The Professor (23 page)

54

Thirty miles away and half-cocked on Jack Daniel’s, Doolittle Morris pulled his pickup to a stop in the gravel driveway off Highway 25. Doo took a sip of the pint of Jack Black he’d been holding between his legs and wiped his mouth, gazing at the clapboard house. The grass, which Mule had always kept like a golf green, had grown high, covering the front porch, where Doo and Mule used to sit and pick guitars on Monday nights. Neither of them could play for shit, but they liked getting together and blowing off steam, drinking a little whiskey, and playing the chords they knew. Doo sighed, stumbling out of the truck and slamming the door. “Goddamnit, Mule,” Doo said out loud, kicking at an empty paint bucket that lay in the front yard.

For over a month Doo had been putting off this chore. After the visitation, the funeral, and the investigation, Doo just didn’t have it in him to clean out Mule’s house. But the house couldn’t just sit out here forever. It was Doo’s now—Mule had left everything he owned, which wasn’t much, to Doo—and Doo knew the longer the house sat, the harder it would be to sell. All of Mule’s stuff had to be cleaned out, the yard had to be mowed, and judging by the different shades of paint and the empty paint bucket, he’d have to finish the paint job his cousin had started before his death.

“Goddamnit,” Doo repeated, his eyes stinging with tears as he climbed the steps of the porch and saw Mule’s guitar leaning against one of the rocking chairs.
Maybe I can get it all done in a day or two
, Doo thought, taking the key out of his pocket and opening the door. The stench of rotten food and a stale house hit him like a ton of bricks.

Maybe not.

55

Ruth Ann came off just as Rick had expected. Poised. Polite. Graceful. And emotional at the right times, as when she teared up describing how old Nicole was at the time of her death. Rick’s direct lasted until noon, and Cutler ordered a recess for lunch.

At 1:00 p.m. the jury was back in the box, and Cutler addressed Tyler.

“Are you ready for cross-examination, Counselor?”

Rick’s stomach tightened as he glanced at Tyler and then back at Ruth Ann. He knew he had prepared Ruth Ann well and that there were hardly any points Tyler could score with her. Regardless, he was terrified. As he’d heard Powell and the Professor say many times, there was nothing in a trial as scary as turning over your client or witness to the other side for questioning.

“Your Honor,” Tyler said, standing and buttoning his coat. “We do not wish any more suffering on Ms. Wilcox for this terrible accident. We have no questions.”

Tyler bowed slightly, and Ruth Ann, the relief evident on her face, said, “Thank you.”

Rick couldn’t believe it.
No questions.
He glanced at the jury and saw several of them nod, including Judy Heacock.
Bastard scored points and didn’t ask a single question.

“OK, then,” Cutler said, also looking a bit surprised as his eyes shifted to Rick. “Call your next witness.”

Rick again glanced at his cell phone, which still showed nothing from Wilma or Powell. This time, though, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t finish his case-in-chief with Ms. Rose, because he didn’t want to end on a downer. He had toyed with not calling Batson at all, but he knew Tyler would have a field day with that. “They didn’t want you to hear from the eyewitness,” Tyler would hammer in his closing.
Better to bury her in the middle and end with a flourish with Wilma
, Rick thought, praying that he’d hear from Wilma soon.

“Your Honor,” Rick said, standing and sucking in a quick breath.
This isn’t going to be fun
, he knew. “The plaintiff calls Ms. Rose Batson.”

Rick had resolved to handle Ms. Rose like ripping off a BAND-AID. He didn’t pull any punches, having her describe everything she remembered. When he finished, he had basically brought out all of the points he knew Tyler would make, albeit not emphasizing them as he knew his adversary would.
He can’t say I’m hiding anything
, Rick thought, walking back to his table. Sitting down, he checked his cell phone, and there were still no new texts or missed calls. He looked at his watch. 3:00 p.m. Tyler would finish around 3.30, which would leave time for one more witness.
And I only have one more witness
, Rick thought, beginning to feel sweat beads on his forehead.
If Wilma doesn’t show in thirty minutes, I’m toast.

56

Wilma Newton sat in the passenger-side seat of the El Camino. She wore a long black dress, appropriate for a funeral. “Handpicked by the boss,” JimBone had said this morning as he watched her get dressed. Wilma sighed, wishing she could wake up from this nightmare but knowing it was only starting. She had spent most of the last forty-eight hours in a Rufilin-filled haze. JimBone had started drugging her from the moment he picked her up, which had been Sunday morning, and every time she drifted back into lucidity, he force-fed another pill down her throat.

Last night she had been awake long enough to realize that they were staying at a Quality Inn in Tuscaloosa. The room was a business suite with a Jacuzzi right in the middle of it.
Nice room
, Wilma had thought, but then she’d been forced to take another pill, and the haze had set back in. Occasionally, she opened her eyes and saw him on top of her, but she couldn’t feel anything. It was as if she were watching a horror movie and she was the main character.

As they pulled onto the courthouse square, a sense of dread overcame Wilma.
This is it.
She thought of Rick Drake and that pretty girl he brought with him to the Sands. Of the lady whose family died. Of Dewey. Poor, sweet Dewey.
This is all so wrong.
She closed her eyes and tried to shake it off.
I can’t go back.
She took a tube of lipstick out of her purse and applied a fresh batch.

“All right, you know what to do,” JimBone said as he pulled into a parking space a block from the courthouse. “And you know what the consequences are if you don’t.”

His look was cold. Businesslike.

“I know.”

As if she could forget. Since cutting the deal, JimBone had visited the Sundowners Club once a week to remind Wilma of those consequences, and just two weeks earlier Jack Willistone himself had made an appearance.

She opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk, clearing her mind of everything but her girls. “Nothing for me. Everything for them,” she whispered to herself as she walked toward the marble stone building with the words “Henshaw County Courthouse” imprinted on the front.

57

Fifteen minutes later there was still no sign of Wilma, and Rick knew Tyler was near the end.

“Ms. Batson, you are the only eyewitness to this accident, correct?” Jameson asked, his voice rising to reach all corners of the courtroom.

Ms. Rose shrugged. “Far as I know. Weren’t nobody else at the store.”

“And based on your statement, the Honda turned
in front of the rig
, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And the rig was
just a hundred yards away
when the Honda started turning?”

“Yes.”

Tyler nodded and looked at the jury, as if telling them without words,
I told you so.
“No further questions.”

Judge Cutler immediately turned to Rick. “Redirect, Mr. Drake?”

“No, Your Honor,” Rick said, wishing there was something else he could ask Ms. Rose but knowing there wasn’t. He was out of time.

“Very well,” Cutler said, turning to smile at the jury. “Mr. Drake, please call your next witness.”

Rick’s stomach tightened into a knot as he thought of any possible way to delay the trial. A bathroom break was as good as he could do. Rising from his chair, he started to ask for one, but before he could speak he felt a hard tap on his shoulder. He wheeled around and saw Powell, grinning, his face red as a beet.
“She’s here, dude. She’s here.”

“Your Honor,” Rick said, turning back to the bench and forcing his voice to be firm. “The plaintiff calls Ms. Wilma Newton.”

58

The judge’s bailiff opened the double doors and ushered Wilma through them. From the back of the courtroom, Wilma could see the judge. The jury. Rick Drake, looking dashing in a black charcoal suit. And to her left, sitting at the defendant’s table, Jack Willistone. She walked slowly, trying to be elegant.
Nothing for me. Everything for them. Nothing for me. Everything for them.
She repeated it over and over in her head as she passed Rick and sat in the witness chair.

“Raise your right hand please, ma’am,” Judge Cutler said in a booming voice.

Wilma did as she was told.

“Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Wilma saw the doors open and another man enter the courtroom. Her stomach tightened. The man had sandy blond hair and a six-foot-four-inch frame and wore his customary golf shirt and khakis. JimBone Wheeler was in the house.

“I do.”

“Ms. Newton, would you please introduce yourself to the jury,” Rick said, walking along the jury railing and looking into a few of the jurors’ eyes before looking back at Wilma. Wilma’s late entrance had given him no time to talk with her or ask her about the affidavit.
Can’t worry about that now
,
Rick thought, trying to stay focused and calm. His heart was beating so fast he could barely keep his voice steady.

“My name is Wilma Newton.”

“Where are you from, Ms. Newton?”

“I was born in Boone’s Hill, Tennessee. Moved to Tuscaloosa when I was eighteen years old to be with my husband.”

“Who was your husband, Ms. Newton?”

“Dewey.”

“And what was his full name?”

“Harold Newton.”

“The same Harold Newton that was killed in the accident that we’re here about today?”

“Yes, sir.”

She’s doing great
, Rick thought, his heart still pounding in his chest.
She looks good. Sounds genuine. Let’s ease into it.

“At the time of his death, was Mr. Newton employed by Willistone Trucking Company?”

“He was.”

“How long had he been employed by Willistone?”

“Not sure exactly. Seven, eight years.”

“And what was Dewey’s position with the company?”
Take it slow.

“A driver. Trucker, I guess. Not sure if he had a job title or anything. He just drove the truck.”

“And did you have personal knowledge of how often he worked?”
Let’s lay a little foundation.

“I was his wife. Sure. When he wasn’t home, he was on the road. Plus he would talk about his work schedule.”

“He was on the road a lot, wasn’t he?” Rick asked.

“Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is leading the witness,” Tyler said, standing.

“Sustained,” Judge Cutler responded. “Don’t lead, Counselor.”

Rick walked a little toward Wilma, pausing. The objection had given him a dramatic opening. All the jurors were focused on him.

“Ms. Newton, would you please describe for the jury what Dewey’s schedule was like at Willistone.” Rick walked back to his spot at the end of the railing, catching a few jurors’ eyes. Most of them, though, were watching Wilma.
Perfect.
He turned and waited for her response.

God, please forgive me
, Wilma thought, looking at JimBone and Jack Willistone out in the galley.
Nothing for me. Everything for them.

“It was fine,” Wilma said in a calm, clear voice.

There was a gasp from one of the jurors, and Rick was sure he had misheard.

“Ms. Newton, could you repeat your answer? I didn’t hear you.”

“It was fine. Dewey always told me he liked the schedule he was on. Normal hours. Decent pay.”

She smiled and Rick froze.
Oh, holy shit.

“But . . . didn’t you . . . ? I . . . I met with you.” Rick struggled to put his words together. “You said . . . you told Ms. Murphy, my associate, and me that it was crazy . . . that Dewey told you it was crazy. That Dewey told you that Willistone was forcing him to drive more than the law allowed. Right?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Counsel is leading the witness. His question also calls for hearsay.” Tyler looked at Rick when he finished his objection, and the bastard’s smugness was palpable.
He expected this
, Rick thought.

“Sustained on leading. Don’t lead your witness, Counselor.” Judge Cutler leaned over the podium and made eye contact with Rick. He looked concerned, no doubt realizing that the witness was testifying contrary to Rick’s opening statement.

“Ms. Newton, did we meet back in February of last year to discuss this case?”
Let’s try this again.

“Yes.” Wilma had not flinched. She was poker faced and, actually, pleasant.

“Did we discuss Dewey’s schedules at Willistone?”

“Yes, we did.”

“And how did you describe them then?”

“I’m sure the same way. I mean, that was a long time ago.” She looked right at Rick, then the jury, many of whom were sitting on the edge of their seat.

Damn, damn, damn.

“Ms. Newton, did you not tell me that Dewey’s schedules were crazy? That was your word, wasn’t it? ‘Crazy’? Did you not say that?”

“Objection, Your Honor. Mr. Drake just asked Ms. Newton four questions. Could he break it down a little?”

Tyler’s arrogant and patronizing voice made Rick’s stomach churn, but Rick forced himself not to look at the bastard.
Just try to stay calm.

“I’ll rephrase, Your Honor,” Rick said, walking toward Wilma.

“Go ahead,” Cutler said.

“Ms. Newton, did you ever in my presence describe Dewey’s schedules at Willistone Trucking Company as ‘crazy’?”

She leaned toward Rick, glaring back.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I would never have said that.”

“Did you ever in my presence say that Dewey told you that he was being forced to drive twenty hours at a time?”

“Never. I remember you asking me questions like that and wanting me to say those things, but I never did. Dewey loved that company,” she said, looking at the jury. “And they treated him good.”

I can’t believe this is happening
, Rick thought. He knew he needed to regroup, but he was unable to stop the next question from coming out of his mouth.

“You told me that Dewey got a couple of speeding tickets because Willistone’s schedule forced him to speed, didn’t you?”

“No, Mr. Drake. I never said that.”

“You also said that Jack Willistone inspected the driver’s logs himself every week, making sure that whatever was on the logs was compliant with DOT regulations, regardless of how many hours were actually driven.”

“No, I
never
told you or anyone else that.”

“Ms. Newton, you told me that Dewey was so scared of Jack Willistone that a lot of times
you
helped him fill out his driver’s logs so it looked like he was under ten hours.”

Wilma shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. My husband never said those things, and I never helped him fill out his driver’s logs.”

Rick felt heat sting his forehead.
This is a fucking ambush.
“Ms. Newton, I met with you. You told me everything I just asked you about.”

Tyler rose but then shook his head and sat back down without raising an objection.

“Mr. Drake, I remember our meeting and I remember you wanting me to say those things.” Wilma looked right at the jury. “But I never,
ever
said those things. Dewey’s schedules were reasonable at Willistone. He . . .” Wilma’s voice cracked and her lip trembled. “Dewey loved that company.”

When Rick was in the seventh grade, a fifth-grader smarted off to him, and Rick grabbed the little SOB by the collar. When he did, the fifth-grader kicked him in the balls as hard as he could, and Rick lay in the school parking lot in pain for fifteen minutes.

This felt worse.

He felt the jury’s eyes on him. The judge. Tyler. He had trusted his gut and . . .
I was wrong.
He looked over at Ruth Ann, who was glaring at Wilma.
I failed her. She came to me and . . . I failed.
Rick’s hand went into his front pocket and he felt for the photograph of Bob, Jeannie, and Nicole Bradshaw. As Rick envisioned the photograph, his legs began to shake.
I failed them too.

Rick knew he needed to regroup but he didn’t know how. He had fallen into a trap. Rick glanced at Tyler, and the Big Cat’s amused expression told him all he needed to know.
He knew all along
, Rick thought again.

The courtroom was silent as a morgue. Rick turned to the galley and saw Powell hold his face in his hands, and Rick wished he could do the same.
I should’ve taken her deposition or gotten her to sign the affidavit. I should not have put her on the stand without getting her sworn.

Rick turned around, feeling the sweat on his forehead, as the silence was broken by the sound of the double doors in the back of the courtroom squeaking open and footsteps clacking on the hardwood floor. Rick was frozen in place. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say or do.

“Mr. Drake,” Judge Cutler said, and Rick managed to look up at him. “Would you like a short recess?”

“I . . .”
You can’t take a recess now
, Rick thought.
Not like this. Not with Wilma’s testimony emblazoned in the jury’s mind.
But what else could he do? There weren’t any questions left to ask her. “I—”

“Your Honor, may I approach?”

The hard, gravelly voice cut through the air like a knife. It did not belong to Tyler or his associate. And though it sounded familiar, Rick was so numb with shock he didn’t turn around.

“Who are you?” Judge Cutler asked, sounding annoyed. Then Rick saw Cutler’s eyebrows raise, and the judge cocked his head to the side. “Well, I’ll be . . .” The judge didn’t complete the thought, and his face changed from irritation to awe.

Finally, Rick forced his head to turn toward the voice. When he saw who was there, his knees gave a little.
What the hell . . . ?
Then he caught Jameson Tyler’s face and saw initial recognition replaced by a look he had never seen before on the arrogant bastard.

Fear.

“Your Honor, my name is Thomas Jackson McMurtrie.”