Between Black and White Read online

  Bo paused. Then his face cleared in an instant and he shook Ray Ray’s hand, feigning a smile. “God help me,” he said under his breath.

  “When Gabriel is busy, God sometimes sends Ray Ray,” Ray Ray whispered back.

  “General, are you ready to present the evidence?” the judge asked, turning to the prosecution table.

  Helen Lewis stood and spoke in a clear voice. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Very well then, please proceed.”

  As Sheriff Ennis Petrie had warned on the day of his arrest, the evidence presented by the State of Tennessee at the preliminary hearing for Bocephus Haynes was “conclusive and overwhelming.” First and as expected, the state proved motive through the testimony of Cassie Dugan, Dr. George Curtis, and Clete Sartain, who all recounted the confrontation between Bo and Andy Walton at Kathy’s Tavern a few hours before the murder. Sheriff Petrie then testified to Bo’s numerous attempts over the past two decades to reopen the investigation of his father’s murder.

  The next piece of evidence introduced by the prosecution was the testimony of the county coroner, Melvin Ragland. After a few questions to establish his credentials, Ragland opined that, on the morning of August 19, 2011 Andy Walton was shot to death from close range with a twelve-gauge shotgun. The time of death was approximately 1:15 a.m.

  Last came the surprises, and none of them were pleasant. Larry Tucker, owner of the Sundowners Club, was called to play the surveillance tape from the club the night of the murder. When he saw his own Lexus SUV on the screen with the personalized University of Alabama license plate “BO-1982” leaving the scene of the crime at 1:20 a.m., Bo had to squelch a groan. Then there was the DNA evidence. Blood and hair samples matching those of Andy Walton were found in the cargo area of Bo’s Lexus. And though it was impossible to conduct a ballistics check of a shotgun, the medical examiner was able to determine that the twelve-gauge seized from the backseat of Bo’s vehicle was the exact type of weapon used to kill Andy Walton. Finally, a shell casing found underneath Andy’s truck in the parking lot of the Sundowners was an exact match to the shells seized from the glove compartment of Bo’s car.

  When Rick informed Her Honor that the defendant would be calling no witnesses, Judge Connelly recessed for a short break. When court resumed fifteen minutes later, her ruling was short and to the point. “Based on the evidence presented by the State of Tennessee in this preliminary hearing, it is the ruling of this court that there is probable cause to believe that, on August 19, 2011 the defendant, Bocephus Aurulius Haynes, committed the crime of first-degree murder in wrongfully causing the death of Andrew Davis Walton. This case will now be bound over to the grand jury.” Connelly paused and leaned back in her chair. “Court adjourned.”

  24

  After Judge Connelly left the bench, Helen Lewis made a beeline for the defense table. She held her hand up to stop the two sheriff’s deputies who had entered the courtroom to take Bo back to the jail.

  “Gentlemen, you heard the evidence,” she said, looking at each of them for a second before setting her gaze on Bo. “And unlike most cases, I didn’t hold anything back. I have never seen a more open-and-shut, black-and-white case.” She smiled, her eyes tight. Mean. “I’ll offer life in prison, but only if the defendant accepts before the arraignment. Mrs. Walton is acceptable to this plea, though I frankly believe that it is very generous, given the heinous nature of this crime.” She paused, still looking at Bo.

  Bo held her gaze. “No,” he said. His voice was low and did not waver. “No deals.”

  Helen glanced at Rick, then back at Bo. “I’m going to forget I heard that, Bo, and give you time to discuss this deal with your counsel.”

  “We’ll get back to you,” Rick broke in, stepping in front of Bo so that he didn’t have to look at Helen anymore.

  “Let me hear from you no later than the day of the arraignment,” Helen said. “Knowing Susan, she will have this case in front of the grand jury within a week. There’s not a doubt in my mind that the grand jury will issue an indictment, and the arraignment will be scheduled a few days later. You have some time, Counselor, but not much. If Bo pleads not guilty at the arraignment, there won’t be any more deals coming from my office.”

  “You thinking trial in late September?” Ray Ray asked.

  Helen smiled again, turning toward him. “Why, Ray Ray, I almost forgot you were over here. You were so quiet during the hearing.”

  Ray Ray smiled his Joker grin. “I’m a sneaky bastard, Helen. Plus I think all you’ve got here is a first-rate frame-up. Ain’t no way a jury in this county is going to believe that Bocephus Haynes would convict himself with that crock you introduced today.”

  “A frame-up?” Helen asked, her voice high and filled with glee. “How much are you drinking these days, Ray Ray?”

  “Not as much as your ex,” Ray Ray said, his grin widening. “Butchie boy likes the good stuff.” He paused, lowering his voice. “He sure appreciates you maintaining his lifestyle for him.”

  Helen’s pale face turned crimson red, and her hands balled into fists. “You son of a—”

  “Easy, General,” Ray Ray cut her off, nodding at the press corps assembled in the gallery. “You wouldn’t want to make a scene.”

  Helen gave a quick jerk of her head and turned back to Rick. “Let me hear from you by the arraignment.”

  25

  Though the Giles County Jail was air conditioned, the cramped space of the consultation room felt combustible as Bo paced in front of them, alternately glaring at Rick, then Ray Ray. Finally, placing his hands on his hips, he fixed his eyes on Rick. “What in the hell is going on?”

  “The Professor was attacked last Tuesday night on the courthouse square,” Rick said, keeping his voice steady. When Bo’s eyes widened, Rick held out his palms. “He’s OK, but he’s hurt bad. He suffered a couple broken ribs and a severe concussion. He also tore some ligaments in his right knee and can barely walk.” Rick paused. “He was in the hospital for five days, but he’s out now.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me—?”

  “That was the Professor’s call,” Rick interrupted. “He saw no point in upsetting you before the prelim.”

  Bo gazed down at the concrete floor. “Where is he?”

  “The farm in Hazel Green. The doctor said he needs to be off his feet at least a month.”

  “Jesus,” Bo said, scratching the back of his head and closing his eyes. “He could miss the trial.” As they all processed that possibility, Bo opened his eyes. “How did it happen?”

  “He was jumped from behind after interviewing the waitress at Kathy’s Tavern who served you the night of the murder.” Rick kept his voice calm and remained in his seat.

  “Cassie?” Bo said, scratching his chin.

  “You keep good company, Bocephus,” Ray Ray chimed in, and Bo pointed a finger at him.

  “When I want to hear from you, I’ll ask,” Bo said, his eyes on fire.

  “Fuck you if you can’t take a joke,” Ray Ray shot back.

  “I can’t believe you are in this room,” Bo said, keeping his finger pointed in Ray Ray’s direction while he turned his glare to Rick.

  “The Professor said he had already cleared Ray Ray as local counsel with you,” Rick said, not backing down. “He said this case was like a knife fight in a ditch and—”

  “That’s just my game,” Ray Ray finished Rick’s sentence, the wide grin back on his face.

  Bo turned to Ray Ray, looking at him for a long time. “I should’ve kicked your ass on the courthouse steps last year,” he finally said.

  “Why didn’t you?” Ray Ray asked.

  Bo shook his head and whispered an obscenity underneath his breath. Then he resumed his pacing. After a full minute he turned to Ray Ray. “You saw how bad it looks,” Bo said.

  “It looks like warmed-over dog shit,” Ray Ray said. “But I don’t care. I never liked the son of a bitch.”

  “You think I killed him?”

&n
bsp; Ray Ray shrugged. “If you did, nothing would make me happier than seeing you walk.”

  “I didn’t,” Bo said.

  “Well . . . good,” Ray Ray said. “I’d hate to have that eating at my conscience.”

  After a two-second pause, Bo managed a weak smile and sat down at the table. “All right then,” he said. “Where are we?” He looked at Rick, who in turn nodded at Ray Ray to begin.

  “The night Tommy was attacked, I went out to the Sundowners Club to interview anybody that had any contact with Andy on the night of the murder.” He squinted at Bo. “What you told Tommy was right, Bo. Andy did have a favorite.”

  “And?” Bo asked, placing his elbows on the table.

  “She’s gone.”

  26

  Larry Tucker was worried. It had been two weeks since Andy Walton’s murder, and Darla Ford had not reported back to work. Darla had always been one of his most reliable dancers, so this wasn’t like her. Plus it was beginning to hurt the bottom line. Not only was Darla reliable, Nikita—Darla’s stage name—was probably his most popular dancer. Several regulars had stopped coming in after Darla’s third day gone, and more would probably follow.

  “Any ideas?” Larry asked, gazing bleary-eyed across the bar at Peter Burns. It was 10:45 p.m. on Thursday night—prime time for business—but the club was almost empty.

  “Nope,” Peter said, drying off a beer mug with a towel. “Ain’t like Darla to do this. She’s pretty conscious about money, and I just don’t see her walking away from this job. She did well here.”

  “Damn straight,” Larry said. “And so did we. It’s killing the bottom line to have her gone.” Larry drank the rest of his bottle of Bud. “She have any family in the area?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Peter said, cracking the top on another Bud and putting it in front of Larry.

  “Shit,” Larry said, shaking his head and then taking a long swig of beer.

  “You think Mr. Walton may have left her a chunk of change when he died?” Peter asked.

  Larry shrugged. “Andy wasn’t thinking all that clearly in his last few months, so nothing would surprise me.”

  “Well, that’s all I can think of,” Peter said.

  “Me too,” Larry said. Then under his breath, “Shit.”

  Almost three hours later, at just past 1:30 a.m. on what was now Friday morning, Peter Burns sat in the driver’s side of his 1997 Ford Ranger truck and sipped on a cold Miller High Life. The other five beers that comprised the six-pack lay in the passenger-side seat, and the radio blared a favorite from Kenny Chesney. “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problems.”

  Peter was still dressed in his work clothes, which consisted of a pair of khaki shorts, an untucked navy-blue golf shirt, and flip-flops A faded Atlanta Braves hat was perched on his head, which covered his long but thinning dirty-blond hair. He had two days of stubble on his face, and he scratched it before taking another sip of beer.

  Then he peered up at the second-floor apartment. No lights on inside, though that wasn’t unusual. Darla was religiously frugal and wouldn’t allow a light on in her place unless it was being used to read. So she could be in there, but Peter doubted it. He had tried to call her several times in the last two weeks with no answer, and like Larry he was worried. But—and he would never tell Larry this—he was also excited.

  Peter finished the rest of the beer and grabbed the carton from the passenger seat. Then he opened the door to the truck and trudged his way to Darla’s apartment, his heart racing.

  His relationship with Darla was not something he had publicized. He didn’t want Larry to know, because he knew Larry wouldn’t like it. Larry could have all the girls at the Sundowners he wanted, but he didn’t want any of the other male help touching them. The bouncer, big Steve, was gay, so it didn’t make much difference to him. But Saint Peter, as the dancers called him, liked the opposite sex, and it was a little much to ask him not to be interested in the women whom he watched dance naked all day long.

  So he had gotten with a few over the years, including Darla Ford, a.k.a. Nikita. But Peter quickly figured out that Darla was different than the other girls. Darla was smart. Not book smart, mind you. She didn’t quote Shakespeare or read the classics every night. But she was smart in the ways of the street. She knew how to make money and she knew how to save it. And Peter had always felt that she wasn’t long for the Sundowners.

  It seemed like every dancer that became employed by the Sundowners had a story of some kind. Studying up to be a doctor, a nurse, a hairdresser, an actress, screenwriter, and on and on. You name it, Peter had heard it. And though the stories all sounded good, Peter had never seen any of these girls ever follow through with their dream. To Peter’s mind, dancing nude for money had a way of killing the soul. A girl might start working toward her goal—sign up for school, start taking classes during the day or take a job in that field—but the nightly grind of dancing the pole would wear them down. As would the cocaine, the meth, the liquor, or whatever else a girl put in her system to allow her to take her clothes off and rub her tits into the faces of men twice her age who reeked of body odor and whose breath smelled like castor oil.

  Darla Ford was different. She did no drugs and limited her alcohol intake to one Seven and Seven, which she’d sip on all night and which Peter would refill with just 7 Up. Every night Darla’s goal was always the same. To take home as much money as humanly possible. To do that she had to give the best show, and no one at the club had ever danced like Nikita. She was the most requested dancer for lap dances, and, outside of Tammie Gentry, a.k.a. Sweet & Nasty, and Wilma Newton, a.k.a. Smokey, the only other dancer asked to go up to the VIP room and make the big bucks.

  In the VIP room Peter knew that Darla had sex for money. She had so much as told him. “But only a small minority get to sample the merchandise,” she had said. “Only the really deep pockets who I think might come back for more.”

  Andy Walton had fit the bill to a tee. A lonely seventysomething-year-old billionaire looking for a good time because his wife had gone cold between the sheets.

  Peter wasn’t sure how much money Darla had stored away, but one night, after a romp on the mattress in her apartment, she’d volunteered that she was just about ten grand short of being able to place a down payment on her dream.

  “I’m going to have the best oyster bar on the Gulf Coast, you just wait,” she had said.

  By the time Peter reached the door to Darla’s apartment, he had already popped the top on beer number two. He knocked, because it was the polite thing to do, but he knew there would be no answer. Then, taking out the key that Darla had given him two years ago, he opened the door.

  No lights, no sounds . . . no Darla.

  She’s gone, Peter knew, involuntarily smiling. He remembered that scene at the end of the movie Good Will Hunting when Ben Affleck goes to Matt Damon’s house and doesn’t find him there. Affleck smiles, knowing that his friend has finally moved on.

  Walking back into the kitchen, Peter noticed the note on the table. It was handwritten on a three-and-a-half by five-inch index card. The message was short and to the point.

  “Saint Peter, I’m out of here. You know where to find me. I hope you will come. If not, you are welcome to whatever’s left in the apartment.”

  Peter Burns closed his eyes, the smile still playing on his lips. Her ship had come in.

  The arrangement with Andy Walton had finally paid off.

  Peter decided to spend one last night in Darla’s apartment. He drank the rest of the six-pack and watched old Seinfeld episodes on one of the three channels Darla had on her TV. Then, not quite drunk, he lay on the mattress in her bedroom and thought through his options.

  He had lived in Giles County all his life. He hadn’t gone to college, and, outside of the occasional trip to Nashville, he had barely left town. He had only been to the beach once in his life. A spring break trip to Gulf Shores, Alabama in high school.

  I can pour whiskey anywhere, he
knew, imagining the emerald-green waters of the Gulf.

  By the time he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the salt water . . .

  He woke up hungover but motivated. Though not as frugal as Darla, he had saved a few bucks here and there. Enough to make the trek to the coast and put a down payment on a new apartment. And that’s all I’ll need, he thought, smiling with excitement. I’m really going to do it, he told himself. I’m going to get the hell out of here.

  He pulled into his apartment and literally jumped out of the seat. No looking back now, he thought. He didn’t want to lose his gumption. He’d call his landlord, pack a bag, and stop at the Sundowners on the way out of town.

  I can be eating oysters on the coast by sundown.

  As he began fiddling for the key to his apartment, which was a ground-level unit in a complex popular with the Martin College kids, he was startled by a voice from behind him.

  “Mr. Burns?”

  Peter turned and saw a young man wearing a shirt and tie walking his way. The top button on the man’s shirt was unbuttoned, and his tie was loose and wrinkled. College kid? Peter initially thought, but then he changed his mind when the man got closer and Peter saw his bloodshot eyes and the yellow pad he was holding.

  “Who wants to know?” Peter asked, crossing his arms, annoyed that his momentum had been interrupted.

  “Rick Drake,” the man said. “I’m a lawyer for Bo Haynes. Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “I’m busy right now, kid,” Peter said. “I’m actually about to leave town for a while.”

  “I’ve been waiting in the parking lot all night,” Rick said. “I tried to reach you at the Sundowners, but each time I called they said you were ‘busy.’”

  “I couldn’t talk there anyway,” Peter said. “Too loud.” He smiled. “And too many distractions.”

  Rick smiled back. “I’m sorry to just show up here. My client had apparently met you here before, so he gave me the address.”