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.
“According to my client, the paperwork has been finalized, and the only holdup is this charge. Hoshima, General. I know they aren’t Toyota or Honda, but they are an up-and-comer in the automobile industry, and their plant will bring almost a thousand jobs to Giles County. Think about that for a second, would you? A thousand jobs.”
“There isn’t a power and influence exception to rape, Lou, and this isn’t just a statutory charge. Your client used force and intimidation to have sex with the victim against her will.”
“Her word against his.”
“I’ll take hers, and I believe a jury will too.”
Lou held his mouth open, but no words came out.
“Are we done, Lou? There are a few others here who want to talk with me.”
Lou Horn finally closed his mouth and licked his lips. “You’re making a huge mistake.”
Helen squinted at him. “I’m doing my job.”
“If you convict Michael Zannick of rape, you won’t have your job come November.” He stepped closer to her. “The people of this town are tired of you and your strong-arm tactics, General. Pulaski is dying on the vine and needs the energy that an automobile plant would bring. Sack Glover understands that. Why can’t you?”
Helen bristled at the mention of her opponent’s name in the upcoming election. “All that man understands is taking care of those who are financing his campaign.” She paused. “Like your client.”
Lou smirked. “The parole board last Friday found him pretty persuasive.” He leaned forward and spoke in a lower voice. “You put Ennis Petrie in prison for being part of a race crime that garnered national headlines. And yet, at the hearing, despite how hard you argued that Ennis didn’t deserve parole and how you shamed the board at even considering the suggestion, they gave it to him anyway.”
Helen set her jaw and steeled herself. She would remain calm. “You and I both know that if Bo Haynes had been there, the outcome would’ve been different.”
“Woulda, shoulda, coulda,” Lou snapped. “Let’s suppose Bocephus Haynes had shown his face. I doubt the board would have thought much of what a twice-suspended lawyer with a criminal record felt about anything. All I know is that Ennis Petrie, former sheriff of this county, charter member of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and one of the ten men in 1966 who lynched Bo’s father, or, to be technically correct, stepfather . . . is walking the streets of Pulaski again. And you want to know why? Because the board followed the hearing officer’s recommendation and not your own.” Now it was Lou who paused. “Remind me who the hearing officer was again, General?”
Helen glared at Lou, whose pale face had broken out in sweat. She ignored the question. “The rest of the cases on this docket are probably going to plea out or be continued. If Zannick doesn’t take the deal I’ve offered, then we’re teeing it up in a few hours.”
Lou took a step back and squinted at her. “You’re gonna regret this.”
Before Helen could respond, Lou turned and walked away. Helen squeezed her hands into fists, reeling from the encounter. She’d tried cases against Lou Horn since the late 1980s, and, though their discussions had often been spirited, the crotchety defense lawyer had never insinuated that a decision might affect her political standing.
Dick Selby took his place in front of her. “General, you look nice today. I like your shoes.”
Helen rolled her eyes, grateful for a return to the familiar. “I’ve worn the same brand of high heels for twenty years, Dick. If you’re going to be such a serial ass-kisser, you could at least become good at it.”
His face fell, and his slim shoulders sagged. “Can you do any better for me on Paulson? Maybe reckless driving and community service?”
“No, he has to plead to DUI. I can lower the fine to four hundred dollars, but once we start striking the jury, all offers are off the table, and I’ll seek the maximum fine of fifteen hundred dollars as well as sixty days in jail. What says Mr. Paulson?”
Dick grimaced, but he didn’t hesitate. “He’ll take the deal.”
3
The law firm of Frederick A. Renfroe, LLC, was located on West Madison Street a block from the courthouse. Three doors down from the office was the two-story square building where, on Christmas Eve of 1865, six Confederate veterans had formed the Ku Klux Klan. For decades, a plaque commemorating the founding of one of the world’s foremost hate groups had been plastered to the front of the building, but in 1989, the owner had removed the monument and then welded it on backward. Now, all you could see when you passed by was a blank green-and-black slab.
Butch gazed out the window of his second-floor conference room, gripping tight to the cell phone he held in his right hand. From this position, he could barely make out the plaque. Occasionally, on what used to be called Robert E. Lee Day but now was celebrated in most of the country as Martin Luther King Jr. Day, Butch would see tourists walking aimlessly down Madison, clearly trying to find the plaque that no longer had any words on it. And just last week, some Klansmen marched around the square after news broke that Ennis Petrie had been granted parole. Some of the men had ambled down the sidewalk and had knelt in front of the plaque, and a few had even kissed the damn thing. Then Butch had stood in this spot and marveled at how there were people in this crazy world who still celebrated the exploits of the Klan and wore the white robes and hoods with pride.