Rick held out his palms.
“Law,” Jill said. “Everybody called him Law.”
52
At the sound of the beeping noise, Tom’s eyes shot open and he sat up straight in the bed. He blinked and gazed around the hospital room, getting his bearings, as another beep rang out. He glanced to his left, where the IV pole stood, with its numerous bags of medicine and fluids. When he heard the beep again, Tom knew one of the bags was out. He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.
How many days had he been here? He’d lost count. And what time was it? He looked at the window, but the blinds were closed. His cell phone lay on the bed beside him, right next to the remote control. He grabbed it and clicked his security code. No missed calls. No text messages. Since he’d been hospitalized, everyone was scared to tell him anything. He gritted his teeth with irritation. The time on the screen was 12:05, but the phone didn’t tell him whether it was a.m. or p.m.
Tom wiped his forehead, which was covered in sweat. He was so thirsty. He grabbed the remote and pressed the red “Help” button.
“Yes, Mr. McMurtrie?” a woman’s voice blared through the microphone on the remote.
“I think the IV with my pain meds is out,” Tom said, gazing to his left at the pole and hearing another beep coming from it.
“OK, sir. Someone will be right there.”
“Can they bring me some water too?” Tom asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Five minutes later, a nurse named Michael came into the room. Night shift, right? Tom thought but didn’t say. He brought a cup of water over, and Tom took it from his hand with both of his.
“Easy does it, Mr. McMurtrie,” Michael said as he hung another bag of morphine on the IV pole, but the advice didn’t take.
Tom took a big gulp of water and his throat immediately locked up. He spat half of the liquid over the edge of the bed and then began to cough. He felt the nurse’s hand on his back, and Tom wanted to tell him not to slap him, but he couldn’t speak.
Michael brought his hand down on Tom’s back, and Tom cried out in pain. There was nothing that hurt so bad when you had lung cancer that had reached the bone than a hard slap on the back. Even bracing for it, the sting rippled through his muscles and joints. Tom continued to cough and held his hand up for Michael to stay away. Finally, the fit subsided, and Tom squinted at the nurse. “What time is it?”
“It’s ten past midnight, sir. Do you want to try another sip? This time maybe a little slower.”
Tom nodded and Michael pressed the cup to his lips.
“Thank you, son,” Tom said.
“No problem. Do you need anything else?”
“Not now,” Tom said.
“OK. Try to get some rest, sir,” Michael said, beginning to walk away.
“Wait!” Tom yelled after him, and his lungs stung from the effort. When Michael turned, Tom leaned forward so that he wouldn’t have to talk any louder than necessary. “When does Dr. Maples make his rounds?”
“The last three days it’s been around six thirty.”
“Are you here then?”
“I’m going off shift, but I should still be around.”
“Will you make sure I’m up? I haven’t had a chance to talk with him during his prior visits.” That wasn’t entirely true. Tom had a vague memory of talking to Dr. Maples at least once, but everything was hazy from all the pain medication they had been pumping through him. He’d also had more of the visions of Ray Ray Pickalew that had been dogging him these last few weeks, and the interactions were becoming longer. One thing he knew from talking with Tommy was that the cancer had spread to the brain. He’d asked Tommy how bad it was, but his son hadn’t given him a direct answer. I’ll get it from the horse’s mouth, Tom had resolved.
Michael nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Thank you,” Tom said, and Michael closed the door behind him.
Tom lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. The effort of the past three minutes had completely worn him out. He thought back to the day at CCI. The scans. And then Helen meeting him outside imaging. Helen Lewis, the General, crying and telling him Wade Richey was dead. Powell Conrad was shot and might be dead. Jasmine Haynes was dead. And there’d been a shooting in Jasper.
Tom sighed, knowing now that his partner, Rick Drake, had emerged unscathed from the ruckus at the Walker County Courthouse. He had spoken with Rick yesterday, and the trial in Florence was still going forward. It made Tom proud to think of Rick pressing on. Not quitting.
Never quit. It’s the easiest cop-out in the world. Coach Bryant had said those words, and Tom could hear them now as if the gravelly voice were in the room with him.
“Never quit,” Tom repeated, trying to will his body to work. But just as the thoughts were entering his mind, the morphine began to hit him. Tom forced his eyes open. His family needed him. So did his friends. “Never . . . quit,” he mumbled again, but he was falling once more. He smelled salt in his nose and saw a vision of a crimson fifty-four rolling over him. Then he heard the gravelly voice again. Louder. Younger. Excited.
Bingo.
Tom closed his eyes as the morphine flooded his bloodstream. Five seconds later, with Coach Bryant’s voice ringing in his ears along with the sounds of shoulder pads popping against each other, he was out.
53
At 8:55 a.m. on Monday, Judge Conner brought the jury panel in. Rick watched the forty-some-odd men and women of various ages and sexes stroll into the circuit courtroom of the Lauderdale County Courthouse, almost all of whom had that sheepish look on their faces that let you know they weren’t entirely sure what they were doing. Rick had heard the Professor describe jury service as like attending someone else’s church—you don’t know when to stand, when to sit, when to pray, or whether it is OK to say “amen” out loud.
Rick had thought it was an apt analogy. Being a juror—especially if you were selected for a trial and had to hang out, against your will, all week with eleven other people you didn’t know, only to have to come together with this group of strangers to reach a decision as to the guilt or innocence of a person, or whether a person or company was liable in money damages—had to be one of the most unusual and awkward experiences a human being could endure.
But it’s what makes this country the greatest in the world, Rick thought, echoing words he’d heard the Professor say on the first day of trial team every year: We are the last country in the world that decides civil and criminal disputes with a jury system.
Rick smiled and looked down at his loafers. Then he turned to LaShell Jennings, who gave him a nervous nod. LaByron and little Alvin had stayed in Birmingham with Mimi this week, so LaShell was going it alone. She had a room on the same floor of the Muscle Shoals Marriott as Rick, and they had eaten a nervous breakfast together that morning. Rick hadn’t told her about his meeting with Jill the night before. He didn’t want to get her hopes up for something that probably wasn’t going to happen. He’d left Lawson “Law” Snow two voice messages this morning on the number Rel had written on the napkin, and so far he’d gotten no response. Though he wasn’t sure if the number was a mobile one or not, he’d also sent a text to the former sheriff of Walker County.
Rick nodded back at LaShell and looked out over the panel, trying to make eye contact with as many of the potential jurors as possible. When they were all seated, Judge Conner addressed them.
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to go through the part of the process called voir dire. The attorneys will ask you some questions in an effort to decide who will eventually sit on the jury in this case. If you are unsure of the answer to any of the questions asked, it is always better to speak up and let the attorneys decide. Does everyone understand?”
In response, as often was the case, no one said a word.
“Mr. Flood, is the defense ready?”
Virgil Flood sat with his one leg crossed over the other, his perpetually amused eyes lighting on Rick’s before looking over his should
er at His Honor. “Yes, sir,” Virgil said. The wily attorney had turned his chair around to face the gallery and made a tent with his hands as he surveyed the crowd. Next to him, Kathryn Calhoun Willistone wore a black dress fit for a funeral. She, like Virgil, faced the panel, her expression appropriately grave. When they had arrived that morning, Rick had tried to introduce himself to the woman, but Kat turned her back on him as if he weren’t there. At the end of the defense table were Axon and Tunnell, the two Birmingham attorneys, who had managed to put their smartphones away and were likewise peering at the crowd.
“Mr. Drake, are you ready to proceed?” Conner’s loud voice punctured the air, and even though he was expecting the question, Rick felt a charge of adrenaline.
He calmly rose to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”
54
Kat felt hate burning through her body as she watched Rick Drake address the jury panel. You should be dead, she thought, cursing JimBone Wheeler in her thoughts. I should be at home planning my vacation to Bermuda. Not in this god-awful place.
But here I am. She reminded herself to breathe and took in a gulp of air, remembering her conversation with DeWayne Patterson the day before. Mr. Wheeler says that everything is fine and that he is going to fulfill his contract.
Kat exhaled and tried to keep her heartbeat steady. She looked at Drake as he asked the jury if any of them had ever heard of Marcellus Calhoun. A few stray hands were raised, and the young attorney followed up with more questions.
Virgil had warned her when she arrived that the process of voir dire could drag on all morning. Kat ground her teeth, but when she saw one of the potential jurors looking at her—a middle-aged man in the front row—she smiled and he returned the gesture. The man blushed, and Kat knew she had found a winner. She looked down at the grid that Virgil had place in front of her and ran her index finger along the page until she found the name. Juror number seven. Pete Crigger.
She put a star by Crigger’s name on her grid and then began to look more closely at the rest of the panel. She had never sat through a trial before, so she might as well try to participate.
At least until Mr. Wheeler makes good on his end of the deal, she thought, peering up at Rick. And you’re finally dead.
55
While his partner started the process that would culminate in a jury verdict in Florence, Tom McMurtrie braced for another kind of verdict.
Trey Maples sat on a stool in front of Tom, rolling his hands over each other. Maples was a large, round man with dark-black hair and a clean-shaven face. During office visits at CCI, he was a constant whirl of motion as he turned from Tom to his computer and back, simultaneously documenting his visit, ordering tests, and delivering news to the patient.
Now, though, the doctor was fidgeting, with no computer to keep him busy. It was 9:30 a.m., and the oncologist was late in making his rounds. He’d had an emergency that morning, which put him three hours behind. Though Maples was normally almost annoyingly positive, today his big eyes were hound-dog sad.
“Well,” Tom said, “just spit it out.”
“You’ve got a tumor in your brain. It’s about a centimeter and a half.” Maples measured the distance with his index finger and thumb.
“Is that why I’m waking up in the middle of the night and talking to a friend who’s been dead for two years?” Tom smiled, but Maples didn’t. Instead, the doctor rubbed his chin.
“It’s possible. Brain cancer patients sometimes report hallucinations.” He paused. “The disease can also lead to some dementia.”
Tom scoffed. “So you’re telling me I’m crazy.”
“No, sir,” Maples said. “You have stage four lung cancer that had already spread to the bone. Now you have a brain lesion that we could treat with radiation, but . . .” He trailed off and held up his hands.
“But what’s the point, right?” Tom asked.
Maples grimaced and folded his arms across his chest. “Let’s just say I don’t think radiating the brain would be beneficial at this juncture.”
For a long moment, the doctor peered down at the floor. “Professor McMurtrie, most lung cancer patients at your stage are dead after six months.” He paused and looked at him. “You’ve made it fourteen. With the regime of chemo and radiation we’ve put you through, you’ve more than doubled the average.”
Tom smiled at him. “You’ve done good, Doc. I . . .” Tom felt heat behind his eyes as he reached for the doctor’s hand. “I’ve cherished the time you’ve given me.”
Maples chuckled. “I haven’t done anything special, sir. You’re just a very strong man.” The doctor’s voice cracked ever so slightly, and Tom squeezed his hand. In over a year, he’d never seen his oncologist show any emotion other than good-natured humor.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more,” Maples said, rising to his feet.
“Hey, Doc.”
The oncologist stopped at the door and turned to face him.
“How long?”
Maples shook his head. “I’ve stopped trying to predict with you.”
“Doc?” Tom pressed, and hated the desperation in his voice.
“If we can get your labs a little more stable, you can probably go home by the end of the week.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know, Professor McMurtrie,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “You know what I always say.”
“Eat, walk, pray,” Tom said, and Maples smiled.
“Keep doing that, and who knows? Another month? Maybe two or three months?”
Tom bit his lip, which had begun to shake. “Thank you, Doc.”
Maples paused for a long moment in the doorway. “Thank you, Professor,” he finally said.
56
Sandra Conrad paced the floor of her son’s room on the ICU, cursing her honesty. The first thing her son had asked her after waking last night was “How is Wade?”
Why hadn’t I just lied and said he was fine? Instead, she’d told him the truth. “He’s dead, honey. I’m so sorry.”
Powell’s face had cringed and then he’d gone back to sleep. Since then, he had stirred a few times—good signs—but he hadn’t said anything. For her part, Sandra had made the nurses keep the iPod playing his music.
Now, as visiting hours were about to conclude and she would once again have to go out to the waiting room and give her husband a discouraging summary, she saw one of her boy’s eyes flutter open.
Ambrose Powell Conrad blinked and gazed up at the hospital room ceiling. Sandra tiptoed toward him, noticing that the song playing was the duet “Pancho and Lefty,” from Merle Haggard and Willie Nelson.
“Powell, baby, are you OK?”
Her son continued to gape at the ceiling. His left eye was open, but his right was shut closed. The doctor had said that even if he lived he’d probably have permanent vision loss in his right eye, as several shards of plastic from the CD case he’d been holding had scratched his cornea.
Sandra placed her palm on his forehead. “Powell, baby, talk to me.”
After several seconds, he slowly turned his head to her. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. When she leaned in, she could tell he was using all the energy he had to try to speak.
“Rick,” he said. “I need . . . to see . . . Rick.”
Sandra nodded and kissed his cheek. “OK, honey. I think he’s in a trial in Florence.”
Powell grimaced.
“Why do you need to see Rick, honey?”
But her boy didn’t answer. His eye had closed again, and all Sandra Conrad could hear now were his shallow breaths.
Sandra peered up at the same ceiling her son had just been staring at. Please, Lord Jesus, don’t let my boy die. Please.
Then, kissing his cheek, she walked out of the hospital room and took her phone out of her purse. Seconds later, she dialed the number for Rick Drake.
57
At just after 5:00 p.m., Judge Conner adjourned the jury for the day. Voir dire had
taken until 2:30 p.m., and all the parties were able to accomplish after striking the jury was opening statements. Slowing things down further, Conner said that they would be getting a late start on Tuesday because he had to handle an emergency request for a temporary restraining order in Jasper. “Be back at 1:00 p.m. tomorrow, and I promise there shouldn’t be any further delays.”
Once all twelve jurors had left the courtroom, Rick took his phone out of his pocket. He’d kept it on silent during the entire afternoon session, and he’d felt it vibrate several times, indicating new emails, texts, and phone calls.
His heart caught in his chest when he saw the missed call from Sandra Conrad. Please don’t be dead, he thought, letting out a nervous breath. Though he had received numerous other emails and several check-in texts from his secretary, Frankie, there was nothing from Lawson Snow. No call. No text. No nothing.
Damnit, Rick thought as he dialed Sandra’s number and felt his heart rate speed up.
“Hello, Rick?” Powell’s mother answered.
“Yes, ma’am,” Rick said, holding his breath and closing his eyes.
“He’s awake,” Sandra cried, the relief palpable in her voice.
Rick breathed in a lungful of oxygen. “That’s wonderful, Mrs. Conrad.”
“He’s not out of the woods yet, but the doctors say that regaining consciousness was a huge step.”
“I’m just glad he’s alive,” Rick said.
“Me too. Listen, how busy are you?”
“I’m in the middle of a trial, Mrs. Conrad, but what do you need?”
“Well . . . is there any way . . . ?” She trailed off, and Rick cocked his head to hear better.
“Mrs. Conrad, what is it?”
“Is there any way you could come? Powell drifts in and out of consciousness, but when he’s awake he keeps saying the same thing.”
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 21
