At 6:30 p.m., she left the office, saying she needed to get home and make Mandy dinner. Bo had almost said that he wanted to meet Mandy, but that could wait until later. If Michael Zannick was somehow involved in a frame-up of the General, then Bo needed to know everything he could about the prosecution’s rape case against Zannick. That would include talking with the victim. As she was walking out the door, Lona said she would go to the courthouse tomorrow and get a tutorial from one of the clerks on how to file documents and then would have everything filed by lunch.

Assuming that got done, the preliminary hearing would be set in approximately thirty days. Then, when the judge found probable cause for the arrest, the case would be bound over to the grand jury. After that, the grand jury would issue an indictment, and the court would set an arraignment date. At the arraignment, General Helen Lewis would plead not guilty and then . . .

. . . trial.

He sighed as the enormity of the case began to set in. The General had been charged with first-degree murder. Sack Glover hadn’t provided notice yet of whether he would seek the death penalty, but with the enhancers mentioned by Chief Storm last night . . .

. . . he will.

Bo rolled down his window and let the cool night breeze filter into the interior of the car. The only noises he could hear were the chirping of crickets and the distant whine of a cow. The air smelled like honeysuckle with a faint whiff of manure. He reached for a beer from the six-pack he’d picked up on the way and popped the top. As he took his first sip, the sound of a shotgun blast caused him to spill half the drink down his neck and chest.

“Sonofa . . .”

He lunged for the glove compartment, where he kept his Glock, but before he could unclick the box, he was blindsided with a punch that busted his mouth wide open. Before he could gather himself, he felt huge hands grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him out the window of the car. Then he was lifted high into the air as if he was being pressed like a barbell.

Only one person on earth was capable of manhandling him like this. “Put me down, dog.”

“As you wish, cuz.”

Suddenly Bo was flying in the air, landing hard on his shoulder but rolling to his feet just as he’d been taught as a linebacker in football. He glared at the enormous man standing in front of him.

Booker Taliaferro Washington Rowe Jr. was a mountain of a human being at six feet six inches tall and well over three hundred pounds. He was built in the box shape of a refrigerator, which had made him a ferocious offensive lineman for Giles County High and, later, Alabama A&M.