Tom’s spirits began to sink as he went through the analysis in his head and thought of the steep uphill climb ahead. Then he smiled as a white Toyota Sequoia pulled into the gravel lot and a large black man emerged from behind the wheel. He wore gray athletic shorts, a crimson “A-Club” T-shirt, and combat boots, his bald head glistening with sweat. Even at fifty years old, standing six feet four and weighing well over two hundred pounds, the man still resembled the college linebacker he had once been. But as his old friend walked toward him, Tom noticed that his left leg was still gimpy and caused him to limp. Lines of worry were etched in his once-smooth face. He looked like he’d been to hell and back, and Tom knew that wasn’t far off.
“Well look who’s back in God’s country,” the man said, extending his hand, which Tom shook. When he did, his friend pulled him close for a hug and whispered a few more words in his ear. “Tell me something, Professor. Have you lost your mind?”
Despite the pain that engulfed his shoulders and lower back from the embrace, Tom managed to chuckle. “It’s good to see you too, Bo.”
Bocephus Aurulius Haynes was born in Pulaski, Tennessee, in 1961. At the age of five years old, he had watched his father hanged from a tree by ten members of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. Less than a week later, his mother had disappeared, and Bo was raised by an uncle who lived nearby. As he grew up, Bo was blessed with freakish athletic talent, which was harnessed by an enormous chip on his shoulder to one day bring the men who destroyed his family to justice. He went to the University of Alabama on a football scholarship and played on Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant’s last national championship team in 1979. Then, after blowing out his knee his junior year, Bo decided to go to law school after shadowing Tom for a semester at Coach Bryant’s request. As a law student, Bo shined, and he was a member of Tom’s second trial team to win the national tournament. After graduation, Bo spurned numerous big-firm offers to return to Pulaski, where he became Giles County’s only African American trial lawyer and one of the most successful plaintiff’s attorneys in the state of Tennessee. He had also renewed his quest for vengeance on the men who lynched Roosevelt Haynes.
That journey culminated last fall when Bo was charged with the capital murder of Andy Walton, the leader of the mob. After a week-long trial, the charges were dismissed as the truth behind both Andy’s and Roosevelt’s murders finally came out. With Tom and Rick’s help, Bo had fulfilled his lifelong mission. The Klansmen who had participated in Roosevelt Haynes’s murder were now either in prison or dead.
But victory had come with a heavy cost. Based upon the deep lines that Tom saw in his friend’s forehead and his ever-present limp, Bo was still paying the physical toll that the trial and its aftermath had taken. And Tom knew that the emotional scars from the revelations of last fall ran even deeper. Bocephus Haynes had spent his life believing in one reality, and that vision had been turned upside down.
After meeting at the Sundowners, Tom followed Bo a half mile down the road to the turn-in for what had once been Walton Farm. The once-proud W that adorned the front wrought-iron gate had been taken down, but Tom noticed as he drove up the winding path that the farm still appeared to be in good shape and the great lawn in front of the mansion that Maggie Walton had referred to as the Big House was neatly mowed. After they’d parked their vehicles, Bo motioned for Tom to sit in a rocker on the wraparound porch while he went inside. A few minutes later, he returned with six beers in a bucket of ice. Tom was well into his second cold one as the sun made its descent over the rolling acres of soybeans.
“I still can’t believe that this is all yours,” Tom said, waving a hand over the railing at the farm.
Bo took a sip of beer. Then he placed his bottle on the wooden deck and gazed down at it. “That makes two of us. But Andy’s will was pretty clear. The farm went to Maggie and, upon her death, to ‘my surviving issue.’ That’s me, dog.”
“Have you decided what you are going to do with it?”
Bo grabbed the bottle and leaned back in the chair. “Not yet. Gonna let Booker T keep farming it for now, and then . . .” He took another sip of beer.
“What does Jazz think?”
Bo shook his head. “That I’ve lost my mind. She begged me to just hire a realtor and sell it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Don’t know. Just couldn’t part with it yet. A lot of water under the bridge, you know.”
“This land hasn’t brought you anything but pain, Bo. Why would you want to keep it?”
“You sound like Jazz.”
When Bo didn’t say more, Tom leaned forward and spoke in a lower voice. “How are things between you two?”
Bo shook his head again. “The same. She’s put up with a lot over the years, Professor. I haven’t been the easiest person to live with.”
“But everything seemed so good after the trial. She came back. We won. It just seemed like—”
“And they lived happily ever after,” Bo interrupted, killing the rest of his beer in one gulp and cracking open another one. “That’s the way it ends in fairy tales, but not here in the real world. Sure, everything was great for a few weeks. I stayed with her and the kids in Huntsville and commuted the hour to work each morning. I was so excited to get back to working my cases.”
“Wide ass open,” Tom said, remembering Bo’s catchphrase for how he liked to practice.
“Damn right.” He stood and leaned on the railing, gazing into the twilight. “Then the State Bar of Tennessee sends me a letter saying that I’m on indefinite probation until they can investigate my actions prior to and during the murder trial. A month later, they hand down their verdict.”
“One-year suspension, right?” Tom asked, already knowing the answer.
“Complete bullshit.” Bo spat the words. “The General dismissed all the charges, but the board suspends me for ‘behavior unbecoming of the virtues of a lawyer in this state.’ I appealed the decision, but you know how that goes. The bar is judge, jury, and executioner. They weren’t going to change their mind.”
“How long does the suspension run?”
“Next April,” Bo said, taking a sip from the bottle. “April 22 to be exact.”
“Did Alabama also suspend you?” Tom knew that Bo had been planning to open a satellite office in Huntsville since Jazz had started teaching at Alabama A&M.
“Yep. Everything’s on hold until next April.” He spat over the railing. “My whole damn life is on pause.”
Tom stood and leaned against the railing, gazing sideways at his old friend. “None of that explains why you and Jazz are having problems.”
Bo continued gazing at the farm that he’d once worked as a field hand and to which he now owned the deed. “Jazz is never going to move back to Pulaski. Her folks are from Huntsville and the separation allowed her to reimagine life for her, T. J., and Lila there. She can teach art history at Alabama A&M, and the kids can go to Huntsville High, her alma mater. So far she’s doing great in her job, and the kids are both adjusting well to school.”
“But you don’t want to move?” Tom offered.
“It’s not just that. I’ve got no problem with Huntsville. It’s a cool place. And while I was able to work, I didn’t mind the commute. But . . .”
“Spit it out,” Tom finally said.
Bo turned and gazed at Tom with eyes that burned with intensity. “Professor, everything that I am is here.” He waved his arm over the railing at the farm. “On this land. In Pulaski. My entire identity for fifty years has been wrapped up in being from Pulaski and coming home to bring the men to justice who murdered my . . . who hanged Roosevelt Haynes.”
“You did that, Bo,” Tom said softly.
“Yeah.” He snickered. “And in the process I learned that my real father was once an Imperial Wizard of the Klan. The man I despised my whole life was my blood, and the man I thought was my daddy was just a damn sharecropper trying to feed a mouth that didn’t belong to him.” He sighed. “And n
ow I own all this land and I don’t know what the hell to do with it.”
For several seconds, neither man spoke. Truth be known, Tom didn’t know what to say. He wished he had been able to spend more time with Bo over the last few months. “Have you thought about seeing a therapist?” Tom finally asked. “That is a lot to have dumped on you at one time.”
“Did you talk with Jazz before coming out here?” Bo asked, not hiding the accusatory tone in his voice.
“No, but she’s a smart woman and you’ve been through hell and back. Talking to a professional is a good idea regardless of who suggests it.”
Bo grunted but didn’t respond.
“When did you move out?” Tom asked.
“Back in February. I was going crazy at the house with nothing to do. Once Andy’s will was probated and the land became mine, I moved back here to clean things up.”
“Are you really living in this house?” Tom asked.
“No, I couldn’t do that. I’m staying at the office until I can figure out my next move.”
“Has Jazz filed for divorce?”
Bo shook his head. “Not yet.”
Tom nodded but didn’t say anything. It was now pitch dark outside, and the sound of crickets and the blinking of lightning bugs filled the air.
Finally, Bo returned to his rocking chair and leaned back. “Well, I’ve caught you up on my sad state of affairs, but that’s not why you’re here.” He paused and squinted up at Tom. “Wilma Newton?” He held out his palms. “I’ll repeat what I asked at the Sundowners. Have you lost your mind?”
Tom crossed his arms and gazed down at the deck. Before making the trek to Pulaski, he had called Bo and said that he had just taken a new case and wanted to discuss it. He hadn’t wanted to give any details, but Bo had pressed him and he’d finally broken down and given a bare-bones sketch.
“Professor, you still there?” Bo asked on the porch after Tom had remained silent for almost a minute.
“What did you just say about happy endings, Bo?” Tom asked, still looking at the deck.
“Only in fairy tales.”
Tom met his friend’s eyes. “Things haven’t exactly been a bowl of cherries at our firm since your trial.”
Bo creased his eyebrows. “Rick still hasn’t come back.”
“No, and I don’t blame him. He worshipped his father, and his mom really needs help running their farm right now. And he never says this, but I suspect it keeps his mind off Dawn.”
Bo let out a low whistle. “What’s the latest on Ms. Dawn?”
“Moved to Birmingham and took a job with a midsize insurance defense firm.”
“Still giving Daddy the trial run?”
Tom nodded. “As far as I know. Funny how life goes. Rick was about to ask Dawn to marry him. Was even carrying the ring around in his pocket, and they’d planned a weekend getaway to the coast. He was going to ask her at the Marina Cafe, a fancy restaurant in Destin. Had it planned out all the way to the dinner reservations. He’s got his car packed and is stopping at her apartment to pick her up, and voilà. There’s Daddy.” He paused and took a swallow of beer. “The guy’s name is John and he says he wants another chance to be a father to Julie, the daughter he has with Dawn.”
“Which put my believer in a no-win situation.” Bo had called Rick “my believer” since the trial last year because of the kid’s genuine sincerity when he spoke to the jury.
“Exactly. He decided to take a step back and give Dawn some space.” He sighed. “And a month later, she tells him that she wants to give John another chance. For the child’s sake.”
“How did he take that?”
Tom smirked. “Rick has matured a great deal in the last few years, but . . .”
“How bad?”
“He told Dawn he understood and managed to get through their conversation pretty well. But once she was gone, he basically destroyed his office and went home. According to Powell, the rest of the night was even uglier.”
Bo whistled again. “When did his dad die?”
“Ten days later.”
“Jesus. Any word on the hit-and-run driver?”
Tom shook his head. “Rick says it’s a dead end. They’ll never find him.”
For several seconds, the only sound on the deck came from the crickets. Then Bo broke the silence with the question that had been hanging in the air all night. “Why’d you come here, Professor?”
“Because I need a lead investigator on the capital murder case I just agreed to take and”—he paused and looked around the deck—“you need something to do.”
In the darkness, Tom couldn’t make out Bo’s features. All he could tell was that the big man had crossed his arms and begun to rock in the chair. Bo rose and walked around Tom to the front door. He reached inside and flipped on the porch light and an overhead fan. Then he took a place next to Tom by the railing and leaned his elbows on it. “Lead investigator, huh?”
“That’s right. I’m not asking you to practice law, just help me dig up some information. Kinda like you did in the Henshaw trial a few years ago, but in a more official capacity.”
Bo continued to peer out at the darkened fields. “This case is going to put you against your boy Powell, right?”
“Right. And you against Wade.” Tom paused. “If you’re in.”
“You’re breaking up the band, Professor. Wade and Powell helped us in Pulaski last year. We all could’ve bitten the bullet if they don’t take down JimBone Wheeler on the square.” He stopped and looked at Tom. “You really want to do that?” When Tom didn’t answer, he pressed. “Is this case really worth that?”
Tom held Bo’s gaze but didn’t say anything.
Bo leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Wilma Newton is a convicted prostitute. She’s also a liar. She perjured herself on the stand in Henshaw, and most of my investigation was aimed at helping you cross-examine her because your gut told you that she was going to do exactly what she did.” He licked his lips. “I can’t imagine why you would want to help her under any circumstances, much less in a case that pits us against our friends.”
“She saved Dawn’s life,” Tom whispered.
“No, dog,” Bo said, poking his index finger lightly in Tom’s chest, “I saved Dawn’s life.”
“If we hadn’t gotten the warning call from Wilma, then we might not have acted with such urgency. You might not have arrived in time to save Dawn.”
“How can you be sure that Wilma Newton made that call?”
“Who else could it have been?” When Bo didn’t answer, Tom knew he’d made his point. “Remember Darla Ford?” Tom volunteered.
“Andy’s favorite dancer at the Sundowners. Testified for us in the trial last year. Now running an oyster bar on the coast.”
“That’s right,” Tom said. “Well, after I spoke with Wilma at the jail, Darla called and all but begged me to take the case. Said Wilma was a lost soul in need of a break. She even offered to contribute to her defense fund.” When Bo remained silent, Tom added, “Darla didn’t have to testify for us last year, but she came of her own accord.”
“I know that, Professor, and I agree that we owe Darla a debt of gratitude, but Powell and Wade are our brothers. Do we owe her that much?”
“No,” Tom said. “No, we don’t. But it is a factor.”
Finally, Bo slammed his fist down on the railing and glared across the porch at Tom. “Stop giving me factors and tell me the deal. Why did you take this case?”
Tom slumped into one of the rockers and looked past Bo into the darkness. “Because of the girl,” he finally said.
“What girl?” Bo asked.
“Wilma’s oldest daughter, Laurie Ann. She’s fourteen years old. It wasn’t Wilma who asked me to represent her. It was Laurie Ann. She showed up at the office and told me about everything that had happened to her and her sister since the accident in Henshaw.”
“So you feel sorry for Wilma’s daughter? Is that the deal? This is a pity mission?”<
br />
“No, that’s not it,” Tom snapped, feeling heat on the back of his neck.
“It sure as hell sounds like it,” Bo said.
“That’s not it,” Tom repeated, his voice firm. Then he whispered, “Nothing for me. Everything for them.”
Bo wrinkled his eyes in confusion. “What?”
“‘Nothing for me. Everything for them.’ The phrase that Wilma Newton would say to herself to keep her going while she was doing all these things. Becoming a stripper. Doing the deal with Willistone to lie on the stand. Not defending herself once she was charged with prostitution. The year in jail. All of her actions . . . all motivated by her daughters.”
“OK, so . . .”
“She’s not a revenge killer, Bo. Killing Willistone might give her vengeance, but it would end any chance of being reunited with Laurie Ann and Jackie. That doesn’t fit.”
“People are crazy, Professor. You know that. I don’t think it’s a stretch to suggest that Wilma might have snapped and killed the man who ruined her life and cost her the custody of her daughters.”
“Well, that will certainly be Powell’s argument, but he doesn’t have privy to the most damning information. The deal that Wilma cut with Jack to commit perjury isn’t something he could prove independent of Wilma telling him, and there’d be no way to prove that Jack was behind the loss of her children. That’s all information I got directly from Wilma, and as far as I know, she’s the only person who could testify to such an arrangement who’s still alive other than JimBone Wheeler.”
“Who is on death row in Nashville,” Bo added.
“And would have no reason to help Powell prove his case. Our sandy-haired friend is who put him there.”
“OK, so they may be weak on motive. You said the physical evidence was bad over the phone. What is it?”
“Ballistics hasn’t confirmed this yet, but it appears that the state will be able to prove that the gun that killed Jack Willistone was registered to Wilma Newton and only had her prints on it.”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 10
