Between Black and White Page 27

  “Bo, let’s go back inside,” Rick said. “We can ask him later. It’s too crazy out there.”

  But Bo wasn’t listening. He needed to talk with Ray Ray, and he didn’t want to wait. He had waited forty-five years, and he would not wait any longer.

  He continued to follow Hank, Ray Ray, and the other deputies out the doors of the courthouse.

  Rick trailed Bo through the doors to the outside, feeling his cell phone rattle in his pocket. He grabbed for it and saw that he had missed eleven text messages. Ten were from Powell. In all the excitement over Ray Ray’s testimony, Rick had turned his phone on silent and forgotten to check it.

  As he descended the steps, Rick scrolled through them all. The first one read: Do not exit the courthouse without police protection. Probably nothing, but I think JimBone may be on the square. All of the others were shortened to: Don’t leave the courthouse without calling me first.

  Damnit, Rick thought, looking up into the bright light and seeing a wave of white-hooded and white-robed Klansmen lining the west side of the square. “Bo, wait!” Rick yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the questions of the reporters closing in around them. The Klansmen, who were being kept at bay by four or five deputies who had cleared a path from the courthouse steps to Hank’s squad car, had also begun to hurl expletives and chants of “Murderer” when they recognized Bo.

  Pressing forward, Rick tried to catch up.

  There were still several reporters in front of him when he heard the first gunshot.

  77

  A courtroom is an eerie place when a trial is over. In a matter of seconds a room that was filled with energy and people, where life and death hung in the balance, becomes as empty as a vacant lot and as silent as a morgue. In some ways it reminded Tom of the feeling of being on a football field after a game. He had always enjoyed walking the field postgame, looking up at the empty stands and remembering places where key plays had been made. There was a sense of satisfaction, especially after a win, to walk the ground that had just been plowed with competition. Though Tom had never served in the military, he figured it was the same way a general felt when he walked an empty battlefield after the fight was over. Sacred ground, Tom thought.

  “Professor McMurtrie, OK if I turn off the lights?” The court’s bailiff was standing in the doorway to the judge’s chambers.

  Tom blinked and nodded his head. “Sure, that’s fine.”

  “How about you, General?”

  Startled, Tom looked to the prosecution table, but Helen wasn’t there.

  “Fine, Jerry. Have a nice night.”

  Tom moved his eyes around the courtroom but still didn’t see her.

  “In the jury,” Helen said, and Tom looked to his right. Focusing his eyes, Tom finally saw his former nemesis. She was sitting in the same chair she’d been in during their first conversation over a month before. She held a white Styrofoam cup in her hand.

  Forcing his legs to move, Tom rose from his chair and walked toward her. When he got closer, he saw a pint of Jack Daniel’s Black on the floor at Helen’s feet and figured it wasn’t coffee in the cup.

  Helen smacked her lips after taking a sip and smiled at him with tired eyes. “Can I buy you a drink?”

  Tom smiled back. “Sounds great.”

  With some effort Tom walked along the back row and slumped in the chair next to Helen. When he did, she passed over the pint of Jack Daniel’s.

  “Sorry, no more cups.” She shrugged, and Tom twisted off the bottle and took a sip, wrinkling up his face as the hot liquid burned the back of his throat. He gave the bottle to Helen, and she did the same, closing her own eyes as the taste and feel of the sour mash whiskey enveloped her.

  ‘You tried a good case,” Tom said.

  Helen laughed bitterly. “I lost. That’s all that matters.”

  “We all do,” Tom said. “Losing is part of it the same as winning.”

  “Not for me, Tom. I always win.” She gritted her teeth and took another sip from the bottle. “Always.”

  “There’s no way you could’ve known that Dr. Curtis was going to frame Bo for the crime. If Ray Ray would’ve come forward sooner, you would’ve charged Curtis and—”

  “I’m not sure Curtis did it,” Helen said.

  Tom took the bottle from her and raised his eyebrows. “How could it not be him?”

  “Oh, he’s part of it.”

  “You’re saying he had help,” Tom offered, nodding his head. “And I would agree with that. At least two people involved . . . maybe three. You thinking Curtis and JimBone Wheeler? Or maybe Curtis, JimBone Wheeler, and Larry Tucker?” Tom paused and took another hit off the bottle. “That might be the most likely.”

  Helen sighed and slumped even farther in her chair. “Could be, but . . . that’s not what I’m thinking.” She took the bottle from him and started to take another sip, but then stopped, shaking her head.

  “What then?”

  “I’d rather not say, Tom. I’m not really sure of it myself, and it could be nothing. But—”

  “Come on, spit it out,” Tom said. “Now that the charges against Bo have been dropped, I’d like to catch the real killer as much as you would. And I’m sure Bo wants to know who framed him.”

  Helen finally lifted the bottle to her lips and took a small sip. Then, screwing the top back on, she stood from her chair. “Remember the St. Clair Correctional Facility visitor’s log you gave me?”

  “Of course,” Tom said, also standing.

  “Did you read every word of it?” Helen asked, looking down at him.

  Tom creased his eyebrows. “Yes. What?”

  “Come on,” Helen said, waving him toward the prosecution table. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  Tom followed her, thinking again how serene it felt to be in the empty courtroom, sharing a drink with his opponent.

  They had not quite made it to the table when they heard the gunshots.

  78

  Bo caught up to Hank and Ray Ray right before they reached the squad car. The chants coming from the Klansmen on all sides were drowned out by the flashes of photography and the questions from reporters. It was one big hodgepodge of sound, and Bo heard none of it.

  “Ray Ray, one question!” Bo screamed, and Hank wheeled on him.

  “Bo, so help me God, I’m going to arrest you again if you don’t let me do my job.”

  “Why, Ray Ray?” Bo asked, ignoring the deputy and pushing closer to Ray Ray. “Why did Andy Walton order the hit on my father? You said he laid hands on Ms. Maggie? How?” Bo hurled the questions at Ray Ray one by one, talking loud and fast.

  Ray Ray, who up to that point had kept his eyes fixed on the ground, finally raised them to look at Bo.

  “Why?” Bo pressed. “Why did the Klan kill my father?”

  Ray Ray pursed his lips as if to speak, and Bo moved even closer to hear. Then Ray Ray’s eyes seemed to flicker and move past Bo. Ray Ray’s lips formed the word “no,” but Bo heard no sound. Bo started to say something but then felt the air go out of his stomach as Ray Ray lowered his shoulder and plowed into him.

  Bo lost his footing and began to fall. He could now hear Ray Ray screaming the word “no” above him.

  And before he hit the ground, he heard the deafening sound of gunfire.

  79

  JimBone Wheeler had changed positions when he saw the squad car pull up to the west side of the square and stop abruptly on the curb. His instincts told him that someone would be coming out of the doors to the west side quickly, and odds were it would be Haynes getting a police escort. He had heard rumblings that the trial had been halted by new evidence. If so, it was possible that the state had finally figured out what happened, and Haynes was going to walk.

  Bone gripped the handle of the .38 as he walked at a normal pace around the side of the courthouse. As there were Klansmen in every direction, he knew his movement would be undetected, though it troubled him that he had lost sight of the sandy-hair
ed prosecutor. Probably went back to Lawrenceburg, Bone thought, not fretting it too much. He knew their bases were covered tight. Cappy was here on the square, just as would be expected. The Sleepy Head was being covered by Cappy’s girlfriend, who had been instructed to say that Cappy was in Pulaski marching with the Klan. And Cappy’s Orange Dodge Charger was still parked at the First Church of God and should be empty of any obvious traces of Bone. Even if the prosecutor had an inkling that something wasn’t right, there was no trail for him to follow. Finally, and most importantly, Martha was parked a block north of the square in the truck. Once Bone shot Haynes, he’d drop the gun and make a beeline for the truck as pandemonium ensued after the shooting. As everyone should be running to get away from the sound of the shots, he’d blend in with the hundreds of other Klansmen dressed just like him.

  When Bone had made it to the west side of the square, he noticed that at least four sheriff’s deputies had cleared a path from the top of the stairs to the squad car. Seeming to sense that something was about to happen, numerous television and newspaper reporters had crowded around the steps and just inside the courthouse.

  Something is about to happen, Bone knew. He had always known when the kill was near. It was a gift. Something he’d had since he first went deer hunting with his father, when he was ten years old. A sixth sense. As if he could smell the blood of his prey.

  The doors to the west side of the courthouse flew open. Bone tensed, then immediately began to relax as the movements of the people around him started to slow down. Bone had always figured he would have been a great race car driver, because when everything became very fast for most people, the world slowed down for him, and he was able to see things that most people missed.

  Two deputies burst threw the doors, first followed by a white man in handcuffs that looked familiar. One of Haynes’s lawyers maybe. What the . . . ?

  Then another sheriff’s deputy, whose hand was on the handcuffed lawyer’s shoulder and was pushing the prisoner forward toward the squad car.

  What the hell is going on? Bone thought. Where is . . . ?

  There. There he is.

  Bone took the pistol out of his pocket as Bocephus Haynes came through the doors right on the heels of the deputy pushing the prisoner.

  Bone inched forward to within just a few feet of where the other deputies had blocked the sidewalk. There wasn’t much room, but Bone saw an opening. He would have a clear shot if no one got between him and Haynes.

  Bone cocked the .38 and sucked in a quick breath, thinking about the moment a year and a half earlier when Bocephus Haynes had cost him a six-figure payday. What had the nigger lawyer said? Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to bring a knife to a gunfight?

  Underneath his hood, Bone smiled as Haynes actually stopped directly in the opening created by the deputies guarding the sidewalk. Haynes was talking to the handcuffed man, and his back was to Bone. His entire back was exposed in the opening.

  Now . . .

  Bone shuffled forward, moving the gun out from under the robe. The sheriff’s deputies also had their backs to him at this moment, looking toward the north side of the square.

  Bone brought the gun up and stepped into the opening. He was now just a few feet away from Haynes, with a clear shot.

  Though his fellow Klansmen were chanting and reporters were yelling questions, Bone heard nothing. He saw nothing either. Nothing but the back of his target.

  Gotcha, Bone thought as he pulled the trigger on the .38.

  80

  Bone had fired two shots before he realized that the handcuffed lawyer had pushed Haynes out of the way and absorbed both bullets. As the prisoner began to collapse in front of him, Bone pointed the gun at the ground where Haynes had sprawled after being pushed out of the way. The killer started to press the trigger again but felt the wind go out of him as someone’s shoulder dug into his lower back. “You son of a bitch!” he heard a voice scream in his ear, but Bone was rolling now. Rolling and coming up to his feet in one motion. Immediately, Bone saw his attacker and instinctively brought his right hand up to fire the .38.

  But his hand was empty. The gun was gone. Bone’s eyes shot wildly to the ground. Where is it?

  “I’ve got your gun, asshole,” the sandy-haired prosecutor said. “I picked it up when I went DeMeco Ryans on your ass.”

  “You,” Bone said in disbelief.

  “Me,” the man said, his voice so loud it rose over the screams of the people, who had fled the moment the gunfire started. “Ambrose Powell Conrad, assistant district attorney for Tuscaloosa County, by God, Alabama.”

  The prosecutor stepped forward and cocked the pistol at Bone’s head.

  Bone shuffled backward a few steps, intending to run. He didn’t think the prosecutor would shoot him. But when he turned, he looked right into the barrel of another gun.

  “Move and I turn your head into a canoe,” the man said, and Bone raised his hands, as he saw right off that this man would shoot him.

  In his peripheral vision Bone now saw that all of the Giles County sheriff’s deputies were kneeling on one knee and pointing their guns at him. If he did anything at this point, it would be an execution.

  He felt rough hands grab his own and then the cold steel of handcuffs rolling over his wrists and locking. Bone turned, expecting to see the prosecutor, but instead looking into the crystal-blue eyes of the Sam Elliott look-alike from Destin Harbor.

  “Remember me?” the man said, tightening the cuffs and then jerking the hood off of Bone’s head.

  As he blinked his eyes to adjust to the light, Bone heard an ominous chuckling coming from the ground below him. Then the chuckling rose to loud, wild laughter. Bone looked down, and the handcuffed lawyer was gazing up at him with a crazy grin. If the man’s face had been whiter and his lips redder, the grin would give a mind to the Joker from Batman. Bone saw blood oozing from the man’s midsection from where he had been shot, but the maniac didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he gazed up at Bone, laughing hysterically. “Just like . . .” More laughter. Then coughing. Then more laughing. “Scooby Doo.”

  81

  Bo crawled toward the body of Ray Ray Pickalew, hearing the laughs. The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air, and he coughed as he sucked the scent in. Two sheriff’s deputies were leaning over Ray Ray’s body, and one of them was screaming into his walkie-talkie for an ambulance.

  “Scooby fucking Doo,” Ray Ray wailed, grabbing his bleeding midsection. “Only . . . goddamn thing Doris watches anymore.”

  Bo gazed upward from Ray Ray and saw that Powell Conrad and Wade Richey had taken a Klansman into custody. The Klansman’s hood had been taken off, and when Bo saw the man’s face, a memory came rushing back to him. The man who jumped off the bridge last summer . . .

  “Bo . . .”

  Bo’s eyes immediately shot to Ray Ray as he heard the whimper of a voice. “Bo, I’m sorry. I . . .”

  Bo looked at the two bullet holes in Ray Ray’s stomach and knew his time was short. “Ray Ray,” he said. “Please tell me why—”

  “I should have spoken sooner. I—”

  “Don’t worry about that now. I forgive you.” Bo was surprised to feel tears welling in his eyes. “I forgive you, but please . . .” He leaned as close to Ray Ray as he could and spoke the words directly into the man’s ear. “I have to know why.”

  Ray Ray blinked, and his eyes shot upward, as if he were trying to look at the sky.

  “Stay with me, dog.” Bo shook Ray Ray by the shoulders. Then he felt his own shoulders being grabbed, and he was being pulled up off his feet. He turned and saw Deputy Hank Springfield.

  “The paramedics are here, Bo. Let them do their job.”

  “He’s gonna die!” Bo yelled. “And I’ve got to know.”

  “We have to get him to the hospital.”

  Bo turned and saw Ray Ray being placed on a gurney. He stepped between the EMTs and grabbed Ray Ray by the shirt. “Ray Ray, tell me.”

  As the EMT
s propelled the stretcher forward, Ray Ray Pickalew reached toward Bo and grabbed his hand, pulling him close with an astounding show of strength. “Your daddy’s . . . hanging . . . was a present,” Ray Ray stuttered.

  Bo wrinkled his face in confusion. “What . . . ?”

  Ray Ray spat blood out of his mouth and took in a huge breath. Then, turning Bo’s head so that he could look him directly in the eye, Raymond “Ray Ray” Pickalew spoke his last words. “A birthday present.”

  82

  George Curtis sat alone in the dark den of his home. His right hand and arm were bleeding from where Matilda had bitten and scratched him. He had euthanized the cat fifteen minutes ago, but in one last show of spirit, Matilda had managed to slice flesh before he could inject the needle.

  No matter, George thought, chuckling at the idea of poor old Matilda, who’d never shown a bit of spirit in her life, rearing up to fight just before death swept her away.

  Ironic, he knew. But irony was one of his favorite things about life.

  George lifted the note he’d written just a few minutes before, reading the words carefully and making sure everything was clear. He knew this was the only way, and, truthfully, he was relieved. He could not have what he wanted in this world. Only glimpses and tastes of it, but never . . . all of it.

  He had gotten one last taste today, and the thrill of it had already worn off. Just like it always did. He figured his obsession was probably the way a drug addict felt about crack. In fact, he figured the crack addict had it easy compared to his day-in, day-out torture.

  George waited until he heard the sirens outside his house, followed by loud footsteps coming up the front walk and the rustling of more movement around the side of the house. When he heard three swift knocks on the door, he grabbed his Remington shotgun, which he’d had propped beside him on the couch, and clicked the safety off.