“Where’d they find it?”
“Underneath the dock where Willistone was shot and killed.”
Bo raised his eyebrows. “Now how are we supposed to get around that?”
Tom held out his palms. “I don’t know. I need an investigator to dig around a little and see if we have an angle.”
Bo smirked. “It sounds like you need Jesus of Nazareth.”
“Him too,” Tom said. “But I’ll settle for now on Bocephus Haynes.” He paused and extended his right hand. “You in?”
Bo blinked his eyes, but a smile pursed his lips. He shook Tom’s hand. “When can I start?”
18
Jackie’s Lounge is a dive bar on Paul W. Bryant Drive. For years, it has been the saloon of choice for law school students at the University of Alabama needing to blow off steam. At 11:30 p.m. on Monday night, the law school crowd had already deserted the place, and it was almost empty except for a middle-aged couple playing on one of the pool tables in the back.
Detective Wade Richey nodded at the couple as he entered the dimly lit bar and squinted his eyes toward the bartender, a twentysomething blond who wore a pink cap with “Bama” embroidered in white along the front. She rolled her eyes and cocked her head toward the ancient jukebox that rested against the far wall. In the darkened corner nearest the music machine, Wade saw the shadow of a man, and the detective strode toward it. As he walked, the opening chord of Willie Nelson’s “Whiskey River” rang through the overhead speakers. Wade took a seat next to the man.
“So it’s a ‘Whiskey River’ night.”
“Yep.” Powell Conrad’s voice was flat and he raised a glass of whiskey over ice to his lips.
“How many times did you push it?” Wade asked, nodding at the jukebox.
“Fifteen,” Powell said, his tone still flat as a week-old keg.
“How many times has it played so far?”
“Seven I think.”
“Any complaints?”
Powell shook his head. “I think Weezy likes it.”
Wade chuckled. The bartender’s name was Louisa, but she insisted that everyone call her Weezy. Judging by the look she gave him when he walked in the door, Wade doubted that she was as enthralled with hearing the redheaded stranger’s tune over and over again. But Powell had helped convict the bartender that Weezy replaced for skimming off the top of the business’s profits, and since then the owner had let the prosecutor have the run of the place. Occasionally, that meant dealing with a “Whiskey River” night.
“What’s up?” Wade asked.
Powell reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table and took another sip of whiskey. “This.”
Wade unfolded the page and his skin immediately turned cold as he recognized the style of the case: The State of Alabama v. Wilma Christine Newton and, underneath the style, the title of the pleading: “Notice of Appearance of Counsel for the Defendant.” No, Wade thought, skimming the stock language of the notice until he reached the signature at the bottom of the page. “Thomas Jackson McMurtrie,” he said out loud, his voice rising above the nasal twang of Willie on the jukebox.
“Yep,” Powell said, draining his glass and holding it up and nodding at Weezy for a refill.
“Make that two,” Wade yelled as he reread the official entry of Tom McMurtrie into the case. After the bartender had placed the glasses of Jack Daniel’s Black on the table, Wade looked at his friend. “You OK?”
Powell shrugged. “It’s a free country. The accused in a capital murder case is entitled to a defense. That’s what our legal system is founded on.”
“That sounds good for TV. I like it. Now”—Wade leaned forward over his glass and gritted his teeth—“how do you really feel about it?”
Powell glared at Wade with bloodshot eyes but didn’t respond. On the jukebox, the song was fading out. But three seconds later, the opening salvo restarted, and Willie began to sing about drowning in a whiskey river again. Wade looked at Weezy, who threw up her arms in frustration and held up both hands, mouthing the words “That’s ten.”
“You sure this is the eighth time the song has come on?”
“Could be nine.” He grunted, and his red-rimmed eyes blazed with intensity. “I love the Professor, but I have a job to do for this county and state. This is a capital murder case, and I don’t intend to let up until Wilma Newton is put to death by lethal injection. If Professor McMurtrie gets in the way, then I’m going to run over him. Plain and simple.” He paused. “You good with that?”
Wade nodded. “I warned Tom to walk away and I told him what would happen if he got in our way. We don’t have a choice, brother.”
Powell sighed and started to take another sip, but Wade grabbed his hand. “I need to show you something. You got a computer in your car?”
Powell smirked. “Yeah . . . but I’m kind of in the middle of getting drunk. What is it?”
Wade stood from his chair. “Come on. Once I show you this, you’re going to feel a lot better about our chances of taking Tom to the woodshed.” He glanced at Weezy. “And despite all the capital you’ve built up with this place, I’d say you’re two more playings of ‘Whiskey River’ away from being thrown out.”
Powell glanced at the bartender and took a last swig from his glass. “Fair enough.”
Twenty minutes later, they were back at the Sheriff’s Office, with Powell’s computer propped on the middle of the conference room table. After watching the video one time in Powell’s Charger, they had left Wade’s truck parked on the curb outside of Jackie’s, and Wade had driven the district attorney back to the office and made a pot of coffee. Since then they had watched the seven-minute tape at least four more times, and Powell had drunk three cups of joe. The prosecutor was now stone sober and hyperalert. “This is pure gold, brother,” he said, pressing play once more.
On the screen, four black-and-white images of the inside and outside of the Oasis Bar & Grill came into focus. Having no audio, the video showed two angles inside the bar as well as views of the front door and back visitor’s entrance. Under the cube of images was a scroll that read “5/8/12” and next to it the time: 17:23. After twenty seconds, 17:23 turned to 17:24.
“Jack Willistone was murdered on the night of May 8 sometime between ten o’clock p.m. and twelve o’clock midnight,” Powell narrated in a loud voice, his eyes focused on the computer.
Wade pointed to the left-hand corner of the cube of images, and Powell clicked pause and enlarged the picture. “And that’s our victim sipping on a cold one at the Oasis at 5:24,” Wade said. “Five to seven hours before he sleeps with the fishes.”
Powell nodded. On the screen, Jack faced the camera and sat at a table near the bar. He appeared relaxed, with one leg crossed over the other, while he occasionally took a drink from a Bud Light. The woman across from him bobbed her head up and down while she talked and occasionally used her hands to gesture. She had medium-length hair and was wearing some type of blouse, but with her back turned to the screen, it was impossible to tell who she was. The image wasn’t clear enough to make out Jack’s facial expressions, but he didn’t appear upset. After three minutes, Jack stood and threw a couple of bills down on the table. He placed a cap on his head and appeared to say something to the woman.
Wade pressed pause on the keyboard. “The bartender, Toby Dothard, told me this afternoon when I watched the tape with him that Jack says ‘You crazy bitch’ right here.” Wade then clicked the play icon, and Jack walked out of view. For a second, the woman sat still at the table and put her face in her hands. Then she slammed her hands down and followed Jack out of view. When she turned to face the camera, the image froze.
Wade having again paused the video, the two men gazed at the screen. There was now no question of the woman’s identity. “Wilma Newton,” Powell whispered. He hit play and pointed to the bottom-right camera angle, which at the moment showed no one. Two seconds later, the door opened and Jack stepped throug
h. He almost walked out of view but then stopped, as if someone had yelled at him from behind. Wilma then appeared and was pointing at Jack. She stuck her index finger in his chest, and Jack grabbed her arm and twisted it, causing Wilma to fall to a knee. He leaned over her and said something, but then Wilma slapped his face with her other hand. She tried to slap him again, but Jack blocked the blow and covered his face with both arms while Wilma wailed on him with her fists. The door swung open again, and a man wearing an apron stepped between them. Wilma still swung her arms, yelling something.
“Toby,” Powell said, having ordered food and drinks from the bartender on numerous occasions. With his right arm wrapped around Wilma, Toby Dothard turned his head and motioned with his left arm for Jack to go. Jack Willistone stepped backward out of view of the camera. Toby tried to lead Wilma toward the door, but she broke out of his grasp and ran in the direction that Jack had gone. Toby paused for a second or two and went in the bar. For almost a full minute, the screen showed only the gravel parking lot. Then Toby returned with a large muscular man wearing a tank top and sporting a mullet crew cut.
“Toby get a new bouncer?” Powell asked, his eyes locked on the screen.
“Yeah. Big Mike finally quit. This kid hired on about three months ago. I can’t remember his real name—I wrote it down—but Toby calls him Drago because he looks kind of like the big Russian in Rocky IV.”
“I don’t remember Drago having a mullet.”
Wade pointed at the screen. The bartender and the bouncer walked out of view and, for another minute and a half, the image was barren of people. Then Toby and Drago reappeared with Wilma between them. Drago had his arm up under Wilma’s to steady her, while Toby had a hand on her back. Powell clicked pause, and the screen froze with Wilma staring blankly toward the door. “Anything else of note on the tape?”
“I haven’t combed through all of it, but the only thing else you see is Wilma drink three Jack and Cokes alone at the bar.” Wade paused. “She leaves around 6:30 p.m.”
Powell hit rewind on the computer, the screen shifting back to Wilma screaming at Jack and thrashing her arms while Toby held her back. “Tell me again what Toby said she was yelling.”
“‘You’re going to pay me my money or I’m going to kill you, you son of a bitch.’” Wade paused. “Some version of that over and over again.”
Powell stood and paced the floor of the conference room, occasionally taking a sip from a Styrofoam cup of coffee. He looked at Wade and smiled. “I’d say we’re doing better on motive, brother. Great job tracking this down.”
“You want me to make a copy of this for Tom? He might plead her to life after seeing this.”
Powell shook his head. “Make a copy of the video but let’s not give it to him until he serves us with discovery. No freebies, Wade. He may be our friend, but he’s representing a killer, and this tape seals the deal.” He paused. “I’m not sure I’d agree to a life plea after seeing that. Wilma Newton threatened to kill Jack Willistone four to six hours before he was murdered with her gun. I think she sat at that bar and decided on how she was going to do it.”
Wade rubbed the whiskers on his chin. “We still going to Jasper?”
“Hell yes,” Powell said, beginning to pace again. “Any defense lawyer, much less one as good as the Professor, would be crazy not to focus on Jack’s family as alternative suspects, and we need to know if there are any soft spots.” He pointed at the computer. “But that tape changes the dynamic. We know Bully is dirty, but it’s going to be hard for any defense theory aimed at him to overcome what we just saw on the screen.”
“Or the gun.”
“Or that,” Powell said. “Do we have an absolute confirmation yet from ballistics?”
“No, but we should soon. They know it’s a rush.”
“Good.”
For several seconds, silence filled the conference room as both men went over their internal to-do lists. Then, rubbing his whiskers again, Wade spoke in a hushed voice, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I still can’t believe Tom would get involved in this case. It’s a no-win.”
Powell took another sip of coffee. When he spoke, his tone was solemn. “Same reason Ali fought Holmes. Or why Joe Willie played that season for the Rams.” He sighed. “The great ones never know when to quit.”
19
The Riverbend Maximum Security Institution, in Nashville, is where the State of Tennessee houses its inmates on death row.
After being checked through security, Tom followed an armed guard along the long corridor that led to the consultation room. “The prisoner is waiting for y’all,” the guard said, turning her head slightly as she spoke. She was a statuesque woman at just a shade under six feet. Biceps toned by weight lifting bulged out of her short-sleeve button-down shirt. The name tag above her lapel read “Cpl. Stone.”
“Thank you, Corporal,” Tom said.
“No problem,” she said, turning her head full around to smile at the woman walking beside Tom. “When the General asks us to jump around here, we don’t ask why. We ask how high.”
Tom also smiled and shot a quick glance at his companion for this trip. Helen Evangeline Lewis was the district attorney general for the Twenty-Second Judicial District of the State of Tennessee, which included the counties of Giles, Maury, Lawrence, and Wayne. At sixty years old, Helen had pale, almost ghostly skin and jet-black hair, dyed even darker than its original color, which fell to her shoulders. Her lips were painted with bright-red lipstick, and she wore a sleek black suit and high heels that, with her thin figure, made her appear even more imposing and intimidating. Though her face had begun to show signs of age and she was no stranger to Botox, Tom had always found Helen to be a strikingly attractive woman. The utter confidence with which she carried herself had broken many a defense lawyer in her over twenty years as a prosecutor. Tom thought it fitting that one of the nuances of Tennessee law was that state prosecutors were referred to as “General” in the courtroom, since outside of Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant, no one in his life had commanded as much authority as Helen Lewis.
When they reached the end of the hall, Corporal Stone began entering numbers on a keypad. After a couple of seconds, a sealed door slid open, and the three stepped through the opening. Tom blinked his eyes, noticing that this hall was a little darker and not as long.
“He’s in the second door on the left,” the corporal said, leading the way down the dimly lit hall. “His hands are chained to a bar that runs along the middle of the desk and his feet are shackled.” Tom felt his heartbeat speed up as he gazed at the metal door behind which sat one of the country’s foremost killers, a man who murdered one of Tom’s oldest friends, not to mention countless others. He felt a hand on his wrist and glanced at Helen.
“You ready?” she asked, her eyes narrowing with concern.
“Thank you for setting this up,” Tom managed, giving her a quick nod.
Helen scoffed and signaled for Corporal Stone to unlock the door. “You saved my life last year, Tom. If I can help you, I will. But . . .” She leaned close to him and spoke so that the corporal couldn’t hear. “I can’t imagine how this bastard can help you in your case. He’s a stone-cold psychopath, and you know it.”
“I’m just doing my due diligence, General,” he said, gesturing toward the door. “He’s a big part of why my client’s life went off the rails, and he was a confidant and right-hand man of the victim in my case.”
“He won’t talk,” Helen said as the door slowly opened.
“We’ll see,” Tom said, motioning for Helen to enter first and then following the prosecutor inside.
James Robert “JimBone” Wheeler peered at Tom through slit-like eyes, but his expression remained neutral. His dirty-blond hair was longer than Tom remembered, falling halfway down his neck, and the similarly colored stubble that Tom had seen on his face had now grown into a full-fledged beard. With his ruddy skin and flat eyes, everything about the man reminded Tom of a copperhead sn
ake. In the South, though rattlesnakes are the more famous species, copperheads are the meanest and, in Tom’s opinion, the deadliest. Living on a farm in Hazel Green, Alabama, Tom had seen his fair share of the viper. While rattlesnakes usually warned you to stay away with their sound, copperheads blended in with the dirt and grass and just bit the crap out of anyone who got near them.
Tom and Helen took a seat in the two chairs that faced JimBone, while Corporal Stone stood behind them with her arms folded. For almost a full minute, silence filled the small square-shaped room. Finally, glancing at Helen, Tom leaned forward and spoke. “Mr. Wheeler, I’m sure by now that you’ve heard about Jack Willistone.”
JimBone blinked but didn’t say anything. His face gave away nothing.
“He’s dead,” Tom said. “He was murdered a week ago. Two days after he was released from prison.”
JimBone glanced down at the desk as if he was thinking through something, his face engulfed by shadow. Finally, he raised his eyes. “How?”
Tom felt goose bumps on his arm. He had never heard the man talk before, and his voice had an ever-so-slight Louisiana twang. “Three gunshot wounds from a small handgun.” Tom paused. “His body was found on the banks of the Black Warrior.”
JimBone gazed down at the table again, blinking his eyes. For a moment, he gritted his teeth and then his face relaxed. Still looking at the table, he spoke in a barren voice. “Why are you here, old man?”
Tom glanced at Helen, who nodded at him. This was the opening that he’d hoped for. “I represent the person accused of killing Jack.” Tom paused. “I believe you know her.”
JimBone raised his head and looked at the attorney. Even the man’s hazel eyes gave off a yellowish, reptilian tint.
“Wilma Newton,” Tom said, looking intently at the killer to gauge his reaction.
JimBone’s face broke from neutral into a wide grin. “Is it April Fools’?”
Tom again glanced at Helen, who gave an inpatient roll of her eyes. Then he squinted back at JimBone. “It’s May 15, Mr. Wheeler, and I’m not joking. Wilma Newton has been charged with murdering Jack Willistone, and the state has asked for the death penalty.”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 11
