The Professor (20 page)

45

As the sun began to rise over the cornfield, Rick gazed at the brick farmhouse.
Stop procrastinating
, he told himself.
Just do what you came to do.
He took a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam Hardee’s cup, but still he didn’t move from the car. He glanced down at the passenger seat, where he’d put the article that ran in yesterday’s paper. Powell had brought the article by last night with an address. “Go see him, Rick,” Powell had urged. “Go get it from the horse’s mouth. He is the Professor, for God’s sake. He will help you.”

Rick wasn’t so sure. The Professor hadn’t been very helpful in the last year. He’d cost Rick a job with the best law firm in the state. He’d referred him a case that was going down the tubes. And despite Rick’s request not to interfere with the case, the Professor had hired him a law clerk who was now long gone. His “whore,” Rick thought, remembering Jameson Tyler’s words.

Rick took another sip of coffee knowing that none of that mattered anymore. He was three days from trial, and he was at the end of his rope. The Faunsdale Police Department had determined that Mule Morris’s pickup had flipped down the embankment of Highway 25 and exploded upon impact with a tree. The preliminary conclusion was that Mule’s brakes had gone out, causing him to lose control of the vehicle.

But Doolittle Morris wasn’t buying it. “Mule was a certified-by-God mechanic, and that truck might have been old but it ran like a top. No way the brakes would just go out.”
Doo, who was distraught over his cousin’s death, had no doubts over who was to blame when Rick and Powell caught up with him the day after the accident. Doo had shook his fist at them both and had to be restrained by several friends, his eyes burning with rage. “I wish I’d have never seen either of you turds. My cousin is dead because of you.”

And deep down Rick knew that Doo was right.
Mule died three hours after he spoke with me and Dawn
, he thought
. He kept his truck in mint condition and had no known enemies.
There was only one logical conclusion in Rick’s mind. Jack Willistone had hired someone to follow him and that person had taken out Mule.
Murder
,
Rick thought, trying not to be paranoid but knowing he was right. Just thinking about it left his body covered in gooseflesh, and Rick now drove with one eye permanently fixed on the rearview mirror.

Finally, there was the Wilma Newton dilemma. Tyler still hadn’t deposed her, and Rick knew that Jameson Tyler wouldn’t just overlook a witness with damaging evidence against his client.
Tyler is the best
, Rick thought.
If he doesn’t take her deposition, there’s got to be a reason.
Rick felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He’d sent Wilma an affidavit weeks ago, setting out exactly what she’d told him and Dawn at the Sands, but Wilma had yet to send it back. She had also gotten spotty about answering phone calls. Rick had called three times last week with no answer.
I need that affidavit signed before I put her on the stand
,
Rick thought.

He sighed, his head hurting from all the questions he had and doubts he felt. Glaring at the farmhouse, he wished there was somewhere, anywhere, else he could go. But he knew there wasn’t. Other than Powell, Rick had no friends in the legal community who could help him. And Powell had told him to come here.

Rick grabbed the door handle, trying to summon the courage to move. With his other hand he felt in his pocket for the photograph he now kept with him at all times. A picture that Ruth Ann had given him during their first interview. He didn’t even have to look at it, the images were so burned into his mind. Bob Bradshaw’s beaming, proud face. Jeannie Bradshaw’s smile, her mouth slightly open as if someone had just made her laugh. And finally, Nicole Bradshaw holding a teddy bear under her arm, looking shy, vulnerable, and so young.

This ain’t about you
, Rick told himself.
It’s about them.

Taking a deep breath and then a last sip of coffee, Rick opened the door.

46

Tom woke to the sound of knocking. He turned to look at the alarm clock and yelled as the soreness from yesterday’s torture sent a flare of pain through his groin. 6:00 a.m. “Who the hell . . . ?” He rolled off the bed and looked down at the floor, where Musso remained snoring away. “Christ, boy, at least make an effort.” Tom put on a pair of sweatpants as the knocking continued. “I’m coming,” he yelled, and again felt a pull in his groin. Finally, Musso let out a weak bark and crawled off the bed.

“That all you got?” Tom snapped, shaking his head. “Fighting dog my ass,” he muttered as he walked down the hall to the den. “If this is Bo, so help me I
am
gonna whip his ass,” Tom said, limping through the den and beginning to wake up.

Tom stopped when he saw Rick Drake’s face behind the glass window.

“Can I come in?” Rick asked through the glass.

Tom squinted back at him, wanting to make sure he understood right.

“Can I come in?” Rick repeated. “Please, Professor . . . I . . . I know it’s early but I need to talk with you.”

Tom finally forced his legs to move forward. He unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. He stood in the doorway but didn’t move back to allow access in.

“What’s this about, kid?”

Drake let out a breath. He looked like death warmed over, his eyes bloodred.

“I need your help.”

They sat in the den, as the kitchen table was still completely cluttered with unopened mail. Tom sat in his rocker and Rick on the couch. Tom had made a pot of coffee, and Rick leaned forward, holding his cup with both hands. The boy looked tired and scared.

“So how did you find me?” Tom asked, crossing his legs and drinking some coffee.

“Powell,” Rick said, placing his cup on the coffee table in front of him and then pulling a folded newspaper from his pocket. “He gave me this article.” Rick handed it over and Tom opened it, knowing full well what it was.

“The article mentions that you retired to a farm in Hazel Green,” Rick said, picking up his cup and gazing into it. “I think Powell managed to get your forwarding address from a friend at the post office in Tuscaloosa. He wouldn’t tell me the rest.”

“Well, you found me,” Tom said. “What’s on your mind?”

Rick drank some more coffee and finally raised his tired eyes. “I need to talk with you about the case you referred me, but . . . first . . .” Rick sighed, looking back down at the cup.

“First what?” Tom asked. He stopped rocking and watched the boy, noticing sweat beads on Rick’s forehead. After a half cup of coffee, Tom was finally awake and was beginning to realize how difficult being here must be for Rick.
Whatever he came here to do,
it’s killing him to do it.

“First . . . I wanted to say I’m sorry about punching you in Washington. I shouldn’t have done that. I lost my temper. I . . . I lost control of my emotions and it cost us the national title. I’m sorry.”

Rick stopped and met Tom’s eye, but Tom didn’t say anything.
Did I just hear him right?

“Second,” Rick continued, “I’m sorry about how the law school forced you out. That’s a lot my fault too and—”

“Hold it,” Tom interrupted, putting his hand up for Rick to stop. “Son, I appreciate the apology, but you didn’t cost me my job. That was going to happen regardless of what happened in DC.”

Rick wrinkled his face in confusion, and Tom cursed under his breath. “The incident was just the pretext, all right? If it hadn’t been our fight, it would’ve been something else. Dean Lambert wanted new blood, and Tyler gave him the ammunition to get rid of me.”

“Tyler?” Rick asked. “Jameson Tyler?”

Tom nodded. “He became attorney for the university right before I was forced out. He orchestrated the whole thing.” Tom shook his head and stood, his agitation growing. “You said you needed to ask me some things about Ruth Ann’s case.”

Rick looked up from his cup. “I do, but . . . there’s one other thing.” The look of anguish on Rick’s face told Tom all he needed to know.

“Dawn?” Tom asked.

Rick nodded. “I have to know the deal. The newspaper—”

“The deal is simple,” Tom interrupted. “My last week I hired Dawn to be my student assistant. When I hired her, she was so relieved to get the job that she started crying, and the dean walked in my office while I was patting her hand.” Tom shrugged. “Later in the week, in the pouring-down rain, I walked Dawn to her car under an umbrella so she wouldn’t get wet. She gave me a hug as a way of saying thanks.” Tom sighed. “Somehow Tyler captured the whole thing in some photographs that paint a skewed picture. Dawn is . . .” Tom chuckled. “Well, hell, you’ve seen her. She’s attractive. Her T-shirt is wet in the photographs. I guess it probably looked bad but nothing happened.”

“You promise that was it?” Rick asked.

“I promise.”

“You paid her to work for me?”

Tom crossed his arms. “I did. I felt bad she’d lost her job when I was let go. And . . . I thought you could use some help.”

“I told you not to interfere,” Rick said.

“I know,” Tom said. “But you needed help.” He paused. “She helped you, didn’t she?”

Now it was Rick who stood, not answering the question.

“Didn’t she?” Tom pressed.

“Doesn’t matter,” Rick finally said, stepping behind the couch and gazing out the glass sliding doors to the deck. Sunlight poured through the panes, casting Rick’s entire body in an orange glow. “She confessed her arrangement with you, and I said some things that made her quit. My temper . . .” Rick’s voice drifted off, and Tom could see the regret in the boy’s eyes.
Did something else happen with Dawn?
he thought about asking him, but then held his tongue.

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter,” Rick repeated, sighing and turning to face Tom. “The only thing that matters now is that the biggest case of my life is three days away and I don’t have a clue what to do.”

Tom was jolted by the desperation in Rick’s voice and body language.
He is scared to death
, Tom thought, walking over to the rocker and plopping down in it. He gestured at the couch, and Rick took a seat.

“OK,” Tom said, crossing his legs and narrowing his gaze. “Tell me about it.”

For the next hour, Rick told the Professor everything.

“I’m just not sure what to do,” Rick said, wrapping things up. “But one thing I know, Ruth Ann won’t settle for any amount of money. She wants Willistone called on the carpet for everything they’ve done.” Rick sighed. “The problem is that with Mule dead the only way to expose Willistone is to put Wilma Newton on the stand. I mean, come on. The trucker’s wife sticking it to the trucking company. But—”

“You’re worried because you don’t have any sworn testimony from her,” Tom interrupted, rubbing his chin.

“Right. And Willistone’s lawyer hasn’t deposed her either, and we disclosed her as a witness months ago. It doesn’t make sense that they wouldn’t depose her unless—”

“They’ve talked to her and aren’t worried. Course, that might not be it. Willistone is probably being defended under a policy of insurance, and insurance companies are known to cut costs. They may have instructed the lawyer not to depose her.”

Rick nodded, throwing his palms up in the air. “So, that’s the dilemma. Any suggestions?”

Tom refilled both their coffee cups. Rick’s coffee buzz had hit overload, but he accepted the cup without argument. He had been up now for almost twenty-four hours, and he needed all the fuel he could get.

“That is a dilemma, Rick, but the safe play would certainly be to not call her. You can still win without her, and if she were to turn . . .”

“It could kill the case.”

Tom shrugged in agreement.

“But without her I could lose. With Rose Batson sticking to her statement and Tyler’s expert saying Bradshaw should’ve seen the rig before making his turn, their contrib case is pretty strong. You know as well as I do that in Alabama, if a jury finds a plaintiff just one percent contributorily negligent, then they are supposed to award a defense verdict. Also, the case loses its heat. I mean,
the truth
is that Willistone was breaking the law by requiring its truckers to speed and falsify their driver’s logs. Newton was speeding on September 2, 2009 because he had to speed to make the load. He’d gotten two tickets in the months leading up to the accident. Mule Morris would’ve nailed Willistone and Ultron to the cross.”

“Rick, we both know the truth is worthless if you can’t prove it. Morris is dead and because of the fire you have no documents that are helpful. Ms. Bulyard didn’t give you anything, so—”

“All I’ve got is Wilma,” Rick blurted, his frustration mounting. “I know, I know. So you wouldn’t call her?” Rick asked, meeting Tom’s eye.

Tom squinted back at him with a noncommittal look. “I didn’t say that. I just said that was the safe play. Nobody could fault you for it.”

Rick sighed, feeling the first twinge of anger.
So maybe, maybe not, huh? Thanks for nothing, old man.

“Rick, trying a lawsuit is ninety-five percent preparation and five percent gut. Once you’ve prepared yourself to the fullest, once you know your case backwards, forwards, and every whichaway you can know it, then you gotta let go and trust your gut. You can’t script everything out. Sure, you develop a plan, and you follow the plan. But there are times in a trial when all the preparation in the world doesn’t matter. In those situations you just have to trust your gut to make the best decision available.”

“Trust my gut?” Rick asked, unable to hide the sarcasm from his voice. “Well, my gut’s telling me I need help. That’s why I came here.”

“I’ve given you the best advice I can,” Tom said.

Rick looked up at the gray eyes of his mentor, seeing the truth in them. Advice was fine and Rick appreciated it. But he needed more. Bob, Jeannie, and Nicole Bradshaw deserved more. So did Ruth Ann.

“Professor . . . thank you for the advice, but . . .” He sighed.

“But what?” Tom asked.

“I know it’s pretty late in the day to be asking, but . . .” Rick paused, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do. “Will you try this case with me?”