her husband, he knew he was sitting across the table from a very wealthy woman, especially if one measured by local standards. He’d never been so crass as to directly ask her late husband how he managed to accumulate such large amounts of cash, but it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to deduce that Barlowe must have been doing something at least marginally illegal. Dunwoody suspected Barlowe was most likely selling narcotics, but so long as he paid Dunwoody’s hefty fees and maintained a certain amount of decorum in Dunwoody’s presence, the lawyer had no qualms about camouflaging the cash.
“What can I do for you, madame?” Dunwoody said. He thought Mrs. Barlowe a handsome woman. She dressed like a tart and spoke like a farm girl, but she had a sort of crude charm about her, not to mention a delicious body, especially for a woman her age.
“I need some legal advice, sugar.”
“Charles B. Dunwoody the third, at your service.”
“I’m going to pick up your tab tonight, sweetie pie, so I can retain you for the next little while. I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of your good nature.”
“You can take advantage of me anytime you like,” Dunwoody said. The generous offer came as a pleasant surprise, since he was certain his tab would be in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. Privacy does have its price sometimes.
Dunwoody must have taken too much Viagra, because in spite of the fact that he’d performed brilliantly earlier in the evening during the bullpen sessions, he suddenly found himself strongly attracted to Mrs. Barlowe. She was wearing a low cut, zebra-striped top that revealed a significant portion of her magnificent breasts. Dunwoody had to force himself not to stare, and he suddenly felt a chubby coming on. He hoped he wouldn’t have to rise quickly from the table.
“I know you don’t do criminal work,” she said, “but I have a difficult situation on my hands and I need a sugar plum like you to help me figure out how to handle it.”
“Tell me your predicament,” Dunwoody said, “and let’s see what we can come up with.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. Her breasts were resting on the table top, which made it a bit difficult for Dunwoody to concentrate.
“I need to know the best way to lead a horse to water and then not let him drink,” she said.
Dunwoody began to question her, and before long was able to ascertain that Mrs. Barlowe was involved in something dicey and was attempting to manipulate a situation that could very well blow up in her face. Nonetheless, the odd couple spent a very pleasant hour together, and by the time Dunwoody left, he was convinced that he’d provided Mrs. Barlowe with some sound legal advice and had given her at least an idea of what she would have to do in order to accomplish her ends.
It wasn’t until later that Dunwoody learned Mrs. Barlowe had followed his advice to the letter. He told his closest friends at the country club that he was proud to have been a part of it.
July 9
10:50 a.m.
Four sleepless days after Maynard’s escape, I attended the funeral of the Bowers twins in Mountain City. I sat outside the church in my truck — the used one I’d bought to replace the truck that had been pushed into the lake — gargling mouthwash and waiting for everyone to get inside. Once they were all in, I slipped in the back. There were at least a hundred police officers there and I felt like they were all looking at me. As soon as it was over, I left without speaking to anyone.
An hour later, I went through the complicated process of visiting a maximum security inmate at Northeast Correctional Center just outside Mountain City. Northeast is a bone tossed by the Tennessee legislature fifteen years ago to a rural county that found itself on the brink of economic ruin. The planners of Johnson County had missed an important prerequisite to modern economic survival. They failed to recognize that in order for people to trade in your county or your towns, they need to be able to drive there in less than a half-day. The roads leading to Mountain City are narrow and slow. You can’t get there from anywhere. As a result, nobody goes there. As a result of that, Johnson County couldn’t generate any tax revenue and therefore couldn’t hire enough police or fund their schools.
But in 1991, the great state of Tennessee was about to embark on a vast expansion of its prison system, and it was looking for victims. They lobbied economically depressed counties, and economically depressed counties lobbied them. With the political stars in perfect alignment, Johnson County, in the heart of the Appalachian Mountains and one of the most scenic places in the whole country, was rewarded with its very own two-thousand-bed, medium-security, concrete prison. Their plans, they said, were to put the inmates to work in a public/private enterprise, a slick mixture of capitalism and communism. It hadn’t worked out that way.
As I passed through the front door of Northeast Correctional Facility, a grand total of eighty of the two thousand inmates were participating in the prison’s employment programs. I walked into the reception area and waited for a guard. He asked for my identification, frisked me, and took my photograph. I signed the log book and he led me across a yard fenced in by twelve-foot chain link topped with concertina. The sky was a vivid blue, and the beauty of the surrounding mountains provided an ironic contrast to the razor wire and concrete.
Once in the communication center, a robotic guard in a black uniform spoke to me through bulletproof glass and demanded my identification. I slipped it into a stainless steel tray. It disappeared, and the guard ordered me to move on. I followed my guide back into the sunlight and down yet another fence-framed sidewalk to the maximum security unit, which primarily housed inmates who had attacked guards or other inmates.
Many of the hundred men inside the maximum security ward had killed after being imprisoned. They were treated the way you’d treat a dangerous animal — with extreme caution. They were kept locked alone in their cells 24/7 except when they were escorted to the shower twice a week. If for any reason they went out, they were cuffed and shackled and trussed. The only way they had of communicating was to yell through the slots in the cell door that allowed food to be passed through.
And yell they did.
When I walked through the fourth security checkpoint and into the cell block, the cacophony began. A man in a suit could only mean a few things to a maximum security inmate. Cop, lawyer, or prison administrator. They hated them all. By the time I made the thirty-foot walk into the office where I was to conduct my interview, I’d heard every momma, sister, wife, daughter and homosexual insult known to man.
The cell block was two-story, open, and oval-shaped. The guard who sat at the desk had a view of all twenty cells on the block, and they all had a view of him through the tiny windows in the cell doors. The guard, a sturdy young man who looked to be about twenty-five, led me into the office.
“I’ll go get him,” he said. “Won’t take but a minute.”
He started to leave, then hesitated and turned back toward me.
“I feel sorry for you,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said. “So do I.”
Maynard Bush had been recaptured four hours after his daring daylight escape from the Johnson County jail. Bonnie Tate’s body was found in her car in the parking lot at the Roane Valley golf club. Maynard had apparently gotten what he wanted from her and then shot her to death as soon as she stopped the car and unlocked his cuffs.
After he killed Bonnie, Maynard headed straight for his mother, who’d kicked him out of her home when Maynard was fourteen years old. Momma Bush saw Maynard approaching the house, called the cops, and the cops came running, guns drawn. When they got there, they heard a series of gunshots inside. Maynard wouldn’t respond to them. The Tennessee Highway Patrol’s SWAT team lobbed tear gas and rushed in an hour later. They found Maynard sitting at the kitchen table, clutching his burned eyes, a half-eaten sandwich sitting on a plate in front of him. His mother’s bullet-riddled body was lying less than five feet away. When they asked Maynard why he didn’t fight, he said he used up all of his bullets on his momma.
I’d spoken to Bernice Bush — Maynard’s mother — while preparing for Maynard’s trial back in May. She’d been left to raise Maynard alone after his father was carted off to prison for shooting his neighbor during a property border dispute. The strange thing about it was that Maynard’s father was a tenant — he didn’t even own the property.
Bernice was a slight, feeble woman of fifty-five who lived in a four-room shack about two miles off Highway 67 in Carter County, not far from the Johnson County line. Her place was as run down as she was. It smelled of dog urine and cigarette smoke. There were plastic bags filled with Keystone beer cans all over the house and the tiny front yard.
Bernice existed on Social Security disability benefits, food stamps, and the prescription drugs provided to her by TennCare, the state’s noble but misguided effort at providing health care to indigents. She told me that by the age of fourteen, Maynard had become a drug addict. He kept stealing her nerve pills, she said, and had started experimenting with a street drug called ice. He stopped going to school and was running with what she described as a very rough crowd. Sitting there looking at her, I couldn’t imagine a rougher crowd than the one she belonged to.
Bernice said she had an old mutt she called Giggles because of its peculiar bark. When she mentioned the dog, ten years dropped off her face, and her harsh voice softened. One evening fourteen-year-old Maynard came home late and high and sat down on the couch. She went i
nto the room to try to talk to him, but he was rambling and agitated, so she started to go back to bed. Giggles, she said, jumped onto the couch and licked Maynard on the face. Maynard picked the dog up by the scruff of the neck. He carried it, squealing, into the yard at the side of the house, pulled a pistol from his belt, and shot it in the head.
The next morning, after Maynard had sobered up, she gave him a choice: leave or go to jail. He’d been in trouble before and was on probation. They both knew that if she called the law, he’d be shipped off to a juvenile home somewhere. Maynard chose the road. She was glad, she said, because she was afraid if they locked him up she might lose some of her social security benefits. He packed up a few things in an old duffel bag and got into a car with some of his friends around three that afternoon. She hadn’t seen him since. She hated him, she said. He killed her dog.
About six hours after Maynard was arrested and hauled back in, Judge Glass had called my office.
“I want to go ahead and reschedule the first trial as soon as possible,” he said, “and you might as well represent him on the new charges. He’s got an escape, four counts of first-degree murder, two counts of conspiracy to commit first-degree murder, and four counts of felony murder. You don’t mind, do you?”
Did I mind? It may have been the dumbest question ever uttered. Angel’s trial was bearing down on me, I was constantly on the lookout for Junior Tester, my mother was dying, my sister was in jail, and I felt at least partially responsible for David and Darren’s deaths. And to top things off, I knew if I represented Maynard after he’d killed two well-liked deputy sheriffs, I’d make a bunch of brand new enemies in Johnson County and probably wind up practicing law for another two years. Did I mind?
“Judge, I told you I don’t want any more appointed cases. I’m getting out of this business.”
