Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(47)

“Norwood, right?” Jack said, taking a draw on the now-lit cigarette, and Powell nodded. Next to Jack, Gregory Zorn’s face had turned crimson red. He was being ignored by his client and the prosecutor.

As smoke fumes filled the room and Tom leaned away to breathe, Powell put both elbows on the table. “Here’s the deal, Mr. Willistone. We have reason to believe that your old buddy JimBone Wheeler has surfaced in Giles County, Tennessee. We think he may have involvement in multiple crimes in that area, including the attack on Prof. McMurtrie. As we have linked Wheeler to a murder in Faunsdale, Alabama and an attempted murder in Tuscaloosa, catching him has become a top priority.” Powell paused. “We think you may have information that could lead us to him.”

“What makes you think that?” Jack asked, tapping an ash out in Zorn’s coffee cup.

“Based on the civil trial in Henshaw last year, we know that JimBone Wheeler was seen inside the Henshaw County Courthouse sitting by your side. We also know that he was spotted at the Sundowners Club outside of Pulaski on multiple occasions with you.”

Jack took another drag on the cigarette and blew smoke across the table in Powell’s direction. His face gave away nothing. “So what are your questions?”

“Tell us what you know about Andy Walton,” Powell said.

Jack shrugged, tapping another ash in Zorn’s cup. “When Andy made all his money in the ’70s, he started a lumber and logging business over in Lawrenceburg. Walton Lumber. He needed someone to haul freight to various parts of Tennessee and Kentucky, so . . .” He shrugged again. “That was one of our biggest contracts at the time. We had been around for twenty years but were mostly limited to Alabama and the eastern tip of Mississippi. Walton Lumber doubled our coverage and probably led to a half-dozen other contracts.” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth but didn’t puff on it. “Landing that deal really put us on our way.” Jack lowered his eyes to the table, the Marlboro hanging out of his mouth like a toothpick.

“Why you?” Powell asked. “Of all the trucking companies out there, why you?”

Jack raised his eyes from the table, glaring at Powell. “Because we were the best. The fastest, the most dependable, and the best bang for your buck.”

“Did you have a prior relationship with Andy?”

“Not really. I knew of him, I guess, when he was running with the State Line Mob over in McNairy County. But our paths really didn’t cross until he started looking for a freight hauler.”

“How did you find out he was looking?” Powell asked, and Tom was struck by Powell’s skillful interrogation techniques. The questions were so natural that Willistone barely blinked at them. But we are getting close to the heart of it, Tom knew. Just a few more questions . . .

“We had a mutual friend. Larry Tucker. I had just helped Larry with the down payment on his club and—”

“The Sundowners?” Powell interjected, and Jack nodded.

“Yeah. Anyway, Larry owed me, and Andy and he were friends from way back to Andy’s Klan days.”

“Did you keep up with Andy over the years?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jack said, taking a drag on the cigarette. “He was a big client, so of course. I’d go dove hunting every fall on his farm, and he normally threw a big party in Knoxville every other year for the Alabama-Tennessee game. We’d return the favor when the game was in Birmingham or Tuscaloosa.”

“How about JimBone Wheeler?” Powell asked. “When did you meet him?” Again, Tom was impressed with the change of direction.

Jack smiled and tapped the cigarette several times on Zorn’s cup, though there were no ashes about to fall off. Stalling . . . “Oh, I don’t know. A few years ago.”

“How did you meet him?”

“I can’t remember.”

Powell glared at Jack. “Greg, perhaps your client needs a reminder of why we’re here.”

“If he doesn’t remember, he doesn’t remember,” Zorn fired back.

Jack dropped his cigarette in the coffee cup and pulled another Marlboro from the pack that still lay on the table. Zorn lighted it, and Jack blew a smoke cloud in the air. “Next question,” he said.

“Describe your relationship with JimBone Wheeler.”

“Casual acquaintance.”

“Why was he at the trial in Henshaw last year?”

“I can’t remember.”

“Did you ever pay him to do . . . jobs for you?”

“Not that I recall,” Jack said.

Powell crossed his arms and sighed in frustration. “Sticking to the same old script, huh, Jack? You must really like prison.”

“Fuck you,” Jack said.

“Ditto,” Powell said, starting to stand. “Come on, Professor. I told you this guy would be no help.”

But Tom didn’t move. He was glaring at Jack Willistone, who was giving it right back to him. Finally, Jack laughed. “McMurtrie, why don’t you cut the bullshit and tell me what you want?”

Tom nodded at Powell, who slid several sheets of paper across the table.

“What the hell is this?” Jack asked, beginning to leaf through the papers.

“It’s a list of visitors to the jail,” Powell said. “Each sheet has the date, the name of the visitor, and the name of the inmate the visitor has come to see. It also has the check-in time of the visitor and the checkout time. The highlighted names are the people who came to see you.”