McMurtrie and Drake: Between Black and White Part 6

"I am an experienced criminal defense attorney," Bo interrupted. "What I need is a good trial lawyer who can talk to a Giles County jury. Someone who hasn't been roughed up by the General and . . . someone I trust. I realize that we'll need to retain local counsel, but I don't want a Pulaski lawyer as lead." He paused, looking Tom dead in the eye. "I want you."

When Tom didn't say anything, Bo chuckled, and the bitterness in his laugh was palpable. "I don't blame you for being scared. I'd be scared too if you asked the same of me in the face of the story I just told you." He paused. "I am scared."

"Bo-" Tom started, but Bo held up his hand to stop him.

"Professor, I haven't made a lot of friends in the legal community in this town over the years. Some of that is probably because I'm the only black trial lawyer in Pulaski. Even though we're in 2011, I can still feel a subconscious awkwardness around my white brethren of the bar." He shrugged. "And some of it is just me. I practice alone. I've never had a partner, and I typically blow off the social functions the bar puts on. And I am unapologetically aggressive and relentless when it comes to working a case. That approach has made me a successful attorney." He paused. "But it hasn't made me many friends . . . and it's probably cost me my wife and family."

"Are things with Jazz really over?"

Bo sighed. "I don't know. Right now we are separated, and Jazz is living with her parents in Huntsville. She's enrolled T. J. and Lila in the city schools there for the year, so . . . it ain't looking good." Bo chuckled bitterly. "I doubt that being charged with capital murder is going to help my cause."

"When did things start going south?"

Bo shrugged. "They've been strained for a long time. She has always thought my obsession with my father's murder wasn't fair to her, to our family . . . and she's probably right. When the kids really started getting dragged into it, she finally had enough."

Tom felt another pang of guilt as he saw the anguish on his friend's face. All that time he was looking out for my b.u.t.t last year, his own life was in shambles.

Tom tried to shake off his shame and stay on point. "Bo, I'm sure any number of high-profile criminal defense attorneys from across the country would take this case."

Bo creased his eyebrows. "You think a jury in Pulaski, Tennessee is going to believe some Yankee lawyer over their own elected district attorney?"

"But that happens all the time," Tom said. "Remember the OJ case. He had lawyers from all over the place."

Bo smiled and kept his eyes on Tom. "The Juice's jury was mostly black and all from Los Angeles, and the lead attorney was a brother from LA."

"You don't think a high-profile lawyer will be convincing to a jury in Giles County, and you don't believe a local attorney will take the case," Tom said, attempting to sum up Bo's thoughts.

"Not exactly. I'm sure there are a couple criminal defense guys in town that would represent me if the price was right, and we'll probably have to a.s.sociate one of them as local counsel regardless. But . . ."

"Not as first chair," Tom offered.

"I'd be bringing a knife to a gunfight," Bo said, shaking his head and sighing. "The General has not lost a case since she took office eight years ago." He paused. "What I need is a lead lawyer who hasn't been manhandled by Helen but who still knows the terrain and can talk to the folks on the jury on their level. You're from Hazel Green, Professor. That's less than thirty miles from here as the crow flies, forty-five by car. You may live and work in Tuscaloosa, but your roots are in this neck of the woods."

For several seconds neither of them said anything. Then Bo finally broke the silence. "Professor, I know taking on a capital murder case in another state several hours from Tuscaloosa will be a hardship on your new firm, so I'll agree to pay whatever fee you quote. If it were me, I'd charge a flat fee of two hundred fifty thousand dollars, half now and half when it's over. Win, lose, or draw. I'm certainly prepared to pay that sum or more. You just name the price."

"Bo, you don't have to pay-" Tom started, but Bo slammed his fist down on the table.

"Yes, I do. You get what you pay for in this world, and I don't want my lawyers going hungry."

"Bo, this is your life," Tom said, exasperation finally getting the better of him. "I've tried exactly one case in the last forty years. My partner has tried one case in his whole career. Yes, I'm from this neck of the woods, which I guess will help a little, but as your friend, I'd advise you to think this through a little longer and retain counsel with more experience."

Bo brought his hands together and folded them into a tent. "I have done nothing but think about this decision since the minute I was arrested last Friday morning. My decision now is the same one I came to within two seconds after the handcuffs were slipped over my wrists. I want you, Professor."

"Why?" Tom asked.

"Because there's no one else I trust with my life," Bo said, his voice cracking with emotion and fatigue. "No one but you."

12.

At 5:00 p.m. sharp, Tom parked the Explorer in front of a redbrick house on Jefferson Street about a block east of Ms. Butler's. The sign in the yard was black with gold stenciled letters. "Curtis Family Medicine." Finding Dr. Curtis had been easy-the manager at Ms. Butler's had just pointed out the front door of the bed and breakfast and said, "Two football fields that way on the left. There's a sign out front."

The rain that had poured all afternoon had subsided to a slow drizzle, and the air felt sticky as Tom stepped out of his vehicle and walked up the path to the front porch of the house. He started to knock on the door but then heard a voice to his right.

"Can I help you?"

Tom turned to see a man that looked to be in his sixties sitting in a rocking chair on the porch. Tom was a bit taken back that he hadn't seen the man on his approach.

"Uh . . . yes, my name is Tom McMurtrie. I was looking for Dr. Curtis."

"Well, you found him," the man said, gesturing to himself and standing up. "George Curtis."

As they shook hands, Tom looked the doctor over. He was medium height with thinning salt and pepper hair. A pair of round wire-rimmed gla.s.ses adorned his face, and he was dressed casually in a short-sleeve b.u.t.ton-down and khaki pants. His hand felt soft and small, his grip weak.

"Please," George said, gesturing toward the wicker couch adjacent to his chair. "Have a seat. I just finished with my last patient and was about to make a batch of lemonade. Would you like some?"

Tom accepted, and a few minutes later he was seated across from George on the porch, sipping from a plastic cup. If anything, the air had gotten stickier, and Tom felt sweat pooling underneath his white dress shirt.

"So what I can do for you, Mr. McMurtrie?"

"Please, call me Tom."

"OK," George said, not offering Tom the same courtesy.

"I've been retained by Bocephus Haynes to represent him on the murder charges brought against him by the state."

George blinked several times, but his face and body remained perfectly still. Tom thought again of how he had approached the office and not even seen the man sitting on the porch. The doctor's calm demeanor was a bit unnerving.

"OK . . . Why is it that you want to talk with me? I'm sure you know that the victim, Andy Walton, was my brother-in-law."

George's voice betrayed no emotion, but Tom now heard the accent. Southern aristocrat. The kind of voice an actor would use to portray a Southern plantation owner.

"You saw my client and the victim just a few hours before the murder."

"That's right," George said. "Your client threatened to kill my brother-in-law. Said he was going to 'make him bleed.'" George held up the index and middle fingers of both hands to make the quotation symbol. "I guess he made good on that promise."

"Were you concerned for Mr. Walton's life at that point, Doctor?"

George shrugged and took a sip of lemonade, his eyes never leaving Tom's. "Not really. Andy's always been able to take care of himself." He paused. "To tell the truth, I'm shocked that Andy would let anyone, much less Bo Haynes, kill him in the way it went down. Andy . . . was a hard man."

"He was also dying, right?"

Again, George blinked. "How did you know that?"

Tom considered his response. So far George Curtis hadn't told him anything he didn't already know. Tom thought Andy's cancer was a bad fact for the defense. He could almost hear Helen Lewis in her opening-If Bo hadn't taken his revenge when he did, he might never have gotten the chance. But after several seconds he came clean. "Your sister told Bo at Kathy's. She told him to let Andy die in peace."

George grimaced, his first outward show of emotion. "That's why she blames herself," he said, shaking his head. "I knew it had to be something like that." He paused. "She hasn't said a word since she saw Andy hanging from the tree."

"She saw?" Tom asked. This was new information.

"Yeah. When the fire department arrived on the scene, the chief said that Maggie arrived just a few minutes after he did." He paused and shook his head. "I'm not sure she'll ever be the same."

"I'm very sorry," Tom said, meaning it. "Would it be possible to talk with your sister?" Tom knew he was pushing his luck, but Maggie Walton was an important witness.

"No," George said, his voice hard. "That wouldn't be possible right now. It's just too soon."

The conversation lulled for several seconds, neither of them speaking, and Tom's sense of discomfort grew. George had an intense gaze that made Tom feel like he was being inspected.

"Doctor, can you think of anyone besides Bo who might have a bone to pick with your brother-in-law?"

George shrugged. "Andy was a polarizing figure in this town. I think there was a general distaste for him. You have to understand, Andy didn't grow up in Pulaski. He came from over in McNairy County. A lot of folks thought his money was dirty. Then there was his a.s.sociation with the Klan. Not sure many people ever got over that. The people here have always had to deal with the town being the birthplace of the Ku Klux Klan, but it's a past that Pulaski has tried to distance itself from. Andy's involvement as Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee chapter was another black eye for the town. But . . . no one wanted him dead. Andy gave a lot of his dirty money to the town. To its businesses and to Martin College and the church." Curtis chuckled. "What is the old saying? 'He's a son of a b.i.t.c.h, but he's our son of a b.i.t.c.h.' I think that's how the town viewed Andy."

Tom watched the doctor tell the story. He's enjoying this, Tom thought. It was time to give him a jolt. "Did you resent Andy for buying the family farm and saving your father from bankruptcy while you were in medical school?"

"Who told you that?"

"Raymond Pickalew," Tom said, his lips curving into a smile. "Ray Ray's an old friend of mine."

George returned the smile, but there was no humor behind his eyes. As with Helen, the mention of Ray Ray's name seemed to rattle the doctor. "Professor McMurtrie, it seems as if you are friends with all of the riffraff in town."

Tom's grin widened. "Dr. Curtis, it seems as if you might have a-how did you put it?-distaste for Ray Ray."

"Raymond Pickalew is a no-count drunk, and he always has been," George said, the slightest hint of an edge in his voice. Then, relaxing his shoulders, he leaned back in the rocking chair and wrapped his hands behind his back. "But getting back to your question, the truth is that I was relieved that Andy bought the farm. We all were. He saved our a.s.s and allowed my father to die with dignity. We were all indebted to him for that."

Bulls.h.i.t, Tom thought but didn't say. He decided to switch gears.

"Do you know Clete Sartain?" Tom asked.

"Everyone knows Clete," George said, chuckling. "He sacks groceries at the Johnson's Foodtown and looks just like Santa Claus. He's lived in Pulaski forever."

"Was he with you, Andy, and Mrs. Walton at Kathy's on the night of the murder?"

George scoffed. "He was there, but I wouldn't say he was with us. He just happened to be there. Clete is a regular at Kathy's."

"Was Clete in the Klan when Andy was the Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee chapter?"

George shrugged and drank the rest of his lemonade. "He might have been. I wouldn't know."

"Were you?"

The humorless smile returned to the doctor's face. "Well . . ." He abruptly stood up. "I'm sorry to have to run, but I have an engagement at the church later tonight, and I'm going to be late if I don't go now."

He didn't offer his hand to shake.

"Thanks for your time," Tom said, also standing, but George did not acknowledge him. The doctor walked past his visitor through the front door of the office and closed it behind him.

The sound of the sliding dead bolt was unmistakable.

It wasn't until Tom had reached the Explorer that he felt the cold chill on the back of his neck. Professor McMurtrie, it seems as if you are friends with all of the riffraff in town. The comment by George had struck Tom as defensive at the time, and he had gotten caught up in the back and forth, missing the hidden significance.

Professor McMurtrie . . .

Tom had not told George that he had been a professor in his former life. How could he possibly know that? As far as Tom knew, today was the first time that he had ever met George Curtis. Unless George had seen the same USA Today article that Helen had . . .

No, Tom thought. Helen would have paid attention to that kind of news because she's an attorney and she already knew of me.

It didn't make sense. Tom had yet to even file an appearance as Bo's lawyer. George shouldn't have known anything about Tom.

Maybe he has a source in the DA's office or the sheriff's department, Tom thought, sliding into the front seat and cranking the ignition. He had met with Helen this morning and told her his intention to file an appearance. Perhaps she had updated the family. He had also visited Bo at the jail this afternoon, and a sheriff's deputy could have called George and given him Tom's name. Either way George could have then googled Tom and learned all about him.

That's got to be it, he thought, easing the car forward and dialing Rick's number on his cell phone. As his partner's voice came over the line, Tom took a last look at the medical office. Behind the open blinds of the front window, he saw the shadow of a man watching him. Ray Ray was right, Tom thought, feeling gooseflesh break out on his arms.

The good doctor was a "strange bird."

13.

George Curtis watched McMurtrie leave from behind the blinds and followed the Explorer with his eyes until it stopped out in front of Ms. Butler's Bed and Breakfast. That's convenient, he thought, remembering something his late brother-in-law had always said.

Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

George packed up his briefcase and locked the office. Then he walked two doors down to his house and opened the door. His cat, a black-and-white-striped feline named Matilda, came running toward him, but he paid her no mind, lost in thought over his encounter with Bo Haynes's lawyer.

McMurtrie bothered him. When he had learned earlier in the day that McMurtrie would be Bo's lawyer, George had done some digging, and he hadn't liked what he'd found. It had been McMurtrie, a former law professor, who had spearheaded the big trial win in Henshaw, Alabama over Jack Willistone, whose trucks had routinely carried loads for many of Andy's businesses in Giles County. Over the years George had come to know Jack pretty well. George knew that anyone who got the jump on Jack Willistone had to be pretty tough.

George's encounter a few minutes ago with McMurtrie had done nothing to ease his concerns. The lawyer had already gotten some of the history. Knew Andy was an interloper. A scalawag who had come in and saved the day. And McMurtrie's question to George had contained some challenge.

Did George resent Andy for saving the farm?

George lit a cigar and sat down in the den, turning on the television set. As an old episode of Friends came on, he scanned the dark house. He rarely kept lights on inside, as they gave him a headache, but the glow from the tube allowed him to see the familiar surroundings. The painting of Count Pulaski above the mantle of the fireplace to his left. The old rocker to his right that his mother had rocked him and Maggie in as kids. And beyond the television, the short hallway leading to the home's two bedrooms, one of which was his, while the other was the "guest" room.

At the thought of the guest room, George subconsciously smiled. He could count the "guests" that had stayed in that room over the past thirty years on one hand. There had, however, been one frequent guest.

Matilda crawled into his lap, and he stroked her behind the ears, his thoughts returning to McMurtrie. And the history . . .

Of course he had resented Andy. Hated the son of a b.i.t.c.h. But not because of the farm. George had never loved the property like Maggie. Sure, he had enjoyed hunting dove in the fall and had always been a good shot, but the lure of the land held nothing for him. He would rather have moved when their father hit hard times. Had even talked with Maggie about it. Let's take what we can get for the farm and move the family to Nashville. Or even Atlanta. Anywhere . . .

George sighed, and hearing the sound, Matilda purred. George had never wanted to save the farm. He had only wanted . . .