McMurtrie and Drake: Between Black and White Part 2

Four loud knocks came from the driver's-side window.

Andy spun toward the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. Then as his sight adjusted, recognition slowly set in. "Jesus Christ," he said. Sighing, he rubbed his eyes and clicked the automatic b.u.t.ton for the window to lower.

It was halfway down when he saw the shotgun pointed at his head.

Andy chuckled bitterly. "So you're gonna shoot me, huh?" He started to say more, but then he saw the thumb click the safety of the gun off.

His question had just been answered. Andy looked into the cold eyes. "Well . . . f.u.c.k you then," Andy said.

Funny thing what a man does when he knows he's about to die. Andy Walton didn't try to open the door or fight, and he didn't duck. Instead, he slowly turned his head and looked out the winds.h.i.+eld toward Highway 64.

Into the darkness.

The gun fired, but Andy didn't hear the sound of the blast before the shot entered his brain and killed him.

He only heard the screams of the boy . . .

4.

The 911 call was made at 2:30 a.m.

"Emergency Services," a monotone female voice answered. "What is your emergency?"

"Yeah, I'm a long-haul trucker and I just pa.s.sed a brush fire off Highway 64 about a half mile west of the Sundowners Club. Looks like it might be on part of Walton Farm. There's a lot of smoke. If the fire department doesn't get out there fast, the whole place is going to be up in flames."

"Thank you, sir. Can you-?"

The phone went dead on the other end of the line.

5.

The fire trucks arrived at 2:54 a.m. Chief Woodrow "Woody" Monroe had been fast asleep when he received the call from dispatch and was still groggy as he walked through the tree-lined dirt path that led to the clearing. Woody had lived in Pulaski all of his life except for the eleven months he had spent in Vietnam in 1967 chasing Charlie. He had seen things during those 337 days in Southeast Asia that still haunted his dreams.

What he saw now as he stepped through the smoke and into the clearing was as bad as anything he'd seen in the Vietnamese jungle. "Oh, Jesus," he whispered, involuntarily retching and dropping his hands to his knees.

"Chief, are you all right?" A young sergeant, Bradley Hill, had put his arm around Woody. "Chief . . . ?"

"I'm OK, Brad. It's just . . ." He pointed, and Brad nodded, his eyes wide with shock and horror.

"I know, sir. What should we do?"

Woody started to respond, but his words were drowned out by the most piercing scream he had ever heard in his life. Woody turned to see a woman in a bathrobe, her hands covering her mouth.

Woody had known Maggie Walton for over fifty years, and he had never seen her outside her home when she wasn't dressed to the nines, her hair always perfectly coiffed. Now here she was, one of the wealthiest women in all of the state of Tennessee, dressed in a green bathrobe, her white tresses tousled all over her head, tears streaking her eyes.

"No!" she screamed, running toward the fire.

"Oh, s.h.i.+t," Woody said, stepping toward her, but she was already past him. "Ms. Maggie, you can't-"

"Andy!" she screamed. "Andy!" She fell to her knees ten feet from the flames.

"Ms. Maggie, you need to back away." Woody dropped to one knee beside her.

"Don't tell me what to do, Woody. This is my land. Mine. And that's . . ." She pointed. "That's . . . my . . . my . . . Andy!" She rose and tried to step closer to the fire, but Woody grabbed her around the waist and held tight. He felt the woman's strength as she tried to wiggle free from him. "Ms. Maggie, I'm so sorry."

Eventually, she stopped trying to break away from him and again fell to her knees. "Andy," she whimpered. "No."

"Chief Monroe, we have to-" Brad started, but Woody cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"The fire hasn't spread past that tree," Woody said, squinting harshly at the young sergeant. "We've probably got five minutes before it does. The sheriff will want photographs. Take at least five from every angle you can get. Then start hosing it down. Tell the other men to hold steady until you've taken the pictures. I've got to make some calls."

"Yes, sir."

As Brad began barking instructions to the other men, Woody took out his cell phone and dialed the home number of Sheriff Ennis Petrie.

On the fifth ring Ennis's groggy voice answered. "h.e.l.lo."

"Ennis, we got a situation out here at Walton Farm."

"What is it?" the sheriff asked, his voice more alert.

Woody started to talk, and then another bloodcurdling scream came from below him, followed by a low, almost-guttural moan. "Ms. Maggie," Woody whispered, squatting and patting her back. Maggie Walton gazed with dead eyes toward the fire.

"What in the h.e.l.l was that?" Ennis asked, now hyper.

"That was Maggie Walton, Sheriff. She's . . . very upset." He paused, turning away from the woman so she wouldn't hear what he was about to say. Glancing back at the fire, he spoke into the phone, forcing the tremor out of his voice. "Sheriff, Andy Walton's body is hanging from a tree on the northeast corner of his farm with a noose tied around his neck and one half of his face shot off. He's . . ." Woody Monroe paused, closing his eyes, this time unable to keep the whine from his voice as Maggie Walton continued to moan in agony behind him. "He's on fire, Ennis. He's been shot and hanged . . . and his body is on fire."

6.

Bocephus Haynes opened his eyes when he heard the sirens.

He was still half-asleep, the dream lingering as it always did. Seeing his father's stretched neck. Flailing at his father's legs as they dangled below the branch of the tree. Hearing the laughter of the white-robed men mixed with his own screams . . .

He gazed upward at the ceiling fan as the sounds from the dream gradually subsided, replaced by the sirens. Getting closer?

Bo rolled out of bed, forcing himself to sit up straight, and the sudden movement made him dizzy. His throat felt like sandpaper, and when he tried to swallow he nearly gagged on the half-chewed cigar that still hung out of the corner of his mouth. He spat the remainder of the stogie on the floor and rose to his feet.

The nausea hit him like a freight train.

He stumbled through the law office to the back door, fumbling in the dark for the k.n.o.b. He took hold and twisted, then stepped outside and vomited over the railing. Blinking his eyes and clutching the railing tightly, he vomited again. And again. Finally, after a last dry heave, he relaxed his frame and sat on the top step, placing his elbows on his knees and taking several deep breaths.

The sirens were now even louder, and the sound of them pounded in Bo's head as he began to look himself over. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before-khaki slacks, oxford b.u.t.ton-down, and brown Allen Edmonds loafers. Since he'd moved out of the house and into the office, it wasn't unusual for him to have slept in his clothes, or, for that matter, his shoes. What caught his eye was the dried, caked mud covering the heels and soles of both loafers.

Bo blinked, his mind starting to work despite the horrific hangover. What happened last night?

Everything after he left Kathy's Tavern was a blur . . .

He slipped off his shoes and set them on the top step. Then he shuffled on socked feet back into the office. When he turned on the light in the hallway, he noticed that he had tracked mud the entire length of the hall. Looking through the open door of the library, he saw that the tracks ended at the pullout sofa he now called a bed. An empty pint of Jim Beam lay on its side, top off, on the hardwood floor below the sofa. He must have dropped it there before he crashed. Again, he asked himself, What happened last night?

A collage of images began to play in his mind, and he felt a cold chill on the back of his neck.

"No," he whispered.

The sirens were now deafening, and through the cracked blinds at the end of the hall, Bo saw three sets of blue and white flashers. "No," he whispered again. He swallowed and tasted the bile in his throat. He turned for the back door but stopped in his tracks when he saw them.

Ennis Petrie, the sheriff of Giles County, Tennessee, and Hank Springfield, his chief deputy, stood in the doorway. Behind them, Bo saw two more deputies and four squad cars, all with their flashers on.

Three squads in the front and four in back, Bo thought. No.

"Bo," Ennis said, taking a cautious step toward him. "You left the door open."

"Sheriff," Bo said, wiping his mouth and hoping he didn't have vomit on it. "Hank. What can I do for you fellas?"

"You're under arrest, Bo," the sheriff said, removing a pair of handcuffs from his belt buckle.

"For what?" Bo asked, his heart pounding in his chest.

Ennis took another step toward him, eyeing Bo with detached curiosity as he placed the cuffs on the attorney's wrists. "For the murder of Andrew Davis Walton."

7.

The holding cell wasn't much bigger than a closet. Three of the walls were yellow cinder block, fading white with age, while the wall to Bo's right was made of gla.s.s, presumably so someone could watch the questioning from behind it. The floor was concrete, and the sealed sliding door had a small plexigla.s.s window. Inside the cramped s.p.a.ce the cell smelled of disinfectant mingled with traces of sweat and body odor. Bo had visited the Giles County Jail on numerous occasions and remembered that his suits always contained this same stale scent when he took them off at night, sometimes making him gag.

Outside the cell the hallway reverberated with a cacophony of sounds. Bo covered his ears to the noise: officers yelling unintelligible jailspeak to each other, the jingle-jangle of inmates shuffling along the floor in their shackles, the whoos.h.i.+ng and slamming of doors opening and closing . . .

Bo sat at a metal desk that filled up most of the cell, gazing at his ma.s.sive reflection in the window. With his size and strength, he knew he could be an intimidating physical presence. But he felt anything but intimidating now. Dressed in orange prison garb-his clothes had been taken for "testing"-his head throbbed from a hangover, and his stomach felt like acid. Outside of a Styrofoam cup of water they'd given him, he'd had nothing to eat or drink since throwing up at his office, and he knew he wouldn't be hungry for several hours. He placed his forehead on the desk, relis.h.i.+ng the cold feel of the metal, and rubbed the back of his head.

Two loud knocks jarred him upright. The door slid open, and Sheriff Ennis Petrie walked inside, taking the seat across from Bo at the metal desk. Ennis wore a tan b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt with his name stenciled over the front pocket. He was about five foot eight with thinning, reddish-blond hair, a mustache that matched his diminished mane, and a potbelly that hung over his belt. Though physically unimpressive, Ennis had a calm, cool manner that had made him an effective lawman.

"Bo, I read your Miranda rights to you at your office immediately after you were arrested. You agree with that, right?" the sheriff asked.

Bo said nothing, gazing back at Ennis with blank eyes. He had seen too many clients burned by their own tongues at this stage of a case. Bo also knew that there was a video camera rolling from just behind the gla.s.s, recording every word, every sound, and every movement. Bo had represented enough criminal defendants to know the way this song and dance worked.

"No problem," the sheriff said, pulling out a card from his pocket, prepared for Bo's lack of cooperation. "You have the right to remain silent," Ennis began, speaking in a clear, deliberate voice as he read from the card. When he finished, he put the card back in his pocket and peered at Bo.

"Bo, we've known each other a long time." He paused, narrowing his eyes. "So I'm going to forego any bulls.h.i.+t. The physical evidence that we have found against you in the first eight hours of this investigation is conclusive and overwhelming. If that weren't enough, you're the only person with the necessary motive to commit this kind of atrocity, and it's been simmering for decades. There are four eyewitnesses who heard you threaten to kill Andy Walton at Kathy's Tavern just a few hours before we found him hanging from a tree on his farm. An eye for an eye, right, Bo?"

Bo stared blankly back at Ennis, thinking about the confrontation at Kathy's and the words he had used. No, he thought, sitting still, in no way betraying his fear. Jesus Christ, no.

Finally, after Bo hadn't said anything for several seconds, Ennis sighed. "Bo, the evidence reflects that earlier this morning, just three hours after you threatened to make Andy Walton pay for his sins eye for eye, tooth for tooth, you shot and killed Andy in cold blood and then hung his body from the same tree limb where you have always claimed your father was lynched by the Ku Klux Klan." Ennis spoke in a measured voice, but his eyes blazed with fury. "Then you set his corpse on fire and almost burned his farm to the ground." He paused. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

Bo maintained his blank stare for a couple of seconds. Then, slowly and deliberately, he began to nod his head.

Ennis blinked, caught off guard by the gesture. "OK . . . what?"

Bo took a sip of water from the Styrofoam cup on the table, his eyes never leaving the sheriff's. Finally, he spoke. "I'd like to call my attorney."

The sheriff smirked and gave a quick nod in the direction of the gla.s.s wall. Bo knew the cue. The video had been turned off.

"So that's how you're gonna play it?" Ennis asked, a rhetorical question, as he knew Bo was not going to respond. The sheriff started to say more, but his voice was drowned out by the swoos.h.i.+ng sound of the metal door opening and sliding shut, and then the clacking of high heels on concrete.

Helen Evangeline Lewis, District Attorney General for the 22nd Judicial District of the State of Tennessee, walked into the cell, a faint smile playing on her lips. At almost sixty years old, Helen was a striking figure, with her pale skin, black hair, and bright-red lipstick, and these features were only intensified by the black suit and high heels she typically wore. Though her face was a bit tight from Botox, she was not an unattractive woman. Scary looking maybe, but not unattractive. The confidence and self-a.s.surance with which she carried herself made her both intimidating and seductive. And a holy terror to deal with in the courtroom.

The sheriff rose from his seat and gestured for Helen to take his place. As she did, Bo watched her, noticing how her body almost slithered, her movements smooth and calculated. Like a poisonous snake.

"So the great Bocephus Haynes wants a lawyer," she said, her voice reeking with sarcasm. "Don't you find that comical, Bo?" She smiled, but there was no humor in her eyes.

"A lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client," Bo said. "I'm sure you've heard that one before, General."

She cackled. "I have. But you? Bo, you've de-balled almost as many lawyers in this town as I have. I can't imagine you trusting your life to anyone in the defense bar here."

"I didn't say I wanted a lawyer," Bo said, glaring at her. "I said I wanted my lawyer." He paused. "My lawyer ain't from around here."

Helen abruptly stood and looked down at Bo, her green eyes burning with intensity. "Well, he better be good." She started to turn away but then returned her gaze to Bo. "Given the mutilated condition of the body and the multiple felonies involved, we don't have a choice in the punishment we'll seek." She paused, her eyes and voice betraying no emotion. "I'll ask for the death penalty."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bo thought he saw Ennis Petrie flinch, but Bo didn't look at the sheriff. He kept his gaze locked on Helen, forcing himself to remain calm, though he felt goose b.u.mps breaking out on his arms and the back of his neck. "I'd like to call my attorney now."

8.