Part 19 (1/2)
”Darla also said that despite Andy's admonition to remain quiet about his intentions, she told Larry Tucker about Andy's plans to confess.”
Helen blinked and pursed her lips. ”When?”
”Two weeks before Andy was murdered.”
”Doesn't change anything. You're still grasping at straws.”
She stood from her chair, and Tom followed suit, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocked. He handed it to Helen.
”What's this?” she asked.
”It's a page from the St. Clair Correctional Facility visitor's log. I gave you the full log back at the office.”
She raised her eyebrows. ”OK . . .”
”The log shows all the visitors who have come to see Jack Willistone in jail. Helen . . . Larry Tucker is on the list. He came to see Jack on July 20, 2011, less than a month before the murder.”
Helen looked at the doc.u.ment. ”Why do you want me to know this?”
”Because there are folks in this town who do not want Bocephus Haynes to get a fair trial. I was nearly killed, and my partner escaped death by a nose hair.”
”What do you want me to do, Tom?” Helen asked.
”I've already asked for it, and you said no.”
”The security detail?” She snorted again. ”You can't be serious. This is Giles County, Tennessee. We don't have enough manpower for that.”
”Then perhaps you should call in the National Guard.”
Helen raised her eyebrows in mock amus.e.m.e.nt. ”You must be joking.”
”The Ku Klux Klan has already requested a permit to be here during the trial. I read that in the paper today. They'll be out in full force. Things are only going to get crazier . . . and more dangerous.”
”They're clowns, Tom.”
”Maybe so, but why do they want to be here? Have you asked yourself that?”
”They want to be here because a long-lost former leader of theirs has been murdered by a black man seeking revenge. It's a straight-up racial revenge hate crime, and the Klan lives for that kind of mess. Don't be so obtuse, Tom. If this same thing happened in Tuscaloosa or Birmingham, the Klan would be there too.”
”Maybe so. But would lawyers be getting attacked?”
”I thought you were implying that Larry Tucker was responsible for your attack.” She waved the page from the visitor's log in front of his face. ”Is it the Klan now?”
”Larry Tucker is the Klan,” Tom said. ”He was in it in 1966, the same as Andy.”
”You can't prove that.”
”Maybe not, but we both know it's true.”
”Andy Walton got out of the Klan in the '70s,” Helen said, keeping her voice steady. ”The Klan's only relevance to this case is in regard to your client's motive. Bocephus Haynes believed that Andy Walton and a group of other Klansmen killed his father in 1966, and forty-five years later, on August 19, 2011, he murdered Andy Walton out of revenge.”
”That's a great impact statement for your opening, Helen, but this case goes deeper than that. That's why I wanted to talk with you. Andy Walton had pancreatic cancer. He was about to die, and before he did he was going to put a bow on a forty-five-year-old murder. He was going to bring a bunch of people to justice, some of whom, like Larry Tucker, still live in this town.”
Tom held his palms out and smiled. ”We think it is highly probable that one of these people, most likely Larry Tucker, hired JimBone Wheeler to kill Andy to keep the truth buried.”
Helen chuckled, shaking her head. ”Well, that is quite a story. One that I'm sure a jury might enjoy. But here's the problem. You don't have any physical evidence linking JimBone Wheeler, Larry Tucker, or anyone else to Walton's murder. All the physical evidence points to Bo.”
”He was framed,” Tom said, exasperation leaking into his voice. ”Can't you see that?”
When she didn't answer, Tom crossed his arms, his smile gone. ”Andy Walton had cancer, Helen. Don't you think it's possible that he wanted to make things right before he died? That he didn't want blood on his hands when he pa.s.sed through the Pearly Gates?”
Helen shook her hand. ”Tom, you are the world's last n.o.ble man. Andy Walton wasn't like that. Not the Andy I knew.”
”You might be surprised,” Tom said, standing up and tossing a five-dollar bill on the table. ”Things aren't always as black and white as they seem, Helen.”
44.
At exactly 1:30 a.m. the lights in the storage closet for Unit 203 flicked on-just as they had the three previous mornings. As there was no way to see inside the closet from the outside, no one pa.s.sing by could tell that the lights had been turned on.
No one was up that hour of night anyway. The grounds crew for the condominium left at 5:00 p.m. sharp, and though some of the units were occupied by guests, there wasn't a huge crowd. Each of the owners in the complex had their very own one-car garage as well as a private storage unit. Though there were several signs on the wall urging the tenants to make sure to close their garage doors each night, sometimes people forgot.
Sometimes teenage girls might go out for a swim through the garage door and forget to close it when they scampered back in. Or perhaps a tired father had gone across the highway for groceries and in the process of trying to load up everything and take it upstairs to his condo, forgot to hit the b.u.t.ton for the door.
JimBone Wheeler enjoyed thinking over these scenarios as he recounted his good fortune. He had always been a good swimmer, and the distance from the dock at The Boathouse to the other side of the harbor was about a thousand yards. Ten football fields. Bone had made it across, spending most of his time under the water, in about twenty-five minutes. Literally just seconds before the place was covered with cop cars.
He'd come ash.o.r.e at a restaurant called Louisiana Lagniappe and had immediately begun walking down the sidewalk of Gulf Sh.o.r.e Drive. He knew he didn't have much time, so he began to jog. He had managed to keep his cap, so he twisted it on backwards, hoping that a man out for a run at just past midnight wouldn't cause any alarm. Luckily, he saw no one on the sidewalk.
At first Bone thought he'd steal a car and try to get out of town, but the sounds of the sirens backed him off that plan. He'd have to squat somewhere for a time, so he started looking for a quiet place to do just that. About midway down he saw a white building with tennis courts and a pool out front and, like all the complexes along Holiday Isle, the Gulf of Mexico in the back.
Of greater significance, Bone saw an open garage door.
As nonchalantly as he could manage, he walked through the entrance. Seeing what appeared to be a series of one-car garages side by side, Bone scoured the place, looking for a place to hide. He noticed numbers on a series of doors, and he started trying to open each one of them, hitting pay dirt when he came to Unit 203. Quickly, he stepped inside and locked the door, hiding behind a large orange inflatable boat that covered almost half of the s.p.a.ce.
For over twenty-four hours Bone stayed in the storage closet, barely moving, knowing that the owners of the unit could open the door at any moment. However, after a while his body demanded that he move, so he explored the closet, striking pay dirt again. Next to the light switch there were two hooks, each with a set of keys. One set had a keyless entry device attached, so Bone knew it had to open a car. The device had the word ”Porsche” etched on the side.
What kind of place was this? Bone wondered, eventually coming to the conclusion that it was a private condominium where only owners were allowed on the premises. Perhaps one of the wealthy owners kept his Porsche down here full-time to ride around town during his trips to the Gulf.
The other set contained three keys that were color coded. Knowing he couldn't stay in the closet forever, Bone had opened the door on Sunday morning at 1:30 a.m. The garage area was deserted, so Bone turned to the closet and began seeing if any of the color-coded keys fit in the lock. The orange one did.
Heart rate picking up, Bone looked at the door to the closet. It had the number 203 written on it. Then he inspected the other two keys. If one of the keys opened the closet, then one should open the door to the unit. And if no one had opened the storage closet with all the beach toys in over twenty-four hours . . .
. . . they aren't here, Bone knew, smiling.
He took the stairs up to the second floor and tried the other two keys in the lock to Unit 203. The purple one wouldn't fit, but the door swung open when Bone inserted the green one.