Now, though Butch was looking out the same window, he saw nothing at all. If the Klan were marching below in full regalia, Butch would have stared right through them.
Though the air-conditioning was blowing full blast, beads of sweat had pooled on Butch’s forehead and under his arms. With his left hand, he reached down and grabbed the pint of George Dickel he’d placed on the sill. The top was already off—he’d had several belts since coming in that morning—and he took another pull.
“Easy with that, Butch. What is it? Nine thirty in the morning?”
“Nine fifteen,” Butch said and took another sip of whiskey. Then he turned around and looked down at the conference room table, where Terry Grimes was seated with his hands clasped in a tent position over his stomach. Terry wore a blue-and-white seersucker suit—the same one he had donned for the commercials he’d cut for Terry Grimes Ford/Buick, which was the largest dealership in town now that Walton Chevrolet had closed a few years back. In public, Terry almost always wore a coat and tie. A friendly seersucker for his TV spots, a navy or charcoal suit for the hearings he attended as a six-term county commissioner, and perhaps a sports coat and slacks for meetings of the numerous civic organizations and bank boards he served on. He was a clean-shaven man whose salt-and-pepper hair was thick and curly, and for as long as Butch had known him, Terry had been trim and fit. He worked out at the YMCA five times a week, didn’t smoke, and never touched alcohol.
But despite these healthy habits, Terry Grimes did have one dubious and dangerous vice.
Which is why we’re all sweating bullets now, Butch thought.
“Anything from Lou?” Terry asked, smiling up at Butch. One thing about Terry was that, regardless of his mood or stress level, the man had an almost permanent smile attached to his face. While Lou seemed to be buckling under the pressure of their predicament and Butch wasn’t far behind, Terry’s demeanor was unchanged. He looked like he was waiting on the results of a horse race as opposed to information that could send him to jail for the rest of his life.
“No,” Butch said, turning back to the window and beginning to feel the alcohol permeate his bloodstream. He pressed his forehead to the glass and closed his eyes.
The ring began on November 17, 1993.
As with many instruments of evil, it started innocently enough. Terry Grimes was celebrating his fortieth birthday, and Butch and Lou wanted to do something fun and memorable to mark the occasion. By that time, Butch’s marriage was all but over, and Lou had been divorced for years. Meanwhile, Terry, ever the politician, maintained a delightful public image with his beautiful wife, Doris, a platinum blonde with Dolly Parton–size breasts, and their three golden-haired daughters, all of whom would one day be elected homecoming queen of Giles County High School. In November of 1993, Terry had just been elected to his first term as county commissioner and already served on the board of directors of almost every financial institution in Giles County. He had also become the owner of the local Ford dealership, which allowed him to buy a nice condominium in Orange Beach, Alabama, for his family.
But despite living what most would consider the American Dream, Terrence Robert Grimes had a weakness. Terry, for lack of a better term, was a pervert.
And Terry’s two best friends, Butch Renfroe and Lou Horn, knew it. Hence, on the evening of Terry’s fortieth trip around the sun, Butch and Lou set up a VIP room extravaganza for their pal at the Sundowners Club with several willing dancers. Though the girls were supposed to only fondle each other, once the whiskey started flowing, Terry found his pants around his ankles. When the show was over, Terry, ever the salesman, confided in his two friends that perhaps other hardworking men might like to enjoy the pleasures that he had experienced.
“For a reasonable price, of course.”
Keeping his lids shut tight and gritting his teeth, Butch thought back on that infamous night. How could he possibly have known that a birthday present to a friend would evolve into a prostitution scheme that would spread out over eight counties and two states and last over twenty years, bringing in more than $5 million in cash?
Or that it would eventually involve the trafficking and sexual exploitation of minors?
But it had and did.
And now, after all that time, they were finally paying for their sins.
Butch opened his eyes when he heard heavy footsteps trudging up the stairs. He turned and waited, his stomach fluttering from nerves and dread. Below him, Terry Grimes crossed his legs, his hands still resting across his stomach, the picture of calm and cool.
Seconds later, Lou Horn stood in the doorway to the conference room. His face was ashen.
“Well?” Terry asked.
“No deal,” Lou said, moving his gaze from Terry to Butch. “Trial begins this afternoon at one thirty.” Lou staggered toward the table and grabbed the pint of George Dickel. After pausing for a couple of seconds to let out a raspy breath, he took a long swallow.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Butch asked, snatching the pint from Lou’s sweaty hand. “You can’t be drinking four hours before the start of trial. Are you crazy?”
“Easy, boy,” Lou said, reaching for the pint. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
While Lou and Butch stared each other down, Terry stood from his chair and put his hands in his pockets. “If you have a plan, Lou, why don’t you enlighten us?”
Lou’s fingers clasped around the bottle, and Butch finally released his grip.
The defense lawyer took another long sip and sighed. Then he peered at Butch with hollow eyes. “Buying you some time.”
4
At 10:30 a.m., Helen walked briskly out of the courtroom. Her prediction to Lou Horn had come to fruition. Of the twenty-eight cases on the docket other than Zannick’s, all but four were resolved with a plea agreement, and the remainder were continued. Now, Judge Page was taking the pleas while Gloria Sanchez and each defendant’s respective attorney stood by to answer any questions. Before beginning the process of officially entering the plea agreements, Page had assured Helen that the Zannick trial would start that afternoon at 1:30 p.m. sharp.
Helen felt her heartbeat racing as she headed down the hallway to her office. Some lawyers couldn’t handle the pressure and intensity of criminal prosecution, but Helen Lewis lived for it.
The countless hours of preparation. The patience, persistence, and backbone required to handle the various personalities of witnesses, opposing lawyers, and judges. And the day-to-day hassle of settlement dockets and taking pleas.
It was a brutal grind, but the buzz she felt right now made everything worth it. Helen stopped when she reached the sign reading DISTRICT ATTORNEY GENERAL. She took a deep breath and straightened her suit.
In a rape trial, the most important witness was the victim. Making sure Amanda Burks was ready for what awaited her in the courtroom would be the difference between winning and losing. Over the course of the past six months, Helen had met with Mandy at least fifty times to go over her story and to prepare her both for the questions that Helen would ask on direct examination and, perhaps even more importantly, the accusations that Lou Horn would hurl on cross.
Now they were out of time. This would be their last session before trial.
Helen exhaled and opened the door to the office. Her secretary, Trish DeMonia, who was on the telephone, hung up the receiver after muttering a salutation under her breath. Then she pointed at Helen’s private office. “They’re both inside.”