Free Between Black and White by Robert Bailey

outcome.
    Winning.
    He’ll come around, Tom thought, nodding his head and pulling onto Highway 31. Just give it some time . . .

    On the pier Ray Ray Pickalew lay on his back, gazing up at the cloudy sky. His legs dangled off the dock, and he was humming a song to himself. He had taken his rain-drenched shirt off, and the wooden dock would probably have been uncomfortable if he wasn’t piss drunk. He closed his eyes, seeing Doris for a split second. In her bathing suit in the Keys, sitting on the bed, watching him get dressed. Then . . . at the nursing home, the orderly coming in to change her diaper. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing an image of his secretary Bonnie’s tits into his brain. It didn’t hold. The images kept coming, a whirlwind of them, mostly of Doris at the nursing home. Slowly and painfully forgetting who she was until there was none of her left. The day he knew her mind was gone for good, he had sat on this same pier all night with a pistol in his hand. Putting the barrel in his mouth a few times but never doing the deed. Never pulling the trigger . . .
    Before he passed out, he saw another image. One that came to him in black and white like an old TV reel. Tommy McMurtrie, sweat pouring off his forehead under his helmet as he took his place on the defensive line. Then Trammell under center, looking at Ray Ray down the line of scrimmage just before the ball was snapped and giving him the slightest of nods. Then the ball . . . in the air, a perfect spiral, hitting Ray Ray right in the hands.
    Then he was running, the football tucked tight under his arm.
    Then a loud sound, like rushing water in his ears, and a crimson 54 rolling over him.
    “Bingo!” came a faraway voice. “That a boy, Lee Roy. That’s a way we do it. Now let’s do it again.”
    Then he was on the ground, nose pressed to the grass, blinking, managing to roll over, the wind knocked out of him. Then the voice again, louder and coming from high on the tower. “Hey, Pickalew. Get up. Next play, Joker. Get up.”
    Was it the voice of God or the voice of the Man?
    In 1960 Ray Ray Pickalew hadn’t been sure if there was a difference. Now, just before he passed out on his pier along the Elk River, he still wasn’t so sure.

11
    The Giles County Jail had a “consultation room,” where defense lawyers could meet with their clients. The room was not much bigger than a closet, decorated with the same yellow cinder-block walls as the holding cell.
    When they were alone, seated in aluminum chairs and saddled up to a square-shaped folding table, the two men just looked at each other for several seconds. Tom was stunned by his friend’s appearance. Bo wore orange prison clothes, and his eyes burned red from lack of sleep. His shoulders hunched forward as he placed his elbows on the table, and his fatigue was palpable. In addition to shock, Tom felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He had not seen Bo in over a year, not since Bo left Tom’s farm in Hazel Green after dropping off Lee Roy in a small crate the previous June.
    Finally, Tom broke the silence. “You look like crap.”
    Despite his predicament, Bo chuckled, and the sound warmed Tom’s heart. “Thanks for doing this, Professor. So how did the morning go?”
    For the next few minutes Tom took Bo through his conversation with Helen Lewis and his discussion afterward with Rick. The only detail he omitted was his trek to the Elk River to see Ray Ray.
    “Sounds like the General,” Bo said, shaking his head. “Our first peek at her case will be at the prelim. She always builds a stone wall around the evidence.”
    “Bo, so far you haven’t told me much over the phone. We can’t wait for the prelim to start our investigation. I need some leads.” He paused. “What can you tell me about the night of Andy Walton’s murder?”
    Bo sighed and looked down at the table. “I got myself in a real fix.”
    “In order to help you, Bo, I have to know the deal. Why are you in