I went out there-to pick up some free barbecue. I sure wasn’t getting rich off of him.”

It occurs to me that in my cursory examination of the file I haven’t seen a statement by Paul and ask him if he gave one.

“I’d be crazy to talk to that sheriff!” he answers, looking at Dick for confirmation.

I ask Dick, bluntly, “Do you plan to call Paul?”

Defendants who refuse to testify usually have a real good reason-they are guilty.

Dick, who has begun to massage the bridge of his nose, shrugs.

“It’s way too early to worry about that.”

Paul snorts.

“Of course I’ll testify at the trial. I haven’t got anything to hide.”

His words hang in the air, though. Of course he does. Every person I know over the age of five has something in his past that can’t stand the light of day.

Dick stands up and makes a show of stretching and says he is ready to call it a night. It has been a long week, he says, and we can get together next week. We both know he wants to shut up his client. He has found out what he needed to know tonight: Class Bledsoe, if he has any beans to spill, hasn’t done so yet. I ask Paul to take two minutes to explain about the tape.

“You don’t ordinarily buy a business from a man by telling him he’s going to die soon,” I say, pushing him just a bit.

Paul’s smooth face becomes wrinkled as he frowns.

“I wasn’t threatening him. That old man wanted a fortune for that place. He was being absurd,” he says scornfully.

“Who was going to take over when he died? Connie’s a physicist in Memphis; Tommy’s a wheeler-dealer in Washington.

All I was doing was pointing out the reality of the situation. Why in the hell would I have him killed just because he was being stubborn? I wasn’t in any hurry.”