Between Black and White (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #2)(79)

“Ray Ray, calm down,” Tom said. He’d never seen his friend this agitated. He wondered if he’d slept the last two nights.

“Calm nothing,” Ray Ray said, turning up the bottle. “We’re f*cked, Tom. We’re f*cked six ways from Sunday.”





64


At 7:30 a.m. on Thursday morning Cappy Limbaugh stepped outside and lit a cigarette. He wore his Ku Klux Klan robe and gripped the hood in the crook of his armpit. Luckily, outside of the Tuscaloosa prosecutor, there was only one other patron who’d stayed at the Sleepy Head last night—a trucker on his way to Memphis—and he’d already checked out. Walking around in KKK regalia wasn’t the best way to attract or keep business, but Cappy figured for what Wheeler was paying him it was worth the risk. He took a long drag on the Camel and glanced around his hotel, knowing that at least two sets of eyes were watching him now. The detective’s unmarked car was still parked outside the Huddle House across the street, and the prosecutor was no doubt watching from some corner of the property. Get a good look, boys, Cappy thought, smiling and stretching his arms above his head.

After waiting a full minute, Cappy flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it out. Then, making a show of it, he looked at the hood and placed it on his head. Then he went back inside and walked through the lobby to the garage in back.



“See him,” Powell croaked into the phone. He hadn’t slept at all during the night and desperately needed a cup of coffee.

“Got him,” Wade said. “I don’t remember him telling us he was going to a Klan rally this morning.”

“I don’t remember us asking,” Powell muttered.

“Garage door is opening,” Wade said. “He must be on the move.”

“If he’s moving, we need to move,” Powell said, and despite his fatigue he felt the adrenaline pulse through his veins. Pulaski, he thought. He’s going to Pulaski.

“On my way,” Wade said.

Less than a minute later Cappy Limbaugh’s orange Dodge Charger pulled onto the highway.

Wade eased his car to a stop in front of the motel, and Powell climbed inside, accepting the cup of coffee that Wade offered with a sigh of relief. “Thanks, brother.”

Wade and Powell turned onto the highway and picked up Limbaugh a quarter of mile later. “Hang back a little,” Powell said, taking a scalding sip of coffee and feeling the caffeine mixing with the adrenaline. Up ahead he could see the back of Limbaugh’s white hood from the front seat of the Charger. Without provocation Powell started to chuckle. Then he broke into a belly laugh.

“Mind telling me what’s so funny?” Wade asked, sipping from his own cup.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, his face still contorted in laughter. “It’s just . . . you realize that we are in hot pursuit of the General Lee?”

Wade glanced at Powell, then moved his eyes back to the road. Finally, he shook his head and also began to laugh. “Well . . . I guess you know what that makes us?”

Powell nodded, barely able to get the words out he was laughing so hard. “Rosco and Enos.”

For a full minute they laughed as they kept a respectable distance behind the Charger.

The laughter stopped when the Charger’s turn light came on and the bus came into view. It was parked in the front parking lot of a church, and the words “Lawrenceburg First Church of God” were painted down the side of it. Thirty or forty white-robed and hooded Klansmen were milling about the parking lot beside the bus, some beginning to embark the steps and climb inside.

“You don’t think . . . ?” Wade began as the Charger turned into the entrance to the church.

“Yep,” Powell nodded, feeling another wave of adrenaline. “They’re going to Pulaski.”





65


Ray Ray Pickalew didn’t show for court on Thursday morning. Given the man’s condition the night before, Tom couldn’t say he was all that surprised. Still, it was disappointing.

Damnit, Ray Ray, Tom thought, feeling the first pangs of regret at having associated his old teammate as local counsel. He’s come up lame at the finish line.

“Any word from Ray Ray?” Rick asked as the jury began to filter into the courtroom.

Tom turned to him, and his young partner had the bloodshot eyes of a trial lawyer entering the latter stages of a courtroom battle.

“Nothing,” Tom said. As he eased himself into his seat, using the cane for balance, Tom could feel his own fatigue setting in. His knee was also throbbing, and the Advil had stopped providing any relief. We’ll probably finish today, he told himself. Tomorrow at the latest. Suck it up, old man.

As he started to ask Rick a question, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. As nonchalant as he could be—he didn’t want the jury to see him checking his phone—he took it out and set it on the table between him and Rick. He tapped the screen so that the text message would be visible. Glancing down at the screen, he felt his breath catch in his throat.

The sender was Ray Ray Pickalew, and the message was short and sweet: I think I’ve found a witness who puts George Curtis AND Larry Tucker at the scene of Roosevelt Haynes’s lynching. Will bring him this afternoon.

Tom nudged Rick with his elbow and tapped the screen again, which had gone black after a few seconds. Tom watched as his young partner’s eyes grew wide. “So that’s what he’s been doing,” Rick whispered.