Powell poured another shot of Jack Daniel’s into his glass. “Right now I’m gonna get drunk and listen to this song until Weezy over there throws me out. But first thing in the morning, I’m gonna file a motion to throw out the guilty plea and dismiss all charges against Wilma Newton.”
Tom felt his heart flutter. “All charges? Even murder?”
“The whole shebang,” Powell said. “We have newly discovered evidence that Jack was robbed by someone who doesn’t match Wilma’s description, and it’s a pretty easy leap to believe that this same person killed Jack before she kicked his corpse in the river.”
“What about the eyewitness, Ms. Farrell?”
“I’m gonna call the university tomorrow and talk with the golf coach. Hopefully, worst case she only gets suspended for half the season. It took guts to come forward like she did.”
“Great,” Tom said. “But that’s not what I meant. What about what Farrell says she saw?”
Powell took a sip from the glass and gazed at the brown liquid. Finally, he squinted over the rim at Tom. “Wilma Newton didn’t own a pair of white Nikes, Professor.”
Tom bowed his head. “You know.”
“Wade and I figured it out an hour ago,” Powell continued. “Freakin’ tennis shoes. I can’t believe it.”
“Do you think Judge Poe will grant your motion and dismiss the charges?”
Powell’s squint became a glare. “If he doesn’t, I’m going to report him to the bar. That crotchety bastard doesn’t deserve to be called Your Honor.”
“What about Barbara?”
“We’re going to work a deal with her. No charges for her cooperation in the case we’re mounting against Bully Calhoun.”
“You’re going after him?”
Powell had fire in his eyes. “With both barrels.”
“And what about Laurie Ann Newton?”
“Absent her confession, I doubt I could convince a jury to convict. Her mother was misidentified by Farrell as Jack’s killer, and Barbara Willistone is an eyewitness to someone else robbing Jack just after his murder. It’s too messy, and even if it wasn’t, the would-be defendant is fourteen years old and been through hell in her young life.” Powell met Tom’s eye. “I’d like to meet her, and I want your word that she’ll go to counseling. But I think it’s high time the Newton family caught a break. What do you think?”
“I think you’re gonna make one hell of a judge one day.” He rose from his seat and Powell did the same.
They shook hands, and Powell held on when Tom tried to let go. He gazed at Tom with bloodshot eyes that had gone misty, and when he spoke his voice finally cracked from the combination of alcohol, fatigue, and emotion. “It was an honor to face you in your last trial.”
“Thank you, son.”
As Tom turned to go, the prosecutor’s booming voice stopped him at the door. “Professor McMurtrie.”
“Yeah?”
“What are you going to do now?”
Tom smiled. “I’m going to the farm.”
EPILOGUE
Jasper, Alabama, December 24, 2012
It was the big team’s annual tradition to have a morning match on Christmas Eve. Though the turnout was typically thin, twelve players, including Marcellus “Bully” Calhoun, teed off the first hole of the Jasper Country Club between 8:00 and 8:20 that morning. After Bully’s group had completed play on the third hole, he glanced at the shade tree behind the fourth tee, feeling his stomach tighten, as it did every time he passed the familiar meeting spot. She wasn’t there, and he knew he’d never see her again. Once Manny had removed the threat of Greg Zorn and Alvie Jennings, Bully had paid her off from Jack’s insurance proceeds and wished her well in her future endeavors. He would need to hire another enforcer, but for now, with the district attorney of Tuscaloosa County and the FBI breathing down his neck, he’d lay low.
After Harwell and Corlew had hit their tee shots, Bully took a sip of Budweiser and put a Titleist golf ball on top of his tee. He waggled his driver once, looked down the fairway, and began his swing.
He never finished it. At the top of his backswing, his chest exploded from the force of a rifle shot. He staggered backward, and before he began to fall, a second blast caught him between the eyes.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
Santonio “Rel” Jennings clicked the safety back on the rifle and calmly lowered the bedroom window. Then he walked out the front door of the redbrick house that sat behind the fourth-tee box of the Jasper Country Club. Seconds later, he climbed back into his mail carrier vehicle and stashed the rifle under a stack of packages in the back. With his heart pounding, Rel made the remaining stops on his route, which included the single-wide trailer of a young deputy in the Walker County Sheriff’s Office. After he had put the officer’s mail in the latch attached to the outside of the mobile home, he jimmied the door with a coat hanger. Less than a minute later, he returned the rifle to its case and put it back under the bed, where he’d found it.
At 5:00 p.m., Rel punched the clock. He had taken the job with the postal service two weeks after his brother’s murder. As a private investigator for twenty years, he had gleaned a lot of information from people who carried the mail. He knew the job would produce an opportunity, and today he seized it. He’d work another month for good measure so no one would get suspicious. Then he’d quit.
After dinner by himself at the McDonald’s he used to manage, he drove over to his brother’s house, which was dark. There were no cars in the lot. LaShell had taken LaByron to Birmingham to spend Christmas with her folks.
For a long time, Rel gazed at the house where his brother had tried to live the American dream. He took a pint of Jim Beam out of the glove compartment and pressed it to his lips, squinting as the liquor burned his throat. Finally, he got out of the mail unit and took the package out of the back. He had wrapped the regulation-size NBA basketball in red paper. He placed it on the front stoop and trotted back to his vehicle.
He had one more stop to make.
Even in the dark, Rel could see the ants crawling over the headstone. He swatted them away and ran his fingers over the letters, reading the words aloud.
“Alvin Lamont Jennings.”
Rel raised the pint to the grave and took a sip of bourbon. “I cut the head off the snake today, Alvie.” He nodded to himself, thinking about Bully’s lady enforcer that was still out there. “I’ll get the tail one day too. As God is my witness, I will.”
Rel laid a six-pack of Yuengling on the ground below the concrete marker and tapped the top of the grave.
“Merry Christmas, little brother.”
Hazel Green, Alabama, December 25, 2012
On Christmas morning, Tom rose early and was dressed before his family arrived. He watched Jackson open his present, a new baseball bat, and he talked with Jenny about all the things that Santa Claus had brought her. And he held the baby girl, born two days before Thanksgiving, just as his daughter-in-law had predicted. They had named her Julie, and Tom had a hard time keeping his voice steady when he said her name. He noticed that his son, Tommy, took a lot more video than he had during Christmases in the past, and Nancy couldn’t be around him more than a few minutes without tearing up.
No one mentioned that his head was now bald, but he saw the stares and he knew that this was part of his life now.
At two o’clock in the afternoon, Bocephus Haynes and his family—Jazz, T. J., and Lila—arrived with the turkey, and they all sat around the table and gave thanks. They ate and they drank and no one said the word “cancer,” but Tom knew it was all anyone could think about.
When it was time for Tommy and Nancy to make the trek to Cullman to see Nancy’s family, the hugs all seemed to last a little longer. Jackson squeezed him so tight that Tom winced, but he didn’t let on that he was hurting.
“I’ll come see you tomorrow, Papa,” he said, climbing into Tommy’s minivan.
“Sounds good, Forty-Nine,” Tom said, ruffling the bo
y’s hair.
A few minutes later, Jazz, T. J, and Lila said their goodbyes, and Bo said he would catch up with them later that night. Then he and Tom, with Lee Roy clipping at their heels, walked to the northern tip of the farm.
“So what’s the latest on Wilma?” Bo asked.
“My call to the General was successful, and custody of the kids was transferred to Darla Ford, whose oyster bar is thriving down in Destin, Florida. Darla was happy to take the girls on, and she gave Wilma a job waiting tables. Helen said that if Wilma can hold down employment for a year without any incidents, she’ll ask the court to award full custody to her.”
“What about Laurie Ann?”
“Seeing a psychiatrist on a weekly basis, as is her sister, Jackie.”
“Good deal,” Bo said. Then, kicking at the grass, he asked, “Did you hear about Bully Calhoun?”
“No, what happened?”
“Shot dead on the golf course in Jasper yesterday,” Bo said. “Assassinated is probably the better word.”
Tom let out a low whistle. “A guy in that line of work . . . I guess it was bound to happen. But Powell and Wade are going to be disappointed. They were on him like stink on horse manure. So was the FBI.”
“I know,” Bo said. “I guess they’ll point their cannons at Kat now.”
“Barbara Willistone already has,” Tom said. “She filed a lawsuit against Kat for fraud related to Jack’s insurance policy two weeks after Wilma’s trial.”
Bo smiled. “Sounds like a lot of lawyers are going to make a lot of money.”
“Bingo.”
“Any word on Bully’s enforcer?”
Tom looked at the grass. “None.”
“What about JimBone Wheeler?”
“Still locked away in a maximum-security cell on death row in Nashville.”
“Think we’ll ever hear from either of them again?”
Tom felt a shiver run down his arms that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. “Let’s hope not.”
When they reached the McMurtrie family cemetery, Tom paid his respects to his parents, Rene and Sut, his beloved Julie, and Musso, his bulldog before Lee Roy. Tom then ran his hand over a piece of dirt adjacent to Julie’s grave. “I want to be buried here,” he said, taking a deep breath and slowly exhaling. “I’ve really missed her these past few years, and when I’m gone, I want to be right beside her.”
Bocephus Aurulius Haynes wiped tears from his eyes and spoke softly. “Yes, sir. But I’m betting my money with Dr. Davis. I think you’ll be around for a while. You’ll beat this just like you did with the bladder.”
“Bo, this isn’t like what I had before. I can’t win this time.”
Bo walked a few steps to his right and put his palm on Musso’s grave. When he spoke, his voice shook with emotion. “You know, Coach Bryant said a lot of things about winning, but one of my favorite things he said was about losing. The way I remember it”—Bo’s lip quivered—“is that he said it was awfully important to win with humility, but that losing was also important. He hated to lose worse than anyone, but if you never lost, you wouldn’t know how to act when you won.” Bo wiped his eyes and looked at Tom.
“Be humble when you win and humble when you lose,” Tom whispered. “Live with dignity . . . die with dignity.”
Bo nodded. “That’s damn right.” He looked at Tom, and the anguish was palpable in his eyes. “Professor, I know that you know this, but I, uh . . . I’m not sure that I’ve ever actually said the words.” He paused. “I love you, sir. You’re my guy, you see. When I’ve needed a friend . . . or a mentor . . . or a father figure in this crazy world . . . you’ve been my guy.”
“I love you too, Bo.”
They embraced, and Tom felt snowflakes beginning to fall on his neck. Looking over the headstones and across the farm to the brick home he’d built with his father six decades ago, Thomas Jackson McMurtrie breathed in the cold winter air and wondered if he’d be alive in a year.
“Merry Christmas, Bo.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In April 2016, a few weeks after the publication of Between Black and White, my father, Randy Bailey, was diagnosed with lung cancer. Eight months later, on December 7, 2016, my wife, Dixie, was also diagnosed with lung cancer at forty-two years old. Dad smoked early in his life but had not touched a cigarette in four decades. Dixie had never been a smoker.
From December 2016 to March 2017, Dixie and Dad underwent treatment for lung cancer at the same time. Some days they literally received chemotherapy in adjoining chairs in the treatment wing of the Clearview Cancer Institute. I have the pictures to prove it, though I doubt they’ll ever go in a photo album.
Dad fought hard, but the cancer had already spread to the bone. Curative surgery was never an option. Like Tom McMurtrie at the end of this book, Dad said right after his diagnosis that you live with dignity and you die with dignity. He never quit, but his body eventually gave out. His prognosis was six months, but he almost doubled that. He died on March 3, 2017 at the age of seventy.
Dixie’s tumor had spread to the lymph nodes, but surgery was still an option. She went through a month of chemotherapy and almost forty radiation treatments. On April 3, 2017, a month after my father’s death, my wife had surgery to remove the lower lobe of her right lung. During the procedure, there was a complication and the middle lobe also had to be removed. After almost two weeks in the hospital, her oncologist declared the surgery a success.
She is now cancer-free, and we celebrated her remission with a trip to Disney World. As we passed through the entrance to the happiest place on earth, Dixie and I held hands and cried as our children squealed with delight. Time, precious time . . .
I’ve heard it said that stories are oftentimes as much found as they are created. I believe this to be true. I found the building blocks for The Last Trial while rocking back and forth in an uncomfortable recliner in a cramped hospital room and watching my beautiful wife breathe with the assistance of a chest tube.
Cancer sucks. And sadness, as Tom McMurtrie points out early on in this story, is a part of life. But at the end of the day, hope always wins.
During one of our last conversations, when I was telling him how much I loved him and how scared I was about Dixie and that I didn’t know what I was going to do, Dad motioned with his hand for me to lean close. When I did, I heard him whisper his parting advice. “Write books.”
I hope you enjoyed this story. And rest assured, the Professor will be back. Just like my father, Thomas Jackson McMurtrie will beat the national average and he will return.
Stay tuned . . .
Robert Bailey
October 12, 2017
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My wife, Dixie, was diagnosed with lung cancer on December 7, 2016. She fought her way through chemo, radiation, and surgery and is now in remission. None of my stories would have ever found a bookstore if Dixie hadn’t encouraged me to follow my dream. Thank you for fighting so hard and being my everything.
Our children—Jimmy, Bobby, and Allie—were troupers this year as their world was shaken to the core. Their resilience kept me going, and I’m so proud to be their dad.
My mother, Beth Bailey, is the strongest person I know. Her poise and grace under pressure were on full display this year as Dad and Dixie both fought lung cancer. When I think of the term “steel magnolia,” I don’t envision the play or the movie. I think of my mom.
My agent, Liza Fleissig, has been my wingman on this writing journey. Her belief in my stories and persistence in finding them a publisher is what every writer hopes for in an agent. She is also my friend, and I will be forever grateful for Liza’s steady support during Dad and Dixie’s illnesses.
Thank you to Clarence Haynes, my developmental editor, for his energy, creativity, and passion for my stories, as well as his meticulous attention to detail. Excelsior, Clarence!
Thanks also to Megha Parekh, my editor with Thomas & Mercer, who believed in this project from day one a
nd was a constant and steady source of positive vibes.
To Kjersti Egerdahl, Sarah Shaw, and my entire editing and marketing team at Thomas & Mercer, whom I am so proud to work with and call my publisher, thank you for having my back this year and buying into my characters.
My longtime friend and law school classmate, Judge Will Powell, was a great source of information regarding criminal procedure in Alabama and was also one of my earliest readers. So many of the adventures of the characters in my books have been inspired by the good times I’ve had with “Powell” over the years.
My friend, Bill Fowler, has been an important sounding board for ideas and was a life raft for me during the dark times when Dad and Dixie were both going through treatment. When I was trying so hard to look after my family, Bill looked after me.
A big shout-out to my friends Rick Onkey, Mark Wittschen, Steve Shames, Dave Christopherson, Scott Tonidandel, Missy Warren, Will Elliott, and James Drake for supporting my writing and for being there for me this year when my world was on fire.
My brother, Bo Bailey, has been a rock this year as we have both dealt with our father’s passing. He has also been one of my earliest readers and supporters on this writing voyage.
My father-in-law, Dr. Jim Davis, has been my go-to proofreader when it comes to firearms, and his positive outlook and infectious energy have been a blessing. This past year, he had to watch his baby girl go through cancer treatments and surgery. When the storm was raging around us, Doc was a steady hand and a calm voice.
My mother-in-law, Beverly Baca, is a warrior, and her resilience during Dixie’s treatment was a source of strength and inspiration to us all.
My wonderful friends, Joe and Foncie Bullard, from Point Clear, Alabama, were two of my earliest supporters on this writing journey. I’m so grateful for their help and encouragement.
A special thanks to everyone at my law firm, Lanier Ford Shaver & Payne PC. I am eternally grateful for my colleagues’ support.
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