Between Black and White Read Online Free PDF Page B

sets of blue and white flashers. “No,” he whispered again. He swallowed and tasted the bile in his throat. He turned for the back door but stopped in his tracks when he saw them.
    Ennis Petrie, the sheriff of Giles County, Tennessee, and Hank Springfield, his chief deputy, stood in the doorway. Behind them, Bo saw two more deputies and four squad cars, all with their flashers on.
    Three squads in the front and four in back, Bo thought. No.
    “Bo,” Ennis said, taking a cautious step toward him. “You left the door open.”
    “Sheriff,” Bo said, wiping his mouth and hoping he didn’t have vomit on it. “Hank. What can I do for you fellas?”
    “You’re under arrest, Bo,” the sheriff said, removing a pair of handcuffs from his belt buckle.
    “For what?” Bo asked, his heart pounding in his chest.
    Ennis took another step toward him, eyeing Bo with detached curiosity as he placed the cuffs on the attorney’s wrists. “For the murder of Andrew Davis Walton.”

7
    The holding cell wasn’t much bigger than a closet. Three of the walls were yellow cinder block, fading white with age, while the wall to Bo’s right was made of glass, presumably so someone could watch the questioning from behind it. The floor was concrete, and the sealed sliding door had a small plexiglass window. Inside the cramped space the cell smelled of disinfectant mingled with traces of sweat and body odor. Bo had visited the Giles County Jail on numerous occasions and remembered that his suits always contained this same stale scent when he took them off at night, sometimes making him gag.
    Outside the cell the hallway reverberated with a cacophony of sounds. Bo covered his ears to the noise: officers yelling unintelligible jailspeak to each other, the jingle-jangle of inmates shuffling along the floor in their shackles, the whooshing and slamming of doors opening and closing . . .
    Bo sat at a metal desk that filled up most of the cell, gazing at his massive reflection in the window. With his size and strength, he knew he could be an intimidating physical presence. But he felt anything but intimidating now. Dressed in orange prison garb—his clothes had been taken for “testing”—his head throbbed from a hangover, and his stomach felt like acid. Outside of a Styrofoam cup of water they’d given him, he’d had nothing to eat or drink since throwing up at his office, and he knew he wouldn’t be hungry for several hours. He placed his forehead on the desk, relishing the cold feel of the metal, and rubbed the back of his head.
    Two loud knocks jarred him upright. The door slid open, and Sheriff Ennis Petrie walked inside, taking the seat across from Bo at the metal desk. Ennis wore a tan button-down shirt with his name stenciled over the front pocket. He was about five foot eight with thinning, reddish-blond hair, a mustache that matched his diminished mane, and a potbelly that hung over his belt. Though physically unimpressive, Ennis had a calm, cool manner that had made him an effective lawman.
    “Bo, I read your Miranda rights to you at your office immediately after you were arrested. You agree with that, right?” the sheriff asked.
    Bo said nothing, gazing back at Ennis with blank eyes. He had seen too many clients burned by their own tongues at this stage of a case. Bo also knew that there was a video camera rolling from just behind the glass, recording every word, every sound, and every movement. Bo had represented enough criminal defendants to know the way this song and dance worked.
    “No problem,” the sheriff said, pulling out a card from his pocket, prepared for Bo’s lack of cooperation. “You have the right to remain silent,” Ennis began, speaking in a clear, deliberate voice as he read from the card. When he finished, he put the card back in his pocket and peered at Bo.
    “Bo, we’ve known each other a long time.” He paused, narrowing his eyes. “So I’m going to forego any bullshit. The physical evidence