BooksBarbecue
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

Bo squinted at her, and Frannie laughed. “Auntie told me everything about you, Mr. Haynes. How your football career was cut short, the beginning of your law practice, and of course when you started hitting the big verdicts.” She nodded at the framed form on the wall. “Bocephus Haynes is the greatest trial lawyer in the world.” Frannie mimicked the southern accent of her aunt. “She was so proud to work for you, and she’d be glad that you’re back.” Frannie sighed. “Even if it is in a losing cause.”

“You’re that confident the General did it.”

Frannie nodded and again turned to leave. “I know she did.” Just as she was about to turn the knob, she peered at him with eyes burning with intensity. Bo had watched Frannie Storm play ball on several occasions, and she competed with an aggressive, tough edge. She wasn’t afraid to mix it up for rebounds, dive for loose balls, or do whatever else it took to win. He caught that vibe in her expression now and felt his own adrenaline begin to ramp up.

“Did she tell you about her abortion today?” Frannie asked.

“What?”

Frannie kept her poker face. Her eyes remained glued to Bo’s. “The baby she aborted in 1977. Did she tell you?”

Bo shook his head and could barely find his voice. “No.”

“You should ask her,” Frannie said. “It was the one skeleton in the General’s closet.” She paused and raised her eyebrows. “My hunch is that Butch Renfroe died because he threatened to reveal her secret.”

25

25

“October 15, 1977,” Helen said, gazing at the cinder block walls of the consultation room. Then she glanced at Bo, who was studying her with his fierce obsidian eyes. He was dressed in black slacks and a blue button-down, and he’d draped his brown sports jacket over the aluminum chair. It was 8:30 a.m., and Helen had barely slept during her first full night of incarceration. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Butch as she’d seen him last. At his house on Pecan Grove Drive, Helen tightly gripping her revolver. Everything was fuzzy after that. Helen couldn’t remember when or how she’d left Butch’s house or what she’d done in the hours that had passed before the beginning of the Zannick trial. The time was gone. She’d once seen a therapist who said that people sometimes completely erased their darkest moments. Like soldiers who returned from war and couldn’t remember the numerous kills they were a part of and didn’t want to talk or think about it. PTSD in its highest form.

Helen Evangeline Lewis knew all about posttraumatic stress disorder, and April Fools’ Day 2015 at her ex-husband’s house wasn’t the first time she’d experienced it.

“You remember that day?” Helen asked. “October 15, 1977 . . .”

Bo blinked. “It was during football season,” he said, and she could tell he was thinking hard.