Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(46)
Bone knew the police would give up on finding the assailant after a few days, so he’d stayed clear of Pulaski, playing his role as Martha Booher’s “nephew” at the Amish settlement in Ethridge, doing his chores during the day and paying “rent” to “Aunt” Martha every night. It had been good, but he was restless. Ready to be back in the game.
He’d resurfaced in Pulaski this morning, picking up Drake’s scent at the Bluebird Café. He’d been a bit surprised when Drake drove to the bed and breakfast instead of the office. After all, it was Friday, a workday for those fools who made an honest living in this world. Maybe the boy was going to work from the house today. Or maybe he was about to head back to Tuscaloosa. Bone’s new employer had indicated that the case was now in limbo until the grand jury issued its indictment. Bone thought there might not be anything for him to do for a while.
I thought wrong, he knew as he watched the Saturn take the I-65 South ramp. Where in the hell are they going?
From a safe distance of about four hundred yards behind, Bone followed them onto the interstate. Then, taking out his cell phone, he dialed the number of his employer.
32
The warden of the St. Clair Correctional Facility in Springville was gracious enough to let them use his administrative conference room for the meeting. Fearing that he wouldn’t be strong enough for the walking required at the jail, Tom had reluctantly agreed to let Powell push him in a wheelchair. After they had gone through security, a corrections officer took them down a long hallway and opened the door to the conference room. Before going inside, Tom looked up at Powell. “Any word from Wade?”
The three had split up at the farm, with Wade taking the Dodge Charger to Pulaski while Tom and Powell took Tom’s Explorer to Springville.
“Nothing yet, but you know Wade. He’s not one to call or text unless he has some information.”
Tom nodded and let out a deep breath. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”
The prisoner was waiting for them when Powell pushed Tom’s wheelchair inside the room.
Jack Daniel Willistone was thinner than Tom remembered, and his formerly clean-shaven face was now bristled with salt and pepper whiskers. But even wearing the dark-green jumpsuit of a state prisoner, he still gave off an air of strength and power, sitting straight in the chair, his head up, eyes moving slowly back and forth between Tom and Powell. Finally, he focused on Tom and crossed his arms.
“Well, Jesus Christ Superstar,” Jack said. “McMurtrie, right?”
Tom nodded. “Mr. Willistone, you look . . . pretty good. Have you lost weight?”
“As a matter of fact I have. When all there is to eat is turd sandwiches and turd stew, you tend to drop a few.” Jack paused, squinting at Tom. “What happened to you, McMurtrie? Did you get run over by a bus?”
“A hammer,” Tom said. “I got hit in the head and ribs with a hammer. Tore ligaments in my knee trying to block the blows.”
Jack continued to squint at Tom. “Well . . . that’s unfortunate.” Then he shifted his eyes to Powell.
“Conrad,” Jack said. “Always such a pleasure to see you.”
Sitting next to Jack was an unnaturally tan man with dark, oily hair who had introduced himself as Gregory Zorn outside the conference room. Zorn had been one of several lawyers who represented Jack in the criminal case and had granted the visitors permission to speak to his client. Of course, as the conversation would center around a possible deal for less jail time, granting permission was a no-brainer.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Willistone has agreed to listen to your questions,” Zorn said, his voice loud and official sounding. “That is all he has agreed to, and if I feel that the questioning is inappropriate, then I’m going to cut it off and send you on your way. Understand?” According to Powell, Zorn was a greaseball who got his reputation defending DUI cases. A lot of bluster and a limited supply of brains. On the bigger cases he tended to plea, which is what he’d done in Jack’s blackmail and witness-tampering cases, though no one could have faulted him for that. The evidence against Jack had been overwhelming.
“Thanks, Greg,” Powell said, but his eyes were on Jack, ignoring Zorn. “But we don’t look at this meeting as an opportunity for Mr. Willistone to do us a favor. We look at it as a chance for us to consider doing him one if he provides us with helpful information.” Powell paused, still only looking at Jack. “Understand?” Powell repeated Zorn’s line, the intensity in his voice and behind his eyes palpable.
Jack smiled. “Could one of you boys spare a cigarette? I think a little better after a shot of nicotine.”
“Mr. Willistone, I don’t think smoking’s allowed . . .” Zorn started to say but stopped when Powell pulled out a pack of Marlboros from his front pocket and slid them across the table. Then he pitched a lighter toward Zorn—a little too hard, Tom thought—and Zorn dropped it on the table. “Light it for him, would you, Greg?” Then without missing a beat, Powell turned to Tom. “83 woulda caught that.”
Tom couldn’t help but smile. “83” was Kevin Norwood, a young wide receiver on Alabama’s football team. Powell had asked the warden before going in the room if it was OK if he gave Willistone cigarettes to get him talking, and the warden had simply said, “Whatever works, potnah.”