“I know. I’m going to eat mine inside and pester Ms. Rose.”
Rick took a seat next to Tom on the bench. “I’m sorry that I look like a wreck. But I’m going to get filthy again this afternoon, so—”
“No need for an apology, son. You forget. I grew up on a farm myself.”
Rick smiled, but the sadness behind his eyes was palpable.
“How’s your mom?”
He shrugged. “Same. Still blames herself. Still not sleeping much.” He paused. “Her whole life was him, you know? Sweethearts since they were twelve years old . . .”
“Any news about the other driver?”
“Nope. Sheriff Ballard says the investigation is ongoing, but they’ll never find him. It was a hit-and-run at nine thirty at night in Henshaw County. No witnesses because most folks around here are in bed by then.”
“What was he going to get?”
“A carton of milk. How ironic is that? A farmer who’s herded cattle his whole life gets killed in a hit-and-run accident on the way back from the store to get milk.”
Tom shook his head, not knowing what to say. Billy Drake was killed on Highway 82 just a few miles from the turnoff to his farm. Probably less than two miles from where we’re sitting, Tom thought. He was run off the road and his truck collided with a tree. When he hadn’t returned home by ten thirty and didn’t answer his cell phone, Allie Drake had called the sheriff. The truck was discovered an hour later, but Billy was long since dead by then. He was fifty-six years old.
“I’m sorry, son.” Tom finally broke the silence.
Rick gazed at the highway. “You know what’s also ironic?”
Tom didn’t say anything. He knew his partner needed to get some things off his chest and he was happy to be the sounding board.
“This stretch of highway gave me my biggest case. Hell, it made my career as a lawyer.” He shook his head. “But it also took my father.” He stood and walked a few steps away from the bench, stuffing his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “I hate this road.”
“I understand,” Tom said. “Before you got here, I was thinking about all the lives changed by the accident between Dewey Newton and Bob Bradshaw.” He paused. “I met another one last night.”
“What?” Rick turned his head and squinted at Tom. “Who?”
Tom gazed over the gasoline pumps and upward toward the setting sun. He crossed his arms. “Laurie Ann Newton. Daughter of Dewey Newton. She showed up at our office at nine o’clock last night and asked us to represent her mother.”
Rick wrinkled his brow. “Wilma . . . Newton?”
“The one and only.”
Rick gazed down at the pavement. “Based on what that bartender in Pulaski told me last year, I thought she might be dead.”
“She’s alive and she needs a lawyer.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s about to be charged with the murder of Jack Willistone.”
They looked at each other, and Tom immediately could tell by Rick’s open mouth that he didn’t know.
“He was shot and killed three nights ago and his body washed up along the banks of the Black Warrior.”
“I thought he was in prison in Springville.”
Tom nodded. “He was released on Monday.” He paused. “Found dead early Wednesday morning.”
Rick let out a low whistle and shook his head. “I can’t believe Powell didn’t call me.”
Tom stood from the bench and stretched his legs. His back was hurting and he was already dreading the forty-five-minute drive back to Tuscaloosa. “I’m sure he didn’t want to bother you with it.” He kicked a loose piece of gravel. “He texted me Wednesday night with the news and said he wanted to talk with me about the suspect they had in custody. Before I could call him back, Laurie Ann Newton showed up on the steps to our office.” He paused. “I met with Wilma this morning.”
Rick’s eyes widened. “And?”
“And it’s quite a story,” Tom said, gesturing at the bench. “Sit down and let me fill you in.”
“Wilma Newton was offered two hundred thousand dollars by Jack Willistone to lie on the stand in Henshaw during the trial. She was paid half before trial and was supposed to get the other half after she followed through on the stand. If you will remember, Wilma did a complete one eighty at trial and, after telling you and Dawn that Dewey’s driving schedules were crazy and forced him to speed, she testified that his schedules were fine.”
“I’ll never forget that as long as I live.”
“In the lead-up to trial, Willistone sent his henchman to Pulaski to keep tabs on Wilma and make sure she showed up when it was time.”
“JimBone Wheeler I presume?”
“Exactly. Wheeler met with Wilma once a week prior to trial and then drove her to Henshaw and stayed with her at a hotel in Tuscaloosa during the week of trial. According to Wilma, she spent the hours of that week that she wasn’t on the witness stand in a roofie-induced haze.” He paused. “Wheeler raped her repeatedly while she was drugged up.”
“Jesus,” Rick said.
“It gets worse. After the trial, Wilma returned home, and her two daughters were gone. They had been staying with an old friend of Wilma’s mother named Carla Yost, who lived close by. Yost owned the house in Boone’s Hill that Wilma was renting and typically kept the girls there. When Wilma came home, Laurie Ann and her sister, Jackie, were nowhere to be seen. Yost left a note on the table that she had turned the girls over to DHR because of an answering machine message on Wilma’s phone.” Tom kicked at a loose rock. “Wheeler had left the message during one of his sessions with her and it gave the impression that she was a prostitute.”
Rick crossed his arms and shook his head. “Unbelievable.”
“DHR sent the girls to live with Wilma’s cousin in Tuscaloosa and turned the case over to the Giles County district attorney’s office.”
“Uh-oh,” Rick said, smirking. “The General?”
Tom nodded. “General Helen Lewis charged Wilma with prostitution and she pled guilty. She served twelve months in the Giles County Jail. Got out last February and moved to Tuscaloosa to be closer to her girls. She was put on two years’ supervised probation.”
“Why didn’t she fight the prostitution charge?”
“JimBone said that he’d kill her children if she ever said anything. At the time she pled guilty, he was still on the loose. Powell and Wade didn’t apprehend him until October of last year.”
Rick nodded to himself, thinking it through. “Well, that explains why she changed her story at our trial and what’s happened to her since.” He paused. “It doesn’t explain whether she killed Jack or not, but it would sure give her a lot of motive. Does she have an alibi for the time of the murder?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know the time of death yet so I didn’t ask her. But she said she didn’t kill him.”
“Do you believe her?”
Tom took his time as he considered the question and Wilma Newton’s demeanor in the consultation room a few hours earlier. “She was convincing,” he finally said.
“Does Powell know you met with her?”
Tom nodded. “Yes, and he and Wade were not happy campers.”
Rick whistled. “I bet not.”
“Before I left the jail, Wade told me that the murder weapon is a pistol registered in Wilma’s name with only her prints on it.”
For several seconds, neither man spoke. Inside the store, Tom could hear the voices of Keewin and the manager of the Texaco, Rose Batson, whom Tom had met during the Willistone trial two years earlier. Above the stoplight on Highway 82, the sun had almost made its final descent. Darkness was about to come to Henshaw County.
“So are you really considering representing Wilma Newton?” Rick asked, standing from the bench. “The same Wilma Newton who almost sabotaged our case?”
“You remember the phone call we received the night she testified?” Tom asked. “Warning us about Dawn.”
Rick
nodded. “Wilma.”
“It had to be, right? I mean, who else could that have been?” He paused. “But she confirmed it today. She crawled across her hotel room and made that call, which probably saved our friend and associate’s life.” Tom knew that Dawn had once been more than just a friend to Rick but didn’t want to go there.
“OK . . .” Rick started. “I’ll give you that. Still, though. Why defend her on this charge?”
Tom rose from the bench and rested his right foot on it, leaning forward and stretching his aching back muscles. “The girl.”
“What about her?”
“She impressed me. Fourteen years old, coming to our office in person and having the courage and street smarts to ask for legal representation for her momma.”
“Why did she come to you?”
Tom smiled. “In the years since the accident and trial, Laurie Ann has become obsessed with it. She’s read the transcript. Knew all the players. Could even recite my cross-examination of her mother.” Tom paused. “I don’t know. Her anguish was so pure and raw. It made me realize that Wilma Newton and her daughters were also victims of that accident, and they’re still paying the consequences.”
“Professor, Dewey Newton was speeding, and he killed an innocent family. He was going too fast because of Jack Willistone’s scheme to make more deliveries than his competitors. The jury returned its verdict, and it was just.”
“I know that, Rick, but it doesn’t change the fact that Wilma and her daughters were also victims. But instead of closure, they got caught up in the legal machine and can’t seem to get out.” He sighed. “I’d like to help them if I can.”
“Is Wilma gonna pay?”
“We didn’t discuss that, but if I take the case, I was going to offer to do it pro bono.”
“Professor, are you out of your mind?” Rick asked. “You’re gonna try a murder case for free?”
Tom took a couple steps toward the gas pumps and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He spoke without looking at his partner. “Rick, I’m seventy-one years old. I’ve spent my career trying cases and teaching students how to try cases. I didn’t come back to the practice of law two years ago so I could sit in on cattle calls in front of Braxton Poe, and I’d rather shovel dirt than negotiate settlements at mediations.” He paused. “I’m not sure how many more trials I’ve got left. The case in Pulaski last year nearly killed me.” He turned and looked at Rick, whose face was illuminated by the neon Natural Light sign behind him. “But I know I’ve got one more and . . . this feels right.”
“What about Powell? He’s my best friend. He’s your friend too. This will be a huge case for him, his first big one as district attorney. Have you thought about that?”
Tom nodded. “I have, and I’m dreading that aspect of the proceedings. Today at the jail was awkward, and I’m sure it’ll only get worse. Powell and Wade are both very good friends of mine. It would be much easier if the head prosecutor was a turd like Jameson Tyler.”
“Then why take the case?”
Tom approached his young partner, stopping when he was just a foot away. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”
The door to the store jangled open and Keewin stepped out. He held a twenty-ounce Coke in one hand and two Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies. He flipped one of the snack cakes to Rick, who caught it with both hands. Then he handed him the drink. “I had mine in there with Ms. Rose.”
Before Rick could answer, a plump woman came tottering out with a wide smile on her face. “Ricky Drake, come here and give me a hug.” He did as he was told, and the woman picked him up off the ground, almost causing him to drop his Coke. “Hey, Ms. Rose. You doing alright?”
“If I was any better, there’d be two of me.” Then the smiled waned. “How’s your momma?”
“Doing OK.”
She put an arm on his shoulder. “I’m bringing a roast, mashed potatoes, and a pecan pie for supper tomorrow night. You tell her not to cook anything, you hear?”
Rick nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she looked past him to Tom. “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s plaything. I remember this handsome man.” She stepped forward, and Tom braced himself for a hug that he knew would hurt worse than anything Wade Richey had given him earlier that day, but she surprised him by pulling up and grabbing his right hand with both of hers instead. “Good to see you, Professor.” Then, leaning in close, she whispered, “Been real worried about Ricky. His daddy was his hero. I’m glad he has you.”
Tom nodded and squeezed her hands. “It’s good to see you too, Ms. Batson.”
She left in the same whirlwind that she had arrived in, slapping Rick on the back and telling Keewin to come back tomorrow because she’d have boiled peanuts. As his huge friend trudged back toward the Saturn, Rick turned to Tom. “Professor, I’m sorry. I wish I could come back to the office, but my mom—”
“It’s OK,” Tom said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re doing exactly what you should be doing.”
They shook hands, and Rick began to walk away. When he reached the door to his vehicle, he looked at Tom, who had sat back down on the bench. “Powell is my best friend, Professor. But you’re my partner. If you want this case, I’m fine with it.”
Tom gazed past the stoplight on Highway 82 and then beyond it to the stars in the cloudless sky. Do I want this case? Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke through the near darkness. “Thank you.”
Rick opened the door and held it there for several seconds.
“Something else on your mind?” Tom asked.
“Yeah,” he said, looking at the steering wheel. “Powell.”
“What about him?”
Rick raised his head and his eyes met Tom’s. “He’s good, Professor. He’s . . . really good.”
Tom watched as his partner shut the door. As the Saturn pulled onto Highway 82, Tom whispered his response to the shadows above. “I know.”
15
Powell Conrad sat on the plush leather couch and drank from a glass of iced tea a little too sweet for his liking. For that matter, the sofa was too soft and he felt like he was going to sink through the cushions at any moment. Next to him, Wade fidgeted and gazed down at the shag carpet. Powell set the glass down on the coffee table in front of him and scooted to the edge of the couch. “Mrs. Willistone, thank you for having us on such short notice, and we apologize for interrupting your evening.”
Sitting across from the duo in a satin lounge chair, Kathryn Calhoun Willistone wore a black tank top and gray Under Armour athletic shorts, her face and arms gleaming with sweat. “No problem, Mr. Conrad. And please call me Kat. I’m sorry that I’m such a mess. Running takes my mind off what’s happened.” She gestured at her toned body, which looked anything but a mess. Then she looked around the room with sad eyes. “Jack called this his Elvis room.”
Powell, who went to Rhodes College, in Memphis, for undergrad before heading to Tuscaloosa for law school, nodded. He had been to Graceland several times, and the green shag carpet and leopard-skin rug were right on, as was the grand piano in the corner. He pointed at it. “I wasn’t aware that Jack could play.”
Kat laughed. “He couldn’t play a lick. He bought that for me.”
Powell smiled. You would expect that the second wife of a tycoon like Jack Willistone would be arm candy, a trophy wife. But Kat wasn’t the big-bosomed bleached blond that Powell had always imagined. Instead, she wore her brown hair in a ponytail and, though certainly attractive, came across as understated and even younger than her thirty-seven years. She reached into her purse, which she had placed at her feet, and dug around before emerging with a small tube of Tylenol. She opened the top and popped two capsules in her mouth.
“Headache?” Powell asked, feeling stupid and awkward.
“Every day since the murder. Can’t seem to kick it. Exercise helps, but . . .” Her voice faded away. “So why are you guys here?”
Powell nodded at Wade, who cleared his throat. “Ma’am, earli
er this morning we charged a woman named Wilma Christine Newton with the murder of your husband. Do you know Ms. Newton?”
Kat wrinkled her brow. “Not personally, but the last name sounds familiar. Wasn’t she the wife of the trucker killed in that wreck in Henshaw a few years ago?”
Wade nodded. “Yes, ma’am. We’re still nailing down all the details, but your husband was shot with a nine-millimeter pistol registered in Wilma Newton’s name with only her prints on it.” He paused. “Cell phone records also confirm that Ms. Newton was the last person to call or text Jack.”
Kat folded her arms tight across her chest and shook her head slowly back and forth. “That accident is the gift that keeps on giving, isn’t it?” She chuckled bitterly.
“Ms. Willistone . . . er, Kat,” Powell began, thinking his words through. “Jack got out of prison on Monday, correct?”
She nodded. “Daddy picked him up in Springville around nine. They were in Tuscaloosa by one o’clock.”
“I know you’ve already covered this once with Detective Richey, but can you run me through everything that happened from the time Jack got out of prison to the time you got the visit from the Tuscaloosa Sheriff’s Office early Wednesday morning?”
She took a sip of her tea and sighed. “Nothing real glamorous. I think they ate at the Cracker Barrel in Bessemer on the way home from the prison. Got here around one. We had dinner out on the back deck around six thirty that night.”
“Did Jack leave the house Monday night?”
“No. We went to bed around ten.”
“I hate to pry, Ms. Willistone, but did you sleep—?”
“The name is Kat, Mr. Conrad. And yes, we slept together Monday night.”
“Tell me about Tuesday.”
“Jack woke up late, which for him was past nine o’clock. He said he wanted a dozen glazed from Krispy Kreme, so I went and picked that up for him. We ate a few doughnuts and then he said he needed to get a new cell phone. He took the 4Runner and called me about an hour later from the Verizon store with his new phone. Said he was going to run a few more errands and then hit the Oasis in Cottondale for a late lunch—Jack thought they made the best cheeseburgers in the world—and asked if I wanted to join him. I wasn’t up for a greasy spoon just after having doughnuts, so I passed and told him to have fun.” She paused and looked down at the floor. “I never heard his voice again. When he didn’t call before dinner, I decided to meet some friends at Pepito’s. They have half-price margaritas on Tuesday nights, and a group of us from the gym went every week.”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 8
