“Well . . . that was interesting,” Wade said as they watched the cart fade into the distance. “Want to interview Ms. Layla now?”
“Yeah. Then we need to head over to C&G Security.”
“You think the driver will have a different memory than Bully?”
“No,” Powell said, turning to walk back into the nineteenth hole. “But we need to make sure.”
24
The interview with Layla Perkins was short, sweet, and full of embarrassment. The barmaid was thirty-four years old and she had worked at the Jasper Country Club for seven years, first as a cart girl delivering drinks on the course, and then moving up to a bartender in the nineteenth hole. Layla was a divorced single mother with two kids, the oldest of which was already seventeen. Her daughter kept her youngest at night when Layla needed to work late at the club. She remembered the night of May 8. Bully and the other big teamers played cards until nine, and then she drove Bully to his house out on Sipsey Canyon Drive. She stayed the night with him, and between the hours of ten and midnight they were in his bedroom together.
As he and Wade were about to leave, Powell made the mistake of asking her if she was “in a relationship” with Bully, and Layla contorted her face in confusion. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. But we do have sex almost every Tuesday night, so . . .”
Powell’s face turned crimson red. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, and they left the lounge, with Wade giggling as they exited the door.
In the parking lot, they noticed that Sheriff Patterson was leaning against Powell’s Charger. He had said he needed to make a few phone calls before the interview with Layla began, and Powell had assumed the lawman had left. But here he was, hat still on and hands resting over his gun belt. “Sheriff, we appreciate you arranging for us to meet with Mr. Calhoun,” Wade said as he and Powell paused in front of the car. The sheriff remained propped against the driver’s-side door, blocking their path.
“Glad to do it,” Patterson said, but judging by his tone he had been anything but happy to help. “I hope that will be the end of it. It sounded to me like he had a rock-solid alibi for the time of Mr. Willistone’s murder.”
“We caught that too,” Powell said, smirking at the sheriff. “We may need to talk with Bully again as the case moves forward, and we still need to interview some of his security detail.”
“The driver?”
Powell nodded. “Did you recognize the name he gave. Alvie?”
“Alvin Jennings,” Patterson said. “Goes by Alvie. Good Jasper boy. Black as the ace of spades and a hell of a basketball player in his day. Coaches ball at Jasper Middle during the school year, and I guess he works for that security firm too.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“I did not. But that’s not surprising. A lot of the coaches and teachers around here work a second job to make extra money.”
For several seconds, none of the men spoke, and Sheriff Patterson made no move to get out of their path. “Something else on your mind, Sheriff?” Wade asked.
“Just that it seems clear that Bully Calhoun has nothing to do with your case, and I’d appreciate it if y’all would stay away from my county.”
Wade took half a step forward and spoke in a growl. “You sure seem jumpy to help a convicted felon, Sheriff. By the way, who was your largest campaign contributor in the last election?”
Patterson raised the bill of his hat and his eyes blazed with fury. “Screw you, Detective.”
“No thanks,” Wade said.
Again, awkward silence. “We got places to go, Sheriff,” Powell said. “You want to get out of our way.”
Patterson didn’t move. “Boys, I realize y’all are just doing your job, and I appreciate that. And I understand that Bully Calhoun has quite a reputation in this state, and it’s not all good.”
“None of it’s good,” Wade spat.
“Maybe in Tuscaloosa County that is so. Hell, maybe in the rest of the state too. But here in Walker County, Bully’s rep has changed. That conviction you’re making a big deal about happened in 1988. He spent four years in the pen and got out in 1992, twenty years ago.”
“What’s your point, Sheriff?” Powell asked. “I want to get over to that security place.”
“My point, Mr. Conrad, is that Bully Calhoun has been a model citizen in this county for the last two decades. He owns a lot of land in Walker County and at least six local businesses, with hundreds of employees. Since getting out of the joint, he’s been good for the county.”
“Huh,” Wade said. “That’s interesting, because my sources tell me that he’s running one of the largest methamphetamine operations in the Southeast and using those businesses as a front. My sources say that he’s damn near untouchable now because the local law enforcement officials are all in his back pocket.”
Patterson glared at Wade. Powell would have tried to push past him if he wasn’t blocking their entry to the car.
“Your sources are full of shit,” Patterson said, speaking through his teeth.
“Thirty thousand,” Wade said.
“What?” Patterson asked, crinkling his eyebrows.
“That’s how much Marcellus ‘Bully’ Calhoun and his businesses contributed to your campaign. Thirty thousand dollars. I think your total contributions were around forty grand, so that’s seventy-five percent. That’s a whole hell of a lot of motivation to look the other way, huh, Sheriff?”
“I want you two turds to get the hell out of my county. If you want to meet with Bully again, you won’t get any help from me.” He stepped out of the way, and Powell unlocked the door and climbed inside the Charger. Wade walked around to the passenger side, watching Patterson like he might be a coiled-up rattlesnake.
“Sheriff, we think we have Jack Willistone’s killer in custody. The only reason we requested this meeting is to find out what Bully knows, because we expect the defense lawyers are going to investigate him hard. But if Bully Calhoun starts doing any business in Tuscaloosa County, he won’t get the VIP treatment that he gets here.”
Patterson’s eyes continued to burn. “I’ll be sure to let him know. Now get out of this parking lot before I arrest you for loitering.”
Wade opened the door and climbed inside, still watching Patterson through the windshield.
“Well . . . it’s always nice to be in the good graces of the local police,” Powell said, putting the Charger in gear.
“To hell with him,” Wade said. “Bully Calhoun is still running meth, and that son of a bitch is his lead blocker.”
“Let’s stay focused, brother,” Powell said, turning out of the parking lot and pushing the accelerator. “Wilma Newton killed Jack Willistone, and Bully Calhoun was hundreds of miles away with an alibi that’s been corroborated. That’s one of the reasons we came here, and we’ve accomplished that objective. Now, obviously a man of Bully’s power and influence would have the means to hire someone to kill Jack, and that’s probably how he would go about it, so Bully’s alibi doesn’t end the inquiry, but it’s a necessary first box that had to be checked.”
“So on to the security place?”
Powell nodded. “Due diligence. If I know the Professor, he’ll turn over every one of these rocks looking for reasonable doubt, and I want to know what’s under them.”
“Alright, but watch your speed. If we get a ticket, I don’t think we’ll be getting any favors from the Sheriff’s Office.”
“You think?” Powell asked, and both men laughed as the Charger headed toward downtown Jasper.
25
The third hole of the Jasper Country Club is a dogleg-right par four with houses lining the left side of the fairway. After bungling his way to a double bogey, Bully noticed a figure standing under a tree behind the green. Right on time, he thought, placing his putter in his golf bag and telling his playing partner to take the cart on around to the next hole. As he approached, he saw that the woman wore black pants, a light-blue button-down, and flats. Aviator sunglasses covered her
eyes, which Bully knew were the color of coal.
“Thanks for coming so fast, Manny.” Bully couldn’t remember her real name anymore. He called her Manny because she was from the Philippines and he’d made a good chunk of money betting on the famous Filipino boxer Manny Pacquiao. Bully thought of the nickname as a term of endearment. “You know that job you did for me a couple of weeks ago in Tuscaloosa?”
She nodded.
“I had a prosecutor and a detective from Tuscaloosa County ask me some questions about it earlier today. I think I convinced them that I didn’t have anything to do with it myself, but they’re going to poke around the security detail and maybe some more of my companies. I called Harm and let him know what to expect and to advise his staff accordingly, but I want you to have your ears and eyes open. If someone needs to be reminded to keep their mouth shut, I expect you to advise them accordingly.”
“Anything else?”
Bully’s eyes rotated toward the fourth-tee box. Ralph Harwell hit a blistering draw down the middle of the fairway. Ralph was the A player on the team. Bully smiled, continuing to watch the tee shots as he spoke softly to Manny. “The prosecutor said that the lawyer for the lady they arrested is going to come after me with both barrels as an alternative suspect.” Bully paused as his B player, Ronnie Corlew, smashed a low worm burner into the right-hand rough. “I want you to find out who’s representing the woman and follow him around. Learn as much as you can without being outed. I bet her lawyer has an investigator that he’ll dispatch over here to dig up stuff on me, and you’ll want to make sure that he doesn’t find anything we don’t want the world to know about.” Bully turned and looked at Manny. “Understand?”
“Sí.”
“Good.” Bully took a step toward the tee box, where the other men were now waiting on him, but Manny hadn’t moved. He looked back at her. “Is there a problem?”
“What if this investigator does find something he shouldn’t?”
Bully blinked. “Then remove the threat.” He took a step closer and spoke just above a whisper. “Are we clear?”
Manny lowered her sunglasses so that Bully could see her black eyes. “Sí.”
26
Alvin “Alvie” Jennings held a basketball under his arm and barked out instructions to his team. He waved when he saw his brother but didn’t come over.
Bo and Rel took a seat on the bleachers and watched the action.
Alvie was just under six feet tall and probably weighed two hundred pounds. He had darker skin than Rel, and his head was bald like Bo’s. He had a barrel chest, and by the grace with which he moved around the court, Bo guessed he still played a little pickup ball on the side. Subconsciously, Bo rubbed his left kneecap, which had been shattered by a buckshot from a twelve-gauge shotgun the previous fall. He knew his pickup-basketball-playing days were over.
Ten minutes after they arrived, Alvie blew a whistle and the team huddled at center court. Bo noticed ten white players and only two blacks, which, based on what Rel said about the county census, was pretty representative.
“Break it down!” Alvie yelled, and the players put their right hands together and chanted “One, two, three, team.”
As they filed off the court, Alvie said, “Open gym tomorrow afternoon if anyone wants to shoot.” Then he approached the bleachers. “Who you got with you, Rel?” he asked. Then his eyes widened and his mouth curved into a grin that showcased all of his teeth. “Bo!”
Bo stood and the two men bear-hugged while Rel continued to sit and chew on a toothpick.
“How you been, man?” Alvie asked, still smiling. Before Bo could answer, Alvie patted his shoulder and added, “So glad that trial in Pulaski went your way.”
Bo touched his left knee. “I paid for it.”
“I heard about that,” Alvie said, stealing a glance at Rel. “You got shot, didn’t you?”
Bo nodded. “Won’t be playing any one on one with you anymore.”
“Well . . . that’s good,” Alvie said, grinning again. “You could never beat me, so it saves you the disappointment.”
Rel finally stood from the bleachers. “Enough grab-assing, boys, let’s get down to business.” Bo glanced at Rel, whose anxiety was palpable. His eyes darted around the now-empty gymnasium, and he rolled the toothpick end over end in his mouth like a Ferris wheel.
Alvie sensed his brother’s nervous energy. His smile faded. “What’s up, Bo?”
Bo looked at Rel, who gave an inpatient nod. “Tell him.”
Bo stepped closer to Alvie and spoke in a hushed voice. “I’m working a case. Helping my friend Professor McMurtrie defend the woman accused of murdering Jack Willistone, Bully Calhoun’s son-in-law.”
“Uh-oh,” Alvie said, taking a step away from Bo and giving Rel a worried look. “What’d you tell him, bro?”
Rel rubbed his neck and gazed up at the rafters of the gym. “That you work security for Bully and might know something about his whereabouts the last couple of weeks. Specifically, on May 7 and May 8.”
“I ain’t telling this nigga nothing about that,” Alvie said, scowling at Bo. “Are you crazy, Rel? You know who Bully is and what he’s capable of.”
“I owe Bo a favor,” Rel said, his voice a mixture of regret and angst. “And . . . he’s offered to pay me ten thousand dollars for any information you can provide.”
Alvie lunged at Rel and grabbed the taller man up under the arms, lifting him off the ground. “You trying to ransom my future, bro? You’d sell me down the river for ten K?”
Bo watched the scene play out, knowing better than to get in the middle of the brothers’ quarrel and surprised by the strength of Alvie. He had remembered Alvie Jennings as scrawny, smaller, but the boy he knew was now a full-grown man taking his older brother to task.
“It’s not just the money,” Rel said, scratching the words out. “I owe him a favor.”
“Fuck him,” Alvie said, letting go of his brother and wheeling to face Bo. “You hear me, nigga? Fuck you.”
“I hear you, dog,” Bo said, taking a step toward Alvie and putting his left foot in front of his right in a fighter’s position. “I hope you know better than to try that with me.”
Alvie remained still and then scoffed. “You boys are crazy. You been into the Boone’s Farm or something today, Rel?” He glanced at his brother, who had dropped to one knee to catch his breath. When he did, Bo grabbed Alvie by his T-shirt and pulled him into a headlock.
“You son of a . . .” Alvie flailed his arms and tried to elbow out of the hold, but Bo’s grip held firm.
“Now, I just want to ask you a few questions. Your brother was convinced that you would know Bully Calhoun’s whereabouts, and he does owe me a favor, so why don’t you tell us what you know and I’ll be on my merry way?” Bo loosened his grip around Alvie’s neck and pushed him hard to the floor. Alvie rolled but didn’t get up when he saw Rel and Bo both standing over him. Instead, he leaned forward and grabbed his knees with his arms.
“Hey, Coach, you alright?” a white kid with a flat-topped haircut wearing maroon sweats yelled out from the door to the locker room, where a number of the other players were heading for the exit. They all stopped when they saw their coach sitting on the floor of the gym and the other two men hovering over him.
“Fine, Sam,” Alvie yelled back, climbing to his feet. “This here’s my brother Rel and a friend of his. We’re good.”
Sam hesitated for a second but then waved. “See you tomorrow, Coach. Who you got in the game tonight?”
“The Heat,” Alvie said. “Big three too much.”
“Naw, unh unh,” Sam said, walking toward the exit and shaking his head as a couple of the other boys laughed. “The Knicks gonna take ’em tonight. Melo gonna light Lebron up.”
“Dream on, Sammy,” Alvie said, forcing a smile. When all of the kids had left the gym, he spoke to the other two men without looking at them. “I need to turn off the lights and lock up.” He started to walk toward the locker roo
m, and Bo called after him.
“I’ll be back,” Bo said. “This ain’t the end of it.”
When Alvie ignored him, Bo walked over and blocked Alvie’s path to the door.
“Come on, Bo,” Alvie said, looking over his shoulder for his brother. Rel was sitting down on the bleachers, rubbing underneath his arms where Alvie had grabbed him.
“No, you come on,” Bo smiled. “Why is Rel so sure that you know what Bully’s been up to?”
Alvie sighed. “Because I’m his driver.”
“What?”
“I work for a security firm called C&G on the weekends and part-time during the summer. We do the security detail for Bully. Some of the guys are stationed at his house out on Sipsey Canyon Drive and there’s at least one guard stationed at each of his businesses.” He looked at the wooden floor. “I’m his driver when he goes out of town or needs to conduct meetings in his car.”
Bo raised his eyebrows. His driver . . . He looked over Alvie’s shoulder to Rel, who gave him a knowing salute. Trying to hide his excitement, Bo returned his focus to Alvie. “The prison records from the St. Clair Correctional Facility show that Bully Calhoun picked Jack Willistone up the morning of May 7. Were you his driver that day?”
Alvie kept his eyes on the floor, fists clenched. “Yes.”
“Did you drive him and Jack all the way to Tuscaloosa?”
Alvie nodded.
“Can you tell me everything that happened on that trip? Every phone call Bully made. Any conversations you overheard. Anything and everything.”
Alvie lowered his chin and gave his head a slow shake. “I can’t, Bo. I’m sorry. I’d like to help you. I’d like to help Rel too, but I can’t.”
“You know something, don’t you?” Bo was sure of it, but he wanted confirmation.
“I’m not going to say more. I’ve already said too much.” He took a step forward. “Now let me be, OK?”
Bo stepped away from the door but caught Alvie by the forearm as he passed. “What are you so afraid of?”
The Last Trial Page 15
