PRAISE FOR ROBERT BAILEY

“The Professor is that rare combination of thrills, chills, and heart. Gripping from the first page to the last.”

—Winston Groom, author of Forrest Gump

“Legal thrillers shouldn’t be this much fun, and a new writer shouldn’t be this good at crafting a great twisty story. If you enjoy Grisham as much as I do, you’re going to love Bob Bailey.”

—Brian Haig, author of The Night Crew and the Sean Drummond series

“Robert Bailey is a thriller writer to reckon with. His debut novel has a tight and twisty plot, vivid characters, and a pleasantly down-home sensibility that will remind some readers of adventures in Grisham-land. Luckily, Robert Bailey is an original, and his skill as a writer makes the Alabama setting all his own. The Professor marks the beginning of a very promising career.”

—Mark Childress, author of Georgia Bottoms and Crazy in Alabama

“Taut, page turning, and smart, The Professor is a legal thriller that will keep readers up late as the twists and turns keep coming. Set in Alabama, it also includes that state’s greatest icon, one Coach Bear Bryant. In fact, the Bear gets things going with the energy of an Alabama kickoff to Auburn. Robert Bailey knows his state, and he knows his law. He also knows how to write characters that are real, sympathetic, and surprising. If he keeps writing novels this good, he’s got quite a literary career before him.”

—Homer Hickam, author of Rocket Boys/October Sky, a New York Times number one bestseller

“Robert Bailey is a southern writer in the great southern tradition, with a vivid sense of his environment and characters that pop and crackle on the page. This book kept me hooked all the way through.”

—William Bernhardt, author of the Ben Kincaid series

“Bailey’s solid second McMurtrie and Drake legal thriller (after 2014’s The Professor) . . . provides enough twists and surprises to keep readers turning the pages.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A gripping legal suspense thriller of the first order, Between Black and White clearly displays author Robert Bailey’s impressive talents as a novelist. An absorbing and riveting read from beginning to end.”

—Midwest Book Review

“Take a murder, a damaged woman, and a desperate daughter, and you have the recipe for The Last Trial, a complex and fast-paced legal thriller. Highly recommended.”

—D. P. Lyle, award-winning author

“The Final Reckoning is explosive and displays every element of a classic thriller: fast pacing, strong narrative, fear, misery, and transcendence. Bailey proves once more that he is a fine writer with an instinct for powerful, white-knuckle narrative.”

—Southern Literary Review

ALSO BY ROBERT BAILEY

McMURTRIE AND DRAKE LEGAL THRILLERS

The Final Reckoning

The Last Trial

Between Black and White

The Professor

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2020 by Robert Bailey

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

ISBN-13: 9781542004268

ISBN-10: 1542004268

Cover design by Shasti O’Leary Soudant

DEDICATION

In memory of my friend Danny Ray Cobb

CONTENTS

CONTENTS

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

PART TWO

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

PART THREE

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

PART FOUR

60

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

EPILOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PART ONE

PART ONE

1

1

Pulaski, Tennessee, April 1, 2015

Frederick Alan “Butch” Renfroe began the day of his murder in a familiar but unlikely place. Before it closed in 2011, the Sundowners Club on Highway 64 was where Butch had liked to end his evening, not kick off the morning. Back then, after closing up his law office on the square at around five or six, he’d walk to Kathy’s Tavern and drink enough George Dickel to catch a nice buzz. Then he’d drive out to the Sundowners, where he’d have a couple of more shots of George chased with several cold beers. After donating a handful of one-dollar bills to the stripper on the main stage, he’d round up one of his favorite girls for a lap dance or two. Every so often, on his birthday or some other special occasion, he’d splurge for a half hour in the VIP room upstairs.

Of course, his own enjoyment had never been the ultimate goal of his regular visits to the Sundowners. No, Butch had something else in mind as he’d gotten to know the dancers, the bartenders, the waitresses, the owner, and—most importantly—the customers during thirty-some-odd years of patronage.

Pimp was a dirty word in Butch’s vernacular, and he didn’t like to refer to himself or his partners in that way. Running whores was likewise distasteful, nor could Butch abide the terms whorehouse, brothel, or bordello.

Instead, Butch and his cohorts labeled their operation a ring or, to be more specific, “the ring.” And for three decades, it produced a gravy train of money that lined their pockets.

But in October 2011, the owner of the Sundowners, Larry Tucker, was killed. All hell had broken loose. Part of the fallout was the condemnation of, for Butch’s money, the best little strip club in southern Tennessee . . .

. . . and, with it, the end of the ring.

But sixteen months ago, in December 2013, a developer named Michael Zannick moved to Pulaski and began buying up land, buildings, and businesses. Everything started to change—and for the better.

Life was good, especially for Butch Renfroe, Zannick’s handpicked corporate attorney. Butch had made nice commissions on each of his client’s purchases. He had become the president of Zannick’s start-up bank. And, as if all that weren’t enough, his side hustle was back in business.

The Sundowners had reopened its doors, and “the ring 2.0,” as one of his partners called it, was producing cash flow again.

Life was very good . . . until it wasn’t. And it doesn’t get any worse than this, Butch thought.

At this time of the morning, the Sundowners had none of the creature comforts that existed at night. No music. No booze. No scantily clad waitresses. And, finally, no exotic dancers. Indeed, illuminated by the stark glare of the sunlight peeking through the half-closed curtain that guarded the one window in the club, the pole on the main stage looked ridiculously out of place.

Butch was seated at a round table in the back of the building looking into the harsh hazel eyes of the club’s manager, Finnegan Pusser. Finn, as he liked to be called, was no relation to Buford Pusser, the late sheriff of McNairy County, Tennessee, but he had something in common with the famous lawman. He liked to carry a two-by-four piece of lumber with him around the club to keep the patrons who were a bit too handsy at bay. Finn gripped the beating stick now with his right hand and glared across the table at Butch.

“Big day for you, Counselor.” With his other hand, Finn fingered the handle on a cup of coffee but made no move to drink it. Butch gazed at the smoke coming off the hot mug and then, feeling sweat rings forming under his armpits, glanced around the renovated structure.

The layout was almost identical to how it had been when Larry ran things. The bar remained up front toward the entrance. Beyond that were three stages, each of which had a metal pole in the middle. Along one wall was a series of benches where men could get lap dances, and beyond the exit sign in back was a stairwell that would take patrons up to the VIP room. Adjacent to the opposite wall and sprinkled around all three stages were a number of tables with four chairs each.

Butch sucked in a quick breath and focused on the clock that hung above the bar next to a row of whiskey bottles. It was 7:30 a.m., and the club was vacant except for Butch and Finn.

“Did you hear what I said?” Finn asked.

Butch returned his gaze to the manager, who was now holding the stick up with the end pointed at the ceiling. “Yes . . . ,” Butch began, “. . . but I don’t think I’m going to be needed.” The words sounded hollow even to him.

“You’re wrong,” Finn said. “And you know it.”

“There’s still a chance that Lou can change her mind. Lou—”

“—doesn’t believe the General will budge, and neither does Mr. Zannick.” Finn paused. “Lou is also cracking up. He drinks too much, and he’s been beaten too many times by the prosecutor. He’s become a liability.”

“He’s the best criminal defense attorney in town.”

“So you say.”

“No one has had more success defending cases in Giles County than Lou.”

“You’re wrong. There’s a black man named Haynes that most of the town folks think is the best lawyer around.”

Butch smirked. “Well, he ain’t around anymore and hasn’t been in years. And even if he was, there’s no way that he would have represented Michael Zannick.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because Booker T. Rowe is Haynes’s cousin.” Butch licked his chapped lips and peered across the table at Finn. “You remember what we’ve done to Rowe, don’t you?”

Finn didn’t say anything, but his eyes flickered with recognition.

Butch took a deep breath. Though the floors, tables, and stages had been scrubbed clean this morning by a crew, he could still make out the faint smell of cheap beer and stripper perfume that was ever present during business hours. “Lou Horn was and is our best option. Besides . . .” He sighed and glanced at the sawdust floor. “. . . Lou has skin in the game just like me. He knows what’s at stake.”

For several seconds, the dark club was quiet. Butch could literally hear his heart beating as he gazed at the two-by-four, which Finn still held in an upright position.

“Assuming Lou fails, are you ready to do what you have to do?” Finn asked, smiling. His eyes held not a trace of humor.

“Yes,” Butch said.

“You better,” Finn said, standing from his chair and poking the end of the stick into Butch’s stomach. “Unless you want to finish this day in the morgue.” He gave the piece of lumber a firm jab, and Butch felt the wind go out of him. He sprawled forward and clutched his abdomen as his chin brushed against the rough wooden table.

As Finn walked away, Butch struggled to regain his breath and thought of what he must do if and when Lou failed. Then another realization hit him even harder than Finn Pusser’s lumber stick.

“We’re all going to fail,” Butch whispered, closing his eyes and cursing his own stupidity as the inevitability of what was about to happen sank in.

I’m a dead man . . .

2

2

Lou Horn stuffed his hands in the pockets of his trousers and leaned his ample backside against the edge of the table. His stomach was queasy, so he dug out a pack of Tums and flipped one in his mouth. As he chewed the chalky antacid, he said a silent prayer that today’s docket would be handled by the assistant prosecutor. Subconsciously, he glanced down at his watch. It was 8:25 a.m., and the docket call wasn’t supposed to start until 9:00. Despite how early it was, the courtroom was crawling with defense lawyers, all vying for one last opportunity to be heard by the prosecutor before the judge took the bench. The gallery was a cacophony of nervous laughter, loud whispers, and the occasional sneeze or cough. The noise reminded Lou of the way a church congregation sounded before the music began and the preacher ascended the pulpit.

“Horn,” Dick Selby said, approaching Lou and taking a place next to him. Dick was a short thin man who used to be bald on top but, a few years ago, had undergone a hair transplant. Now the top of his head looked like a cornfield, except instead of rows of the crop there were columns of curly hair lining his scalp. Some members of the bar called him “Pube Head” behind his back, but Dick didn’t care. Lou figured that when your name was “Dick,” it was hard to get too riled up by any other handle someone bestowed upon you.

“Dick, how are you?” Lou spoke without looking at the man as both gazed past the sea of their colleagues to the double doors that marked the exit and entrance to the courtroom.

“A lot better now,” Dick said, his voice gruff.

“Why is that?”

“A little birdie just told me that Gloria was doing the docket today by herself.”

Relief washed over Lou like a cool blanket. If that was true, then settlement of his case was possible. He couldn’t suppress the smile that came to his lips. “Dick, you just made my—”

He stopped when he heard the double doors creak open. All conversation and laughter in the courtroom died in an instant. Seconds later, Gloria Sanchez walked through the opening rolling a large black briefcase behind her. Lou’s smile widened as he heard the collective exhale of fifty lawyers who all knew their day was about to be much better. Gloria strode forward with a lean, her eyes locked on the prosecution table in front of her. She was an attractive young woman who Lou thought would be far prettier if she smiled more. Of course, when you worked for who Gloria did, the smiles were probably few and far between. He was about to approach her when he heard another sound that made his blood run cold. The clicking of high heels on hardwood.

Every head in the room turned again to the double doors, and Lou felt hot breath in his ear that smelled like coffee and bacon. “April Fools,” Dick said, nudging Lou’s elbow with his own and snickering.

Lou Horn felt the unmistakable twinge in his scrotum that he always absorbed every time he heard the echo of the General’s footsteps. He wondered how many other men in this room had the same reaction and what the corresponding vibe was for the smattering of female defense attorneys. The General didn’t cut anybody slack. If there was a dog in the room, Lou figured the animal would be whining and pissing a puddle on the floor.

“Shit,” he said.

As the sound of the clicks grew louder and Lou saw her walk through the opening, Dick Selby muttered, “Have you ever figured out where she parks her broom?”

It was an old joke, and Lou didn’t laugh. For once, he was more afraid of his client, who was expecting a settlement today, than he was of the woman striding down the aisle.

“Shit,” he repeated.

Helen Evangeline Lewis relished the look of fear she saw in her colleagues’ eyes. The familiar expression sent electricity through her bloodstream and, in truth, was the only feeling anymore that gave her a high. Better than alcohol. Better than sex, though it had been years since she had felt that sensation. To be respected was wonderful, but to be feared was divine. Part of the feeling was the power of her office. She was the district attorney general of the Twenty-Second Judicial Circuit, which comprised the counties of Giles, Maury, Lawrence, and Wayne. The lawyers in this courtroom represented clients whose futures could rest in her decision whether to deal or go to trial. But she knew that wasn’t entirely it. The attorneys didn’t just fear the office. They feared her.

She walked slowly, her back straight and her head completely still, just as her mother had taught her when she was a teenager entered in every beauty contest in southern Tennessee. She had never won a single event, though she had gotten third place in Ms. Teen Giles County. But the training in posture and stride had served another purpose: it had given her poise, confidence, and discipline, which she had later relied on to succeed in the male-dominated world of law.

The color of Helen’s hair, which fell to her shoulders, was midnight black, and her skin was pale. She wore a black suit and matching high heels, with lips painted bright red. The outfit was her trademark, so to speak, and she figured there were few attorneys in Giles County who could remember her wearing anything different to court. She knew the clothes added to her aura, and oddly enough, it was her ex-husband, Butch, who had unwittingly suggested the look.

During their marriage, which had ended in divorce in 1995, he liked to watch NASCAR on Sunday afternoons. He even took Helen to the Talladega 500 in 1991. Butch’s favorite driver was Dale Earnhardt, and it wasn’t just the man’s ability behind the wheel that made him a fan. “The Intimidator,” as Earnhardt was known, drove a black stock car with a white number 3 outlined in red painted on the sides. His helmet, jumpsuit, and racing glasses were also black and white, which made him strike a formidable pose on the track. At the race in ’Dega, Butch got them a seat close to Earnhardt’s pit crew. He said that the black car and uniform were the perfect complements to Earnhardt’s fearless, almost reckless brand of racing and made him stand out among all the other sponsor-supported cars with their colorful, forgettable designs. “Brilliant marketing,” her ex-husband marveled. The week after the race, Helen wore a black suit to work every day. Since then, it was the only color she had donned in the courtroom.

As she strode to the front, she let her eyes move over the swell of attorneys, a few of who were brave enough to issue a greeting. “General, how are you?” “Morning, General.” Helen nodded, saying nothing, but she relished the military bearing that was an oddity of Tennessee law. In most jurisdictions in the United States, the district attorney bore no title. He or she was simply called by Mr., Ms., or Mrs. in the courtroom. If there was any reference beyond that, it was simply as “the prosecutor.” But in the state of Tennessee, the district attorney was referred to as “General” during court proceedings. For Helen Lewis, who had been one of only a handful of women to graduate in her law school class of over one hundred at the University of Tennessee in 1978, to be referred to as “General” by the opposing attorney, who was almost always a man, was empowering.

When she stopped at the prosecution table, where Gloria Sanchez was removing file jackets from the briefcase, she caught the same look of trepidation in her young assistant’s eyes as she had seen in the gaze of the defense attorneys whom she had just walked past. And though Helen knew that her look and title added to her intimidation factor, the final and most important piece was her attitude.

Helen Evangeline Lewis, for lack of a more sophisticated term, was mean. Not evil. Not bad. Mean. She had tried being nice and cordial early in her legal career, but the effort made her feel weak, and she found that her male counterparts did not take her seriously. Worst of all, she had lost cases she should have won and pled matters that should have gone to trial. When she thought of those days, it was hard not to be sick to her stomach.

“Docket sheet,” Helen said, her voice sharp and clipped.

Gloria handed her a stapled packet filled with the names of the defendants who were on this week’s trial agenda. Helen scanned the list for show. She had meticulously gone over the docket in her office for the past hour and knew exactly what she wanted to do with every case.

“General, can we talk?”

Helen recognized the voice without turning. She spoke while still gazing at the list of cases. “What do you want, Lou?”

“A second of your precious time,” Lou said, not feigning his irritation.

She turned and bore her eyes into his, and the large, plump man whom she had waged battle against in this very courtroom for almost three decades held her gaze. “OK,” she said.

“Zannick.” Lou spoke the name as if it pained him to say it. “Can’t we reach a resolution?”

“I’ve made my final offer.”

“Ten years with no possibility of parole is worse than what he’ll get if the jury convicts, General. Be reasonable, please.”

“He raped a fifteen-year-old girl, Lou.”

“He thought she was eighteen, and it was consensual. There are extenuating circumstances. Please—”

“No. The fact that Mr. Zannick is a wealthy playboy who’s donated a truckload of money to Martin Methodist College isn’t an extenuating circumstance.”

“I’m not talking about that, General. The girl . . . the victim may have only been fifteen, but she was sexually promiscuous. I have witnesses who say she was giving out blow jobs for one hundred dollars a pop in the boys’ locker room.”

Helen glared at the defense lawyer, not believing what she’d just heard. “Lou, under the rape shield rule, evidence of a victim’s other sexual behavior is strictly prohibited. Even if your witnesses were telling the truth, which I doubt, those facts don’t come in, and you damn well know it.”

Lou crossed his arms over his chest, undeterred. “I suppose not, but good luck finding any jurors who aren’t aware of Amanda Burks’s reputation at Giles County High. This is a small town, Helen. And while Mandy’s sexual exploits might not come in, the fact that she waited a month to report the alleged crime will.” He paused. “Do you really think a jury will believe anything she says?”

“Yes, I do. She was in ninth grade, Lou. The victim was a child, and Mr. Zannick, despite how he dresses and how much time he spends with college students, is a thirty-seven-year-old man.”

Lou took a step closer and spoke in a low whine. “General, do you want the town to lose the Hoshima contract?”

Helen folded her arms but said nothing.

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