The Professor (34 page)

90

Two hours later, at 4:00 p.m., the jury was given the case. There had been no motions. Tyler was so shocked by Faith Bulyard’s testimony that he forgot to renew his motion for judgment as a matter of law. Not that it would have mattered—Faith Bulyard’s testimony and the bill of lading killed any chance of Tyler getting the case thrown out.

Then came the closing arguments, which were predictably anticlimactic. Tom focused on Dewey Newton’s speed and the bill of lading, while Tyler hammered home his expert’s opinion that Bob Bradshaw should have seen Newton’s rig prior to making his turn. Rick handled the rebuttal, where he stood before the jury—a jury he had grown up knowing—and asked that they render a verdict in the amount of nine million dollars: three million dollars for each death.

After closings, Judge Cutler read the jury instructions agreed upon by both sides earlier in the week. Then he adjourned the jury to their room, where they were to deliberate and decide the case.

Rick and Tom waited out in the hallway. Across from them Tyler sat alone, having sent his associate back to Birmingham. Jack Willistone remained glued to his chair in the courtroom, staring straight ahead.

Ruth Ann and Dawn had gone with Rick’s parents to the farm. “Too nerve-racking to wait here,” Ruth Ann had said, and she’d asked Dawn to keep her company. Rick had promised to call when the jury came back.

Faith Bulyard had taken her sons back home, though she had asked to be called after the verdict. Most of the crowd had dispersed, the only ones hanging around being reporters hoping that the verdict might come in before the end of the day.

After an hour Judge Cutler’s bailiff came out and said the jury had asked to work late. They wanted to decide the case tonight without having to come back the next day. Tyler, Rick, and the Professor all grunted “OK,” each with a half-dazed, fog-of-war look on his face. Rick called Ruth Ann and gave her the update. “Shouldn’t be long now,” Rick had lied. He didn’t have a clue how long it would be.

Rick put the phone in his pocket and turned toward his partner, thinking of the long journey that had brought them to this point.

“Professor,” Rick said, and Tom, who had his arms folded and was slumped in his chair, turned his head toward him.

“Yeah.”

Rick paused, feeling emotion building in his chest. He was so tired. “I just wanted to thank you. I . . .” Rick wanted to say more but he couldn’t find the words. “Thank you,” he repeated.

Tom winced as he straightened himself in the chair. He couldn’t move without feeling pain in his groin and abdomen, and he’d just pissed more blood in the bathroom. He too was exhausted, and badly needed to see a doctor. But he wouldn’t leave Rick to wait for the jury alone. He’d come too far to abandon ship now. He looked into the boy’s eyes, knowing what was on the line for him. Knowing this twenty-six-year-old kid, a year out of law school, had gone toe-to-toe with Jameson Tyler and had been willing to go the distance alone.

“No thanks necessary, Rick. You got guts, son,” Tom said. “Guts and balls. What you have, a person can’t teach. That’s why I referred you this case. This case needed passion. It . . . needed you.” Tom winced again.

“Are you OK, Professor? Do you feel—?”

“You boys gonna kiss?”

It was Tyler. He had walked over and now stood in front of them, smiling weakly. It was the first time he’d spoken or moved since they had come out in the hallway.

“Hell of a job, men. Hell of a job,” Tyler said. “Not bad for your first trial, Rick. And Professor . . .” Tyler smiled, shaking his head. “Looks like the old bull still has a little gas in the tank.”

“A little, Jamo. Enough to whip your ass.”

For a moment the two men looked at each other. Then Tyler extended his hand.

“I know it doesn’t matter now, but I’m sorry about what happened with the board.”

Tom stood but did not extend his hand. “You’re right, Jamo,” he said, looking down on his former friend. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Tyler’s face turned a bright shade of pink. It looked like he was about to say something else, but he never got a chance. At that moment the doors to the courtroom swung open and the bailiff stepped through, an anxious look on his face.

“They’ve reached a verdict.”

91

The courtroom was again filled to capacity. Apparently, the people who had left when the jury was given the case had stuck around, hoping the case might be decided that evening. The courtroom was buzzing with electricity as the spectators talked amongst themselves. The excitement was palpable. Judge Cutler banged his gavel, and the buzz came to a halt. In seconds the courtroom was silent as a church.

“Mr. Foreman,” Cutler bellowed. “Has the jury reached its verdict?”

In the back right corner of the jury box, Sam Roy Johnson stood holding a single piece of paper in his right hand. “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”

“What says the jury?” the judge asked.

Tom placed his elbows on the table and watched Sam Roy. The last time Tom had heard a verdict read was June 20, 1969, three weeks before his breakfast with the Man. If anything, his adrenaline was pumping harder now that it had then.
There is no feeling in the world like this
, Tom thought, savoring it and knowing in his heart that they had done all they could do.
We left it on the field.

Next to Tom, Rick leaned forward, gripping the photograph of the Bradshaw family in his pocket.
Please, God, give this family justice.
Taking the photograph out of his pocket, he placed it in Ruth Ann’s hand and clasped hers with his. In this moment—the biggest moment of his life—Rick thought not of himself or his career. He thought only of the family in the picture. The young father and mother, not much older than Rick, who’d had their entire future and life shattered in the blink of an eye. The two-year-old little girl who should’ve had a long, wonderful life but instead burned to death in a Honda Accord. And finally, the grandmother who’d had the strength and courage to go the distance. Not for money or greed but for the truth. Tears burned Rick’s eyes. All he could do now was pray . . . and listen.

Sam Roy Johnson cleared his throat. “We the jury of the Circuit Court of Henshaw County, Alabama, hereby find for the plaintiff, Ruth Ann Wilcox, as to all claims against the defendant, Willistone Trucking Company, and award her the total sum of . . .

“Ninety million dollars.”

92

There were a lot of hugs. Once Judge Cutler dismissed the jury, Rick hugged Ruth Ann, and Tom joined in for a group hug, kissing Ruth Ann gently on the cheek.

Then Billy Drake came over and grabbed Rick in a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, son.”

Rick was in utter shock.
Ninety million dollars?

When the verdict was read, there had been a collective, audible sigh from the courtroom. Sam Roy Johnson had gone on to read the jury’s allocation—which was thirty million dollars for Bob Bradshaw’s death, thirty million for Jeannie Bradshaw, and thirty million for little Nicole—but it was hard to hear due to the rustling in the courtroom. All of the reporters had headed for the double doors at the same time, each wanting to be the first to break the news.

Now it was a madhouse. People Rick didn’t know were slapping him on the back, and the Professor was engulfed in a sea of the same. It was overwhelming and wonderful. But not complete. There was still someone else Rick wanted to see.
Where is she?
Rick stood on his toes and searched the crowd, still not seeing her. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned.

“Looking for someone?” Dawn smiled, though her eyes were red with tears. “Congratulations, Rick. You really deserve—”

But her words were drowned out by Rick’s kiss. All of the energy, stress, and anguish of the past three days poured out of him. All he wanted to do now was be with Dawn. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was kissing him back.

“I love you,” Dawn said. “I wish I had said it sooner, but—”

Rick interrupted her with another kiss. “No buts. I love you too.”

“Damn, children, y’all need to get a room.”

They both turned, and Bocephus Haynes was smiling at them. He handed Rick a cigar, hesitated for a second, and then gave Dawn one too. Then he put his arm around both of them and placed an even longer stogie in his own mouth.

“Bocephus loves a happy ending.”

Jack Willistone grabbed Jameson Tyler by the throat.

“You better file an appeal tomorrow, you limp-dicked son of a bitch.”

Jack started to say something else, but then all of a sudden the side of his face was being pressed into the mahogany counsel table and his hands were twisted behind him. Looking to his left, he saw a sandy-haired man standing next to a police officer.

Powell Conrad stepped forward. “Mr. Willistone, on behalf of the District Attorney’s Office of Tuscaloosa County, it is my privilege to inform you that you are officially”—Powell leaned forward and lowered his voice so that only Jack could hear—“
fucked
.”

Jack’s eyes widened and Powell smiled. Then the police officer took cuffs out of his pocket and slapped them on Jack’s wrists.

As Powell’s smile widened, the officer spoke in a loud voice. “Mr. Willistone, you are under arrest for blackmail and witness tampering. You have the right to remain silent . . .”

A few minutes later the victorious party exited the courtroom, flashbulbs going off everywhere. Rick and Dawn came through first, with Rick’s mom and dad in tow. Then came a procession of Tom’s former students and colleagues, who had all shaken Tom’s hand before leaving. Slinking through them like a snake was Dean Richard Lambert, who kept his head down and feet moving. But the one the reporters had been waiting for was Tom.

He held Ruth Ann’s hand and slowly walked down the steps of the courthouse. Tom planned to make an appearance at Rick’s farm—Rick’s mother had invited everyone over to celebrate—and then head straight to Bill Davis’s office. He doubted his urologist would deliver a verdict as good as the jury just had, but Tom wasn’t going to think about that now.
It is what it is.

Bocephus Haynes walked in front of Tom, serving as the lead blocker. At Tom’s side was Judge Art Hancock, who seemed almost as happy as Tom about the result. And at Tom’s flank were ten men wearing blue sport coats, all with the same ring on the third finger of their right hand. The same one Tom wore. The rings said “National Champions, 1961.” They had stayed to the bitter end.

“Professor McMurtrie, how does it feel to have hit the largest verdict in Henshaw County history?”

“Professor, do you feel any vindication today for being forced to retire five months ago by the law school?”

“Professor, do you have any words for the law school or the university?”

The questions came from all directions, and Tom was blinded by the camera flashes. He was too tired for this.

Mercifully, Bocephus Haynes held up his hands and took over. “The Professor will be taking all of you good folks’ questions in due time. As his attorney, however, I must tell you that I will be advising him not to answer questions about the law school as we plan on having a little chat with them.”

Then Bo made a path through the crowd, and Tom and his entourage followed.

Just as Tom had almost made it past all of the onlookers, one last question reached his ears.

“Professor, how does a sixty-eight-year-old near-death law professor who hasn’t tried a case in forty years hit the largest verdict in West Alabama history?”

Feeling one last tickle of adrenaline, Thomas Jackson McMurtrie turned and looked at them, moving his eyes past their greedy faces to the female reporter who’d raised the question. It was the same reporter who had accosted him immediately after he was forced to retire. The raucous mob turned silent in half a second.

Catching Judge Hancock’s eye next to him, Tom said in a quiet voice, “What was Gus always saying in
Lonesome Dove
?”

The Cock smiled, and the Professor’s mouth broke into a wide grin. He turned back to the reporter and spoke the words of Captain Augustus McCrae of the Texas Rangers.

“The older the violin, the sweeter the music.”