The Professor (29 page)

74

Rick entered the courtroom at exactly the same time as Judge Cutler. It was 1:00 p.m. on the dot, and he had unsuccessfully tried to reach Faith Bulyard for the last hour. Even worse, Dawn and Powell had driven to her house in Northport and found no one home, nor any sign of her.

“Any luck?” the Professor asked as Rick took his place beside him.

“Nothing,” Rick said, feeling unsteady on his feet. Things were happening too fast.

“Counsel, call your next witness,” Judge Cutler directed from the bench.

Rick looked to the Professor, whose entire demeanor registered perfect calm.

“What are we gonna do?”
Rick asked. “We’re out of witnesses and we can’t find Faith. Like you said, the bill of lading is worthless if we can’t put Faith on the stand to authenticate it. Your cross of Wilma and Dawn’s testimony this morning saved us from getting killed, but we need something substantive. We can’t win this case with just Newton’s speed, because Ms. Rose’s statement that Bradshaw pulled in front of the rig cancels it out. It’s a wash, and that’s all the Wilma fiasco was. A wash.” Rick rubbed his forehead. “Professor, we have to get that bill in front of the jury.”

“I know,” Tom said. “Look, I have a plan. Just trust me, OK?”

Rick sucked in a breath as the Professor stood.

“Your Honor, at this time we’d like to offer a certified copy of Harold ‘Dewey’ Newton’s driving record from the Alabama Department of Public Safety,” Tom said, standing and delivering a copy of the exhibit to the judge and then another to Tyler. The driving record showed Dewey Newton’s two speeding tickets in the six months prior to the accident.

Rick exhaled, grateful that the Professor was here. In the wake of Wilma’s testimony, the chase for Dawn last night, and trying to find Faith Bulyard, Rick had forgotten all about Dewey’s driving record.

“Any objection?” Cutler asked, darting his eyes to Tyler.

“No, Your Honor.”

“Very well, the document is admitted. Counsel, call your next witness.”

Rick’s stomach tightened into a knot.
We don’t have a next witness.

“Your Honor, the plaintiff rests,” Tom said, and Rick could hardly believe his ears.
How can we rest? We’ve finally got a document that helps us. We just need a recess so we can find Faith and get her down here.

“Professor . . .” Rick whispered, but Tom ignored him.

“Are there any motions the defendant would like to bring at this time?” Cutler asked, looking to the defense table, where Tyler was already standing and walking toward the bench. At the close of the plaintiff’s case-in-chief, it was customary for the defendant to make a motion for judgment as matter of law.

“Yes, Your Honor,” Tyler said, and Tom also started to approach. Rick followed and grabbed the Professor’s forearm. “Professor . . .”

Tom turned and put his arm around Rick, whispering slowly into his ear, “You’re just going to have to trust me, son.”

75

Wilma Newton awoke to the sound of knocking.

“Housekeeping!” a female voice said.

Wilma tried to get up but couldn’t. “Come back later,” she managed.

She rolled over and felt a wave of nausea. She was on the floor of the hotel room, her arms cradled over the telephone.
What the hell . . . ?
She let go of the phone and tried to stand but she was too weak. The room began to spin, and she grabbed the side of the hot tub. She again tried to stand, but the nausea was too much and she puked in the tub.

“Damn. Damn,” she said out loud.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings. JimBone was gone.
Good.
She looked at her knees, which were red and partially skinned. Then she glanced back at the phone, which still lay on the floor below the bedside dresser. She closed her eyes and saw a fleeting vision of herself rolling off the bed and crawling on the carpet toward the bedside table, reaching for the phone. She had known JimBone would try to kill Dawn and had wanted to warn Rick.
Did I get him?
she wondered. She couldn’t remember and wasn’t even entirely sure she had made the call. Everything was a blur.
Please let her be all right
, Wilma prayed.

After several dry heaves she tried to stand. When she did, another rush of nausea came over her. This time she made it into the bathroom. After puking for several more minutes, she ran some water at the sink and looked in the mirror.
Whiskey and roofies apparently don’t mix well
,
she thought, looking into her swollen eyes and feeling disgusted and ashamed. She barely recognized herself.
Who the hell am I?

She walked out of the bathroom. The bed was unmade, but she could still see the note. It was lying on a pillow like a mint left by housekeeping.

You talk. You die.

Despite how weak she felt, she managed to laugh.
Man of few words that JimBone.
Crinkling up the note, she stood and saw her figure in the mirror facing the bed. She felt her lip starting to quiver and tried to hold it in.

She had been raped. Beaten. Broken.

And bought.
She let go and the tears came. It was over.

Finally.

76

“So let me get this straight, Mr. Willistone,” Tom began, taking his customary stance at a forty-five-degree angle between the witness stand and jury box.

Tyler’s motion for judgment as a matter of law had been denied, and Jack Willistone, Tyler’s first witness, had just testified on direct examination that Dewey Newton was supervised appropriately and that Dewey’s driving schedules were within DOT guidelines.

“On September 2, 2009, Willistone Trucking Company knew that Dewey Newton had received two speeding tickets in the past six months while trying to make deliveries on time.”

“Yes,” Jack responded without hesitation.

“Armed with that knowledge, Willistone Trucking Company put Mr. Newton on the road that day.”

“Yes. Two tickets in seven years is an acceptable driving record.”

Jack remained calm and matter-of-fact.

Tom walked across the courtroom and stood behind Ruth Ann’s chair. “And while on the road that day, Dewey Newton had an accident that killed Ruth Ann Wilcox’s entire family.” Tom let his eyes move to the jury, then back to Jack.

“Yes, there was an accident. Mr. Newton also lost his life.”

Jack was appropriately somber. Tom nodded, then walked slowly back to within a few feet of the jury railing.
Time to throw the curve.

“It takes about an hour and a half to get from Tuscaloosa to Montgomery on Highway 82, doesn’t it, Mr. Willistone?”

Jack wrinkled his brow. “I . . .”

“You’re familiar with that route, aren’t you?”

Tom was taking a chance here but not a big one. He could prove this fact with another witness. But it would be more effective later if Jack would give it to him.

“Well . . . yeah,” Jack said, his brow still furled. “That is a standard run for our crew.”

“Takes an hour and a half, doesn’t it?”

Jack shrugged. “’Bout that. Give or take five minutes either way.”

“You couldn’t do it in an hour, could you?” Tom asked.

Jack glared at Tom, the two men locking eyes. For the first time in the examination, Jack Willistone looked put out.
I know something you don’t know
, Tom tried to say with his eyes.

“Are you asking me if it’s possible?” Jack asked, recovering and forcing himself to chuckle.

“That’s exactly what I’m asking,” Tom said, glancing at the jury. “For example, let’s say a driver decided to go eighty miles an hour the entire way. He could make it then, couldn’t he?”

Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.”

Tom looked at the jury for effect, and he could tell they were all listening. “If Dewey Newton had to make it to Montgomery in one hour from the Ultron plant in Tuscaloosa, he’d have to go over the speed limit of sixty-five miles per hour, wouldn’t he, Mr. Willistone?”

Jack folded his arms across his body. “That’s not what happened here, but, hypothetically, the answer to your question is yes.”

“Dewey was going eighty at the time of the accident, wasn’t he?” Tom pressed.

“According to the officer,” Jack said, nodding.

“According to the
sheriff
,
Mr. Willistone. You’re not telling this fine jury in Henshaw County that Sheriff Ballard was wrong in determining Dewey Newton’s speed, are you?”

“No,” Jack said. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

“And if the schedule you put a driver on forces him to speed, then you’ve violated DOT regulations, haven’t you?”

“Well . . . yes, but Dewey’s schedule was fine.”

Tom glared at Jack, pausing for effect. “Yet on September 2, 2009”—Tom lowered his voice—“at the time of the accident that killed Bob Bradshaw, Jeannie Bradshaw, and two-year-old Nicole Bradshaw . . .”

Tom’s voice was now just above a whisper, his eyes locked on the jury.

“. . . Dewey Newton
was
speeding, correct?”

“Yes.”

Tom kept his eyes on the jury, making eye contact with several of them. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

Jack’s body tingled with adrenaline as he walked back to the defense table. It had been a long time since Jack had faced off against a man who had shown no fear in his presence. This man—this Tom McMurtrie—was different. Jack could see it in the son of a bitch’s flat eyes. He had come after Jack. Challenged him. Still, what bothered Jack wasn’t his own performance during McMurtrie’s examination but the questions themselves.
The only reason the bastard asks those questions is if he’s got something else. He’s setting us up.

As Judge Cutler banged his gavel to announce a break, Jack, as gracefully as possible, stood from the table and walked out the double doors of the courtroom into the lobby. He dialed the first number before the doors closed behind him.

It was time to circle the wagons.

77

Tyler’s accident reconstructionist, Eugene Marsh, was the next witness for the defense. Marsh’s testimony was short, sweet, and effective.

Based on Rose Batson’s testimony that the rig was a hundred yards from the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82 at the time the Honda began its turn, Bob Bradshaw should’ve seen the rig and not pulled out in front of it. Even with Newton’s speed, Bradshaw caused the accident by pulling into the intersection.

Rick could barely watch. When Ted Holt told him that it was impossible to say whether Bradshaw could’ve seen the rig, Rick had doubted that Tyler could find an expert.
Never doubt Jameson Tyler
, Rick thought, ashamed that he hadn’t at least tried to get someone else once Tyler disclosed Marsh.
I didn’t have the money
, Rick pointed out to himself. He could’ve disclosed Holt, but what would that have accomplished?
Tyler’s hired gun says it’s our fault, and our guy’s not sure. Win for Tyler.

Rick sighed and glanced down at his phone. He had turned the volume to silent, but the screen showed no missed calls or texts. Faith Bulyard still hadn’t responded, and it was getting late in the day.
She has to have heard my messages by now
, he reasoned.
Neither Powell nor Dawn had texted either, so they must not be having any luck.
We have to find her
,
Rick thought, squeezing his hands together.
We have to.

As Tyler smiled and said, “No further questions,” Rick turned around, hoping he might see a smiling Powell or Dawn walking through the double doors. Instead, all he saw was a mass of people. The galley was now completely full, and there were a few people standing near the back.
What’s going on?
Rick wondered. Though this was his first jury trial, he knew that most trials were not attended by an audience. Several of the faces looked familiar. Law students that he’d seen roaming the halls, one of whom nodded at him. There was also Professor Burbaker, who taught property law, and Albert Sweden, the Cumberland School of Law trial team coach. Rick even thought he saw the judge from Birmingham who had come down in the fall to judge one of their practice trials.

This is crazy
, Rick thought, turning around as the Professor strode toward Eugene Marsh.

This is crazy
,
Tom thought, genuinely shocked by the crowd that had filled the Henshaw County Courtroom. But it wasn’t just the number of people—it was who they were. Judge Art Hancock sat in the third row from the front. The Cock was looking sporty, with a golf shirt and khaki pants. He also wore a smile, winking at Tom and shooting him a thumbs-up. Next to him sat Rufus Cole, who wore a suit a size too small and had his arms crossed. Rufus nodded at Tom and mouthed, “Kick his ass,”
pointing at Tyler. Tom forced himself not to smile.

There were numbers of others he recognized. Former students. Professors both current and former, including Will Burbaker, who had last seen Tom doubled over the sink in the men’s room. Dean Lambert was there, but he averted his eyes when Tom glared at him. There was also a line of reporters, including the young lady who had interviewed Tom the day he was forced out.

The best, though, standing at the very back of the courtroom and leaning his six-foot-four-inch frame against the double doors, was Bocephus Haynes. Bo eyed Tom, and then his mouth broke into a humorless smile. It was the smile of a predator whose prey was near. “I’m always around,” Bo had said, and he had meant it. Tom nodded at his friend, and Bo gestured to the witness stand. Then he formed a zero with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. This morning Tom had called Bo with one final assignment. And as usual Bo had delivered.

Let’s do this
, Tom thought, turning toward Eugene Marsh and feeling the energy in the room.

They’re here to see me
, he told himself
. Some want me to fail. Some want me to succeed. And some are just curious. But they’re here to see if this old dog has anything left.
Tom felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen.
I’m overdoing it
, he thought. In the bathroom during the last break, he had seen a trickle of blood. He knew he should call Bill Davis, but now wasn’t the time.
Now it’s time to kick ass.
Tom took a deep breath.
Calm . . . slow . . . Andy . . .

“Mr. Marsh,” Tom said, his voice booming to the back of the courtroom. “Your opinion came with a price today, didn’t it?”

Tom spent fifteen minutes covering every aspect of Marsh’s payment arrangement with Jameson Tyler and the Jones & Butler firm. Marsh was making three hundred dollars an hour and had already collected twenty thousand dollars prior to the trial starting. He stood to make ten thousand dollars for his testimony today.

“So you’re giving a thirty-thousand-dollar opinion—correct, Mr. Marsh?” Tom made eye contact with Sam Roy Johnson, who made a whistling gesture with his mouth. It was an obscene amount of money for an expert.

“That’s how much I charge, yes.”

“Now Mr. Tyler contacted you through the National Trucking Association. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You are one of the association’s recommended experts, right?”

“I . . . guess.”

“And that’s because all you do is testify for trucking companies, correct?” Tom asked, looking out at Bo, who nodded.

“Well . . . I . . .”

“You’ve given testimony in how many cases, Mr. Marsh?”

Marsh shrugged. “Maybe thirty.”

“And in every single one of those cases, you either found that the trucker was not negligent or that the other driver was contributorily negligent, correct?”

“I don’t remember,” Marsh said.

Tom glared at the bastard. “You’ve
never
testified against a trucking company, have you, Mr. Marsh?”

Tom motioned for Bo to walk down the aisle. Bo did as he was told and handed Tom a list of cases and a deposition transcript.

“Forty-two total cases,” Bo whispered. “All for trucking companies. This deposition was taken three months ago. Page forty-seven, line fifteen, he testifies he’s never given an opinion against a trucking company.
Stick this up his ass
.”

Tom turned to Marsh, who still hadn’t answered the question, his eyes alternating between Tom and Bo.

“Mr. Marsh, are you going to answer the question?” Tom asked, striding toward him with the deposition in hand. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten your testimony in the
Hockburger v. Swift Trucking
case from
only three months ago?”

“I . . . don’t understand.”

“Isn’t it true, Mr. Marsh,” Tom boomed, slamming the deposition transcript onto the stand in front of Marsh so that he could read the highlighted language, “that you have never testified against a trucking company?”

Marsh gazed down at the transcript and then back at Tom. “Yes, that’s correct.”

Tom walked back to Bo. “How many for Tyler?”

“Three.”

Tom turned back around. “And three of those times you have testified for Jameson Tyler and the Jones & Butler law firm?”

Marsh looked unsure of himself and scared. “I think that’s right.”

“And they paid you each time, correct?”

“Yes.”

“How much did they pay you in those other cases?”

Marsh shrugged and looked down at his hands. “About the same.”

Tom looked at the jury. “So you’ve made about a hundred twenty thousand dollars on the Jones & Butler nickel. Is that correct?”

“Something like that.”

Tom let the answer hang in the air for several seconds. A hundred twenty thousand dollars was probably more money than half the jury collectively made in a year. Tom had made his biggest and best point.
Now time for the setup.

“Mr. Marsh, you’d agree that visiting and understanding the accident scene is very important to coming to your opinion, correct?”

Marsh smiled, relieved to have the subject changed. “Yeah, probably the most important.”

“And you’ve testified to going out to the scene three times to look at it, correct?”

“Yes.”

“In your whole life”—Tom spread his arms wide—“you’ve only been to the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82 three times, correct?”

Marsh wrinkled up his face in confusion. “Well, yes, I—”

“No further questions.”