The Professor (14 page)

27

“I was on the trial team at Alabama. The Professor’s team. I never dreamed I’d make it, much less be one of the advocates. My second year of law school, I was a bull in a china shop. My best friend, Powell, was much smoother, and when the Professor teamed me and Powell together, that sort of relaxed me. Let me be myself. I don’t know, it just worked. I started coming into my own. We cruised through all our practice matches, and regionals was a breeze. We killed Stetson in the finals in New Orleans. Then in the spring we competed for the national championship in Washington, DC. We won our first four matches easily and faced Georgetown in the semis.

“To this day I can’t say what really happened. I know the judge was awful. From the get-go he seemed to overrule all of our objections and sustain all of Georgetown’s. And I couldn’t stand that team—they had two girls, and one was very annoying. Red hair, freckles, a little hefty, and a nasal voice that made you cringe, but the judge adored her.

“At one point he sustained one of her hearsay objections. I argued that the statement I was trying to get in—essentially a confession by the defendant to the crime—was an admission by party-opponent, which is one of the recognized exceptions to hearsay. He said it was hearsay and sustained the damn objection. He was so obviously wrong, and it was going to cost us the trial. We were the prosecution that round, and we had to have the defendant’s confession as part of our case-in-chief.

“I just lost it. I told the judge that I was astonished. Then I accused him of favoring the other team and asked that he recuse himself from the trial. The judge stared at me for a long time. I looked at Powell, and his face told me all I needed to know. I had blown it.

“Anyway, the judge threatened to hold me in contempt if I had another outburst. I quickly apologized and went on. The rest of the trial was uneventful. I actually thought my closing was the best I had ever done. But in the end all five judges voted for Georgetown, each reminding me that a good lawyer had to keep his cool. Judges make honest mistakes all the time, and my outburst would have cost me a real trial. They just couldn’t send us on.

“I was inconsolable. Powell tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t handle it. I’d let him down. Let everybody down. I just wanted out of there. The Professor yelled something to me as I opened the door, but I didn’t stop. When I got out in the hallway, I felt someone grab my arm, and it was, well, sort of instinctive. I was . . . so . . . mad. I’m not even sure my eyes were open when I swung the punch. I hit him, but he didn’t even look fazed. His face turned red, and all he said was . . . I’ll never forget it . . . He said, ‘You’re a hothead, Drake. A liability in the courtroom.’ ”

“There’s no sound in the video.” Dawn said, breaking the silence that had engulfed the apartment when Rick had stopped talking. “You said something back, didn’t you?”

“I told him to go fuck himself,” Rick said, looking sheepish. “The next day Jameson Tyler called and terminated my contract with Jones & Butler. Said that the firm was embarrassed by the incident and that they didn’t have room for a hothead who couldn’t control his emotions. I tried to get another job somewhere else, but no one would touch me. Hanging up a shingle was the last resort, in case you were wondering.”

Dawn ate a chip and looked at her plate, trying to take it all in.

“Have you talked to the Professor since?”

“Just once,” Rick said, shaking his head. “When he referred me Ruth Ann’s case.”

“It’s a good case, isn’t it?”

Rick shrugged. “It’s not a guaranteed win if that’s what you’re asking.”

“But he could’ve referred it to anyone, right?”

Rick nodded. “Sure. What’s your point? Oh, let me guess. You took Evidence from the Professor and worship the ground he walks on like everyone else.”

Dawn’s face turned pale. “I . . . uh . . . I did have Evidence with him, and . . .”

Something’s wrong
, Rick thought. Dawn looked visibly upset, like she might cry.

“. . . I did like him,” Dawn continued. “I thought he was a good teacher.”

She’s just worried you’re going to be mad at her for liking him
, Rick realized, feeling guilty.

“No worries,” Rick quickly recovered. “He was a good teacher.” For a moment he paused. When he spoke again, his words were soft, just above a whisper.

“Can I ask you a question?”
Don’t do this
, Rick tried to tell himself, but it was no use.

“Sure.”

“Why do you do it? Working for me, I mean. You’re smart, beautiful. Grades are fantastic. You could be working for someone who could afford to pay you. Why this job? Why me?”

Dawn looked up, and her face was even paler than before.

You moron
, Rick thought.
Can’t you just enjoy a good thing?

“Like I said when we first met. I wanted to see the life of a plaintiff’s lawyer to get a broad view before making any long-range career choices. I think this is good for me. And I’m enjoying it. I’ve already done more for you this week than I did all last summer clerking for Tomkins & Fisher.”

“That’s a good group,” Rick said.

“I like working for you better,” Dawn said. The color had returned to her face, and her eyes radiated with warmth.

“I like it too,” Rick said, holding his fist out, which she nudged with her own.

Dawn watched from the window as Rick’s Saturn pulled out of the complex.

“I have to tell him,” she whispered, looking down at the check she held in her hand. It came in the mail today and was for the agreed amount, written from what must be a personal checking account. At the top left corner was a Tuscaloosa address, above which in bold letters was his name. “Thomas J. McMurtrie.” Dawn closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold glass. “I have to.”

28

When Jameson Tyler walked in the door of his two-story townhouse in Homewood, he was too wired to go to sleep. The whole drive home he kept thinking of the young lady that had accompanied Rick Drake to the Ultron plant. Dawn Murphy . . . He knew he had seen the girl before, and her name had tickled a memory.
But it can’t be
, he kept telling himself. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling, and a few minutes later he pulled up the folder entitled “Professor Investigation” on his computer. Then he clicked on the photographs and waited for confirmation.

Well, I’ll be damned
, he thought, smiling, as the first photograph popped up on the flat screen.
It can be.

Jameson had never met “Dawn” before, but he definitely knew who she was. As he looked at her perfectly shaped breasts poking through the wet T-shirt, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. How in the hell did she end up working for Rick Drake?
Jameson shook his head, but his gut immediately told him the answer.
Same way Drake ended up with the Wilcox case.
The Professor.

“You can’t take back your sins, Tom,” Jameson laughed as he continued to admire Dawn Murphy’s rain-soaked body.
Referring Drake a case he can’t handle and getting your paramour a new job isn’t going to help them.
Jameson clicked off the computer and began to whistle as he walked down the hall to fix himself a drink.

It’s just going to make my life easier.

29

As the sun set over Henshaw County, Rick stood in the middle of the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82, drinking a twenty-ounce Sun Drop and waiting for the verdict. Next to him a white-bearded man with a black Stetson hat, also holding a Sun Drop, pointed east.

“With the Honda right here when it started its turn and the rig a hundred yards out”—the man had placed an orange cone a hundred yards down the shoulder of the road—“the bottom line is . . .”

Rick held his breath. He was paying two thousand dollars for this opinion.

“. . . it’s just impossible to tell whether the driver of the Honda should’ve seen the rig before starting his turn.”

Shit
,
Rick thought, glancing over to the edge of the highway, where Dawn’s expression registered the same thought.
Shit . . .

At seventy-five years old, Ted Holt had been reconstructing accidents for fifteen years, which was a retirement gig after he had spent most of his life working for the Swift Trucking Company in Fort Worth, Texas. Rick had gotten to know Ted during Rick’s time clerking at Jones & Butler, as Holt was Jameson Tyler’s go-to expert in wheels cases. Rick remembered Jameson saying that Ted was “the best in the business” and that the affable Texan could make a jury eat out of his hand.

When Holt had stepped out of his rental car to begin his inspection, looking ever the Texan with his jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and black Stetson, Rick had smiled, knowing he’d gotten the jump on Tyler.

Now, though, none of that mattered.

“Honestly, Rick, I just can’t say,” Ted said, talking in his slow drawl. “At ninety-five yards, which is still in the dip, Bradshaw probably should’ve seen the rig. At a hundred and five yards, Bradshaw probably can’t see shit. But at a hundred”—Holt rubbed his chin—“it’s just too close to call. We’re talking a couple of yards and split seconds. I”—he scratched his head and walked out of the road as a car began to come toward them—“I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking the stand.”

Great
.
I’m sure you’ll feel comfortable depositing my two thousand dollars
,
Rick thought, taking a long sip of Sun Drop and trying to calm down
.

But as the sugar from the soft drink flooded his system, Rick knew he was being shortsighted. If Ted couldn’t give him a strong opinion, then he’d rather know that now than find out at trial after Tyler had torn him and Rick to shreds.

“I appreciate you shooting straight with me, Ted,” Rick managed.

Ted nodded, and Rick could tell he felt bad.

“If it makes you feel any better, I doubt Jameson will find anyone either.”

That did make Rick feel better. Sort of.

“Anyway,” Ted said, slapping Rick on the back. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”

Rick and Dawn stood in front of Rick’s Saturn as the last vestiges of sunlight began to dissipate, neither speaking. Like a punch-drunk boxer, Rick tried to steady himself from the blow of Holt’s unhelpful opinion. He knew he couldn’t afford another opinion. He’d have to try the case without an expert and hope to hell that Holt’s prediction that Tyler would not be able to get one was correct. Turning his head, Rick looked beyond Ms. Rose’s store to the south, where miles and miles of farmland stretched across Henshaw County and into Marengo County. The Drake farm was only three miles away.

Rick had hoped that after a successful meeting with Ted Holt, he and Dawn could stop by the farm and tell his parents about his new case. It had been a long time since he’d had something good to share with them. They had both been so disappointed when Jones & Butler terminated his contract, especially Rick’s father. “Seven years of putting you through college and law school and you blow everything we worked for in a matter of seconds,” Billy Drake had said, storming out of the house after Rick broke the news. Since then Rick had barely talked with his father, and while his mother was more approachable, the sadness in her voice and eyes was difficult to take.

“How can y’all drink that?” Dawn finally asked, nodding at the plastic bottle in Rick’s hand.

“Sun Drop?” Rick said, unable to suppress his smile. “Are you kidding? How can you not?”

Dawn smirked. “There’s so much sugar . . .” She had barely taken three sips of hers, but like a good sport she’d tried to tough it out.

“So . . . what now?” she asked.

Rick looked into her brown eyes, thinking of the other night at her apartment. Things had been a little uncomfortable since then, neither of them quite knowing how to act around each other.

“Well,” Rick began, forcing his eyes away from her, “it looks like our case on liability will rest in the capable hands of Sheriff Jimmy Ballard. We’ll have to pump the speed angle and not emphasize whether Bradshaw should have seen the rig. I just hope Ted is right about Tyler. If Tyler finds an accident reconstructionist and we don’t have one to cancel him out, that could hurt.”

Rick sighed as they both climbed into the Saturn. He pulled the car toward the exit onto Highway 82, and he hesitated, knowing that he could turn right and be at the farm in five minutes. His mother probably had a good dinner waiting, with plenty for him and Dawn.

Shaking his head, Rick turned the wheel left. As they headed toward Tuscaloosa, he felt Dawn’s hand touch his forearm.

“Hey,” she said, smiling. “I know that didn’t go like you hoped, but don’t forget about Wilma. Even without an accident reconstructionist or Rose Batson, and even if Dick Morris and Faith Bulyard turn out to be dead ends, we’ve still got Wilma.”

Rick couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was right. If Dewey Newton’s widow told the jury that her husband was forced to speed to meet his schedule and that she helped him fraudulently record his driver’s logs, then combined with Sheriff Ballard’s testimony that Dewey was speeding, nothing else would matter. Wilma would be a lot more powerful than any hired-gun accident reconstructionist.

Rick nodded, feeling a deep sense of resolve. Softly, almost to himself, he repeated Dawn’s words.

“We’ve still got Wilma.”