She felt a hand squeeze her arm, and she glanced at Gloria Sanchez, whose eyes were wide. “Any idea what this is about?” Gloria asked.
“No,” Helen said.
Helen was the last person to enter Page’s chambers. As she did, a uniformed deputy closed the door behind her. She blinked her eyes, noticing that two other officers were also in the room. Judge Page had already taken his robe off, and he and Hank were whispering back and forth. Remembering her place in these proceedings and steeling herself for whatever came next, Helen stepped forward and spoke in a sharp voice. “What’s going on here, Harold?” She frowned at Page, knowing that everyone would expect her to be annoyed that her opening statement had been interrupted.
The judge grimaced and then turned to the sheriff. “Hank?”
Hank Springfield had been the sheriff of Giles County for the past two and a half years, rising to the top position when Ennis Petrie was sent to prison. Hank had an athletic, lanky build and in a former life had been the starting fullback for the Giles County Bobcats. Now, at just under forty years of age, his brown, curly hair was beginning to have some salt and pepper on the sides. Helen had always thought Hank was attractive in a boyish way. She also liked his eyes, which were sky blue. They pierced hers now with concern. “General, we received a 911 dispatch from Butch Renfroe’s house off East College about fifteen minutes ago. A neighbor had gone to Butch’s home to check on him when Butch hadn’t shown for their morning workout and wasn’t answering his cell phone.” Hank paused, glancing at Judge Page before turning back to Helen. “Butch is dead.”
Helen’s knees shook and her legs felt wobbly. She grabbed the chair in front of her and sucked in a quick breath.
“General, are you OK?” Hank asked, touching her lightly on the elbow.
Helen blinked back tears and looked at him. “I’m fine.”
“I need to go,” he said. “It’s a crime scene, and I should be there.”
“Crime scene?” Helen managed.
He nodded. “He was shot several times.” The sheriff paused. “His face and upper body were also badly beaten.”
Helen gripped the chair and sucked in a ragged breath.
“General?”
“Go,” she said. When he hadn’t moved, she straightened her body. “Go,” she repeated, speaking through clenched teeth. Then, as Hank shuffled out the door with the three deputies trailing on his heels, Helen looked at Page, who was now standing behind his large desk. “Judge, we’d ask for a short recess until . . .” She stopped, feeling tears again welling in her eyes, but she fought them off. “. . . until the sheriff’s office can complete their initial investigation of the crime scene.”
Page turned to Lou Horn, who’d sat down in one of the visitor chairs. “Any objection, Lou?”
The defense lawyer’s face was ghost white as he brought a shaking hand to his lips. Slowly, he shook his head.
“OK,” Page said, gazing at Lou with concerned eyes. “I’m going to adjourn with instructions to arrive back at nine tomorrow morning. By then . . .” He sighed. “Maybe we’ll know the next step.”
11
Helen left the courthouse ten minutes later, telling Trish that she didn’t feel well and was going home. Once in her car, she pulled onto East College Street. As she passed the Dollar General, she saw several police cruisers turning left down Pecan Grove Drive toward Butch’s home.
Helen felt her pulse quicken and turned into the parking lot of Carr & Erwin Funeral Home. She doubted Butch’s body had arrived here yet, but by the end of the day, it would. Gripping the wheel, she fought back tears, knowing that time was in short supply.
She closed her eyes and forced herself to take several deep breaths. When she finally opened them, she unclicked the glove compartment. The revolver wasn’t there.
Sweat beads percolated on Helen’s neck and forehead as she gazed into the opening. All she saw was her car registration materials. She looked away and slowly began to count. A thousand one, a thousand two . . .
When she reached ten, she looked again. There was still no gun.
A guttural moan escaped Helen’s lips. She slammed the glove box shut and again squeezed the steering wheel. She needed to be calm. Think, she told herself. Think, damnit.
“I’m going to be charged with murder,” she said out loud, gazing over the wheel at the funeral home where her mother and father had both been laid to rest and where her ex-husband’s service would be handled in the very near future. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind over the proclamation she’d just made. The only question was how long it would take before she was brought in.
Gritting her teeth, she put the car in gear and headed out of town. When she reached the junction with Highway 64, she hung a left and drove east, passing Walton Farm, where she’d almost been killed three and a half years earlier and would have been if not for Tom McMurtrie. She soon reached Lincoln County. Once in Fayetteville, she turned south on Highway 231. If I’m gone much more than a few hours, they might see this as fleeing, she thought but didn’t care.
For the first time in her adult life, Helen Evangeline Lewis felt strung out and at the end of her rope. And she needed help.
As she passed a green sign saying WELCOME TO ALABAMA THE BEAUTIFUL, she knew it went even deeper than that.
“I need a lawyer,” she whispered.
PART TWO
12
Huntsville, Alabama, April 2, 2015
Suffice it to say, the men’s room on the eighth floor of the Madison County Courthouse would never grace the pages of Southern Living magazine. The square-shaped box had one urinal, two stalls, and a sink. The walls were gray cinder blocks, and at four o’clock in the afternoon, the tile floor looked and felt grimy after a day’s worth of use. The pungent odor of disinfectant permeated the tight space, but despite the heavy dose of cleaner, the restroom’s lone occupant could still make out the faint whiff of dried urine in the air.
Bocephus Aurulius Haynes took in a shallow breath and gazed at himself in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were bloodshot, and the dark brown skin on his shaved scalp glistened with sweat, but otherwise he felt that he looked presentable considering the circumstances. Like his head, his face was clean shaven, and he wore a custom-tailored gray suit with a white shirt and red tie. At six foot four inches tall and weighing in at a shade over 240 pounds, Bo had a hard time finding clothes off the rack that fit. This suit normally made him feel good, but all he could sense now was anxiety. His mouth and throat tasted dry, and his heavily calloused palms were clammy. Bo turned on the sink faucet and ran his hands under the cold liquid, washing them and then rewashing them. He splashed water on his face and looked at himself again, gripping the porcelain sides of the sink and trying to steady his nerves.
He thought about all the verdicts he’d waited on during his twenty-five-plus years practicing law. In the personal injury arena, there had been wheels cases, premises liability, product malfunctions, and medical malpractice. On the criminal side of the fence, he’d run the gamut early in his career, defending murder cases all the way down to first-offense DUIs and other traffic violations. He’d even been the defendant himself in a capital murder case a few years ago, though that matter had never reached a verdict, and all charges were eventually dismissed.