“Tom, the board has a number of things it wants to discuss with you on Friday,” the dean said, not looking at him but out the window. He paused. “The first of which is the incident at nationals.”
Tom glared at the dean. I should’ve known. “It’s been nine months, Dick. How long is the board gonna beat that dead horse? It was just an unfortunate incident that happened in the heat of the moment. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“I know . . .” The dean paused, looking down. “I know you think that, Tom, but you put your hands on the kid. You were the instigator. There’s video of it. The damn thing’s on YouTube, and the title of the clip is ‘Alabama professor assaults student and gets payback.’ I think it’s had over fifty thousand hits.”
Tom squinted at the dean. “Assault?”
“That’s what it says. People watch that stuff, Tom. They form opinions, and it reflects badly on the school. Look . . .” Dean Lambert sat down and pushed a piece of paper across Tom’s desk. “The board has drafted an apology for you to sign. Something we can release to the media. Just sign the thing, OK?”
Tom looked down at the document and his eyes scanned the words on the page. The apology had him accepting all of the blame for the incident and apologizing for his “lapse in judgment” and for the “inappropriate manner in which he had touched Rick Drake.”
“Dick, if the school needs me to apologize, then let me do it in my own words. This is too much. I mean, I regret very much that the altercation with Rick happened, but I don’t think I acted inappropriately by grabbing his arm.”
Dean Lambert crossed his arms. “We need you to sign it, Tom. And . . . there are some other things.”
“What ‘other things’?”
“We’ve been getting complaints about McMurtrie’s Evidence. A lot of the students think it’s too hard to read. Students have called it the Bible for a long time, but now I’m hearing them complain that it’s just as long and as hard to read as the Bible. The board wants to know whether there’s any way you can make it more user-friendly.”
Tom didn’t say anything, just continued to glare at his boss.
“And you can’t be kicking kids out of your class anymore, Tom. I know all about what happened with Jonathon Tinsel. With this Drake thing on YouTube still on everyone’s minds, you just can’t be doing stuff like that.”
“He wasn’t prepared for class,” Tom said. “I’ve always handled kids that way. What if they show up to court unprepared after they get out of here?”
“We just can’t have it, Tom. Not in the world we live in. Some might view that as abusive.”
“Abusive? Are you—?”
“Tom, the board is worried that you might . . .” The dean stopped, looking down at the carpet.
“Worried that I might what?” Tom asked. He could feel the heat on his face.
The dean raised his eyes. “That you might have a Woody Hayes or a Bobby Knight incident. If you’ll grab a kid by the arm, what’s next?”
Tom crossed his arms and squinted at the dean. “That’s bullshit, Dick, and you know it. I’ve been here for forty years and I’ve never hit a student. I’ve never done anything but lay it on the line for this university.”
The dean didn’t say anything for several seconds. Then he slowly rose from his seat and walked to the door. Before he closed it, he leaned his head back in.
“Times are changing, Tom. We need you to change with them.” He paused, then added, “See you on Friday.”
9
Tom arrived home at seven thirty. After storming out of the law school and grabbing some lunch, he’d returned to coach the trial team through its first practice of the semester. He was still pissed about his talk with the dean, but there was nothing he could do about it. Like it or not, Dick Lambert was his boss. He would go to the board meeting and see what happened. Though the makeup of the board had changed a lot in the last two years, there were still members whom Tom had known for over twenty years. Tom doubted Dick was really talking about a majority of the board’s concerns. But it’s obvious he wants me out, Tom thought, remembering his four fallen colleagues.
He grabbed a Michelob Light from the fridge and walked into the den to find Musso sprawled out on the couch. A sixty-five-pound solid white English bulldog, Johnny Musso McMurtrie was a little big to be left alone in the den and, for that matter, a little hairy and messy—can you say slobber?—to be left on the couch. But Julie was gone, and Tom really didn’t give a damn about a little hair and slobber.
“How’s my big boy?”
At the sound of Tom’s voice, Musso was off the couch in the blink of an eye and nearly knocked Tom down in his excitement. Standing and shaking in front of his master, Musso licked his dry mouth and made a loud throat-clearing noise that shook the house. Tom grabbed him behind his ears and petted him, then stroked his back a couple of times, making Musso’s hind leg jerk repetitively, until Tom stopped.
“You need to go out, big boy?”
Behind the couch were two french doors that opened to a porch that looked out over a fenced-in backyard. Tom walked past the couch, and Musso followed right on his heels. As Tom opened the door, Musso tore out of it, barking loudly to announce his presence to any would-be critters or animals that had dared to set foot in the backyard of Musso McMurtrie. Tom sat down in one of the two rocking chairs on the porch and watched his dog scamper around. He took a long sip of beer, and his eyes drifted to the third finger of his left hand, where he still wore the wedding ring that Julie had slipped on his finger forty-five years ago next month. He ran his thumb over the ring and closed his eyes.
It had been almost three years since Julie died. On a Saturday morning three Januarys ago, they had taken a shower together after a long walk, and Julie asked him to feel her right breast. Tom made a smart-ass sexual comment before realizing that Julie was being serious. When he felt the breast, the lump was unmistakable. One office visit and a laundry list of tests later and Julie was diagnosed with breast cancer. She went through two months of treatment—medication, radiation, the works. But on April 17, 2007, at 3:42 p.m. on a beautiful sunny afternoon, Julie McMurtrie died.
Tom would not—could not—forget that moment. He had been holding her hand. He did not cry or break down—at least, not then. He leaned over and whispered “I love you” into Julie’s ear, gently closed her eyes, and walked out of the room to tell their son.
Tommy had tried to be stoic like his father, but it was no use. He cried and they hugged for what must have been ten minutes, Tom stroking the back of his son’s head as the tears fell. A thirty-five-year-old doctor who lived in Nashville with his wife, Nancy, and two children, Jackson and Jenny, Tommy had been a momma’s boy from the day he was born. And his mother’s death hit him and his family hard. They had all stayed for a week after her death, helped Tom with the funeral arrangements, and in general tried to be a comfort. But Tom couldn’t let it go. Not in front of his boy. He knew that if Tommy saw him cry it would make his son cry some more. Nancy would cry, the kids would cry, everyone would cry, and Tom didn’t want any more of that. Julie would not have wanted that.
After they had all left, Tom got on McFarland Boulevard and stopped at the first convenience store he came to. He bought a twelve-pack of Michelob Light, came back home, and spent the rest of the day on the porch. Crying. Crying like he had never cried in his life. He cried for Julie and he cried for himself and he cried for his son and he cried for his grandchildren, who would never get to know the greatest woman that ever walked the face of God’s earth. He had woken up that night around midnight, five or six empty beer bottles scattered all over the porch. He had picked up the trash and gone to bed. But since that day he tried to spend as much time on this porch as he could. Julie had loved rocking on the porch, and Tom could feel her presence when he was out there, her beautiful blue eyes looking down from what must be the highest point in heaven. And
it felt good.
Tom’s right hand felt moist and, peering down, he saw Musso licking it and nuzzling his wet nose against it. He picked Musso’s paws up off the floor and placed them on his knees, looking his dog in the eyes.
“What are we gonna do, big boy? You miss Momma, don’t you?” He took a deep breath, and Musso leaned over and licked him on the face. Wiping almost-dry tears from his eyes, Tom rose from the chair, whispering under his breath, “I miss Momma too.”
He walked back into the house, opened the freezer, and scanned its contents. The beer, now empty, had made him hungrier than when he had walked in the door. What he really wanted was a cheeseburger and fries and maybe a couple more beers, but he instead chose a Healthy Choice frozen dinner.
As his food was being nuked in the microwave, the phone rang.
Tom tensed, looking down at the tile floor. He wasn’t in the mood for another talk with the dean. He walked over to the phone, but the caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize, so he picked it up.
“Hello?” Tom asked.
“Hello, uh, Tom?” A female voice that sounded oddly familiar.
“Yes.”
“Tom, I probably shouldn’t be calling you at home, but, well, it’s important and I didn’t know who else to call and—”
“Ma’am, what’s your name?” Tom interrupted. The voice on the other end of the line sounded frustrated and now distinctly familiar.
“Tom, this is Ruth Ann.”
10
They decided to meet for lunch. Tom’s office was tough to find in the maze of the law school, and besides, you gotta eat, right? Tom had actually used those words. “You gotta eat, right?” He shook his head, cringing at how awkward he must have sounded as he went over the previous night’s phone call in his mind. Ruth Ann Mitchell, now Wilcox, needed some legal advice. She hated to bother him at home, but it was important that she speak to him. Could they meet tomorrow? That was it. No small talk. No “How you doing?” Or “What’s been going on?” Or “What’s up?” She was either nervous and forgot about such pleasantries or was on a mission of some kind that would not allow for such distractions. In any event, Tom recovered enough from the shock of the call to mention lunch at 15th Street Diner, so here he was.
As he sipped from a glass of sweet tea, Tom guessed he had always been curious as to how Ruth Ann had turned out. They had dated for three years in college, and back then Tom had thought he would marry Ruth Ann. But after his senior year he took a graduate assistant job at Vanderbilt without discussing it with her first, and she broke things off. She said she couldn’t do a long-distance relationship and couldn’t trust a man who would make such a big decision without consulting her. Probably my fault, Tom had always thought. But he had no regrets. If they hadn’t broken things off, he would never have met Julie.
Tom heard a jingle at the front door announcing the next customer, and he noticed her right off. Same green eyes, long legs, and narrow waist, although her strawberry-blond hair had now turned a shade of gray. Tom, who was seated in a booth along the far wall of the restaurant, waved his hand, and Ruth Ann smiled, walking over.
“Hey, there,” she said. Tom had stood to greet her—not sure if he should hug her, kiss her on the cheek, or what. Ruth Ann extended her hand, and Tom shook it gently. Still a beautiful woman, he thought, as she sat down.
“You look great,” Tom said.
“Well, aren’t you nice to say so?” Ruth Ann replied, smiling, but the smile quickly faded and she looked down at the table. “I wish I felt great,” she said without looking up to meet his gaze, which had never left her face. “Tom, I . . .”
“There’s nothing wrong, I mean, with you . . . I mean, you’re not sick, are you? I . . .” Tom stopped, realizing he’d interrupted her. “I’m sorry. Go ahead.”
Ruth Ann laughed nervously, placing her hand on his. “It’s OK, Tom. No, I’m not sick. I . . . I have a problem. A legal problem.” She paused. “A few months ago my daughter and her husband were in a car accident out on Highway 82 around Henshaw. You know, just before you get to the road that takes you to Faunsdale?”
Tom nodded. He and Julie had gone to the Crawfish Festival a couple of times in Faunsdale. He remembered seeing signs for the small town of Henshaw. But there was something else about hearing the name of this town. Henshaw. A memory that he couldn’t quite place.
“Well, anyway, they hit a tractor-trailer truck head-on there at the light and . . .” She paused to take a sip of tea, some of which spilled down her chin. She grabbed her napkin, and the silverware jangled as it fell out. “Damnit, I’m sorry.” She looked at him. “Still all thumbs, huh,” she said, forcing a smile as a couple of tears began to fall down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking. Tom didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.
“My granddaughter . . . Nicole . . . she . . .” Ruth Ann looked down, and Tom could tell by the red color of her hands that she was squeezing them tight. “She was in the car too . . . She died. They all died. Even the trucker. Everyone dead.” She put her head in her hands and began sobbing.
Tom remembered reading about the wreck in the paper but had not made the connection.
“Ruth Ann, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. I . . .” But he stopped. He knew he should just shut up and let her continue when she was ready.
After about thirty seconds, Ruth Ann looked up and smiled through her tears.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I . . .” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, after the funerals I ordered a copy of the police report.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a packet of four or five pages. She scooted the report across the table.
Tom picked up the pages, the first of which had the words “Henshaw County Accident Report” at the top of it. He glanced briefly at the report as Ruth Ann continued.
“The police report has the driver of the truck going eighty in a sixty-five. It also lists his employer, which is a trucking company here in Tuscaloosa. Willistone. I think it’s over on McFarland. Anyway, there’s also a statement in the report from a gas station clerk, who saw the accident and said that my son-in-law turned in front of the rig.” She paused, sighing. “But that just can’t be right. Bob would not have just turned in front of an eighteen-wheeler. I just think this guy—Newton or whatever—was running late and was speeding to catch up, and Bob didn’t see him before starting to turn. And the whole thing just . . . it pisses me off.” She said this last bit through clinched teeth, and Tom saw the fire in her eyes, a fire that he had seen before—both in anger and in passion—many moons ago.
“Ruth Ann, I—”
“Tom, I’ve never filed a lawsuit against anyone in my life. But . . .” She paused and looked briefly out the window before turning back to Tom. “I just didn’t know who else to call. I’d like your opinion on what I should do.”
“Well, you know, Ruth Ann, I haven’t tried a case in many years. You ought to take this to someone who’s in active practice. I—”
“Oh, stop it, Professor,” Ruth Ann said, smirking and then turning it into a smile. “I’ve heard about you and how they treat you down at the law school. Calling you the Professor, as if you’re the only one. Treating you like you’re the Coach Bryant of the law school. I read the newspaper too. You know, the good old Tuscaloosa News with its articles about your trial teams winning championships. So don’t give me any mess about not knowing what you’re doing.”
Tom laughed, thinking that Ruth Ann had to be the most direct woman he had ever known. He started to say something but stopped when Ruth Ann grabbed his hand.
“Please, Tom. Just look at it. I trust your opinion. If you think there’s something there, then maybe you can tell me what to do or who I should go to. I feel like I have to do something. I have to know why this happened to my family.” Her eyes, always beautiful and active, were pleading with him. She looked like she might cry again.
“OK,” Tom said. “I’ll take a look. But as I tried to say earlier, I’m not a practicing—”
“Thank you, Tom. Oh, thank you so much.” She was out of her side of the booth, placing her arms around his neck and a kiss on his check. “Thank you,” she said, this time whispering, her breath the pleasant smell of sweet tea and lemon.
When she returned to her side of the booth, the talk turned to old friends. But Tom wasn’t paying attention. A sense of excitement and guilt gripped him. He had felt something when Ruth Ann had hugged him, something absent in his life for a long time. The tingle. That tingle a man feels deep in his loins when he is attracted to a woman. He was excited to feel the tingle again, but as his eyes shifted to the ring on his left finger, guilt stabbed at him like a knife. What the hell is wrong with you?
But that wasn’t the only thing that drowned out Ruth Ann’s words. Tom had remembered something. That thing that he couldn’t quite place about Henshaw.
Rick Drake was from Henshaw.
11
Richard Drake, Esq., he of the law firm of Richard Drake, Esq., sat in the back of the Waysider restaurant in Tuscaloosa, drinking coffee and thinking about how to increase his caseload. Richard—Rick to his family and friends—had by his count eaten at the Waysider at least once a week since hanging up his shingle. He had also eaten once a week at the City Café in Northport. Getting out and about and being noticed. Keeping his ear to the ground in the hopes of landing the home-run case. That was the name of the game. The life of the plaintiff’s lawyer. The Waysider had been an institution in Tuscaloosa since opening its doors in 1951. An old clapboard house that was converted to a restaurant, it was a regular hangout for the locals. Back in the day, people said that Bear Bryant himself drank coffee and read the paper at five thirty every morning at the Waysider. And like all places in Tuscaloosa, the Waysider had plenty of pictures of Coach Bryant and those that played for him adorning its walls, even in the bathroom.
The Professor Page 4
