Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(71)

“We think she took the bus,” Ennis said, his eyes boring into George’s.

“This all sounds very interesting, Ennis,” George began, feigning boredom and faking a yawn, “but I don’t see how any of it concerns me.”

Slowly, Ennis stood and brushed past George to the front door. After he grabbed the knob, he snapped his fingers and looked over his shoulder at George. “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot. George, why did you destroy your sign-in book with Booher’s name on it? Dabsey said she always kept the sign-in book until the end of the month, but this one was gone when she arrived for work on Monday.”

“I spilled coffee on it,” George said.

“Convenient,” Ennis said, nodding. Then, opening the door, he spoke without looking at George. “George, I’m only going to ask this once. Is JimBone Wheeler the fixer Larry was talking about at the farm the night of Andy’s funeral?”

George paused for two seconds while Ennis waited in the opening. Summoning all the strength he had in his voice, George said, “No. Ennis, I swear to God.”

Sheriff Ennis Petrie turned his head and glared at George.

“I swear to God,” George repeated.



Ennis sat in his patrol car for several minutes after the confrontation, watching George Curtis’s house. That prick had better not be lying to me . . .

George was dirty. Ennis knew it. But the bastard was also slippery as a minnow’s dick. Like with the coffee spill on the sign-in book, George always had an answer for everything. Which is a good thing, Ennis tried to tell himself. If George is lying and he and Larry did hire JimBone, he’ll have himself covered.

Which should cover me too.

Sighing, Ennis eased the squad car forward. One thing that made no sense was how any of this related to the murder of Andy Walton. As General Lewis said every time Bo’s defense team mentioned the possibility that JimBone Wheeler might be involved, every ounce of physical evidence at the crime scene pointed to Bo Haynes as Andy’s killer.

Ennis’s cell phone buzzed. He grabbed the phone off the passenger-side seat. “Yeah?”

“Sheriff, this is Lonnie Dupree down at the bus station. I was calling about the video your office requested.”

“What?” Ennis asked.

“The video. Deputy Springfield asked me to pull last Friday’s surveillance tape of riders getting off and on the buses.”

“OK, Lonnie. Thanks for getting back to us. What do you have?”

“We’ve got her,” Lonnie said, his voice rising with excitement and pride.

“What?”

“The girl in the flyer,” Lonnie said. “She’s on the tape.”





52


When Tom entered the courtroom on Tuesday morning, he immediately noticed the cameras in back, already in place to film every second of the trial. Sweeping his eyes around the courtroom, he saw that there was not a single open space on either the ground floor or the balcony. Sold out, he thought, limping toward the defense table, where Rick Drake was flipping through his outline for the opening statement while Bo sat stoically in his chair.

“Ready to be famous?” Tom asked, and Rick gave a nervous laugh. He had practiced his opening deep into the night and knew it by heart.

“Remember the mantra from trial team?” Tom asked.

“Calm, slow, Andy,” Rick said, taking a deep breath.

“Glad you were paying attention,” Tom said, slapping him on the back. Before big trial team competitions, Tom had always advised his students to repeat the line “Calm, slow, Andy” to themselves. It was a visual intended to help them relax. If they spoke to the jury in the same calm and slow manner that Andy Griffith used in talking to Barney or Opie, they would have a relaxed and confident effect.

“Any word from Ray Ray?” Rick asked, and Tom shook his head.

“No, but he’ll be here,” Tom said.

“Speak of the devil,” Rick said, pointing behind Tom to the doors of the courtroom. Tom turned to see Ray Ray Pickalew walking toward them, his head down and his hands in his pockets.

“Glad you could make it, sunshine,” Tom said.

Ray Ray grunted. “Not in the mood, Tommy.”

He passed by them and plopped down in the chair next to Bo. Like before, Rick smelled the powerful odors of mouthwash and aftershave, which were still not able to completely mask the scent of alcohol beneath the surface.

“Any luck last night?” Tom asked.

Ray Ray turned and looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Not yet. But I’m close.”





53


By the time the jury was in the box on Tuesday morning, the Giles County Courthouse Square was covered in a sea of white robes and hoods. The Klansmen were split up into what their leader referred to as “brigades.”

All of the men in the Lawrenceburg brigade had assembled that morning at the First Church of God. They had been dropped off by the church bus two hours ago on the south side of the Giles County Courthouse square directly in front of the Sam Davis statue. Some of the men had not worn their hoods on the bus ride over, but most had. It seemed that the majority did not want their faces to be shown on television, and they all knew that cameras would be everywhere.

One of the men who left his hood on was Cappy Limbaugh, the owner of the Sleepy Head Inn in Lawrenceburg. Cappy had gotten his girlfriend to watch the front desk for him so he could participate in the rally. Cappy was almost sixty years old and had been a member of the Klan back in the ’70s. Eventually, though, he’d grown tired of the Klan and its changing leaders and directions. He’d gotten out in 1982 and had never looked back. Cappy had decided that there was no point or percentage in being associated with a group that hated black people. Hell, black people needed a motel room too. At the Sleepy Head, if you had the money, Cappy had the room. He didn’t give a damn about your color, race, creed, or sexual orientation. If there was one thing he’d learned in his fifty-nine years, it was that money talked and everything else was pure grain bullshit.