But he knew he couldn’t do that. Ellie had moved on and was now a full-time grandmother. Gonna have to hire someone, Bo thought, pacing around the dusty lobby, which still contained some of the trophies from Bo’s former life. The signed form memorializing his first million-dollar verdict, which was an SUV rollover case from 1998, was in a large frame above the couch so that every prospective client had to see it when they walked in the door. Bo peered at the framed document, signed by a jury foreperson named Kimberley Carden, who Bo could still remember. Blonde hair and fierce eyes, looking right at Bo with a twinkle in her gaze and saying loud and clear, “We the jury find for the plaintiff and award compensatory damages of one point five million dollars and punitive damages of five million dollars.” Though the punitive award was later cut in half by the Tennessee Supreme Court, the rest of the verdict was upheld. Bo’s client, Henrietta Stein, who was rendered a paraplegic from the accident, was able to pay for her medical care for the rest of her life and provide a future for her family.

And Bocephus Haynes became the most feared trial attorney in southern Tennessee. Despite having an explosive racialized past, juries in Pulaski, Lawrenceburg, and even as north as Nashville and east to Knoxville, took a shine to Bo. He was good in the courtroom, comfortable and confident around the jury, the judge, and his opponents. Plus, because he was a huge man with a baritone voice who’d played football for Coach Paul “Bear” Bryant, he was different. His size, his blackness, and his tortured background made him an oddity, and sometimes, in the carnival world known as trial law, a person’s distinctive qualities gave them an edge. He’d learned this, his greatest lesson, from Professor Tom McMurtrie.

In courtrooms across the South, you’re going to stand out. You’re going to be different than your opponents. Use that. Own who you are and tell your client’s story to the jury your way. If you do, you’ll be successful. I know it.

Bo felt tears fill his eyes as he rubbed a thumb over the framed verdict. The Professor had believed in him. Always. Even when Bo hadn’t believed, Tom McMurtrie had. He could use some of that belief now.

The sound of knocking interrupted his trip down memory lane, and he turned to see a woman standing in the doorframe.

“It was open,” she said, giving him a nervous smile as she removed her knuckles from the door.

Bo wiped his damp eyes and squinted at the woman, who had to be at least six feet tall. She wore the khaki uniform of the Giles County Sheriff’s Office, and the name on her lapel read “Chief Deputy Storm.”

“Frannie?” Bo asked, his mouth curving into a grin. “Frannie Storm?”