Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(53)

“What’s the pulse of the town?” Bo asked.

Kilgore let his hands fall to his side. “Nobody knows what to do, Bo. I mean . . . no offense, but you look guilty as hell. And with Jasmine leaving town and resigning from the college . . . I don’t know, I think everyone just feels paralyzed.”

For almost a minute neither man said anything. Finally, Bo spoke. “I’m sorry, Mayor, but I’m not going to plead guilty to something I didn’t do.”

Dan Kilgore nodded solemnly and walked away. When he reached the sliding door, he said, “I’m sorry too, Bo.”



Out in the hallway the mayor’s face told the story.

“No dice?” Helen asked.

Kilgore shook his head. “He says he didn’t do it.”

“Just like every person who’s ever been charged with a crime.”

“Bo Haynes is not a common criminal, General.”

Helen nodded in agreement. “No, Mayor, he’s not. But on August 19, 2011 he killed Andy Walton in cold blood, moved his body to Walton Farm, and then hung him from the same tree where the Ku Klux Klan lynched his father.”

Kilgore smirked. “That’s going to sound good on TV, General. What are you going to do after the trial? Run for governor?”

Helen started to say something but then stopped herself. She’d let the mayor have that one.

Trudging down the hall, the mayor sighed. “You’re gonna be the only winner in this deal, General. The town will lose. Bo will lose. Even if he were to somehow win the case, he’ll still lose. The college will lose. Every damn body will lose except General Helen by God Lewis.” He paused and turned to face her. “You’ll win. You’ll win even if you lose, and the damnable part of it is you already know. This case is going to make you a national celebrity.”

“You may not believe this, Mayor,” Helen said, speaking in a calm tone, “but I get no joy in prosecuting Bo, and I certainly don’t relish the idea of putting him to death. Bocephus Haynes is one of the finest lawyers in this state. I have a great deal of respect for him.”

“He says he didn’t do it,” Kilgore said.

“But he did,” Helen replied, her voice devoid of any doubt. “The evidence is overwhelming. If I had any question about Bo’s guilt, I would not be charging him, but . . . he did it.” She paused, crossing her arms against her chest. “I’m sorry, but I have to do my job.”

Kilgore nodded. Déjà vu all over again, he thought. Then: “I’m sorry too.”





36


They left The Boathouse five minutes after Darla arrived. They were sitting too close to the band to be able to talk, and there weren’t any other empty seats. Rick closed his tab, and then Darla led him by the hand through the crowd of people to the exit.

A few minutes later they were walking along the dock of boats that lined the harbor, the music from The Boathouse band still playing faintly in the background. Darla had yet to let go of Rick’s hand, and Rick wasn’t exactly sure how to take that. He felt woozy, his head spinning from the alcohol, the panic over having lost Burns, and fatigue and stress from the last few days. He breathed in the salt air, feeling his arms involuntarily shake.

“Thanks for coming,” Rick said, trying to direct his jumbled thoughts back to his purpose for being here.

“You’re welcome,” she said, taking a seat on a white bench that looked out over the harbor. Rick glanced to his left and right, and they appeared to be alone. There were still a few stragglers drinking beers at the outside bar of The Boathouse, but they were well out of earshot. Still holding his hand, Darla patted the place next to her. “Pop a squat,” she said, and Rick smiled. His mother used to say that when she wanted him to sit.

Rick sat on the bench, self-conscious of his right hand, which Darla was still holding, now with both of hers.

“You don’t like holding my hand?” Darla asked, puckering her lips, feigning that her feelings were hurt.

“Uh . . . I . . .”

Darla punched his shoulder and laughed. “Relax, Counselor. I’m just joshing you.” She turned to face him, propping her left knee on the bench so that it touched his side and wrapping his right hand again with both of her own. “I’m sorry, it’s just a habit.”

“What is?” Rick asked, looking at her. The breeze coming off the water flittered her hair, but she made no move to fix it.

“Being touchy-feely. I was a dancer for eight years and”—she paused, smiling at him—“you learn things about men.”

“What things?” Rick asked.

“Most men want to be touched.”

When Rick raised his eyebrows, Darla giggled. “No, silly. Not a sexual touch. All men like that.” She lowered her voice and narrowed her eyes, and Rick felt a warmth come over him that he tried to fight off.

“I’m just talking about physical touch,” she said. “Like this.” She held up their interlocked hands. Then she let her left hand slide up his arm, resting it on his shoulder. “And this.”

Rick felt his cheeks reddening and was glad for the dark.

“Most men are starved to be touched like this,” she continued, running her hand up his neck. “At least . . . the men that came into the club seemed to be.”