Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(13)
Rick had been given an offer to work for Jones & Butler when he was in law school, but the offer was withdrawn by Jameson when Rick got into an altercation with Tom after a law school trial competition. Though Tom and Rick had reconciled and had eventually teamed up for the huge verdict in the Willistone case last summer, Rick still carried the scar of his rejection with him like a badge. Tom wondered if that was why Rick clung to the old Saturn, not able to allow himself any enjoyment of their success until . . .
. . . until what?
As Rick pulled to a stop in front of the McMurtrie & Drake, LLC sign, Tom was about to compliment his young partner’s handling of the London case but winced as his cell phone vibrated again. He had forgotten to turn the sound back on.
“Goddamnit,” Tom said, twisting in the seat to get his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the face, and the caller ID showed a 931 area code.
Tennessee? Tom thought. There were several people in Tennessee that had his cell phone number, including his son, Tommy, who lived in Nashville, but all of those folks had numbers Tom would recognize. This number was unfamiliar.
“Hello.”
“Professor, where have you been?”
Tom instantly recognized the voice. “Bo?”
“Yeah, dog. Listen . . .” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Tom thought he heard someone shouting in the background. Then Bo’s voice again, strained, a harsh whisper. “I need your help.”
PART TWO
9
On Monday morning, three days after the murder of Andy Walton, Tom rose early and decided to walk the half mile into downtown Pulaski. He had stayed the night at Ms. Butler’s Bed & Breakfast, a charming white-frame house on Jefferson Street three blocks from the Giles County Courthouse. After a hearty breakfast and two cups of black coffee, Tom grabbed his briefcase and began the trek down Jefferson. By the time he reached the town square, he had to wipe the sweat off his forehead.
Built in 1909 after a fire destroyed the old building, the Giles County Courthouse was an architectural marvel. Eight columns lined the east and west entrances, and a dome and clock surmounted the entire structure. As he climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, Tom couldn’t help but gaze up at the top of the rotunda, noticing that the centerpiece of the dome contained the Tennessee state seal, the scales of justice, and a sheathed sword, all on a shield background. Stained-glass windows adorned the north and south walls. To Tom, the building felt more like a cathedral than a courthouse.
At the second-floor landing, Tom turned to his left toward a closed door with a sign above it that said “District Attorney General.” Tom was about to knock when a voice rang out from down the hall.
“She’s not in there.”
Tom turned and saw a plump middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed glasses heading his way. “Where . . . ?” he started, but the woman walked past him and pointed toward a set of double doors. Adjacent to the doors was a sign that read “Circuit Court.” The woman cracked open the door and peeked inside. Then she waved toward Tom. “She’s in the courtroom,” the woman said, pointing through the doors. “Do you have business with the General?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom said, slightly jolted by the woman’s use of the military title. He was going to have to get used to hearing the word “General” in reference to the head prosecutor, which was a practice peculiar to the state of Tennessee.
“OK,” the woman said, opening the door wider and motioning with her head for Tom to enter. “In the jury,” she whispered as Tom stepped through the opening. Before he could say thank you, the door closed behind him.
For a few seconds Tom took in the scene. He had been in a lot of courtrooms in his lifetime, but he had never had his breath taken away until now. The first thing that stood out was the balcony. Eerily reminiscent of the courtroom in the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, there was a balcony where spectators could sit if the main area was full. Of course, in To Kill a Mockingbird, which took place in rural south Alabama, the black spectators sat in the balcony and the whites sat on the main floor. Tom figured that the original intent of this balcony was also segregation. He doubted many cases these days required upstairs seating.
But this one might, he thought. When Bocephus Haynes was tried for the capital murder of Andy Walton, former Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Tom figured every seat might indeed be taken.
Tom lowered his gaze to the gallery on the main floor, where he saw four separate seating areas with five or six rows of built-in wooden chairs that folded up like theater seats. The gallery converged on a railing, which separated spectators from the lawyers and the judge. Just beyond this railing were two tables, one of which Tom knew would be the prosecution’s table, and the other the defense table. Between the two tables was a built-in box with a high-backed chair inside. Is that the witness stand? Tom wondered, squinting at the box and walking toward it. He ran his hand over the wood and then swept his eyes around the courtroom again. Has to be, he thought, noticing that this box faced two rows of six built-in high-backed swivel chairs. The jury, Tom thought, seeing that just beyond the jury chairs was the judge’s bench, which rose twice as high as the witness box.
“Interesting setup, huh?” A sharp female voice cut through the air, and Tom felt his entire body tense. He moved his eyes to the jury chairs and at first didn’t see her. Then a hand shot up from the back row.