“If it were me, I’d take that apology to the board meeting tomorrow. I’d set it down real careful like on the table in front of them. Then, after I had their full and undivided attention, I’d unzip my pants and piss on the damn thing. When I was finished, I’d fold my dick back up and walk my ass outta there.”
Tom laughed. “So you have to fold yours too?”
The judge took a long sip of whiskey. “The Cock is hung like Secretariat,” he said, letting out a belch and stretching his legs. “But seriously, Tom, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. The unappreciative, ungrateful sons of bitches. You’ve given your life to this school.” He took another sip and grimaced. “And let me tell you something. It’s not like you had to come back here to teach.”
“What do you mean?”
Judge Hancock leaned forward, setting his cup on the edge of Tom’s desk, looking very serious. “Tom, in fifty years I’ve seen every great trial lawyer in this state. Every damn one of them. Jameson Tyler is the second best I’ve ever seen.” He paused, grinning. “You were the best.”
“What?”
“I mean it, buck. You were the real deal.”
Tom felt his face flush red. It had been a long time since he had thought of those days.
“You hear George McDuff died?” the judge asked.
“Heart attack, right?”
The judge nodded, and Tom felt a twinge of guilt. He had lost touch with his old boss over the years. George had never gotten over Tom’s decision to teach law at Alabama. You won’t make any money; it’s a dead end, Tom, he had said, but Tom had gone nonetheless. He’d had to. The Man had called.
“You ever think about what would have happened if you hadn’t gone back to Tuscaloosa?” A slight grin arose on the judge’s face, as if he had been reading Tom’s mind.
“More now than I used to.”
“It’s not too late, you know. You’re not that old—what, sixty, sixty-five?”
Tom squinted at the judge. “I’m sixty-eight. What are you talking about, Judge?”
Judge Hancock placed both his hands on the desk for leverage and slowly rose to his feet.
“Tom, I’ve already said it once but I’ll say it again. Son, you were the best goddamn trial lawyer I ever saw. It’s not too late. Why not give it another go? You’ve done your part for the school. If they don’t appreciate it, then fuck ’em.” He paused, pointing his finger at the only picture that adorned Tom’s wall other than the national championship plaques. It was of the Man, wearing the houndstooth hat and leaning against the goalpost. “Tom, Coach Bryant would not tolerate this bullshit. I knew the Man. If the Man heard how they were treating you, he would shove his boot so far up Lambert’s ass that he’d be tasting the shoestrings. You know he would. I can just see him now.” Judge Hancock put his hands on his hips and gave a mock scowl. “You turds. You goddamn turds. I’ll give the ultimatums around here. Don’t tell my boy to apologize. Build him a goddamn statue and stay the hell out of his way.”
It was a pretty good impression, and Tom laughed.
The judge walked around the desk and put his arm on Tom’s shoulder.
“Tom, I’m seventy-seven years old. I’ve gotten too old to give a shit about anything but the things that really matter.” He paused. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I want you to listen. I understand why you came here to teach, but I also understand that it would’ve been a shame if Picasso had never painted. Or if Elvis Presley had never recorded a song.” He paused. “Or if the Man had never coached. You have a gift for trying cases, and you’re not too old. I think it would be great if the Professor made a comeback.”
Tom scoffed. “A comeback. At sixty-eight years old? Are you out of your mind?”
“What does Augustus keep saying in Lonesome Dove? ‘The older the violin, the sweeter the music.’ ” He patted Tom’s shoulder and winked at him. “Think about it, Tom. It’d probably make some folks in this state piss in their pants.” Judge Hancock laughed and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned around. “I wouldn’t refer out that Henshaw case too soon.” Again, he winked. “Sounds like the perfect case for a guy I used to know.”
13
Tom locked the door and took the stairs to the second floor. He was about to walk out the glass double doors that led to the faculty parking lot when he remembered that he had parked in the student lot adjacent to Coleman Coliseum. There was a basketball game tonight, and he had thought he might go to the game. He and Julie had gone to basketball games on a routine basis. Since her death, he had planned to go several times, but he had never followed through. And I won’t tonight, Tom knew, feeling depressed as he walked slowly down the second-floor hallway that led to the next staircase. As he walked, it was hard not to gaze at the composites that hung on the walls. Class of 1969. 1972. 1977. He could still remember a lot of the faces. When he reached the first floor, there were more recent classes. 1997. 1999. 2004. 2009. In the 2009 composite, he searched out the face of Rick Drake, finding it in the third row. Rick was smiling, and Tom again felt a sense of guilt.
I can help him, Tom knew. Rick was from Henshaw, and Ruth Ann’s case could jump-start his career. The Cock has lost his mind. I’m way too old and out of practice to take on Ruth Ann’s case. Shouldn’t I just refer the case to Rick and try to work things out with the school? Do I really want to let Lambert run me off? Tom closed his eyes. But what if the boy’s temper gets the best of him again? This isn’t a trial competition, this is real.
Tom opened his eyes and shook his head, frustrated by his indecision. He walked away from the composites toward the door that led to the student lot. At the door a security guard sat with his legs propped up on a desk. When he saw Tom, he instantly shot to his feet.
“Hello, Professor. Do you need an umbrella or anything?”
Tom blinked, looking first at the guard—a first-year student named Jeffrey working his way through school by doing security at night—and then out the glass door, where he saw rain pelting the sidewalk and heard a clap of thunder.
“No, I’m good, Jeff,” Tom said, reaching into his briefcase and pulling out a small umbrella. “Jesus, it’s coming down.”
“Yes, sir.” They both looked out the door, and Tom caught sight of a lone figure carrying a pile of books down the sidewalk, the weight of the books causing the person to walk in zigzag fashion.
“That stack of books is bigger than her,” Jeffrey said, beginning to walk toward the door. “She must’ve come out the doors to the student lounge. I should probably—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Tom said, catching his arm. “I’m headed that way. You stay here.”
“Uh . . . OK . . .” Jeffrey said, stopping. “Thanks, Professor.”
“No worries,” Tom said, heading out into the rain, which was coming down sideways. Tom opened his umbrella, ran, and caught up to the figure.
“Need some help?” he asked.
The person looked up, and Tom recognized the face of Dawn Murphy.
“Professor!” she yelled, smiling at him. “I would run but I’m afraid I’ll drop everything,” she said, and, just as she said it, one of the books she was holding fell to the ground.
Tom picked up the book and set it back on her stack. Then he smiled at her and held the umbrella, which was barely big enough to cover just him, over her head.
“Here,” he said, instinctively putting his arm around her. “Just hold on to your books and stay close.”
She hesitated for a moment but then gave in, and Tom felt her body relax against his. Feeling self-conscious, Tom walked Dawn down the long cobblestoned sidewalk to the parking lot. When they reached a white Mustang hatchback, Dawn slid her purse off her shoulder and it fell to the ground.
“The keys should be on top,” she said, shrugging and looking embarrassed.
Tom leaned down, unzipped the purse, and found
the keys easily. He pressed the button and opened the passenger-side back door.
“My hero,” Dawn said, throwing the books inside. When she turned around, Tom saw that the front of her T-shirt had gotten wet.
“Well . . . here you go,” Tom said, holding out the keys and forcing himself to look at the ground.
“Professor, thank you so much,” Dawn said, taking the keys from his hand. “I had five guys walk right by me and not even offer to help.”
“Glad to help,” Tom managed. Then he remembered the conversation with Dawn in his office after the first class. She had a young daughter and was in need of money. She lived with her mother. “So how is everything going?” he asked.
Dawn chuckled softly and shook her head. “Oh, fine. I have to go be a mom now. Tonight is parents’ night at Julie’s school and”—she looked down at her watch and sighed—“and I’m late and I’m gonna have to change.”
Julie . . . Tom winced as he heard his wife’s name out loud. He looked away, feeling the depression beginning to seep back in.
“You’re getting wet,” Dawn said, grabbing the handle of the umbrella and stepping toward him. Tom looked down at her, blinking rain out of his eyes. At some point while talking to her, he had covered her with the umbrella and forgotten about himself. Forgetting had felt good.
“Are you OK, Professor?” Dawn asked, her eyes and forehead crinkling up with concern.
Tom just gazed down at her. He knew he should nod or say something, lest Dawn might get uncomfortable, but he couldn’t force out the words. He wasn’t OK. He hadn’t been OK for three years.
“Well, thanks again,” Dawn said, leaning in and patting his shoulder.
She stepped out from under the umbrella and opened the door to her car. Feeling light-headed and foolish, Tom took a couple of steps back, waiting until the Mustang roared to life before he turned away. As he made his way toward his own vehicle, he heard Dawn’s voice again and turned around.
“Bye!” she yelled, her window rolled down as she drove past.
Tom waved at her as she left, and he shook his head. That girl is something else, he thought, climbing inside his Explorer and letting down the umbrella. As he cranked the ignition and waited for the car to warm up, he leaned back in the seat and tried to relax.
What’s going on with you? Tom wondered. Depression had given way to restlessness. He could feel something churning within him. Something reawakening. Like an old bike, whose chains had rusted and whose handlebars were covered with cobwebs, craving to be oiled up and ridden. Tom fumbled for his cell phone and scrolled down the contacts until he reached Ruth Ann. He highlighted her number and stared at the green Send key, hovering his right thumb over it. He owed Ruth Ann a call about her case, but he wasn’t thinking about her case right now. Tom felt goose bumps on his arm, remembering the tingle he’d felt when Ruth Ann touched him. Do it. Just call her. He lowered his thumb and started to apply pressure.
No. Tom pressed End, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. “What’s going on, Tom?” he said out loud. He laughed nervously and shook his head, trying to get a grip.
It’s just the whiskey. It’s just the booze and that foolishness the Cock was spouting and all this shit with the board. Just go home and get some rest.
Tom took a deep breath. “Go home,” he whispered, forcing himself to put the car in gear and flinging the cell phone into the passenger seat.
“Just go home.”
14
The next day Tom walked down the faculty hallway and stopped off in the restroom. As he took a leak in the urinal, he leaned his forearm against the concrete wall and his head against the back of his wrist. He had barely slept a wink the night before. He had left the parking lot and gone straight home, taking the time to let Musso out and refill his water bowl before turning out the lights and crawling under the covers. Once in bed he kept staring at the ceiling, unable to get the conversation with the Cock off his mind. He was still undecided about what to do with Ruth Ann’s case or the board meeting he was about to attend. He also couldn’t shake the weird feeling he’d had after talking with Dawn Murphy or his near booty call to Ruth Ann. He felt restless and unstable, as if the ground were moving beneath him.
Tom sighed, zipping up his pants. He started to flush the toilet but stopped when he noticed some bloody residue in the urinal. What the . . . ?
He hadn’t been paying attention while he went, nor had he looked in the urinal before he had started. A couple of months ago he had noticed a few drops of blood after a long day of golf, but he hadn’t thought anything of it. There hadn’t been a repeat episode and there hadn’t been much blood in the first place. He had thought it was probably stress or maybe a small infection that had gone away.
Shaking his head, he flushed the urinal. Probably someone else.
Tom walked to the sink and splashed water on his face. As he gazed into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes, he tried without success to suppress the frustration he felt at being called before the board. Tom had been to numerous board meetings in his forty-year career but never one where his actions were the subject of review. He knew acting defensive would not help his cause, but it was hard not to be irritated. Where do these turds get off? he thought, remembering the Cock’s admonition to piss on the apology.
He exited the bathroom and walked down the corridor toward the large conference room at the end of the hall. When he reached the mahogany door, he paused, feeling a rush of adrenaline.
Bring it, he thought, gripping the handle and stepping through the doorway.
15
“He there yet?”
The cryptic text message splashed across Dean Richard Lambert’s BlackBerry, with the familiar phone number written across the top. Lambert read the words and looked up as Tom McMurtrie entered the conference room.
“Y,” Lambert typed, pressing Send and standing with the rest of the board members in the room.
“Hello, Professor. Thank you for coming today. Please . . . have a seat.”
Tom McMurtrie’s eyes fixed on the dean’s, and Lambert felt his stomach tighten.
“I didn’t realize I had a choice in the matter,” Tom said, his voice pleasant but curt. “If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to stand.”
“Well, suit yourself. We’re still lacking one other person, but . . .”
There was a loud knock at the door, and the dean’s voice cut off. He smiled at Tom and looked around the room, taking a deep breath. “Come in.”
When the door opened, Tom felt as if his stomach and testicles had both been kicked at the same time. He stared at the man standing before him, twisting his head in confusion.
“Professor,” the man said, his voice lacking its usual joviality.
“Jamo?”
“Members of the board,” Dean Lambert said, walking over and grasping Jameson’s hand. “I trust you have all met the university’s new attorney, Jameson Tyler.”
Tom kept his eyes on Jameson, who continued to stare back at Tom despite shaking the dean’s hand. Jameson put his hand out for Tom to shake, but Tom didn’t move.
“What are you doing here?” Tom asked, his voice a low growl.
“Like I told you yesterday, I had to be up here anyway for a couple of meetings, and this is one of them,” Jameson said, slapping Tom on the arm and walking down the table, squeezing shoulders, shaking hands, and kissing the lone female board member, Barbara Bostic, on the cheek before joining the dean at the head of the table.
“Well, it’s good to see everyone,” Jameson said. “Now please sit down.”
Everyone did as they were told but Tom. He continued to stand bolt upright and glared at his friend.
“Please, Professor, sit down.”
“As I told the dean, I’d prefer to stand.”
Jameson didn’t blink or show any outward emotion. He crossed his legs and ga
zed back at Tom. “OK, Professor. Let’s get on with this.”
“I’d like that very much,” Tom said. What in the hell is going on? Why didn’t he mention this yesterday?
“The board,” Jameson began, looking around the room and then back at Tom, “per my recommendation, has decided to reprimand you for the incident involving trial team member Rick Drake. The board, along with thousands of other people, has watched the video of your altercation with Drake and finds that you acted inappropriately when you grabbed his arm and jerked him around.”
Tom again felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He couldn’t believe it.
“As a result of the incident with Drake and another, more personal matter, the board has decided to put a reprimand in your personnel file and has chosen to allow you to remain on the faculty only if you will agree to work under certain conditions.”
Tom remained silent. He would hear it all before he commented.
“Condition number one,” Jameson continued. “You will work under a zero tolerance policy. One more incident in any way similar to the Rick Drake altercation and you will be terminated immediately.” Jameson paused, looking at Tom, who glared back.
“Condition number two. You will be supervised by another member of the faculty during your classes and during trial team practices and tournaments. Bill Stewart, the other Evidence professor, has volunteered for the job, and he will begin his surveillance effective tomorrow.”
Tom almost laughed. He and Bill Stewart had a hate-hate relationship, which Jameson knew because Tom had told him. So much, I’ve told him . . .
“Condition three. You will sign the apology that Dean Lambert provided you on Monday and tender it to this board before we leave this meeting today.” Jameson paused. “The board met last night to discuss this plan and it passed by majority vote. If you do not agree to work under these conditions, then it will have no choice but to terminate you.”
“Last night?” Tom asked, his voice incredulous. The words felt like acid on his tongue. “Before or after you judged our mock trial?”
The Professor Page 6
