Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(23)
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 associate 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 glasses adorned his face, and he was dressed casually in a short-sleeve button-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.