9
Butch lived in a two-bedroom house off East College Street about a half mile from downtown. At 9:30 p.m., he’d just showered and changed into boxer shorts, a navy bathrobe, and flip-flops. He poured himself a glass of Dickel over ice and plopped down on the couch in the small den, bringing the bottle with him so that a refill would be within easy reach.
Butch thought back to Finn Pusser’s not-so-subtle threat at the Sundowners that morning. Assuming Lou fails, are you ready to do what you have to do?
Butch grabbed the remote and flipped channels on the tube until he found a basketball game. Sighing and caring nothing about either team on the television screen, he took a sip of whiskey and wrinkled his face as the liquor burned his throat going down. He’d done what he had to do, and the results were as predictable as Vanderbilt failing to contend for the SEC championship in football every year. Helen hadn’t budged, and his time was almost up. If anything, Butch’s actions today had only made things worse.
His cell phone lay on the wooden coffee table in front of him, and he snatched it. He’d missed no calls, text messages, or emails while he had been in the shower. He clicked on his texts and reviewed the two messages he’d sent Helen after leaving the courthouse. The first, an hour after their conversation in the courtroom, was short and sweet. Have you thought any about what I said? I’m probably going to the Hickory House for dinner if you want to join and talk more. Please, Helen. Don’t force my hand.
The second text, five hours later at 7:35 p.m., was even shorter. Well . . . it said.
Butch gazed at the television screen. “Well . . . I’m screwed,” he whispered.
“Talking to yourself now?”
Butch turned his head toward the voice but didn’t get up off the couch. He focused his eyes toward the kitchen, where there was a door that opened to the outside. “I thought I locked that door,” he said, slurring his words ever so slightly.
The figure approached the couch. “I’ve done a lot of thinking about what you told me.”
Butch raised his eyes. “And?”
“And there’s only one way to fix our dilemma.”
Butch exhaled and cocked his head at the figure. “I agree, but—” His words caught in his mouth when he saw the revolver in the person’s right hand, rising until the barrel was pointed at him. Where did that come from? Butch wondered, blinking his eyes. The figure must have been holding the weapon the entire time, and Butch hadn’t seen it in the dark. “What are you doing?”
“Solving the problem.”
“No,” Butch whispered.
“Yes.” The voice and the barrel of the gun remained steady. “I’m sorry, but this is the only way.”
Butch Renfroe felt tears forming in his eyes. He leaned back against the couch and took a final sip of whiskey. On the TV, two players scrambled for a loose ball, and the referee blew the whistle. Butch thought of his mother and how unsurprised she would be at this end for him. All of that accumulated waste packaged into one perfect and fitting finale. “Just get on with it,” Butch finally said.
He raised his glass again, but it never touched his lips.
10
Helen’s body tingled with adrenaline as the twelve jurors who would decide the fate of Michael Zannick took their seats. She let out a deep breath, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart. She was always amped for the beginning of a trial, but today was different.
Helen hadn’t slept a wink. She’d sat in the recliner in the den of her home and tried to think through all the various scenarios. Her instincts, which normally were tried and true, had failed her. Finally, as the sun began to rise, she’d showered, gotten dressed, and drunk several cups of coffee, but she’d been unable to eat anything. She’d driven to work, fully expecting officers to be waiting on her when she arrived, but they weren’t. Even so, throughout jury selection, Helen had found herself distracted every time the double doors to the courtroom creaked open and closed, thinking each time that someone was going to come in with news about Butch.
Now it was go time. Regardless of what had happened last night or what the consequences of her actions might be, there was a rapist sitting across the courtroom from her who belonged in a prison cell.
Helen moved her eyes to the defense table, looking past Lou Horn to the defendant. Michael James Zannick wore a gray suit with a navy tie. With brown hair cut short and a slight build, nothing about the man’s appearance stood out save for a surgically repaired cleft lip that had left a faint triangle-shaped scar just under his nostrils. Zannick could have easily covered the blemish with a mustache, but he was clean shaven. As Helen gazed at the man, she thought—not for the first time—that he didn’t look like a sexual predator. Of course, neither did Ted Bundy.
As a career prosecutor, Helen knew that the most dangerous predators, like Zannick, were the ones you didn’t see coming.
As if sensing her gaze, Zannick turned his head and looked at her. His expression was blank, but after running his index finger over his scar, he winked.
Helen felt her stomach tighten into a knot, but before she could react any further, she heard Judge Page’s gravelly voice.
“General, is the state ready for opening statements?”
As if on autopilot, Helen stood. “Yes, Your Honor.” While she walked toward the jury railing, she saw Clarice Hanson, Judge Page’s judicial assistant, bust out of the doors of his chambers. Clarice approached the bench, where Page had risen from his seat. He leaned forward and listened to her whisper something in his ear. Then, just as Helen was about to address the jury, Harold Page’s voice stopped her.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I’m sorry to have to do this, but we are going to need to take a recess. Sundance . . .” Page glanced at the bailiff, who had been within earshot of whatever Clarice had informed him.
“Members of the jury, please follow me,” Sundance said. As he ushered them out, the bailiff stole a glance at Helen.
Ricardo Cassidy was only a couple of inches over five feet tall, but his upper and lower body were chiseled from years of weight lifting. His skin tone was almost orange from tanning bed use, and he dyed his hair platinum blond. Because of his hair and last name, Helen had taken to calling him Sundance from almost the minute they had been introduced, and the nickname had held over the years. Now everyone, even Harold Page, addressed the bailiff in this manner. As he looked at her, Sundance’s normally tan face was even more ashen than Lou Horn’s.
Once the jury had filed out, Judge Page, who’d remained standing, ushered the attorneys forward. “Counsel, let’s talk in chambers,” he said, the tension in his voice palpable. “You too, Hank,” he said, pointing a finger at Sheriff Hank Springfield, who’d been sitting next to Helen at the prosecution table.
Helen’s feet remained glued to the floor. She was still standing in the well of the courtroom, that place right in front of the jury, her customary spot for beginning an opening statement. All morning, she had been under the odd and ridiculous notion that if she could start her opening, everything would be OK. All that had happened last night after she’d left Doug Brinkley’s gun range would go away. So close, she thought.