The Professor (25 page)

“Ms. Newton, the man standing up and trying to get out of here—the one standing right behind Jack Willistone . . .” Tom paused. “Did he drive you to court today?” Tom pointed to a man about six foot four with stubble on his face wearing a golf shirt and khakis.

Wilma nodded, looking scared to death.

“You have to answer out loud, Ms. Newton,” Tom said. Glancing, he noticed that the stubbly faced man had returned to his seat.

“Yes.”

“Does that man work for Jack Willistone?” Tom asked, looking at the jury first, then at the stubbly faced man, and then fixing his eyes on Jack Willistone.

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you spend several hours in the VIP room at the Sundowners Club two weeks ago with Jack Willistone and the man sitting behind him in the courtroom?”

Wilma Newton’s face had turned chalky white. “I . . . I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Tom almost laughed, loving the evasive response. “Do you know Peter Burns, Ms. Newton?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.

“He’s the bartender at the Sundowners, right?”

Wilma nodded.

“Would it surprise you to know that Peter remembers you going up to the VIP room two weeks ago for several hours with Mr. Willistone and the man who drove you to court today?”

Wilma looked down at her clasped palms.

“Has your memory returned yet, Ms. Newton?” Taking a step closer, Tom glanced at the jury. Every juror’s eyes were open and alert. “You spent three hours in the VIP room two weeks ago with Jack Willistone and the man who drove you to court today, didn’t you?”

Wilma finally looked up. “Yes, sir, I did.”

Tom caught several of the female jurors moving their hands to their lips in surprise, and one male juror crossed his arms, his expression one of disgust.

“I’m a dancer, OK?” Wilma croaked. “I . . . I knew Mr. Willistone from when Dewey worked there. I was just doing my job.”

“For three hours,” Tom reiterated. “Two weeks before trial.”

“Yes,” Wilma said.

“That must have been quite a financial windfall. Though I don’t know from experience . . . I hear those VIP dances are pretty pricey.” Tom paused. “How much did Jack Willistone pay you?”

Wilma shrugged, again looking down. “I don’t remember.”

“Another memory loss. Well, Ms. Newton, I’m sure he paid you something for a three-hour dance, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he paid me.”

“He was a customer of yours that night, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Tom nodded. “Isn’t it also true, Ms. Newton, that the man sitting behind Mr. Willistone in the courtroom today has come at least once a week to the Sundowners Club for a VIP dance for the last three months?”

“Yes.”

“And each time he’s paid you.”

“Yes, of course. He’s a regular.”

Tom looked at the jury. “And then this same man, this ‘regular’ as you call him—the man sitting behind Jack Willistone in the courtroom—drove you the four and a half hours to court today, correct?”

Wilma nodded. “Yes.”

Tom held his eyes on the jury for several seconds. Then he looked at Judge Cutler.

“No further questions, Your Honor.”

Rick watched the whole thing in awe. Wilma had been a trap set by Jack Willistone.
But the Professor blocked it. He suspected something, did the investigation, and turned it on them.
Rick shook his head as the Professor took the seat next to him.
But how? How could he do that in three days?

“Mr. Tyler, are you going to have any questions of this witness tomorrow?” Judge Cutler asked.

Rick glanced across the courtroom, where Tyler was looking out the window.

“Mr. Tyler!” the judge bellowed.

Tyler turned his eyes to the judge and slowly stood. He looked at Wilma Newton for a second, then shook his head.

“I have no questions, Your Honor.”

“Fair enough. The witness is excused. Members of the jury, it has been a long day and you’ve been very patient. We will start back up tomorrow morning at nine.”

Cutler banged his gavel, and the sound of rustling filled the courtroom as people began to head for the doors. Rick turned to the Professor.

“How did you do that?”

Tom shrugged. “It was nothing really. After I processed everything you told me and reviewed the file, it smelled funny to me. I did some investigation.”

Rick’s eyes widened. “In
three
days?”

Tom smiled. “I had a little help.”

Rick squinted and started to say something else, but the Professor held his hands up. “I’ll tell you everything, OK? But let’s get moving. Tomorrow is another day. We just bloodied their nose a little bit but the fight’s not over. Tomorrow the jury’s going to learn what Wilma Newton really told y’all. I set the jury up for it,” Tom said, smiling. “I even showed them a picture.”

Rick felt his stomach tighten.
Dawn.
“Professor, I don’t think that’s—”

“We have no choice, Rick. You heard His Honor. He’s not going to let you testify, and we need someone to tell the jury what Wilma Newton really said. Dawn’s our only option.”

Rick nodded. “Professor, I have no idea where she is. What if we can’t find—?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tom said, turning from the table. “I have someone working on it, and . . . we will.”

61

Jameson Tyler remained seated at the counsel table. Legs crossed, fist on his chin. Thinking.

“Mr. Tyler, you ready to go?” his associate, Clark McPheeters, asked. McPheeters had packed both their briefcases. “Mr. Tyler?”

“Yeah, Clark. Yeah. Tell you what,” Tyler said, grabbing the keys out of his pocket, “why don’t you go get the car and swing it around? Pick me up out front. I want to talk to Mr. Willistone for a second.”

McPheeters smiled and took the keys.

Probably never driven a Porsche before
,
Tyler thought, but the usual egotistical pleasure he would have gotten from such a scene was gone.
Fuck me
, he thought, finally getting up from his seat.

When Tyler saw Jack Willistone outside the courtroom, his adrenaline shot up, and he didn’t hesitate. He grabbed the big man by the collar and pushed him into the wall.

“I didn’t need that today, Jack. We . . . we did not need that,” Tyler said, seething.

Jack just smiled. “I don’t want to hurt you, Barrister. So I’m going to ask nicely. Take your goddamn hands off me.”

Tyler loosened his grip, and Jack pushed him hard, causing him to stumble several steps backwards.

“What’s your game?” Tyler asked, quickly regaining his balance.

Jack smiled again. “Winning.”

Tyler took a few steps closer to Jack, close enough where he could smell tobacco on the big man’s breath and clothes.

“Mine too,” Tyler said. “Mine too. But not like this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Wilma Newton. You know damn well what I’m talking about. Bob Hawkins told me to stay away from you and let you handle Ms. Newton. But your John Wayne
cowboy shit
just about fucked us today. Now the jury thinks you might have paid Wilma Newton to testify. We don’t need that kind of help.”

Jack took a step closer. They were almost nose to nose.

“All that jury heard was that I paid for a long VIP dance.” Jack laughed. “So I like looking at titties. So what? My company runs trucks through Pulaski, I was in the area, and I wanted to see some skin. Are you telling me you
really
can’t handle that?”

“What about the
driver
?
The guy who drove Wilma to the courtroom and who watched the VIP dance with you?”

“An old friend who lives near Pulaski. He likes titties too. I’m not sure why he drove Wilma to court—I was as surprised as anyone else to see him at court—but I bet it’s got something to do with that diamond-shaped body part underneath her zipper. You ever driven four and a half hours for a piece of snatch, Tyler?” Jack paused, stepping closer. “Yeah, I bet you have. So that’s the deal. That old man didn’t prove nothing today.”

Tyler stepped away, shaking his head.

“By the way,” Jack continued, “what happened out there today, Tyler? I thought you were supposed to be the best lawyer in the state. A fucking Jedi. Darth fucking Vader. What in the
fuck
happened?” Jack asked, spittle flying as he spoke.

Tyler said nothing.

“I tell you what happened,” Jack continued. “That old SOB whupped your ass.” Jack paused and crossed his arms mockingly. “ ‘I have no questions, Your Honor,’ ” he mimicked. “You choked, Tyler. First time this whole case you had to work a little bit, and you choked all over yourself.”

Tyler had had enough. He walked toward Jack, stopping when he was a foot from him.

“You may be good at handling things, Jack, but
you
, not me, fucked up today. I didn’t ask any questions because I couldn’t fix your fuckup.” Tyler turned to walk away but then stopped and looked back. “And I am Darth Vader, you belligerent fuck.”

As he walked away, Jack spoke once more, determined to get the last word.

“Then who was that old SOB? Yoda?”

“Yeah,” Tyler muttered, not turning back.
Fucking Yoda.

62

JimBone answered the phone on the first ring. It had been thirty minutes since he left the courthouse, and he was anxious as hell. The whole plan had been fucked, and he knew Jack was pissing bullets.

“Yeah, boss.”

“Good job, Bone. Come by my house next Wednesday night around six thirty and I’ll give you the rest of what I owe you.”

JimBone couldn’t believe his ears.
He doesn’t even sound mad.
“Uh . . . OK. Your house six thirty next Wednesday. Sounds good. What about the bitch?” JimBone asked, winking at Wilma Newton, who sat in the passenger seat of the El Camino.

“Tell her to rent a car to drive home in and explain the deal to her. Explain what happens if she ever tells anybody. She doesn’t get the other half of the money for at least a month. We have to wait for things to die down a little.”

“Will do, boss.”

“And Bone . . .” There was a pause on the other end of the line, and JimBone heard the exhalation of what he knew was cigar smoke. “We have to fix some of what the old SOB messed up. Remember the photograph of the girl he showed the jury?”

JimBone smiled. “I do indeed.”

Wilma gazed out the window as JimBone completed his phone call with Jack Willistone.

“Sounds good, boss,” JimBone said. “I’ll handle it.” He hung up the phone and looked at Wilma. “Well, well. Looks like you earned your keep, Smokey the Bear.”

Wilma didn’t immediately answer, continuing to look out the window.
It’s over
, she thought.
It’s really over
.
A hundred thousand more dollars. Was it worth it?

“Hey, bitch,” JimBone said. “I’m talking to you.”

No. No. Never.

“Can we go home now? I’d really prefer just going home, but I’m sure what I prefer doesn’t matter,” Wilma said, continuing to stare out the window.

“No, it doesn’t, Wilma,” JimBone said, laughing. “You’re not as dumb as you look.”

“So what are we going to do?” she asked.

“You’re going to rent a car and drive your sweet ass home, but”—he looked at his watch—“since the rental car places in T-town are probably all closed by now, I’m just going to drive you back to the hotel.”

“What are you going to do?” Wilma asked.

JimBone reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and took a long drag. Blowing smoke up into the ceiling of the car, JimBone chuckled.

“Don’t you worry about that,” he said, reaching into the backseat and retrieving a brown paper bag. “Here, I think you’ll like this,” he said, taking the bottle out of the bag and handing it to her.

It was a fifth of Gentleman Jack.

“That’s a little higher quality than what we normally drink,” JimBone continued. “Go ahead, take a swig. Hell, take several swigs.” He reached across her, opened the dash, and dropped a pill box into her lap. “Just make sure you wash one of these down,” he said, laughing.

“Not tonight, please.” Wilma felt like crying. “I did what you asked me to do.”

“Relax, Smokey the Bear. The Bone has work to do tonight. I just don’t want you in the way.” He winked at her and laughed louder. “Now take one of those pills before I force them down your throat.”

She did as she was told, swallowing the pill and taking several nips from the bottle, concentrating on the feel of the liquid burning as it went down. Then she passed the bottle to JimBone.

“When am I gonna get my money?” she asked, watching him take a long swig.

“Owwww! Goddamn, that’s good!” JimBone bellowed.

She had never seen him so excited, and it scared her. He gave her the bottle and tuned the radio to a country station.

“It’s going to be about a month, but don’t you worry. You’ll get it. That old bastard fucked some things up, but the Bone’s gonna make everything right tonight.” He puffed on his cigarette.

She took another swig of the whiskey and started feeling the first inkling of a buzz.
God forgive me
,
she thought as JimBone turned up the radio. It was George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning.” One of Dewey’s favorites. Dewey had loved old country.

She took another sip and the numbness began to really set in as the whiskey and the roofie began to work its magic.
What have I done?
Her mind tortured her with visions of the people she’d betrayed. She could see Rick Drake’s unbelieving face.
You lied to me, you bitch
, he must’ve been thinking. Sweet Dawn Murphy, whom Wilma had called a liar. Did “making everything right” mean that JimBone was going to hurt her too?
Is there no end to my treachery?
Ruth Ann Wilcox, the poor woman who had lost her whole family. She had come to Henshaw looking for answers. For justice.
And I tried to steal it from her.

Finally, there was Dewey.
The bastards ran him to death, and I helped them cover it up.
She took another sip—this time a longer one—and felt JimBone’s hand riding up under her blouse and up her thigh.
I am Judas
, she thought, spreading her legs to allow better access. Numb all over.

God forgive me.