The Professor (8 page)

“Not only no”—Tom cut him off—“but hell no. No banquets, no ceremonies, no bullshit.” Tom paused, looking at all of them for a couple of seconds. “Just leave me the hell alone.” He grabbed the doorknob.

“Professor, please . . .”

But Lambert’s voice was lost in the sound of the mahogany door slamming shut.

16

Tom stood with his hands on his knees, staring down into the toilet bowl. He had walked straight to the bathroom after the meeting and vomited up his breakfast. Now, ten minutes of dry heaving later, he still felt nauseated, but he didn’t have the energy to puke anymore. He flushed the commode and leaned his hands against the concrete. He couldn’t believe it. Jameson Tyler had eaten in his home numerous times over the past thirty years, first as a student, then as a young lawyer, and finally as a trusted friend. When Julie had been dying, Jameson had come to the hospital a couple of times.

He was my friend.

The betrayal hurt Tom like nothing he’d ever felt in his life. He had always had a knack for reading people, and other than Rick Drake, he had never gotten it wrong. Tom had thought Jameson was from the old school. A tireless worker. Loyal to his friends. A winner through and through. Tom beat his fists softly against the concrete.

He’s nothing but an opportunist
, Tom thought
. He used his friendship with me for his own gain to climb the ladder at Jones & Butler, and when I couldn’t help him anymore, he threw me out with the garbage.

Tom heard the door to the bathroom swing open and he straightened up. Whoever was out there was using the urinal and whistling happily to himself. A faculty member oblivious to Tom’s forced departure.

Tom unzipped his pants. He started to piss and gazed at the wall in front of him.
It’s over
, he thought, still not believing it.

Forty years spanning five decades
.
Three national championships.
Four editions of
McMurtrie’s Evidence
. Three deans. Hundreds of faculty members. And thousands upon thousands of students.

Over.

Tom leaned his forearm against the wall. He was so damn tired. As he bent down to flush the toilet, he glanced into the bowl.

What the
. . .
?

Tom’s whole body tensed, and he blinked. Then he looked again, and he felt goose bumps break out on his arm. Instead of the familiar whitish-yellow residue of urine, all Tom could see was red. He took a step back and wiped his eyes, trying to refocus them. Then he looked into the bowl again.

Red. Everywhere.
Blood
,
Tom thought, his heartbeat quickening as he remembered the trip to the restroom before the board meeting. He again looked away, this time for several seconds. He tried to think of something else. Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him. He hadn’t slept well all week, and he knew that tired eyes could fool you.

When he was satisfied he’d waited long enough, Tom took a deep breath and turned his head for a final look at the bowl.

“Holy shit,”
he whispered.

He left the toilet stall, went out into the bathroom, and teetered toward the sink.

“Everything all right, Professor?”

Tom looked at the man, a young faculty member named Will Burbaker, and nodded, forcing a smile.

“Just a little under the weather,” Tom managed, running his hands, which were shaking, under the sink and then drying them with a paper towel.

“Sure?” Burbaker asked, looking at Tom’s hands.

“I’m fine, Will,” Tom said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

Tom walked to the door, his thoughts a jumbled mess. As he exited the restroom, he just wanted to go to his office and collect himself, but that wasn’t going to happen.

A female reporter stuck a microphone in his face and grabbed his arm, looking back toward a cameraman. Several flashbulbs went off, and Tom was momentarily blinded. The fatigue from lack of sleep, the dehydration from vomiting, and the shock from pissing a bowl of blood, combined with the sharp light, made him dizzy. He started walking toward the stairs, with the reporter right on his heels.

“Professor . . . Professor, can you comment on the press release from the university announcing your retirement? You got a lot of scrutiny after the incident with former student Rick Drake last year in Washington, and we want to know whether that had anything to do with your departure. There’s also rumors of an inappropriate relationship with a female student. Can you comment?”

Tom stopped at the head of the stairs, leaning against the wall and wanting to puke again. He had been retired all of fifteen minutes and the press already knew. Jameson must have alerted them before
the meeting.
The bastard thought of everything.

“I don’t have any comment,” Tom said, glaring at the reporter.

Then, calmly and with as much dignity as he could muster, Thomas Jackson McMurtrie descended the stairs and left the building.

17

At 10:00 p.m. Tom sat on the couch in the den, clutching his cordless phone in a death grip. Musso had placed his head in Tom’s lap and was snoring loudly, but Tom paid him no mind. Tom wasn’t even paying attention to the television screen, where the nightly news was dominated by the story of his forced retirement. He had bigger things to worry about.

Tom had gone to see Dr. Bill Davis after leaving the law school. Bill had been Tom’s urologist for the past ten years. Bill had taken blood and urine samples, and he’d also done a bladder X-ray. Though he hadn’t elaborated on the possibilities, Bill had sounded worried.

Now Tom was worried. Bill had said he’d call tonight, but it was getting late. Tom knew he needed to think about what to do next. He had tenure with the law school, and the board’s reasons for their punishment were horseshit. But did he even want to work for a board and a dean who would throw him out with the trash after forty years? And what about Ruth Ann’s case?

The phone exploded to life in Tom’s hand, and he cringed. He glared at the receiver, and the caller ID showed the name he’d been waiting for—and dreading—for the past five hours.

“Hello.”

“Tom, Bill Davis.”

“Hey, Bill.” Tom closed his eyes and tried to steel himself. “So what’s the verdict?”

Tom heard Bill take a deep breath on the other end of the line. “Tom, the X-ray showed a mass in your bladder. I think it’s superficial. Probably only stage one or two, but we’ll have to get it out to confirm.”

“A mass?” Tom asked, slowly beginning to get it. “Bill . . . are you telling me I have cancer?”

For several seconds the line was silent. Then Bill sighed. “Yeah, Tom. Cancer of the bladder.”

18

The office was a strange place on Saturday. Quiet, still—like an amusement park the morning after closing night, the rides still there but not moving. Even in Rick Drake’s small one-horse office, things were different. The constant hum of Frankie’s typing was gone. As was Frankie, whom Rick seldom asked to work on the weekend. And the phone, which didn’t ring that much during the week, didn’t ring at all on Saturday. It was a good time to get some work done—if you could stand being there on a day when the college kids started drinking before noon and everyone else, it seemed, was out enjoying the day.

Unfortunately, Rick wasn’t getting any work done this morning. His phone was ringing off the hook with calls from reporters wanting his take on the Professor’s forced retirement and whether Rick felt any vindication. Though Rick was stunned by the announcement, Rick’s answer mirrored the Professor’s. “No comment,” he said. Over. And over. And over. Talking about the incident wasn’t going to get him a better job or any new clients. It was just going to make him more of a joke than he already was.
Which would be tough to do
, he thought, laying his head on his desk. Maybe after a little rest—the constant phone calls had kept him up most of the night—he’d be able to process what had happened. Right now he just didn’t want to think about it. Closing his eyes, Rick took a deep breath and tried to relax.

Four loud knocks on the front door interrupted his quest for solace.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. When he had arrived at the office, he hadn’t noticed anyone waiting for him or tailing him, but maybe one of the stations had gotten wind of where he worked.
Why can’t they just leave me alone?
he thought, hoping that it might be Powell as he walked toward the door.

Rick unlocked the door and cracked it a few inches, planning to slam it shut if he didn’t recognize the person outside. When he saw who it was, his stomach tightened, and instinctively he let the door swing open the rest of the way.

“What . . . what do you want?” Rick asked.

“I need to talk with you about something,” the Professor said, stepping through the doorway before Rick could invite him in.

Tom took off his overcoat and slumped onto a couch in what he guessed was the reception area of Rick’s office.
This looks like a converted loft
, Tom thought, seeing a kitchen behind him and a couple of rooms to the right of it.

“I . . . have a conference room. We can go in there if you—”

“This is fine,” Tom said, gesturing to a chair with rollers behind a desk.
His secretary’s desk?
“Have a seat, Rick. This won’t take long.”

Rick sat in the chair and rolled it to where he was a few feet from Tom.

“Nice office,” Tom said, forcing a smile and trying to sound genuine. “How long have you been here?”

“Five months,” Rick said, and Tom heard a trace of irritation in the young man’s voice. “You said you wanted to talk about something.”

Tom looked away and leaned forward in the couch, placing his elbows on his knees. After Bill Davis’s call, he had spent all night thinking about his options—or lack thereof. Sometime around dawn he knew what he had to do. When he saw his face plastered all over the morning newspaper, it just confirmed his decision. There were just a couple of loose ends to tie up.

Forming a steeple with his hands, Tom gazed into Rick’s eyes. “I’m sure you’ve heard the news about my ‘retirement.’ ”

Rick nodded but didn’t say anything.

Tom looked down at the carpeted floor. “Rick, I need to go away for a little while. Maybe a long while. It’s a zoo here, and I need to get away from it. Have you seen the newspaper this morning?”

Again Rick nodded.

“Well, it’s going to be like that for a while, and . . .” Tom paused. “I’m too old to put up with it.” Sighing, Tom looked up from the floor. “I’m sure you’ve been contacted.”

“I’ve told them all ‘No comment.’ ”

Tom nodded. For a moment neither of them spoke. Tom was so tired.
You have to do this
, he thought.
Suck it up.

“Professor, why are you here?”

“I’m about to tell you. You’re from Henshaw, right?”

“Right.”

“Your family has a farm there, don’t they?”

“Yes. What does that have to do with—?”

“Are you familiar with the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82?”

Rick wrinkled his eyebrows. “Professor, what—?”

“Just answer the question.”

Rick slapped his hands against his legs. “There’s a Texaco there. Been there forever. Used to be a bait and beer store.”

“Do you know anyone that works there?”

Rick snorted. “The only person I know that’s ever worked there is Rose Batson.” Rick stood and took a step forward. “Now that’s it. I’m going to ask you to leave unless you tell me what this is about.”

“Do you have any staff, Rick? Associate, secretary, clerk, paralegal?” Tom knew Rick was about to blow a gasket, but this question was important.

“I have a secretary.” Rick spoke through gritted teeth. “Now get the hell—”

“I’m going to refer you a case,” Tom said, rising from the couch. “It’s a wrongful death trucking case. A good friend of mine’s whole family—daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter—all died. The accident happened at that Texaco, Ms. Batson is the eyewitness, and the trucker was estimated to be going eighty miles per hour just before the accident by an Officer”—Tom took out the crumpled accident report from his pocket—“Ballard.”

“Jimmy Ballard,” Rick said, his voice barely audible. “Sheriff Jimmy Ballard.”

“I wanted to refer her to someone from Henshaw who might know the people involved,” Tom said, shrugging. “You passed the test.” Tom paused and narrowed his gaze. “Do you want the case?”

Rick’s heart pounded in his chest. He had read about the accident in the paper the day after it happened, and he had known there would be a lawsuit. He had even called Ms. Rose and Sheriff Ballard himself to inquire about it. Alas, despite his connections in Henshaw, the family that was killed was from Huntsville, and he had no way of getting his name in front of them. The rules of ethics prohibited a lawyer from directly soliciting a case from a potential client. He had chalked the case up as a pipe dream and figured one of the big dogs would get it. Now, here was the Professor. In his office and offering to refer the case to him.
Is this really happening?
Rick blinked his eyes several times as he gazed back at a man he had hated for over a year. During the intervening months since the incident at nationals, Rick had often daydreamed about chance confrontations with the Professor. At the grocery store. At the mall. At an Alabama football game. In his daydreams he always told the bastard off. Now he could barely speak.

“You . . . you have a lot of nerve,” he managed. “Coming here after what you did to me.”

“As I recollect it, you hit me in the face,” Tom said. “I think I got the worse end of it.”

“I had a job, you know. Not just any job either.
Jones & Butler.
A hundred K a year. Working for Jameson Tyler. They
fired me
after the incident at nationals before I had even worked a day. Said they couldn’t have a hothead working for them.”

“I know,” Tom said.

“Of course you know,” Rick said, feeling anger burn through his chest. “You and Tyler are all chummy. He probably called you right after he told me, and y’all probably had drinks to celebrate. Well,
fuck him
.” Rick took a step forward. “And fuck you too. I’d never take a referral from you. I don’t care how great the case is.”

Tom walked to the door, moving slowly and deliberately. When he reached the knob, he turned around. “I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t realize the incident had affected you so badly. That’s in part why I’m here. I was hoping this case might in some way make up for how I’ve hurt your career.”

Rick glared back, unable to form coherent thoughts.
“Just get out,”
he said.

Without waiting for any further response, Rick turned and walked to his private office, slamming the door behind him. Listening, he heard a sigh and then the front door squeaked open and shut.

Jesus Christ
, he thought, pacing the floor of his office, looking up at the regional championship photograph and cursing the gray eyes in the picture.
Where does he get off? Marching in here and giving me a pop quiz before he refers me a case. Well, fuck him. I don’t need him. I don’t need his help.

Rick took a deep breath and glanced at his desk. Leaning up against it were his four thin file jackets. Three workers’ comp cases and a car wreck.
Four measly files and you’re turning down a multimillion
-
dollar death case in your hometown with Ms. Rose and Sheriff Ballard as witnesses? Are you out of your mind?

Rick glanced around his office, knowing that he’d never get a job in this state working for a firm like Jones & Butler again. The incident would always keep him down. His only chance was to be a plaintiff’s lawyer and have a million-dollar case walk in the door.

Rick felt panic from his head to his shoes as he realized what he had done.
My million-dollar case just walked out the door.

Rick ran. Through the reception area. Out the door. And down the stairs.
Don’t be gone. Please . . . don’t be gone.
He barreled outside and almost fell on the sidewalk. Looking in all directions, he didn’t see anyone.

“Having second thoughts?” a gravelly voice asked from behind him. Rick turned and saw the Professor leaning up against the brick outer wall of Larry and Barry’s.

“I’m . . . sorry. I . . . you just caught me off guard,” Rick stammered, leaning forward and grabbing his knees to catch his breath.

“Don’t worry about it. Do you want the case?”

Rick looked up and slowly nodded. “I do, but . . . I’ve got one condition. You have to stay away. You can’t be hanging around, second-guessing every decision I make. You can’t—”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tom interrupted. “Like I said, I’m going away for a while. You won’t be hearing from me again about this or anything else.” Tom took several folded pieces of paper out of his front pocket and gave them to Rick. “This is the accident report and my notes on the case. It’s all I have right now. There’s a sticky note on top with the client’s name and phone number.” He paused. “Her name is Ruth Ann Wilcox, and . . . she means a great deal to me. My only condition is that you call her when you get upstairs. Don’t wait until Monday. I want you to tell her that I had to go away and that you have a note from me.” He stopped and pulled out an envelope from inside his jacket. “When you meet her for the first time, I want you to give her this envelope. I’ll trust you not to open it before you see her.” Tom handed Rick the envelope and grabbed his arm. “Promise me you’ll give her the note.”

Rick squinted up at him. “I promise.”

Tom gave a quick nod and turned and began to walk down the sidewalk.

“Professor . . . why . . . ?” Rick stopped, unsure of what he wanted to ask. A million questions seemed to flood his brain.

When he reached the corner, the Professor turned and glared at Rick. “Second chances don’t come around every day, son.” He paused. “Don’t fuck it up.”