The Professor (21 page)

47

“No,” Tom said, hating himself the minute the words were out of his mouth. He stood and turned his back on Rick, gazing into the kitchen, where the table of unopened mail seemed to glare back accusatorily at him.
I can’t
, Tom thought.
I’m too old, too sick, and I don’t have time to get prepared.

“Why?” Rick asked, and Tom could hear the disappointment in the boy’s voice. “Didn’t you hear me? I really need—”

“No, you don’t,” Tom interrupted, turning around to face Rick. “I wouldn’t have referred this case to you if you weren’t ready. You’ve lived and breathed this case for half a year. You have a difficult decision to make, and I can’t tell you the way to go.
You
have to choose. Even if I were to say yes, it doesn’t change the Wilma Newton dilemma.
You
have to trust your gut and make that call. I would just be a distraction. If the
Tuscaloosa
News
or the television stations got wind of it, they could turn the trial into a circus. You don’t want that and neither do I.”

“You’re really saying no?” Rick said, still not believing it.

“You don’t need me,” Tom said. “I . . .” He started to mention the cancer but stopped.

“If I didn’t need you, I wouldn’t have come here,” Rick said, brushing past Tom toward the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have banged on your door at six in the morning. That’s a cop-out, Professor, and you know it.”

Rick stopped when he reached the door to the kitchen. “What are you doing here, Professor?” He slowly turned, and his eyes burned with anger. “Seriously? You get run off by the law school and you split town? The school puts their spin on everything and you don’t say anything? What’s that all about?”

Tom again fought the urge to say something about his health.

“You once told our trial team that if we ever needed anything once we got out in practice, you would be there.” Rick’s voice cracked. “You’re a
liar
, Professor.”

“You’ve asked too much, son. You want me to try a case with you three days before the trial starts. Have you lost your mind?”

“You’re a liar, old man,” Rick repeated, ignoring Tom’s response. “And I’ve seen those photographs you’re talking about. The wet T-shirt ones. And you’re right. They do look bad.”

Tom froze. To his knowledge the photographs hadn’t been put in the newspaper. “How . . . ?”

Rick laughed bitterly. “Oh, I haven’t told you the best part. The defense lawyer for Willistone showed me those photographs. I guess he noticed Dawn working for me and recognized her. He got a real charge out of showing them to me, calling Dawn your
whore
, and telling me that the only reason you referred the case to me was to see me fail. I mean, why else refer a multiple-fatality wrongful-death case to a kid nine months out of law school?”

“Who?” Tom asked, already knowing the answer.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Rick said. “I’ve sent you a copy of every pleading in the case.”

“Say it,” Tom said, his voice stifled by anger.

Rick smirked, opening the door, and Tom lunged forward, grabbing his arm. “Say it, you son of a bitch.”

“Isn’t this how we got in all this trouble to begin with?” Rick asked, looking down at his arm. “Aren’t I supposed to punch you now? Where are the YouTube cameras when you need them?”

Tom let go of Rick’s arm and glared at the boy. “Say it,” he repeated.

“Tyler,” Rick said, stepping back out of the open door. “The defense lawyer is Jameson Tyler.”

48

Rick squealed his tires as he sped out of the driveway, but Tom wasn’t watching. He had already knocked all of the mail off the kitchen table and now was on his knees, going through the letters and packages from Rick that he had ignored for months. It didn’t take him too long to find what he was looking for. Willistone’s answer to the complaint was almost twenty pages long, denying all claims and asserting a number of affirmative defenses, including contributory negligence. Tom quickly turned to the last page and put his finger on the signature line. His stomach instantly turned to acid.

“Jameson R. Tyler, Attorney for the Defendant.”

“Son of a bitch,” Tom cursed, throwing the answer across the room. He leaned against the table, feeling dizzy. He wasn’t supposed to do much the day after a treatment, and he felt sick to his stomach. The room began to spin.

“Fuck!” he screamed, shaking his head and beginning to pace the kitchen floor.
That son of a bitch
, Tom thought, remembering Jameson’s words after the mock trial: “Good luck with finding her someone. I’ll pray that whoever it is doesn’t have to face me.”

Tom’s entire body shook with anger.
I told him everything. Described the whole fucking case and mentioned I was thinking of referring it to Drake. He probably laughed his ass off when this case came in.
Tom bit his lip so hard that it bled.
He showed Rick the photographs and called Dawn my whore.
Tom punched the cabinet above the microwave so hard that his fist went through the wood with a loud crash, sending splinters everywhere.

In the den, Musso growled and rose to his feet, ears up, watching his master.

Tom licked his knuckles and glared at his dog. “You got something to say?”

Musso growled louder, and Tom turned away, stumbling over the mail, toward the door, which Rick had left open when he left. Tom knew he should sit down, but there was no way he could rest. He needed to move. To think. To do something. He looked back for Musso, but the dog was already on his heels.

“Come on, boy,” he ordered, shutting the door behind them and walking toward the cornfield. “Let’s go for a walk.”

49

Tom sat on a rock, looking down at the shallow stream at the edge of the farm. He was exhausted, and he didn’t know if he could make it back to the house.
What was I thinking? Walking all this way the day after a treatment. I’m too damn sick to go on a two
-
mile hike.
Below him, Musso’s breath came in gasps. It was way too hot for him to be walking this far. After going down to the stream for a drink of water, Musso had collapsed at Tom’s feet.

Closing his eyes, Tom let his mind wander. Rick needed him. Rick, whom Tom had referred Ruth Ann’s case to, had come to him. Had fallen on his sword and asked for help.
That was big for him
,
Tom knew. Huge.

And Tom had said no.

Standing on wobbly legs, Tom gazed up at the sun. When he’d heard it was Jameson, he’d had an adrenaline rush like he hadn’t had since playing football. He had wanted to track Rick down and tell him he’d changed his mind.

But now the adrenaline was gone. Reality had set in. Regardless of what Bocephus had said, he was too old and sick to whip Jameson.

The cry of a bobcat rang out to the left, but Tom didn’t even turn his head.
What use am I anymore?
Below him, Musso let out a low guttural growl, but Tom didn’t pay him any mind.
I did Rick a favor. The last thing he needs is a chemo
-
filled wash up to babysit during his first trial. Even if I helped a little on the front end, I couldn’t stand up to a full
-
blown trial. Hell, I haven’t tried a case in forty years, and Jameson
. . .
is the best.

The bobcat’s cry rang out again.
Regardless of what the Cock said
,
Tom reflected,
Jameson is in his prime. He’s the best lawyer in the state. Rick at least gives Ruth Ann a fighting chance. He was just panicking this morning. That’s the only reason he asked me to try the case with him. When I didn’t give him an easy answer, he panicked. Come Monday he’ll be fine. He’s trying the case in his backyard, and he’ll be fine.

Musso whined, and Tom looked down at him. In thirteen years the only time he’d ever heard Musso whine was when the dog wanted to go out. “Musso, what’s . . . ?”

This time the cry of the bobcat was more of a squeal, and Tom turned around, searching out the sound. It was much closer than before. Behind him, Musso’s whine grew louder, but the dog had yet to move.

Instinctively, Tom reached down for his shotgun, but it wasn’t there. In his anger after learning about Jameson, he had forgotten to bring his gun or his cell phone. Tom felt his body tense.

“Where are you?” he yelled, hoping his voice might scare the animal off.

The high-pitched squeal he got in response sent a chill down his spine. Tom turned slowly in a circle, squinting, trying to focus . . .

There.
Twenty yards away, crouching in some brush by the edge of the creek, he saw it. It had a black-speckled yellow coat, and its yellow eyes were looking straight at Tom. It had been years since Tom had actually seen a bobcat on the property. Usually, they stayed a fair distance away and all you heard was an occasional cry. As he had told Bocephus over and over, bobcats were harmless.
Unless they are
. . .

Tom saw the foam flying from the animal’s mouth and heard another blood-curdling squeal as it bared its teeth.

. . . rabid. He’s rabid and
. . .

. . . I’m shit out of luck.
Tom was two miles from the house without a gun or a phone. He took a step backwards and instantly knew it was the wrong move. The bobcat lunged forward, heading straight for him. Tom only had a few seconds before it would be on top of him. Moving his body to the side, he put his left foot in front of his right and held his hands out, seeing the animal’s yellow eyes closing in on him.

I’m not strong enough
,
Tom thought.
If he gets ahold of me
. . . Taking another step back, Tom saw the yellow eyes of the bobcat veer to the left, and then Tom was stumbling, having stepped on an uneven rock. Putting his hands up to protect himself, Tom waited for the moment that he’d see nothing but yellow as the bobcat pounced.
It’s over
, he thought.

But as Tom’s head cracked against something sharp, he didn’t see yellow.

All he saw was white.

50

“ALL RISE!” the bailiff bellowed. “THE HENSHAW COUNTY CIRCUIT COURT IS NOW IN SESSION, THE HONORABLE BUFORD CUTLER PRESIDING.”

Heart pounding in his chest, Rick stood as Judge Buford J. Cutler strode through the doors of his chambers and up to the bench. Rick had once heard his father describe the judge as hard on crime and not real personable—a lot of folks said the
J
stood for “Jackass.”

“All right,” Cutler said, banging his gavel a couple of times. “
Wilcox v. Willistone Trucking Company
. Are the parties here?”

“Rick Drake for the plaintiff,” Rick said, trying to sound confident. Beside him stood Ruth Ann dressed elegantly in an ankle-length black skirt and a white sweater top.

“Jameson Tyler for Willistone Trucking Company,” Tyler said, looking his typical best with a blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and baby-blue tie. Next to him sat another lawyer from Jones & Butler—a young guy. Jack Willistone, also wearing a dark suit, rounded out the defense table.

“Pretrial motions?” the judge asked, peering over the bench.

“Your Honor, we have filed a motion in limine regarding the exclusion of any mention of the fire that destroyed the Ultron plant on September 2, 2009,” Tyler responded. “The fire was ruled an accident by the Tuscaloosa fire marshal, and any mention of it would be irrelevant and highly prejudicial to the defendant.”

“We have no objection,” Rick said, knowing Tyler was right and not wanting to fight a battle he couldn’t win.

“OK, that’s easy. Granted. Are we ready to bring in the jury pool?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Tyler said.

“Yes, sir,” Rick added.
Here we go.

51

Faith Bulyard sat at Gate A22 on the Delta wing of Birmingham International Airport. The plane wouldn’t board for another fifteen minutes, but she had ordered the boys to go to the bathroom. They had a long trip ahead of them. Faith gazed down at the three tickets she held in her right hand and blinked back tears. Now that she was here, she was having a hard time controlling herself. She’d already taken two Xanax this morning, but might have to take a Valium if the Xanax didn’t do any better.
This is wrong
, she thought.
Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Faith’s hands began to shake and she reached into her purse for the Valium. When she did, she heard the familiar beep showing she had a new text message. She opened the phone and saw that the message had come from a number she didn’t recognize. There was a photo attachment, and Faith clicked on it without thinking.

When she saw the picture, she dropped the phone. A person sitting next to her reached down to pick it up.

“No!” Faith yelled, causing the person—an elderly black gentleman—to jerk his hand back and look at her with wild, scared eyes. Faith grabbed the phone and pressed her face close to the screen. It was grainy but what it depicted was unmistakable. Buck was on his knees and there was a man behind him. Underneath the photograph the message was simple.
“Hope you’re on that plane. Wouldn’t want this to get in the wrong hands . . .”

Faith closed out of the message and covered her face with her hands.

“Flight 1432 to New York now boarding,” came a female voice over the loudspeaker.

“Let’s go, Mom!” Danny yelled, bounding up to her with Junior right behind the boys. The boys grabbed their bags and got in line, but Faith couldn’t seem to make her feet work.
As bad as that picture is,
it’s just the tip of the iceberg. The video . . .

Faith cringed as she remembered the clipped telephone conversation she’d had with Jack Willistone after Rick Drake and Dawn Murphy had left her house. “You’re going to get a video delivered to your door in about an hour. I’ll give you another hour to watch . . . and digest it. Then I’ll call you.”

Faith had watched the video and seen the last vestiges of the life she’d perceived she had with Buck crumble in front of her. When the next call came, the message was even more to the point. “Unless you want your boys to know their daddy was a rope sucker, I suggest you never, ever talk with the lawyers you just met with again.” The phone clicked dead when Jack finished, and Faith had lived in fear ever since. Last week the plane tickets came in an envelope, with a handwritten note. “Unless you want the video to become public, I’d make plans to spend next week in New York.”

Now here she was, doing exactly as she was told.
This is wrong
, she thought again.
A bully never stops. Next he’ll want money. Or sex . . .
Faith remembered the way Jack had looked at her with a predatory gaze at a fund-raiser a few years back.
He won’t stop with money . . .

“Mom, let’s go!” Junior waved to her from the front of the line. Next to them a clerk waited to take the tickets Faith still held in her hand.

Faith forced her legs to move forward. It didn’t matter. All she had now were her boys, and all they had of their father was their memories of him.
I won’t ruin that for them. I don’t care what I have to do.