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Back Legacy of Lies Save as PDF
Chapters (88)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. PART ONE
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. PART TWO
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. PART THREE
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. 59
  67. PART FOUR
  68. 60
  69. 61
  70. 62
  71. 63
  72. 64
  73. 65
  74. 66
  75. 67
  76. 68
  77. 69
  78. 70
  79. 71
  80. 72
  81. 73
  82. 74
  83. 75
  84. 76
  85. 77
  86. EPILOGUE
  87. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  88. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For a moment the room was silent, and then Bo grumbled, “Play the damn thing.”

Hooper pressed “Play,” and for a split second, there was an image of a naked Terry Grimes on the screen. Then snow filled the screen followed by the familiar jingle of “I’m Alright” by the great Kenny Loggins and images of a golf course.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Bo said, grabbing the sides of his face with his hands.

“You were about to play Caddyshack for the jury this afternoon,” Hooper said.

After a three-second pause, the room broke up in raucous laughter.

76

76

An hour later, Bo drove up the long and winding road leading to the “Big House” at Walton Farm. He parked next to his cousin’s truck, glancing at the decal of the cross on the back window and shaking his head. Then he stepped out into the cool autumn night and gazed up at the porch. He carried a bottle of Bombay gin in his right hand and walked toward the house, feeling a bit unsteady on his feet after the three beers he’d consumed at the office with Hooper. The fatigue and stress from the trial had also begun to set in, and his legs felt like cement blocks.

Booker T. Rowe was sitting on the steps of the porch, and for a few seconds, Bo stood in front of him, saying nothing. Then finally, Bo took a seat beside him. He unscrewed the top on the bottle of gin and took a sip, closing his eyes as the alcohol warmed his throat and belly. Then he extended the bottle to his cousin. Keeping his eyes shut, he held his breath until he felt the container being removed from his fingers.

He turned and gazed at Booker T., who hesitated before taking a long sip. Then the big man’s mouth formed a tight grin. “Congratulations.”

Both men now peered forward. The glow from the half moon above shone on the cornfields that had recently been harvested. “Thanks,” Bo said.

For at least a minute, the only sounds came from the wind rustling through the trees to the north. There were many things Bo wanted to ask his cousin, but none of them seemed all that important right now. Eventually, he stood and stretched his tired arms over his head. Then he took a couple of steps forward, moving his eyes around the thousand acres that had defined much of his life. “The Roosevelt Haynes Farm for Boys and Girls,” he said out loud. He turned to look at his cousin.

Booker T. Rowe’s face loosened, and he gave a tentative nod.

Bo returned the gesture and looked back at the land. “I like it.”

77

77

Helen Lewis sipped from a pint of Jack Daniel’s and gazed down at the small headstone, which read: FREDERICK ALAN “BUTCH” RENFROE. BORN JANUARY 15, 1950; DIED APRIL 1, 2015.