Between Black and White Page 16

  With no hesitation Burns shook some salt on his wrist, sucked it, and then turned the shot glass up. He took it down in one swig, then shook his head and put the lime in his mouth. “Ah, tequila!” he yelled, putting the other shot glass in Rick’s hand and shaking salt on Rick’s wrist. “Come on, dude, you’re paying for all this. At least do a shot with me.”

  Thinking what the hell, Rick licked his wrist, turned up the shot glass, and then sucked the lime.

  “That a boy,” Peter said. Then, leaning into him, “Now, let’s forget about that girlfriend of yours, and let’s find us a wife for the night. What do you say?”

  “Darla,” Rick managed, coughing the words out, his throat burning with the taste of the tequila.

  “She’ll be here,” Peter said, his words a bit slurred. “But until she arrives . . .” He gestured toward a group of girls wearing bikini tops and blue jean cutoffs. If they were twenty-one years old, they had just turned it. “Let’s be social. What do you say?”

  Thirty minutes later the men were seated inside the restaurant at the table closest to the band. Burns had ordered two dozen oysters, but he wasn’t eating them, having moved his chair to the neighboring table, where the group of bikini-clad college girls—four sorority sisters from Jacksonville State on a last trip to the beach before classes started—reveled in Peter’s stories from the Sundowners Club. Either that or they were just putting up with him because he kept buying them beers and shots and charging them to Rick’s credit card.

  I’m going to have a three-hundred-dollar bill, Rick thought, putting an oyster drenched with cocktail sauce on a cracker and popping it in his mouth. He washed the concoction down with the remains of another Corona, his second, and leaned back in his seat. Taking out his phone, he went to check his e-mail and see if he’d missed any calls, but his phone was now dead.

  Damnit. In his haste to leave Pulaski, he’d forgotten to juice up his phone and had left the charger on the dresser at the bed and breakfast. Stealing a glance at Burns, he made his way to the restroom, wondering if Darla Ford was really going to show, or if this was just one big hoax. A con played by a strip club bartender who had spent his whole life playing folks like Rick. Maybe, he thought, but what are my other options?

  When he returned to his seat, the band was playing John Anderson’s “Straight Tequila Night,” but Rick wasn’t hearing anything. He looked at the barely touched plate of oysters, and he wasn’t hungry.

  “Another beer?” the waitress yelled from behind him, and Rick gave her the thumbs-up sign. Blinking his eyes, he realized that the table of bikini-clad girls was gone, and there was no sign of Burns.

  Rick turned all the way around in his chair, his eyes frantically scanning the crowd. Where the hell was Burns?

  He stood and did a sweep of the bar with his eyes, still not seeing him, and then began to walk around the place, which was packed, his eyes darting to every corner, nook, and cranny. Nothing.

  Rick lumbered back to his seat in a daze. “Have you seen the guy that came in with me? Hawaiian shirt, shorts, stubble?” he asked the waitress, who was setting a Corona down at his place at the table.

  “The guy talking with the table of girls?” she asked, pointing to the now-empty table.

  “Yes,” Rick said, nodding. “Did you see—?”

  “I’m pretty sure he left.”

  Rick just stood there, unbelieving, as the waitress walked away from him. He slunk down in his seat. Burns was gone. He’d driven the bastard to Destin, Florida, and now he was gone. And Rick had no idea where. Had he left with one of the girls at the adjacent table? Or had he just split the minute he saw Rick head to the bathroom?

  Damnit. Rick held the cold longneck to his forehead and closed his eyes. The band started in on “Whiskey River,” by Willie Nelson, and Rick couldn’t think of a more appropriate song. He drained half the beer in one gulp and slammed the drink on the table.

  All for nothing, he thought. The whole trip. He’d been played a fool. He should’ve known Burns would split the minute Rick let him out of his sight.

  Rick drained the beer with two more sips and gave the signal to the waitress as she passed by to bring him another. For an instant he thought of Bocephus Haynes, alone in his cold jail cell, and guilt washed over him. Bo had put so much faith in the Professor and Rick. And the Professor had been beaten up and . . .

  . . . I’m getting drunk in an oyster bar on the Gulf Coast.

  Rick took the beer out of the waitress’s hand before she could set it down and took a quick sip. Too quick, in fact, as most of the drink went straight up his nose. He set the bottle down and it bubbled over, making a mess.

  “That won’t do you any good,” a voice said from behind him, and Rick spun around to see a smiling woman. She was short, maybe five foot two, if that, and was wearing a black tank top and khaki low-cut shorts. Her skin was tanned golden brown, and her eyes, also brown, gave him a curious glance. “The lawyer, right?” she asked, and Rick nodded as she took the seat across from him.

  “Are you—?”

  “Darla Ford,” she interrupted, extending her small hand.

  Rick blinked at her in disbelief. Then as relief flooded his veins, he wiped his right hand on his pants and reached across the table.

  “Rick Drake.” When his hand clasped Darla’s, she held on to it for a second.

  “Well, Mr. Drake, if you don’t mind me saying so . . . you look like you could use a friend.”

  34

  Three hundred miles away, in his cell on the A Block of the St. Clair Correctional Facility, Jack Willistone lay on his cot, staring at the concrete ceiling above him. It had been lights-out for at least three hours, but Jack couldn’t sleep.

  He’d answered the questions about Martha Booher as well as he could. “An old friend. Met her in Nashville many years ago. She had been a barmaid at Tootsies, the famous bar in Nashville on Broadway Street.” They’d “spent some time together” on Jack’s trips to the Music City, but he hadn’t seen her in years. She’d heard the news and just wanted to say hello and that she was pulling for him. It was . . . “sweet,” Jack had said.

  And all of it was true. He’d just left out one minor detail.

  Our mutual friend sends his regards. He says he’s looking forward to seeing you when you get out of jail.

  It had been the last thing Martha said. Completely innocent, in case their conversation was being recorded. But the meaning came in loud and clear, and it was just as McMurtrie had predicted.

  Bone will come for me, Jack knew. He’ll come for me, and if I can’t pay . . .

  Jack closed his eyes, unwilling to allow himself to panic. A lot had happened since Martha’s visit. He had gotten a break.

  Someone had come to see him, and he had referred that person to Bone. Bone wasn’t stupid. He would know the source of his newfound income. The question, though, was would it be enough?

  Jack propped himself on his elbow on the cot and gazed through the steel bars. McMurtrie had put him here. In his whole life, a journey spent hustling some of the smartest and shrewdest businessmen in the country, McMurtrie was the only son of a bitch that ever got the best of him.

  He’ll figure it out, Jack knew, chuckling to himself. And when he does, Bone will either be dead or in prison for life. Either way he couldn’t get at Jack.

  Jack knew he could answer the riddle for them. But if he did that, he was committed. If they failed, Bone would most certainly come for him. And the referral wouldn’t make a damn. Not paying was one thing. Outright betrayal was another. I’d be a dead man walking, Jack knew.

  So he’d stay on the fence and hope that McMurtrie would figure it out. Martha Booher was certainly part of it. Booher might lead them right to Bone . . .

  . . . if they ever find her.

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

  Something else . . . right under their nose.

  35

  Bocephus Haynes lowered his chest to t
he 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.”

  “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.”