The Professor (18 page)

36

Rick sped back to Tuscaloosa in a stunned fog. All he could see in his mind were the photographs that Tyler had showed him. Dawn hugging the Professor. Dawn, wearing a wet T-shirt, leaning into the Professor. The outline of Dawn’s nipples through the wet T-shirt. And the needy look on the Professor’s face. Just below the fog of his confused thoughts, he knew he should be concerned about the case. As Rick had dreaded, Tyler had retained an accident reconstructionist. Rick, on the other hand, had been shot down by Ted Holt and couldn’t afford a second opinion.

But the anxiety over Tyler’s expert was drowned out by his anger at seeing the photographs.
If it’s true
. . .
He squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
Tyler’s just trying to get under my skin. It can’t be true. It can’t be
. . .

But Rick knew that some of Tyler’s comments had the ring of truth to them. Why did Dawn work for him? She did have a young child and did live with her mother. How could she afford to work for free? Rick had always questioned Dawn’s motivation.
So, if she’s lying, then who would want to pay her to work for me?

Rick could think of only one person and again squeezed the wheel, seeing the photographs play through his mind like a PowerPoint presentation.
Only one way to find out
, he knew as he reached downtown and turned onto Greensboro Avenue.

He parked the Saturn in front of the office and jumped out of the car, his heartbeat racing.
Just be cool
, he told himself as he took the steps two at a time, his anger increasing with each step.
Just
. . .
be
. . .
cool
. . .

Rick opened the door and didn’t bother to shut it. “Dawn!” he yelled, forgetting everything but the photographs.
The Professor is playing you like a fiddle
,
Tyler had said, and Rick’s entire body tensed as he remembered the look on the SOB’s face. “Dawn!”

“Well, hello to you too,” Frankie said, and Rick wheeled to face his secretary. He hadn’t even noticed her when he had barreled in.

“Where’s—?”

“In the conference room.”

Rick started for the door as Frankie added, “She has a visitor.”

Rick jerked the door open and glared into the room. “Are you . . . ?” He stopped when he saw who was there.

“Hey, brother,” Powell said, eating from a massive bag of vinegar and salt potato chips and drinking a canned Miller High Life beer. “Want a cold one?” Powell twisted a can out of the six-pack sitting on the table and tossed it to Rick. Rick caught it and looked at Dawn, whose face was glowing red. She too was drinking from a Miller High Life can. It was hard to look at her without thinking of the wet T-shirt photograph.

“What’s going on?” Rick asked. “You two know each other?”

“We just met,” Dawn said, sounding giddy. “I thought I was good at finding people, but your friend here . . .” Dawn looked toward Powell, who popped a chip in his mouth and winked at Rick.

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Rick asked, still not getting it as he held the lukewarm beer in his hand.

“I found him, brother,” Powell said, standing up and licking his fingers. “I found Mule.”

37

Faunsdale is a sleepy town about forty-five minutes west of Tuscaloosa. In most respects it’s like every other small town in the state. It has one school, where all the kids go, one stoplight, and a couple of restaurants. But for one weekend every April, Faunsdale becomes the center of Alabama. The Alabama Crawfish Festival was started in 1992 by John “Ca-John” Broussard, who got his nickname from his roots in southern Louisiana. The center, or hub, of the festival is the Faunsdale Bar & Grill, also called Ca-John’s, which Ca-John bought in 1995. There is a cooking area in the street outside the restaurant, where thousands of pounds of crawfish are prepared. On the Friday of the festival, crawfish is served starting at 11:00 a.m. and continues to be served until the last song is sung on Saturday night. Faunsdale is known for good crawfish, good beer, and good music, and Alabamians and even folks from other states flock there every April.

Powell loved the Crawfish Festival, having attended the last three years by himself. This year he’d gotten there early and started asking questions. After three hours, two beers, and a half pound of crawfish, he’d run into a man named Doolittle Morris, whom everyone seemed to call Doo. Doo’s job at the festival was to run the mechanical bull, which had been set up right outside of Ca-John’s. After admittedly asking several questions about the operation of the mechanical bull, which Powell was fascinated by, he finally got around to asking Doo if he knew a Dick Morris. Doo had laughed long and hard.

“Only all my life,” Doo had said. “Mule’s my cousin.”

So now here they were. Rick and Dawn. Seated in the back of Ca-John’s, gazing across the table at Dick “Mule” Morris.

Rick immediately understood the reason for the nickname. The man must have been six feet five inches tall and well over three hundred pounds.

“Listen, I can make this quick.” Mule said. He spoke with a slight lisp and his eyes were droopy. “The day Dewey died, he didn’t even get to our place until nine forty-five, ’cause his rig wasn’t ready.” Mule chuckled. “Ol’ Dewey was just a-cussing. We got the trailer hooked on pretty quick but it didn’t matter. It was still almost ten before he hit the road, and he had to be in Montgomery by eleven.” Lowering his voice, Mule placed his gigantic elbows on the table and added, “I still remember the last thing he said to me.”

Rick’s adrenaline had hit overload, but he forced the question out with as much calm as he could muster. “What did he say, Mule?”

“He said, ‘Guess I’ll either make it or I’ll get a ticket. Same shit, different day.’ ”

Rick wanted to kiss Mule Morris on the forehead.

“Mule, had you loaded Dewey Newton’s truck prior to the day of the accident?”

“Oh, yeah. I probably saw Dewey in there once, maybe twice a week.”

“Did he ever complain about his schedule before the accident?”

Mule nodded. “Dewey was always bitching about that, and it wasn’t just him. All those Willistone drivers did.”

Rick glanced at Dawn for a second, and her eyes were as wide as saucers.
Holy shit
, he thought.

“I tell you what you need,” Mule continued, leaning back and rubbing his chin. “Every time a driver left the yard with a load, we did a bill of lading. The bill would have the time they were supposed to deliver the load already on it, and we’d stamp the pickup time on the front. The bill for Dewey’s run the day of the accident was stamped 9:57 or something like that and the delivery time, like I said, was 11:00. That ain’t enough time to get to Montgomery by the speed limit.” He paused. “I stamped a bunch of bills, and there was a lot of that going on. I told our plant manager about it, and he said not to worry.” Mule shrugged, shaking his head. “So I didn’t.”

“We’ve tried to get the bills,” Dawn chimed in. “But the Ultron plant burned to the ground the night of the accident.”

Mule opened his mouth, then nodded, as if he had just remembered something. “The fire . . .” He shook his head and took a deep breath. For a second Rick thought he was going to say something else, but instead he just smiled. “Is there anything more I can help you with?”

Rick looked at Mule, knowing there was just one other thing.
The most important thing.
“Mr. Morris, will you testify to everything you just told us at trial?”

Mule’s smile widened, and he slammed both hands on the table. “Damn right I will. I liked Dewey Newton. He’s dead because of the schedule he was on, same as the people in that Honda.” Mule stood up and grabbed a coaster from the table across from them. He turned the coaster around and wrote two phone numbers on the back. “Here’s how to reach me. Just let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.” He slapped Rick on the back. “You got a card?”

Rick fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. Mule snatched it from him and leaned down. “I may send y’all a little surprise in the mail. A little extra butter on the bread, if you know what I mean.”

Rick didn’t have a clue what he meant, but he smiled back. “Sounds . . . good,” Rick stammered.

“All right, then. Best get back to the festival. Been aiming to ride Doo’s bull all night.” He stuck out his hand, and Rick shook it. “Damn nice to meet you Rick. Ms. Dawn.”

Rick watched Mule walk all the way out of the bar. Then he turned to Dawn, whose eyes were just as wild as his own.

“Holy shit!” they both screamed at the same time.

Rick grasped Dawn in a bear hug and squeezed her tight, and she squealed in pain and delight. All thoughts of the conversation with Jameson Tyler were gone. Dick “Mule” Morris was on the team and batting cleanup.
This case just went from good to a grand slam home run
,
Rick thought.

They were both so excited that neither of them noticed the stubbly-faced man who followed Mule out the door.

38

Mule Morris drove a 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck and lived in a clapboard house three miles from the Faunsdale Bar & Grill. After drinking three more beers and eating another pound of crawfish, Mule said good-bye to his cousin and headed home. It felt good telling someone about Dewey Newton. He had felt guilty for six months for not saying something right after it happened and even guiltier for accepting the $5K to stay silent. He didn’t owe nobody nothing, and he was tired of having a guilty conscience.

Mule saw his little piece of heaven up on the right and pressed the brake to begin slowing down.

Nothing happened.

What the
. . . ?
Mule slammed his foot this time on the brake, and still nothing. “Oh, shit.” Up ahead, past his house, Highway 25 made a sharp right turn. He slammed his foot three more times on the brake and still nothing. The yellow sign marking the ninety-degree turn gave a maximum speed to safely make the turn at twenty-five. Mule looked at the speedometer. He was going fifty-five.

“Fuck!”

Mule Morris turned the wheel hard right and braced himself.

The truck crashed into the metal railing that guarded the far side of the highway, and for a second Mule thought the railing would hold. But the truck was going too fast. It broke through the railing and hurtled down the steep embankment. Mule squeezed the wheel till his knuckles were chalk white.
If I can make it all the way to the bottom, maybe it flattens
. . .

The truck flipped on its side, and Mule’s shoulder exploded in pain.

Somebody tripped my brakes
, he thought, picturing the man who made him the bribe. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw the clump of trees through the windshield.

I’m going to die.

39

Rick, Dawn, and Powell laughed all the way back to Tuscaloosa. While Rick and Dawn had been meeting with Mule, Powell had won the annual Crawfish Eating contest, and for his victory he had been given the Crawfish Cup, a huge bowl of a trophy that had a picture of a crawfish emblazoned on the side of it. Since the contest, Powell had delighted in filling the cup with beer and drinking from it, which he was doing now in the backseat of the Saturn.

“All right, Delta Dawn, your turn,” Powell said, handing her the full cup.

“Powell, I’ve had enough. And would you please stop calling me that.”

Of course her protests just led Rick and Powell to serenade her with “Delta Dawn” for the tenth time since she’d said she hated the song because her ex-husband used to sing it to her all the time.

“All right! Enough!” Dawn took the cup from Powell and turned it up. Spilling a little bit down her chin, Dawn finished and handed the cup back to Powell. “There, happy?” she asked, smiling.

Powell made a mock-serious face. “Ms. Dawn, it gives my heart great joy to see you drink from my trophy.”

Dawn shook her head and started to say something, but Powell began singing again, and Rick couldn’t stop himself from joining in.
As Powell’s voice rose higher than Rick’s, Dawn covered her ears, and Rick’s entire body tingled with happiness.

Good times
,
he thought.

40

Mule opened his eyes. The truck was on its back, but he was still alive. He couldn’t move his right arm, but everything else felt OK. He kicked at the windshield, and after three efforts, the glass shattered.

I’m going to make it
, he thought
.

Pulling his body forward with his left arm, he was almost out of the truck when he saw the boots on the dirt. Mule squinted upward.

“You,” he said, not believing his eyes.

“Me,” the man said. “Hard to stop when your brakes give out, huh, Mule?”

“Fuck you, you mother— ”

Mule saw the boot coming but there was nothing he could do. His nose exploded in blood and pain. Mule tried to move forward, but now the man was stepping on his hand.

“Before you die, Mule, I want you to know that I spared your daughter and ex-wife. They were both so damn ugly I wouldn’t have fucked either with your dick. I am going to have to kill Doolittle, though. And his wife . . .” The man whistled. “Now that is one nice piece of ass.”

Mule struggled but he couldn’t move.

Doo
. . .

Then he saw the boot coming again and he closed his eyes.

JimBone Wheeler took a few steps back and lit a cigarette, admiring his handiwork.
Too easy
, he thought. Tailing Drake and the girl had turned another profit. Last night it was Faith Bulyard, whom the boss said he’d handle himself. Tonight Mule Morris was the spoils.
And he’s all mine
, JimBone thought, knowing that, given what JimBone had seen and heard in the bar, there was only one way to handle this problem.

This is just too much fun
, he thought. He wasn’t really going to kill Mule’s cousin and he didn’t even know whether Doolittle Morris had a wife nor not. “Just fucking with you, Mule,” he said, laughing out loud.

After enjoying as much of the cigarette as he wanted, he went over to the patch of gasoline he’d seen on the ground and let the cigarette drop from his fingers. He watched the small flame ignite and slither like a snake toward the truck. Then he walked away.

About halfway up the embankment he heard the explosion, but he didn’t turn around. JimBone just smiled, remembering something the boss had once told him.

Sometimes the only way you can put out a fire is by starting one.