Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(16)

On the way to the cabin, Tom called Rick and filled him in on the meeting with Helen.

“I need you to research the requirements for change of venue in a capital murder case in the State of Tennessee.” He paused. “If there’s any way possible, we need to get this case out of Pulaski.”

“It’s that bad?” Rick said.

“Pulaski is a small town, kid. Everyone here is probably familiar with Bo’s backstory, which is entirely consistent with a revenge killing.” He sighed. “We have to try.”

“What does Bo say?”

“I haven’t seen him yet. Still doing the groundwork. Visiting hours at the jail are this afternoon, and I’ll discuss venue with him then.”

“Professor, do you think he did—?”

“Doesn’t matter what I think right now,” Tom interrupted. “It’s too early to be making snap judgments. The bottom line is that Bocephus Haynes is my friend, and he saved my ass last year when I was feeling sorry for myself on the farm.” Tom paused, feeling heat behind his eyes. “I owe him.”

“I do too,” Rick said. “He saved Dawn’s life during the trial last year. If he hadn’t found her when he did, Willistone’s henchman might’ve . . .” He trailed off, and Tom began to slow down as he saw the sign for the Buford Gardner Bridge. Bonnie had said to take a left on Highway 31 just past the bridge. Tom clicked his blinker, knowing it was time to end the call.

“Listen, Rick, that reminds me. Can you talk to Powell?”

“Of course, but why?” Powell Conrad was an assistant district attorney in Tuscaloosa County. He was also Rick’s best friend.

“Because Andy Walton was thick as thieves with Jack Willistone.”

“Really?” Rick asked, his voice incredulous.

“That’s what General Lewis said. Anyway, we need to get an update on Willistone from Powell.” He sighed. “And we may have to pay the bastard a visit in prison. We need to know all we can about the victim.”

Silence for several seconds on the other end of the line. Then: “OK.” The trepidation in Rick’s voice was palpable, and Tom felt a little himself. Neither one of them relished the idea of seeing Jack Willistone again.

“One last thing,” Tom said, seeing Ray Ray’s cabin up ahead. “I need you to research the requirements for out-of-state admission to Tennessee in a criminal case and draft the necessary paperwork.”

“We’ll need local counsel, right?” Rick asked.

“Right,” Tom said, turning into the gravel drive that led up to the small cabin. “And I’m about to speak with Ray Ray now.”

“Ray who?”

Tom smiled. “I’ll call you later.”



He found Raymond Pickalew fishing off his pier. His old friend sat in a lawn chair and wore a navy-blue T-shirt, tattered khaki shorts, and a crimson visor with the letter A stenciled on the front. Even sitting down, his bare feet propped on a cooler, Ray Ray displayed the long, wiry muscles that had made him an excellent wide receiver.

“What do you say, Ray Ray?” Tom said, smiling at his old teammate.

Raymond Pickalew had been called Ray Ray since he was a baby. His father had suffered from a bad stutter, and when he tried to say “Ray,” it always came out “Ray Ray.” His mother had wanted him to just go by Ray, but when his two-year-old sister started calling him Ray Ray, she adopted it too, and before long everyone in town did. Ray Ray made all-state at Giles County High in football and went on to play at Alabama, graduating in 1960. Law school followed, and then back to Pulaski, where Ray Ray had been a general practitioner specializing in divorce since the late ’60s.

Ray Ray had a grin that seemed to curl up past his cheekbones, which made him always look like he was up to no good. It was his trademark, and though he hadn’t seen Tom in years, he gave it now, standing from his lawn chair. “Well, shit fire and save the matches. Tommy goddamn McMurtrie.” He set his rod and reel down and gave Tom a bear hug, and the strong scent of Miller High Life enveloped Tom’s nostrils. “How in the hell are you?”

“Just fine, Ray Ray.”

Ray Ray sat down and pulled two Miller High Life cans from his cooler. He pitched one to Tom and popped the top on the other one. “How about a taste of the champagne of beers?” he asked, smiling and taking a long sip from the can. “Goddamn, it’s good to see you, Tom. How long’s it been?”

Tom smiled and opened the beer. Though it was a little early in the day for a cold one, Tom figured it was best to be agreeable. After all, he was about to ask the man for a favor. “Oh . . . maybe five years. Didn’t we meet up after the spring game in Tuscaloosa a few years back?”

Ray Ray took a sip of beer and gazed down at the pier. “Actually, I saw you after that . . . at Julie’s funeral.”

Tom winced. He remembered little about his wife’s funeral. Everything a blur of handshakes, hugs, and pain. “That’s right,” he said, feeling a lump in his throat.

“Sure was sorry about that. Goddamn cancer . . .” Ray Ray had lost his sister and mother to breast cancer.

“How . . . is Doris doing?” Tom asked, and Ray Ray took a long swallow of beer, wiping his mouth and looking out at the river.

“Same,” Ray Ray said. “Still at the nursing home. The Alzheimer’s has completely taken over now. She don’t remember me at all. Used to, I’d have one day every two weeks that she’d say, ‘Ray Ray, where the hell am I?’” He chuckled bitterly. “Now I don’t even get that. I even tried that thing the guy did in the movie. What’s it called . . . ?”