Between Black and White Page 24

  “I think my partner is onto something, and I’m out of suggestions. Come on, brother. I see it in your eye. Let’s hear our play.”

  Powell slowly nodded. “See that Huddle House across the street?”

  Wade stood and turned his head, seeing the red and blue neon lights of the Huddle House. “Yep.”

  “I want you to go over there and get some eggs and coffee. Get you a booth where you can keep both eyes on this parking lot. If you see anyone leaving the lot or walking around, anything suspicious, call me.”

  “And what are you going to do?”

  Powell grunted and turned back to the Sleepy Head. “I’m going to get a room.”

  62

  Cappy Limbaugh rented a room to the sandy-haired prosecutor, never letting the smile leave his face. “Sure am honored that you’d choose my place to stay the night,” Cappy offered. “Where did your friends go?”

  “They left,” Powell said, throwing three twenty-dollar bills on the counter.

  Cappy took the money and put it in his cash register. Then he slid the key to the room across the counter. Instead of a card, like most hotels provided these days, this was actually a rusted silver key. “Room 110. It’s on the back side of the property.” He paused. “Have a nice night.”

  Powell took the key and examined it, rolling it over in his hand before looking up at Cappy. “Mr. Limbaugh, you be sure and buzz my room if you see anything suspicious.”

  “Gladly, Mr. Prosecutor. Like I said, I’m proud to have a law dog stay at my establishment.”

  Powell smiled at him. “I bet.”

  Once the prosecutor had left the lobby building, Cappy strolled behind the counter to the garage in back. The prosecutor and the detective from Tuscaloosa had searched the garage high and low for almost an hour before the detective had left and the sandy-haired bastard had decided to get a room. Cappy wasn’t stupid. He knew the detective was close by. He’d seen him turn into the Huddle House. And he knew the prosecutor didn’t take a room because he was wowed by the accommodations.

  The garage was littered with lawn equipment, including a five-year-old John Deere riding lawn mower that Cappy used to cut the grass on the grounds of the hotel. There was also a weed eater, assorted cans of paint, and an electric- and gas-powered leaf blower. Against the right-hand wall next to the lawn mower was a crowbar, and Cappy quickly grabbed it. He knew he couldn’t be away from the front desk more than a couple minutes. Especially not with that goddamn prosecutor snooping around.

  In the center of the garage Cappy had parked his 1969 orange Dodge Charger, which he’d bought a few years after The Dukes of Hazzard had first come out. Involuntarily, Cappy smiled at the car, his pride and joy, and then opened the driver’s-side door and climbed in. The prosecutor and the detective had both made over the car during their inspection, but neither had come close to figuring anything out. Cappy felt with his fingers along the floorboard next to the accelerator and pulled up the carpet. Underneath, he could see the concrete garage floor. As the floor was littered with cracks from years of settlement, the jagged crevice underneath where the Charger sat wasn’t noticeable in any way. Just another crack in a garage full of them. Cappy took the crowbar and placed it in the fissure and pulled. Putting his face in the opening, Cappy pulled back the concrete block and looked underneath.

  When Cappy Limbaugh had first opened the Sleepy Head thirty years ago, he had gotten in a scrape with the Feds over unpaid taxes. Knowing he needed a good place to hide, he’d built the room underneath the garage so he would have a place to camp out when federal agents came by to interview him or, worse, if they wanted to arrest him. And considering his membership in the Klan, Cappy figured it couldn’t hurt to have a “safe room,” as he’d heard such places called.

  The room was five feet by eight and fit two people rather snugly. As he peered inside, the light from a flashlight caught him directly in the eyes and he looked away, blinking to get his bearings.

  “What’s up?” Bone asked from below.

  When Cappy turned back around, he saw the muzzle of a .38-caliber revolver pointed at him. Bone held the gun steady, but his eyes, typically calm and cold, were bloodshot red and wild, having not seen the outside in almost twenty-four hours.

  “That prosecutor from Tuscaloosa took a room. He’s staying the night, and his detective friend is camped across the street at the Huddle House.”

  “Shit,” Bone said.

  “Shit is right. You’ve got to get out of here. If I’m caught harboring a fugitive—”

  “Shut up. Just get back in there and act cool. Is my Klan outfit in the trunk?”

  “Yes.”

  Bone nodded to himself. “Good. All right. Look, tomorrow morning, before we leave for the bus, I want you to put on your Klan garb and walk outside the hotel. Stretch, fart, walk around. Let them see you. Then come back inside to the garage. I’ll be ready.”

  “How the—?” Cappy stammered, but Bone waved his hand to cut him off.

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got it all figured out. Just leave your car keys with me and get the hell out of here.”

  “Leave my keys? What—?”

  “Just do it, goddamnit.”

  Cappy dropped the keys into the hole and peered into Bone’s wild eyes. He started to say something else, but Bone’s look stopped him.

  “See you in the morning,” Bone said, shutting off the flashlight.

  For a moment Cappy thought about the girl. She was in there somewhere, but it was so dark Cappy couldn’t see her. Is she asleep? he wondered. Then a cold chill came over him. Is she dead?

  “Cappy, don’t make me shoot you,” Bone said, his voice cold as ice.

  Cappy Limbaugh moved the concrete block back into place, silently praying that tomorrow would be the last time he’d ever see JimBone Wheeler. Thirty seconds later he was back behind the counter in the lobby. His heartbeat had not stopped racing as his eyes bounced around the small room, making sure that everything was the same as he’d left it. As there were no customers and he saw no cars pulling in the parking lot, he reached into his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and headed for the door to the outside. Some fresh air and a hit of nicotine sounded good.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Powell checked into Room 110 and first did a clean sweep of everything. The bed, the shower, even the walls. He saw nothing that worried him about the room, other than the fact that it adjoined Room 109. He made sure the adjoining door was locked and then called Wade.

  “Where are you?”

  “Back booth at the Huddle House. Drinking a cup of coffee and eating some raisin toast. How’s your room? Free Wi-Fi, I’m hoping.”

  Powell laughed. “Free cable’s about it. Look, Wade, that Limbaugh cat is as dirty as a French whore. I’m going to explore the grounds a little. It’s probably nothing, but . . . it’s been a while since my antennas were up like this. Something’s wrong. I can feel it.”

  “Ten-four. I’ll be here until I get further word from you.”

  Powell clicked the “End” button and then called Rick.

  “Whatcha got?” Rick asked.

  “Jack shit,” Powell said, looking through the room blinds. The back side of the hotel looked out upon a field of weeds and brush. The room didn’t have much of a view and, worse, it was the farthest unit from the hotel lobby. “There’s no sign of him, and we’ve searched every square inch of Lawrence County.” Powell paused and stepped out of the room into the cool night air.

  “What are you going to do?” Rick asked. “Go back to Tuscaloosa?”

  Powell walked down the sidewalk and turned the corner so the lobby was now back in view. Beyond the lobby and across the street, he saw the red and blue lights of the Huddle House and a figure sitting in the back booth. Powell nodded, though he figured Wade was too far away to recognize the gesture. “Nah, it’s not quitting time yet. I’m going to hang out in Lawrenceburg tonight. There’s something here . . .” Powell moved his ey
es to the lobby building and saw Cappy Limbaugh step outside. The hotel owner turned his head left and right and then lit up a smoke as Powell slunk back a few steps into the darkness. “That’s just not right. How about y’all?” he asked, knowing that the trial would crank back up in the morning. “How are things going there?”

  There was a long pause. Then, his voice solemn and detached, Rick said, “Not good.”

  63

  Larry Tucker had an alibi.

  “He was with Tammie Gentry all night,” Ray Ray said, waving his arms and sloshing bourbon on the polished mahogany of Bo’s conference room table as Tom and Rick watched him with wide eyes. “All goddamn night.”

  “How did you—?” Rick started, but Ray Ray held up his palm.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ray Ray said, slurring his words. “If you cross Tucker on him knowing Andy was going to confess, it ain’t gonna make a hill of beans, because the General is just going to stuff his alibi right up our ass.”

  “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 fucked, Tom. We’re fucked 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.

  Tom nodded and turned his eyes back to the witness stand. He stifled the urge to smile. How could I have ever doubted Ray Ray?

  For the first time since being retained as Bo’s lawyer, Tom allowed himself to think of victory.

  If Ray Ray Pickalew had indeed found a witness who could place Dr. George Curtis and Larry Tucker at the scene of Roosevelt Haynes’s lynching in 1966, then Andy Walton’s intention to confess would be a powerful motive for murder. And with motive . . .

  Again, Tom fought the urge to smile as his heart raced in his chest.

  . . . we might just win this thing.

  66

  By the time the Lawrenceburg First Church of God bus arrived on the Giles County Courthouse square, the time was 9:15 a.m. Bocephus Haynes and his legal team would have long since arrived and gone inside the courthouse.

  JimBone Wheeler followed the brigade of Klansmen off the bus, knowing that he would likely only have one shot to complete his mission. But that was OK. One shot was better than no shot—especially after spending all of yesterday in the safe room at the Sleepy Head—and he was pleased with the plan he had developed in just a matter of seconds last night.

  He knew the prosecutor who’d stayed the night at the Sleepy Head and the detective who’d camped out at the Huddle House had followed the bus into Pulaski. From his seat in the back row, he’d caught sight of an unmarked black police car tailing the bus about a mile outside of Lawrenceburg.

  Bone knew that had to be them, and the knowledge had made him smile under his white hood. Gotcha, he had thought.

  Now, standing on the square surrounded by hundreds of other white-hooded and white-robed men, Bone waited for part two of his p
lan to unfold.

  In the trunk of the orange Dodge Charger, Cappy Limbaugh knew they’d waited long enough. He turned the lever in the back of the trunk down and leaned into the carpeted wall, and the wall folded down into the backseat of the car. Moving as quickly as his stiff limbs would carry him, he crawled through the opening, with Martha Booher right behind him. He shut the opening and then slowly raised his head to look around. The parking lot of the church was full of cars, but he saw no people and no sets of eyes. “Let’s go,” he whispered. Grabbing the keys that Bone had left on the floorboard of the passenger-side backseat, Cappy cracked open the door just a hair and stepped outside, motioning for Booher to do the same. Then he shut the door, clicked the keyless entry lock button—he had modernized the car just a bit—and tried to walk as nonchalantly as possible across the parking lot full of cars to the Chevy Silverado parked near the rear of the church, where Pastor Leo Jacobs’s house was located.

  As he climbed in the front seat of the unlocked truck and grabbed the keys from under the mat on the floorboard, Cappy saw Pastor Leo staring at him through the blinds of the large picture window at the front of the house. The reverend nodded, and Cappy returned the gesture, turning the key as Martha Booher climbed into the passenger side of the truck.

  Pastor Leopold Jacobs, minister of the First Church of God, was for all intents and purposes as fine a man as Cappy had ever known. A great preacher in the pulpit and unafraid to handle a rattlesnake if it meant the collection plate would rise. Church attendance had doubled since Pastor Leo had taken over as minister in 2002.

  But Pastor Leo was a bachelor—his wife lost her battle with breast cancer in 2006—and he had certain primal needs that his occupation hamstrung him from fulfilling.

  So every Thursday night for the past three years, Pastor Leo had met Ann Reynolds, whose husband was a trucker and was rarely at home, in Room 106 of the Sleepy Head Inn. Cappy understood and embraced the hypocrisy of it all. To Cappy Limbaugh, it made perfect sense that a minister who preached the gospel on Sunday would commit adultery with one of his married parishioners every Thursday. To Cappy’s mind, the sooner a person embraced the hypocrisy of life, the sooner he might find real happiness.