The accident. His job. Dealing with the press and the ABI. All were an afterthought now.
“What have I done?” he said out loud, gazing straight ahead but not seeing anything.
5
Ruth Ann Wilcox sat in the waiting room of the ER. Jeannie is a fighter, she kept telling herself. When her mind drifted toward Nicole and Bob, she forced it back to Jeannie. Jeannie is still alive. She will fight . . . she will not . . . The two double doors opened in front of her and a woman on a gurney was pushed to the back. Coming out of the doors toward Ruth Ann was a small man holding a chart. The doctor. Ruth Ann wanted to get up but she felt paralyzed. She’s alive right now. I believe she’s alive. If he tells me . . .
“Ms. Wilcox?” He was standing over her now. He wore green scrubs and was taking latex gloves off his hands.
“Yes.” Her voice was soft, and her eyes pleaded with the doctor’s. Let her be OK. Let her make it.
“Please come with me.” He turned and she followed. She had to remind herself to breathe.
She followed him through the two double doors and then he stopped.
“Ms. Wilcox, I’m Dr. Merth. Your daughter suffered massive internal injuries in the crash. We tried to stabilize her, but . . .” He must’ve seen the look in Ruth Ann’s eyes because he stopped himself.
“I’m a big girl, Doc.” She held his gaze, trying to steel herself for what came next.
“I’m so very sorry.”
6
God forgive me, Buck Bulyard prayed as he parked in front of the burning warehouse. He had driven up and down McFarland Boulevard all night, knowing what was about to happen. When he saw the smoke begin to rise over the warehouse, he turned into the lot and cut his lights. He knew there was only one way out. Jack Willistone would never let him off the hook. If Buck threatened to pull the contract, Jack would come back with the same threats: If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, Faith and the boys are gonna find out what you like to do in your spare time.
Buck sighed. If it were just Faith, he could probably live with it. But the boys . . .
Junior was sixteen and Danny was fourteen. They both played ball, had girlfriends, and were popular at school. It would destroy them. Kids that age were mean. Vicious. The taunting would never end. Your daddy’s a queer, a cocksucker, a faggot.
Buck shook his head and wiped his eyes. I won’t put them through that. Better dead than that.
Buck got out of the car on shaky legs and looked at the inferno in front of him. He grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911.
“Nine-one-one emergency.”
“Yeah, this is Buck Bulyard, president of Ultron Gas!” Buck screamed, trying to sound hysterical. “Our office is on fire. Need a fire truck out here on the double. I’ve got an extinguisher. I’m going in to see if I can stop it.”
“Mr. Bulyard, no. Don’t—”
But Buck had already pressed the End button. He took out the fire extinguisher and looked one last time at the pictures of Danny and Junior that he had always kept next to the odometer behind the steering wheel, placing his hand on both photographs. I’m so sorry, boys.
Buck moaned, forcing himself to move away from the car and leaving the door open for show. Then, closing his eyes and gripping the fire extinguisher tight, he barreled into the blaze.
7
Jack Willistone could see the flames from his house overlooking McFarland. “You covered your tracks?” Jack asked, turning to the man standing beside him at the window.
“Like a bloodhound,” the man said.
“I’m not fucking around, Bone. Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent sure, boss.”
“Bone, when I was twelve years old I whacked off for the first time. After I did it, I was a hundred percent sure I’d do it again. I ain’t been a hundred percent sure of anything since. You’re telling me you covered your tracks?”
“As sure as the gizz on your twelve-year-old hand. Yes, sir. The Bone knows how to start a fire and make it look like an accident.”
Jack glared at him, taking a slow sip of his bourbon and water. Then he bared his teeth, smiling. “You get the files?”
“Right here.” He handed over two manila folders, one labeled “Willard Carmichael” and the other “Dick Morris.”
Jack took the folders and flipped through them quickly. “They on the team yet?”
“Oh, yeah. They took the deal in a heartbeat. Five thousand dollars cash to each and instant amnesia. They can’t remember jack shit. Just a routine morning. No hiccups, no rush, just your average everyday pickup. Easy as pie.”
Jack put the folders down on the table behind him and pulled out two cigars from his jacket pocket.
“So no one will ever know,” Jack said. A statement, not a question.
“Not a soul.”
They lit their cigars and turned back to the window. As the warehouse next to the Ultron Gasoline plant burned below, along with all the documents inside, Jack felt relief wash over him. Money talks and bullshit walks. It was one of the two rules he lived by, the other one being just as simple. Always cover your ass. Watching as the smoke rose above McFarland Boulevard, Jack Willistone was confident he had done so.
No one will ever know.
PART TWO
8
As they filed in, he sat on the table in front of the whiteboard with his back to them. The first day of the second semester had arrived and many of these second-year students had never had him, only heard the rumors from those that had gone before them. As they tried to find a seat among the rows that sloped upwards until reaching the back of the room, some peered over the man’s shoulder and saw the words on the board. Those who knew smiled to themselves with quiet assurance. For most of those who didn’t know, the words had no effect. But there was a small contingent of the unknowing who felt as if they should know and already had doubts, though the man had yet to utter a word. On the board were five words written side by side in capital letters: MATERIALITY, RELEVANCE, HEARSAY, AUTHENTICATION, and PRIVILEGE. McMurtrie’s five columns, to those who knew. Today was the first day of Evidence. And their teacher was Thomas Jackson McMurtrie. The Professor. He who wrote the book, literally, on evidence in Alabama.
As he turned to them, Tom smiled to himself, taking in the different looks he always saw when addressing such a large group of mostly young faces. Fear. Apprehension. Arrogance. And the one he hated—apathy. Tom could put up with hard but scared workers. He could put up with assholes that thought they knew more than he did. But he could not—would not—stand for those who did not care. It was his mission to work those people until they quit. To rid the team of the turds, as the Man would have said.
“All right, my name is Tom McMurtrie and this is Evidence. My goal in this endeavor is simple and twofold. First, I want you people, each and every one of you, to walk out of this classroom in May as five-column lawyers. And second, for those that aren’t willing to work and pay the price to be a five-column lawyer, I want to make you quit before you quit on your client one day.” Tom paused to let the words sink in. He saw a pained expression on a young woman’s face in the front row. He looked down at his class directory, or “face book” as the students called it, which contained a photograph of every student in the class. The young woman’s name was Dawn Murphy. Twenty-six years old. Elba, Alabama.
“Ms. Murphy,” Tom bellowed, loud enough for the turds sitting in the top row to hear without leaning forward. The young woman, who was probably quite attractive when she didn’t have the fear of God plastered on her face, raised her hand off the yellow notebook she had been furiously writing on and extended it to about shoulder level.
With her hand in the air, she stammered, “Uhh . . . Yes, sir?”
“You are Ms. Dawn Murphy?” Tom asked.
“Yes, sir,” Ms. Murphy said, and Tom was convinced that, other than her tw
o colleagues on the front row, none of the ninety-five students in the class had heard a word.
“Ms. Murphy, you’re gonna have to speak up. Your esteemed colleagues who have chosen to make their first impression from a distance no doubt did not hear you.”
“Yes, sir.” A better effort that probably reached about halfway up.
“Ms. Murphy, you are from Elba, are you not?” A few snickers in the crowd. Elba was one of the smaller towns in Alabama. For some reason, Tom always picked the small-town students. Elba. Opp. Hamilton. Maybe it was because he himself was from the small town of Hazel Green in North Alabama. Or maybe these people, over the years, just seemed to be more interesting.
“Yes, sir. Born and raised.”
Yes, just as Tom had thought. You were unlikely to get the “born and raised” part from the Birmingham folks or the Mobile blue bloods. But a sweet young thing from Elba. Born and raised, by God. Tom smiled at Ms. Murphy, hoping to make this cross-examination a little easier on a student that had already managed to impress him.
“Ms. Murphy, when you walk out of this classroom in May, are you”—Tom paused for effect, scanning the other faces in the crowd—“gonna be a five-column lawyer?” Trick question, Tom knew. Answer yes and the rest of the class will wonder who this girl thinks she is. Answer no and show weakness in front of the enemy.
“Yes, sir, I hope to be. By the grace of God, I hope to be,” she said with a smile, invoking nervous laughter around the classroom. That a girl, Tom thought. By the grace of God. Gotta love those small towns.
“Me too, Ms. Murphy. Me too. It’s my job to make that happen. Now let’s get started.” Tom scanned the faces in the back row, looking for the example. The sacrificial lamb. In the top row, the second to last seat from the upstairs exit, Tom found his victim. Blond, shaggy hair. Three-day growth of beard. Nothing in front of him. No books. Haven’t had time to hit the bookstore yet, huh, champ? No notebook. Not even a damn pen. This was going to be fun. Scanning the face book, he found the name he was looking for. Jonathon Tinsel. Twenty-five years old. Birmingham, Alabama.
“Mr. Tinsel,” Tom said, loud enough to shake the foundation of the building. “Where is Jonathon Tinsel from the magic city of Birmingham?”
The shaggy, unshaven man on the back row raised his hand and, with a glazed look in his eyes, said, “Up here.”
“Up there. Why all the way up there, Mr. Tinsel? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” Without allowing an answer, Tom continued, “Mr. Tinsel, in the case of Richardson v. Callahan, give me a brief description of the facts and the court’s holding.” Tom knew what the answer would be but was looking forward to hearing this kid’s version of “I didn’t give a shit enough to get my books and schedule from the bookstore.”
“I, uh—well, I haven’t actually read that case yet. I’m sorry,” Jonathon Tinsel said, chomping on a piece of gum that Tom had not previously noticed.
“I’m sorry too, Mr. Tinsel. Well, let’s move ahead to a case you have read, shall we? Tell you what. You pick any of the cases I assigned as mandatory reading before the first class and give me the facts of the case and the court’s holding.”
“Sir, I haven’t had a chance to pick up my materials yet. I’m sorry but I won’t be able to help you today.” The bastard even smiled at the end of the statement.
“Well, Mr. Tinsel, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you either. You are dismissed from today’s class. For your sake, I hope you find the bookstore between now and tomorrow morning.” Not waiting to see Tinsel’s reaction, Tom moved on, scanning the faces for another victim. As he was about to call out the name of Vanessa Yearout, a petite black woman about halfway up, Tom noticed that Tinsel had remained glued to his seat.
“Tinsel, what part of ‘dismissed’ did you not understand? I mean it. Get the hell out of my classroom,” Tom said, burning a hole through Tinsel’s eyes with the ferocity of his gaze.
As Tinsel shuffled out of the upstairs exit, Tom transferred his gaze to the rest of the class, trying to make eye contact with as many of them as he could, telling each of them without words that this is the way it is gonna be. It’s my way or the highway. Any of you turds who don’t understand can follow Tinsel out the door.
After what must have been a five-second pause, Tom took a deep, audible breath and turned his eyes back toward his face sheet.
“All right now . . . Ms. Yearout,” Tom began, speaking in a calmer voice. The storm had passed, and Tom saw the results he had expected. Almost every student was leaning forward in his or her seat, pen pressed to paper, eyes focused right on Tom, readying themselves for the call that might be coming. The Socratic method in all its glory.
Tom called on several more students, including young Ms. Dawn Murphy from Elba again, before the clock read 9:50 and it was time for the entire class to join Tinsel on the outside. The first day of McMurtrie’s Evidence class was over. Those like Tinsel who had failed to read breathed a sigh of relief and made their way to the bookstore. Dawn Murphy crossed off Evidence from her to-do list and headed to the library to begin her Evidence outline. Tom stood by the board and waited for them all to leave.
Forty years of this shit, Tom thought, smiling. And the first day is still pretty fun.
An hour later, as he sat behind his desk in his third-floor office, the fun had worn off. The fifth edition of McMurtrie’s Evidence—or, as his students were fond of calling it, the Bible—was supposed to go to press in two months, and Tom was struggling to meet the deadline. Tom had always loved the teaching aspect of his job. Trying to get that light to flicker in a kid’s head was what made the whole experience worthwhile. But the publishing aspect was a different story. Since he had walked in the door some three weeks after accepting the Man’s offer, every dean—Heacock, Jackson, and now Lambert—had pushed the faculty to publish. The first edition of McMurtrie’s Evidence was published in 1973. To this day it had been the highest-selling hornbook for any faculty member, past or present, in the history of the Alabama School of Law. Every year Tom wrote a supplement to go in the back of the book containing any recent case law that affected his prior summary. And every five to seven years he published a new edition. But although it was a nice boost to his income, Tom hated it. Every damn bit of it. A knock on the door mercifully interrupted Tom’s misery.
“Come in,” Tom said, a little louder than necessary. He rubbed his eyes and tried to wake up.
The door opened only a crack, and the face of Dawn Murphy emerged behind it.
“Professor, do you have a minute?” Ms. Murphy looked nervous but not scared. Tom could see the strain of struggle on her face.
“Of course. Ms. Murphy, right?” Tom smiled and gestured toward a chair in front of his desk. Dawn Murphy wore black pants and a white blouse, but her plain-Jane manner of dress did not disguise her beauty. She had brown hair, cropped off at about shoulder level, and brown eyes that looked tired but pretty nonetheless. She smiled at Tom and held her hands together on her lap.
“Professor, I was wondering if you needed a student assistant.” Her face blushed red and she looked down, squeezing her hands together. “I am a single mother. My daughter is five years old, just started kindergarten. Well, my mom and I are living together over in Riverview Apartments. Mom has a job waiting tables at the City Café from five in the morning till one thirty. I take Julie to school, and Mom picks her up and looks after her in the afternoon. Financial aid has helped a great deal, but Julie’s a growing girl and I really need some extra money. The lady at Student Services said that some of the professors hire student assistants for the semester. Well, I, uh . . . you’ve probably already hired your assistant, but if not . . . well . . . I was just wondering if maybe—”
“You’re hired,” Tom said, not waiting for Dawn Murphy to finish. “Ten bucks an hour, twelve bucks an hour for weekend work. I expect you to work around your class schedule and to work weekends
when I tell you to.” Tom did not smile and turned his eyes to his draft of the new edition of McMurtrie’s Evidence. He looked up when he felt a hand touch his own. Ms. Murphy had moved around the desk and gripped his right hand with both of hers.
“Thank you, Professor, I . . . thank you so much,” she managed, shaking Tom’s hand, her voice cracking with emotion as a tear began to run down her cheek. “This will help out so much.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, smiling at her and putting his hand over hers to stop the shaking. “Now, let’s talk about—”
“Uh, Professor,” a male voice interrupted, causing both Tom and Dawn to turn toward the door.
Dean Richard Lambert peeked his head around the corner of the door, which Dawn must have left cracked when she entered.
“Sorry to . . . interrupt,” the dean said, looking at Tom. “But I need to speak with you about Friday’s board meeting.”
“OK,” Tom said, turning back to Dawn Murphy, whose face had gone beet red. “Ms. Murphy, here’s your first assignment. Read the section in my book on the Daubert standard for the admissibility of expert testimony. Then research all Alabama state cases decided within the last year on that subject. I want to see what you’ve found by next Friday. If you have any questions, my office hours are ten to twelve in the morning or two to three thirty in the afternoon Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday.”
“Yes, sir.” She smiled, her face still red, and walked past the dean out the door. Tom smiled after her. There was nothing he enjoyed more than an eager, hungry student. However, his smile faded as he met the gaze of Dean Richard Lambert.
“So what’s this about on Friday?” Tom asked once the dean had shut the door.
As much as Tom had liked Deans Heacock and Jackson, he felt the opposite about Lambert. There was something about Lambert’s brown eyes and nasal voice that turned him off. As a trial lawyer and then a trial team coach for forty years, Tom had always been able to identify the genuine article. And whereas Dawn Murphy from Elba, Alabama, was as genuine as homemade peach cobbler, Richard Lambert came boxed and packaged, as artificial as the turf at the old Astrodome. There was also the fact that, in the eighteen months since Lambert’s hire, four of Tom’s longtime colleagues had either quit or been forced to resign. Lambert clearly wanted new blood, and he seemed to have a way of getting rid of folks who didn’t fit his vision.
The Professor Page 3
