Though I’m certainly not going to admit it to Butterfield, my reaction is one of deep satisfaction. There is no way in hell Paul can deny the tape. Though I’ve never done any research on this precise legal point, I’m certain the tape of this conversation could be admit y led into evidence. I ask, “What was the deal? Was Paul trying to buy it and Willie wouldn’t sell?”

“Exactly,” Butterfield answers.

“This was made about a month before he died. He gave this tape to his wife and told her that if anything happened to him to tell his son in Washington about it. He had told the secretary about it, too.”

“Why didn’t Willie take the tape to the sheriff the next day?” I ask.

“He might still be alive.”

Butterfield shrugs.

“Who knows? Those folks have always been a mystery to me. All I know is that they’re still sucking what little money there is right out of the black community with those dinky little stores they operate and never crack so much as a smile.”

There is no mistaking the bitterness in the prosecutor’s voice. It occurs to me that there is probably no love lost between the blacks and Asians in Bear Creek any more than there is in places like Los Angeles.

“How many stores do they have left?”

“Three,” the prosecutor says.

“They’re still hanging on, though there’s not much left to get.”

I file away his response. It may come in handy later. I wonder how he feels personally about Paul Taylor. Now is not the time to ask, but I would like to know.

“Did Paul make an offer for the plant after Willie died?”

Butterfield presses down a creased place on one of the statements.

“He waited about two months. Of course, we were working with the son in DCI but Taylor didn’t say anything more that incriminated himself.