station, which was only three blocks away. All of them jumped the curb and pulled to within a few feet of me. Uniformed men and women began to surround me, and I stood and backed off a ways. There was nothing more I could do.
They patched David up as best they could, strapped him onto a gurney, and loaded him into the ambulance. They did the same for Darren, but everybody knew he was already dead.
As they drove away, I stood there in a daze. A thought began to form in my mind, and I instantly felt nauseous. Had Maynard used me to plan his escape? It was routine for attorneys to help their clients set up jail visits-but I was certain the woman I’d seen helping Maynard get into the car had to be Bonnie Tate. I hadn’t actually seen her before, but it had to be her.
I thought about what Maynard said to me that day:
”I ain’t saying I want to marry you or nothing, but you’re a pretty decent dude.”
Decent dude. I dropped my head and began to trudge back towards the courthouse. My legs felt as heavy as tree trunks. I noticed my hands and shirt were covered with blood, David Bowers’s blood.
Decent dude. As I walked slowly through the courtyard in the bright sunshine on a beautiful July morning in the Tennessee mountains, I felt anything but decent. I felt dirty, and I just wanted it all to end.
July 7
11:45 p.m.
Being a single man with a rather large supply of discretionary income, and having had the opportunity to provide certain legal services to Mr. and Mrs. Gus Barlowe in the past, Charles B. Dunwoody III, Esq., saw no harm in occasionally availing himself of the pleasures of the Mouse’s Tail Gentlemen’s Club. To his closest associates, he privately referred to his adventures at the club as slumming with the naked hillbilly girls. He wasn’t always particularly proud of the things he did there, but as he told his country club buddies, ”Pardon the pun, but sometimes a gentleman just has to let it all hang out.”
Gus Barlowe had sought Dunwoody’s advice on a wide range of topics-most of which Dunwoody was not at liberty to discuss. Dunwoody had quickly learned that Mr. Barlowe was an enterprising gentleman who generated large streams of revenue and who required an attorney with a creative mind and a deft touch in order to dissuade curious institutional minds from examining his affairs too closely.
Since Dunwoody’s academic and legal backgrounds were steeped in corporate law and international banking and finance, he’d been able to satisfactorily accommodate Gus Barlowe’s needs. The fact that Barlowe paid handsomely, and paid in cash, only made the relationship more palatable for Dunwoody.
Mrs. Barlowe, who had very capably taken over her husband’s affairs since his untimely death, had made the VIP lounge available to him on a Thursday evening in July, and he’d spent two delightful hours with three of the finest-looking floosies he’d ever laid eyes on. Dunwoody had to hand it to Mrs. Barlowe-
she had excellent taste when it came to hiring whores. It was getting rather late and Dunwoody was beginning to wind down. He’d ingested a little more cognac than usual and had made three separate trips to the bull pen. God bless Viagra.
Dunwoody was sitting at the bar in the private room, conversing with a topless bartender named Tina, when Mrs. Barlowe suddenly appeared at his shoulder. They exchanged the usual pleasantries and she asked him whether they could talk privately for a few moments. Anything for her, Dunwoody said, and they retired to a small booth in the corner. Mrs.
Barlowe shooed the girls away, and lawyer and strip club owner were left alone in the room.
Because Dunwoody had done so much work for her husband, he knew he was sitting across the table from a very wealthy woman, especially if one measured by local standards. He’d never been so crass as to directly ask her late husband how he managed to accumulate such large amounts of cash, but it didn’t take a Rhodes scholar to deduce that Barlowe must have been doing something at least marginally illegal. Dunwoody suspected Barlowe was most likely selling narcotics, but so long as he paid Dunwoody’s hefty fees and maintained a certain amount of decorum in Dunwoody’s presence, the lawyer had no qualms about camouflaging the cash.
”What can I do for you, madame?” Dunwoody said. He thought Mrs. Barlowe a handsome woman.
She dressed like a tart and spoke like a farm girl, but she had a sort of crude charm about her, not to mention a delicious body, especially for a woman her age.
”I need some legal advice, sugar.”
”Charles B. Dunwoody the third, at your service.”
”I’m going to pick up your tab tonight, sweetie pie, so I can retain you for the next little while. I wouldn’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of your good nature.”
”You can take advantage of me anytime you like,”
Dunwoody said. The generous offer came as a pleasant surprise, since he was certain his tab would be in the neighborhood of two thousand dollars. Privacy does have its price sometimes.
Dunwoody must have taken too much Viagra, because in spite of the fact that he’d performed brilliantly earlier in the evening during the bull pen sessions, he suddenly found himself strongly attracted to Mrs. Barlowe. She was wearing a low-cut zebra-striped top that revealed a significant portion of her magnificent breasts. Dunwoody had to force himself not to stare, and he suddenly felt himself getting a chubby. He hoped he wouldn’t have to rise quickly from the table.
”I know you don’t do criminal work,” she said,
”but I have a difficult situation on my hands and I need a sugar plum like you to help me figure out how to handle it.”
Sweetie pie and sugar plum. No one had ever referred to Charles Dunwoody in such a manner, and he was not a young man. Mrs. Barlowe was correct in her assertion that Dunwoody did not indulge in the vulgar practice of criminal defense. He believed the arena of criminal defense was reserved for con artists and grandstanders. Nonetheless, any attorney worth his salt who paid attention in law school was well versed in the basics of constitutional law, and as any fool knows, constitutional law is the cornerstone of criminal defense.
”Tell me your predicament,” Dunwoody said,
”and let’s see what we can come up with.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice. Her breasts were resting on the tabletop, which made it a bit difficult for Dunwoody to concentrate.
”I need to know the best way to lead a horse to water and then not let him drink,” she said.
Dunwoody began to question her, and before long was able to ascertain that Mrs. Barlowe was involved in something dicey and was attempting to manipulate a situation that could very well blow up in her face. Nonetheless, the odd couple spent a very pleasant hour together, and by the time Dunwoody left, he was convinced that he’d provided Mrs. Barlowe with some sound legal advice and had given her at least an idea of what she would have to do in order to accomplish her ends.
It wasn’t until later that Dunwoody learned Mrs.
Barlowe had followed his advice to the letter. He told his closest friends at the country club that he was proud to have been a part of it.
July 9
10:50 a.m.
Four sleepless days after Maynard’s escape, I attended the funeral of the Bowers twins in Mountain City. I sat outside the church in my truck-the used one I’d bought to replace the truck that had been pushed into the lake-gargling mouthwash and waiting for everyone to get inside. Once they were all in, I slipped in the back. There were at least a hundred police officers there and I felt like they were all looking at me. As soon as it was over, I left without speaking to anyone.
An hour later, I went through the complicated process of visiting a maximum security inmate at Northeast Correctional Center just outside Mountain City.