Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(52)

But she wasn’t the only clue. There was something else.

Something else . . . right under their nose.





35


Bocephus Haynes lowered his chest to the concrete floor. “Forty-five,” he said out loud as if anyone in the cell could hear him. He did five more push-ups and then switched to planks. Five minutes later, when he had reached the point of physical exhaustion, he crumpled to the concrete and rolled over on his back.

Because of the press the case had garnered, Ennis had decided to keep Bo in the holding cell as opposed to moving him to general population. The decision suited Bo just fine, as he had no wish to rub elbows with any of the other patrons of the Giles County Jail. But he’d now been incarcerated for over two weeks, and the boredom and monotony had become almost unbearable.

The cell was pitch dark, but Bo was used to the shortage of light. It was also deathly quiet in the small space, the constant noise of the day ceasing after the warden called for lights out. Bo gazed at the ceiling, trying not to think about the Professor licking his wounds in Hazel Green. My fault, he knew. I shouldn’t have dragged him into this mess. Bo sighed and closed his eyes. Images of Jazz, T. J., and Lila floated through his brain, causing his heart to ache. They had not come to see him, and in all truth he was relieved. He didn’t want his son and daughter to see him here. And Jazz . . . he couldn’t bear to see her look of disappointment and shame. I’ve let them all down . . .

Bo rolled over into push-up position and started another set, trying to will the negative thoughts out of his brain. He had reached ten when he heard the sliding door swoosh open. Figuring it was a corrections officer doing some type of nightly sweep of the jail, Bo continued his push-ups. He stopped when he saw the loafers come into view. That wasn’t the footwear of a corrections officer.

“Got a minute, Bo?” a weary but familiar voice asked.

Bo shot to his feet and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Blinking inside the dark room, he recognized the round face of Mayor Dan Kilgore. The mayor was a bullnecked man with thinning silver hair who usually had a broad grin plastered on his face.

But he wasn’t grinning now.

“What—?”

“Relax,” the mayor said, taking a seat in one of the metal chairs at the desk. “I’ve been meaning to visit you, but I didn’t want to come during normal hours when the press leeches are out.”

“Well . . . thanks. I guess,” Bo said, taking the seat across the small desk from the mayor.

Dan Kilgore had been the mayor of Pulaski for twelve years. Back when he was a city councilman, Kilgore had been a big part of the Klan rally boycott in 1989, and since becoming mayor was constantly pushing progressive programs and measures.

“Bo, nothing we say in here can be used against you. I’ve already covered that with the General, and she understands.”

Bo smiled. “Sure.”

“Believe what you want to believe, but you can talk freely.”

Bo shrugged. “Why are you here, Mayor?”

“To ask you to plead guilty.”

For a moment Bo didn’t think he’d heard him correctly. “What?”

“There’s still time. Take the deal the General has proposed. It’s . . . better than the alternative.”

“I didn’t do it,” Bo said. “I’m not pleading to nothing.”

“Bo, the evidence—”

“I was framed, Mayor.”

Kilgore smiled sadly. “If you say so. Bo, Pulaski . . . has changed so much over the past two decades. So many good things are happening here, and you’ve been a big part of that. Do you really want all of our progress to go out the window?”

“I didn’t kill Andy Walton. I’m not going to rot away in a prison cell to save this town. My daddy was lynched when I was five years old, and I saw the man that did it. And no one here has done one damn thing about that. Not even you, Mayor.”

“Bo—”

“Let me finish. No one lifted a finger for me, and you want to know why? Because they were scared. Just like you, Mayor. Scared that if Andy Walton was charged with the murder of my father, then Pulaski would be dragged into another story about the Ku Klux Klan.”

“Bo, you know that’s not true.”

“It is true!” Bo screamed, bringing his fist down on the table. “Now you just want me to take one for the team. Plead guilty to a crime I didn’t commit? Why should I do that, Mayor? When has this town ever had my back?”

Kilgore sighed and stood from his chair. He began to pace back and forth in the small space. “You know they’ll come, don’t you?”

“The Klan?” Bo asked.

Kilgore nodded. “My office has been inundated with calls all day long from different factions. Permits have been requested by the Klan for every single day from mid-September until the end of October.”

Bo said nothing as Kilgore continued to pace and rant.

“It’ll be the Heritage Festival on steroids,” the mayor said, referring to the annual rally organized by various Klan sympathizers that was held on the Giles County Square every fall in Pulaski. He sighed again and stuffed his hands in pockets. “Won’t just be them either. The NAACP’s been calling too. And the press . . . it’s going to be the circus of all circuses.”