Part 3 (2/2)

”Yeah, dog. Listen . . .” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Tom thought he heard someone shouting in the background. Then Bo's voice again, strained, a harsh whisper. ”I need your help.”

PART TWO.

9.

On Monday morning, three days after the murder of Andy Walton, Tom rose early and decided to walk the half mile into downtown Pulaski. He had stayed the night at Ms. Butler's Bed & Breakfast, a charming white-frame house on Jefferson Street three blocks from the Giles County Courthouse. After a hearty breakfast and two cups of black coffee, Tom grabbed his briefcase and began the trek down Jefferson. By the time he reached the town square, he had to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

Built in 1909 after a fire destroyed the old building, the Giles County Courthouse was an architectural marvel. Eight columns lined the east and west entrances, and a dome and clock surmounted the entire structure. As he climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, Tom couldn't help but gaze up at the top of the rotunda, noticing that the centerpiece of the dome contained the Tennessee state seal, the scales of justice, and a sheathed sword, all on a s.h.i.+eld background. Stained-gla.s.s windows adorned the north and south walls. To Tom, the building felt more like a cathedral than a courthouse.

At the second-floor landing, Tom turned to his left toward a closed door with a sign above it that said ”District Attorney General.” Tom was about to knock when a voice rang out from down the hall.

”She's not in there.”

Tom turned and saw a plump middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed gla.s.ses heading his way. ”Where . . . ?” he started, but the woman walked past him and pointed toward a set of double doors. Adjacent to the doors was a sign that read ”Circuit Court.” The woman cracked open the door and peeked inside. Then she waved toward Tom. ”She's in the courtroom,” the woman said, pointing through the doors. ”Do you have business with the General?”

”Yes, ma'am,” Tom said, slightly jolted by the woman's use of the military t.i.tle. He was going to have to get used to hearing the word ”General” in reference to the head prosecutor, which was a practice peculiar to the state of Tennessee.

”OK,” the woman said, opening the door wider and motioning with her head for Tom to enter. ”In the jury,” she whispered as Tom stepped through the opening. Before he could say thank you, the door closed behind him.

For a few seconds Tom took in the scene. He had been in a lot of courtrooms in his lifetime, but he had never had his breath taken away until now. The first thing that stood out was the balcony. Eerily reminiscent of the courtroom in the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, there was a balcony where spectators could sit if the main area was full. Of course, in To Kill a Mockingbird, which took place in rural south Alabama, the black spectators sat in the balcony and the whites sat on the main floor. Tom figured that the original intent of this balcony was also segregation. He doubted many cases these days required upstairs seating.

But this one might, he thought. When Bocephus Haynes was tried for the capital murder of Andy Walton, former Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Tom figured every seat might indeed be taken.

Tom lowered his gaze to the gallery on the main floor, where he saw four separate seating areas with five or six rows of built-in wooden chairs that folded up like theater seats. The gallery converged on a railing, which separated spectators from the lawyers and the judge. Just beyond this railing were two tables, one of which Tom knew would be the prosecution's table, and the other the defense table. Between the two tables was a built-in box with a high-backed chair inside. Is that the witness stand? Tom wondered, squinting at the box and walking toward it. He ran his hand over the wood and then swept his eyes around the courtroom again. Has to be, he thought, noticing that this box faced two rows of six built-in high-backed swivel chairs. The jury, Tom thought, seeing that just beyond the jury chairs was the judge's bench, which rose twice as high as the witness box.

”Interesting setup, huh?” A sharp female voice cut through the air, and Tom felt his entire body tense. He moved his eyes to the jury chairs and at first didn't see her. Then a hand shot up from the back row.

Tom took a couple more steps and finally saw General Helen Lewis slumped in a jury chair with a file jacket in her lap. She wore a black suit, and her lips were painted bright red with lipstick. Scratching one stockinged calf with the toe of her other foot-her heels were lying in a pile underneath her chair-Helen smiled at him. ”Tom McMurtrie.”

”Helen,” Tom said. ”Been a long time.”

Over the years Tom had run into Helen Lewis at various seminars put on by the American Bar a.s.sociation, where they both had been speakers. Though not friends, they had developed a mutual respect for the other's abilities and reputation. He extended his hand, and she stood to shake it, looking him directly in the eye. Her handshake was firm, and her eyes were the greenish-blue color of the Gulf.

”Are you lost, Tom?” she asked, her bright-red lips curving into a grin. ”You are a long way from Tuscaloosa.”

Tom chuckled and then turned away from her. ”This setup is interesting,” he said, pointing at the witness box. ”I haven't seen anything like it. In every courtroom I've ever been in, the witness stand has been adjacent to the judge's bench. Here, it's-”

”Right in the center of the room,” Helen finished his thought, and walked toward the witness chair.

Tom noticed that she made no move to put her heels on. Her comfort level made him a bit uneasy. It was as if she were walking around in her own home. She stopped when she reached the witness box and turned to him.

”Front and center, facing the jury and the judge.” She paused, smiling. ”I think it's the way a courtroom should be. Everything that's important happens right here,” she said, patting the back of the chair. ”All testimony. All evidence.” She paused. ”Everything else is just for show.” She stepped toward Tom, the smile gone from her face. ”You're here because of Bo Haynes, right?”

Tom nodded.

”You taught him in law school, didn't you? He was on one of your trial teams.”

Again, Tom nodded. ”You seem to know a lot about me.”

”Not really,” Helen said. ”I just know a lot about Bo Haynes. He's the only black trial lawyer in town, and he's very good. He used to do a lot of criminal defense back in the late '80s and early '90s, and we had dozens of cases against each other.” She paused. ”I always do a study of my opponents when I face them in court.”

”And what did you learn about Bo?” Tom asked, smiling at her. But the gesture wasn't returned. Helen's emerald eyes blazed with intensity.

”Having grown up in Giles County myself, I knew a lot already. I was just starting in the DA's office here when Bo was an all-state football player at Giles County High. I remember when Bear Bryant came to Pulaski to watch him play. You woulda thought the president was in town. Police escort to the stadium with sirens blaring. State troopers everywhere. It was the d.a.m.nedest thing I'd ever seen.”

Tom smiled, thinking of a similar scene from his own past. ”The Man knew how to make an entrance.”

”The Man,” Helen mocked. ”I think I've heard Bo call him that too. The Man. Is that an inside thing?”

Tom shrugged. ”I guess. If you played for Coach Bryant or spent any time around him, he was . . . the Man. It's a hard thing to describe.”

”Whatever,” Helen said, waving a hand in the air. She returned to her seat in the back row of the jury and crossed her legs. Again, Tom was taken back by the familiarity with which she treated the courtroom. ”Anyway, everyone in Pulaski followed Bo's college career. It was hard not to. The local newspaper always mentioned how many tackles he had made in a game, stuff like that. The articles stopped after he blew his knee out.” She paused, squinting up at him. ”The rest I learned from doing a little digging. Law School at Alabama, where he was on your national champions.h.i.+p trial team. Clerked a summer at Jones & Butler, the law factory in Birmingham. Then back here after law school. Hung a s.h.i.+ngle on First Street a block north of First National Bank, and he's been in that same office for the past twenty-five years.” She paused, chuckling with what sounded to Tom like admiration. ”Starting out as a black lawyer in this town in the mid-'80s was not much different than being a female prosecutor. Not many of us around. In Bo's case, none. He cut his teeth on criminal defense and workers' comp cases and then started attracting the lucrative personal injury plaintiff cases by the mid-'90s.”

”I always thought it was strange that he came back here,” Tom said, purposely testing Helen's knowledge, as he had learned the answer to that riddle himself last year.

”Not to me,” Helen said. ”Or to anyone else in Pulaski.” She c.o.c.ked her head at Tom. ”And I think you might be playing possum with me, Tom. I think you know the reason too.”

Tom kept a poker face, giving away nothing. Helen Lewis was a different animal. Unlike almost every other lawyer he'd been around for the past several decades, male and female alike, Helen paid Tom no deference for being a longtime law professor. She didn't address him as Professor, as so many of his colleagues did, and she didn't seem awed in the least by his a.s.sociation with Coach Bryant.

”Why don't you remind me?” Tom asked.

Keeping her head c.o.c.ked to the side, Helen glared up at Tom. ”Because ever since he was five years old, Bocephus Haynes has claimed that Andy Walton and twenty members of the Ku Klux Klan murdered his father. Bo came back to Pulaski for revenge.” She paused, crossing her arms across her chest. ”And early last Friday morning he got it.”

”Sounds like an opening statement,” Tom said, forcing a smile. Tom knew he had just heard the theme of the state's case against Bocephus Haynes.

This time Helen returned the smile. ”I thought you were a law professor, Tom.”

”I was. For forty years. But now I'm practicing again.”

”And you and your partner hit Willistone Trucking Company last year for ninety million dollars in Henshaw County, Alabama.”

Tom was impressed. He figured most lawyers in Alabama had heard of the verdict, but Helen was a Tennessee prosecutor. ”How did you hear about that?”

”Because it was in the G.o.dd.a.m.n USA Today. Legendary law professor hits big verdict in Alabama. Yada, yada, yada. Aren't they making a movie about it?”

Tom shrugged, his face turning red. ”I hadn't heard anything about that.”

”Well, they should.” She chuckled. ”The best part of that verdict is that you beat that arrogant, overrated p.r.i.c.k Jameson Tyler.”

Now Tom laughed. ”You know Jameson?” Tom asked.

”Unfortunately, I've met him at several ABA meetings. You taught him too, right?”

Tom nodded.

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