Jameson poured himself a glass of water and took a sip, not answering the question. The board members sat stoically in their seats. Tom ran his eyes down the table, and only one of them met his gaze. William Rufus Cole. The oldest member of the board looked at him with sad, angry eyes and slowly stood.
“There’s something I want to say,” Rufus said, his voice gruff.
Jameson smiled. “By all means, Rufus.”
“I think the Professor is entitled to know that not everyone here agrees with this decision.” Rufus Cole paused and cleared his throat. “The vote of the board was five to four. I was one of the four. It should be noted that the five board members who voted for this decision have all been added within the last two years and are not as familiar with the Professor’s vast accomplishments as the rest of us are.” He walked down the table and put his arm around Tom. “Let the record reflect, Dean Lambert, and let it be recorded in the minutes of this board meeting that William Rufus Cole from Choctaw County, Alabama, thinks that the board’s action today is an unadulterated, unmitigated, goddamn disgrace. This man has given his whole life for this school. He played for Coach Bryant’s 1961 national champions. None of you people remember that team, but I do. That team was the Bear’s first national champion. The defense that Tom played on gave up twenty-five points. For the whole year. That team made not just the school but the whole state proud.” Rufus squeezed Tom’s shoulder. “Then, when the Man asked him to come build a trial program and teach Evidence, what did he do? He came. And he won three national championships and wrote the goddamn book on evidence in this state.”
“Please watch your language, Rufus,” Jameson said, a thin smile covering his face.
Rufus pointed his finger at Jameson, and it trembled with anger. “You . . . you fucking Judas. You of all people should be standing by Tom on this, Jameson. You wouldn’t be half the trial lawyer you are if it wasn’t for the Professor.”
“Rufus, my first and only loyalty in this matter is to my client, the University of Alabama. My client asked for a recommendation, and I have given it.” Jameson turned his gaze to Tom. “So what’ll it be, Professor? You’ve heard the conditions. Will you agree to abide by them?”
“Don’t do it, Tom,” Rufus said, his voice shaky and tired, having given out from the effort. He was now talking to and looking at only Tom. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK, Rufus,” Tom said, patting his old friend on the arm. Then he turned to Tyler, forcing himself to remain calm.
“You mentioned something besides the altercation with Drake. A ‘personal’ matter. What does that involve?”
“It’s bullshit, Tom,” Rufus blurted. “Complete—”
“Rufus Cole,” Dean Lambert said, standing and glaring at Rufus. “You have been warned twice. You can address this board appropriately or you can leave.”
“Don’t threaten me, you son of a—”
Rufus started to walk toward the dean, but Tom grabbed him by the arm and whispered in his ear, “Just sit down, Rufus. I appreciate the gesture, but it’s not helping. OK?”
Rufus looked at him with pleading eyes, then nodded and took his seat. Tom turned back to Jameson, who was now standing.
“The personal matter involves a relationship you have with one of your students that the board believes is inappropriate. According to the dean, he saw you holding hands with one of your female interns on Monday and”—Tyler opened a file folder in front of him and slid an envelope down the table—“and we also have these.”
Tom looked inside the envelope and couldn’t believe his eyes. Dawn Murphy’s smiling face was caught in close-up as Tom walked her down the sidewalk with his arm around her. The next one showed her wet T-shirt. In the last two, Dawn’s body leaned into Tom’s and her hand was on his shoulder, but their faces were blocked by the umbrella, making it appear like they were in some type of romantic embrace.
“You had me followed?” Tom looked up at the dean, whose eyes shifted to Jameson.
“Well . . . yes,” the dean said. “After observing you holding hands with Ms. Murphy on Monday, the board was advised by our attorney to conduct surveillance on you. I think the photographs show the wisdom in Mr. Tyler’s advice.”
Tom glared at Jameson. “Since when is helping a student get to her car in the rain some type of offense?” Tom asked, trying to keep his voice steady as he put the photographs back in the envelope and slid them back to Jameson.
“It is my opinion and that of the board that the conduct captured in those photographs and described by the dean is inappropriate,” Jameson continued, his voice grave. “Out of respect for you and the memory of your deceased wife, Julie, the board has decided, per my recommendation, that this allegation will not be included in your written reprimand, but you should know that it was a factor.”
That was it.
For the third time in the last fifteen minutes, Tom felt like he’d been punched in the gut, but this one was too much for him to take.
He took two swift steps toward Jameson, grabbed him by the collar, slammed his back against the wall, and held him three feet off the ground.
“Professor, you’re choking me.”
Tom shook him and got within an inch of his eyes. “Don’t you ever mention my wife’s name in front of me again. Don’t you ever refer to her as if you knew her. You address her as Mrs. McMurtrie, you backstabbing son of a bitch.”
Tom heard the dean call security and felt an arm on his shoulder. It was Rufus.
“Let him down, Tom. It’s OK. I want to do it too, but just let him down.”
Slowly, Tom lowered his former student and confidant to the ground. “How could you do this to me? You were my friend, Jameson. I trusted you. Why . . . ?”
“Thanks for proving my case,” Jameson whispered. Then, straightening his coat, he addressed the rest of the board. “I think you should now see the wisdom in your decision today and the reasoning behind my recommendation. What if he did that to a student? Or another teacher?”
“You baited him, you son of a bitch. You set him up.” Rufus Cole lunged for Jameson, but Tom caught Rufus’s arm. “That won’t be necessary, Rufus.”
“As university attorney, I hereby recommend that this board change its action from reprimand to suspension,” Jameson said, his voice loud and authoritative. “The Professor is obviously not himself and needs some time to . . . get it together. Three months’ suspension. Then, if he comes back and agrees to the conditions referenced today, he can continue on the faculty. All in favor?”
“There won’t be need for a vote,” Tom said, hearing the fatigue in his voice. The adrenaline rush was gone.
He walked slowly down the table and stopped when he reached the door. Turning, he forced himself to smile at Jameson. “Thirty years you’ve been my friend. I hope that selling me out was worth it to you.”
“My client sought my advice and counsel, and I gave it. It would have been unethical to put loyalty to you over my client’s interests.”
“Unprofitable, more like it,” Tom spat. “Dean Lambert has wanted rid of me since the moment he took over. He asked your opinion, and you gave the one that allowed you to bill hours and make money.”
“I gave the one that was sound. You put your hands on two students. One in anger and the other in lust. There are grounds here for termination, but the board, in my opinion, is being lenient for all of the reasons that Rufus mentioned.”
Tom shook his head, looking out over the board members. “I congratulate you on your ambush. I’ll have you know that what the dean witnessed and what is seen in the photographs were both simply harmless displays of affection by a young student glad to get a job and appreciative of an umbrella. I hope this board won’t take any action against her and will keep her name in confidence.”
“No action against her is planned,” Dean Lambert said. “The board sees you as the g
uilty party, Professor. As with Rick Drake, the student is an innocent, and her name will remain confidential.”
Tom nodded, feeling the bitterness begin to invade his exhausted body. “This board has given me no alternative but to step down. I won’t accept a suspension and I won’t work under your bullshit conditions.”
Jameson frowned disingenuously. “Professor, please know that no one here wants you to—”
“Shut up, Jameson,” Tom interrupted. “I’ve had enough bullshit today. I’ll have my things removed from the office this weekend.”
“Professor,” Dean Lambert said, his eyes and voice excited. “Perhaps as a show of gratitude and a way to bring closure to the situation, we could hold a banquet in your—”
“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.
&
nbsp; 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—”
The Professor Page 7
