Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(48)

“OK . . .” Jack said. “So what do you want to know?”

“Why did Larry Tucker come to see you on July 20, 2011?” Tom asked. “It’s on the third sheet of paper.”

“Money,” Jack said without turning to the sheet.

“Be more specific,” Tom said, feeling a twinge of excitement. Money was a powerful motive.

“He said the club’s income was down almost half from the year before. A lot of the reason why was that my trucks weren’t rolling.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“I mean you boys shut me down last year. We had over a hundred drivers, and on any given week anywhere from twenty-five to fifty of them would be hauling ass down Highway 64 to one of Andy Walton’s businesses in Pulaski, Columbia or Lawrenceburg. We wore that stretch of road out, and the Sundowners was a regular stopover. The Tennessean Truck Stop in Cornersville is just thirty minutes away, so the boys could go off duty at the Sundowners, have a few beers, and look at some skin, and be asleep in their berths less than an hour later, ready for the next haul in the morning. Those that got too drunk would just stay parked in the lot until they were sober. Larry didn’t mind.” Jack took a quick drag on the cigarette. “But that all changed last June. When I was arrested, the Feds launched a full-scale investigation of my company, and all operations came to a halt for ninety days.” He shrugged. “That’s a long time, gentlemen. When my drivers stopped getting paid . . .” Jack paused and took a last drag on the cigarette before tapping it out in Zorn’s coffee cup. “I can’t blame them for leaving. A man’s got to eat.”

“So . . . are you saying that the federal investigation put Willistone Trucking Company out of business?” Powell asked.

“Actually, no. McMurtrie over there is who put me out of business.” He paused, chuckling bitterly. “We had to bankrupt after that jury in Henshaw came back with its ninety-million-dollar verdict.”

“If it makes you feel any better, all we ended up receiving was the policy limits,” Tom said.

“It doesn’t. I’d have rather paid the ninety million and stayed in business. But we were mortgaged to the hilt, and my arrest, followed by the Feds’ investigation . . . we just couldn’t withstand all of that going on at once.” He took another cigarette out of the pack and placed it in his mouth. “Sad thing is that my logs were clean as a whistle, and they got nothing from any of the boys. Not one damn thing. But for that ridiculous verdict, we’d still be rolling.” Jack squinted at Tom from across the table. “You shut me down, you son of a bitch. You, showing up at the trial when you did.”

“What did Tucker want?” Tom asked, trying to redirect the conversation back on point.

“A loan,” Jack said. “Anything I could spare.” Jack leaned toward Zorn, and his attorney lit the new cigarette. “He also wanted to know why the drivers had stopped coming in. He knew about the verdict and my arrest, but he hadn’t heard about the bankruptcy.” Jack puffed on the cigarette. “So I filled him in on the bad news.”

“And he went away empty-handed?” Tom asked.

“Like everyone coming in here wanting handouts.”

“Why didn’t Tucker ask Andy Walton for money?”

“You’d have to ask Larry about that,” Jack said.

“During Tucker’s visit, did he mention any other problems he was having?” Tom asked.

“No, just the money.”

“Did JimBone Wheeler’s name ever come up?” Powell asked.

Jack shook his head. “No.”

“Mr. Willistone, I’ve done the math and it appears that outside of your wife and son, the person who came to see you the most was Andy Walton. Does that sound correct?” Tom asked.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“It looks like he came four times, starting on March 1, 2011. His last visit was August 11, just a week before his murder.”

“If you say so,” Jack said.

“Look at the last page of the stack.”

Jack put the cigarette in the cup and flipped through the documents to the last page. He held the sheet out from him and then brought it closer, like someone who needed bifocals might do. Then he smiled.

“Something funny?”

“Just you boys,” Jack said. “All right, I see it.”

“You see the name Andy Walton and the date August 11, 2011?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he come to see you on August 11?”

“I really don’t remember much about that day. The first time Andy came, he had a bunch of questions about other freight haulers. Who was good? Who would I recommend? Anyone I’d stay away from? That kind of stuff. When we’d gone under, every Tom, Dick, and Harry had come to Andy, wanting his business. The last couple times . . .” Jack paused, smiling again.

What is he smiling about? Tom wondered.

“The last couple times all he wanted to talk about was prison life. How were they treating me? The food? Was I able to sleep? That kind of stuff. I got the feeling . . .” Jack paused.

“What?” Tom pressed.

“I got the feeling he was worried he might end up here. In prison I mean.”

Tom glanced at Powell. Now they were getting somewhere. Based on the documents, “the last couple times” would be August 1 and August 11, 2011, less than a month from Andy’s murder. Powell nodded for Tom to continue the questioning.