He laughed and caught Tom in a bear hug, holding him close. “It’s not right what they’ve done, dog. Let me go after ’em. Don’t you think it’s time for Jameson ‘Big Cat’ Tyler to face Bocephus Haynes?” He let Tom go and laughed, pointing at Musso. “I’d treat him the same way that bulldog would.”
As if on cue, Musso let out his patented throat-clearing sound.
“Yeaaaah,” Bocephus said, turning to Tom and trying to make the same sound in his own throat. “That’s what I’m talking about.”
Bocephus Aurulius Haynes was born and raised in Pulaski, Tennessee, which is about forty-five minutes northwest of Hazel Green. His father had died young, and Bo had grown up working on a farm, just like Tom. Also like Tom, Bo had a taste and a talent for football. The local town leaders of Pulaski had wanted Bo to wear orange and play for the Vols, but Bo had never been much for doing what other folks wanted him to do. In 1978 he signed a scholarship with Alabama. A year later, against Arkansas in the Sugar Bowl, Bo saw playing time on the Man’s last national championship team. His junior year, Bo was a preseason All-American, but he blew his knee out in the first game of the season. Though he returned for his senior year and played on the Man’s last team, he was never quite the same.
During Bo’s rehab, the Man had asked Tom to talk to Bo about his future. Bo had no clue what he wanted to do, still reeling from the reality that his knee would prevent him from playing in the NFL. For a semester, Tom asked Bo to follow him through trial team practices and got him a job as an intern in the Tuscaloosa DA’s office. Once he got a sniff of the law, Bo was hooked. Though his LSAT scores and grades weren’t great, they were solid. And with recommendations from the Professor and the Man, Bocephus Haynes was admitted to law school in 1982.
The rest, as they say, is history. Bo graduated in the top ten percent of his law school class and was the bell cow on Tom’s 1985 national championship trial team, making him the only student in Alabama history to have won national championships for both the Man and Tom. He had offers from every prestigious law firm in the state and even clerked a summer for Jones & Butler, working for a hotshot young partner named Jameson Tyler.
But the lure of the big firms had no impact on Bo. There was only one place Bo wanted to practice law, and he returned to Pulaski and hung up a shingle three months after graduation. Tom had never gotten the full story of why Bo wanted so badly to return home. When he asked him once, Bo had just shrugged and said, “Unfinished business.”
Regardless of the reasons, twenty-four years later Bocephus Haynes was the most feared plaintiff’s lawyer south of Nashville. But despite his amazing trial record—only one loss to go with countless victories—Bo had never forgotten where he’d come from. Or who had made his success possible.
Over the years Bo had called Tom several times a year and had stayed at Tom’s house on football weekends. Tom had been to Bo’s wedding, and Bo had been a pallbearer at Julie’s funeral, the only former student Tom had asked. For years Bo had always told Tom the same thing: “If things ever get bad for you, if you ever need anything, I want you to do something for me. After you’ve prayed to God and talked to Jesus, you come see Bocephus.”
Tom had laughed at the punch line, but now here he was. And Bo had done him one better.
Bocephus had come to see him.
It took the whole weekend to make the place livable. While Bo mowed the grass—he had to make two full turns around the massive yard to get it done—Tom cleaned out the house and contacted the utilities company to get the heat turned on. They also hiked out onto the farm a ways, and Bo cut down a tree for firewood. It had been years since Tom had walked the farm, and he was amazed at how grown up a lot of the brush had gotten. They had seen several deer and also heard the unmistakable squeal of a bobcat, which caused even Bocephus to raise his eyebrows.
On Sunday night Tom cooked steaks on the grill, and the two men drank beer and told war stories on the deck attached to the back of the house. For February the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees, and for the first time in weeks, Tom laughed. After the meal was finished and the sun had long since gone down, Bo passed Tom a cigar and lit one of his own. With Musso snoring below his feet, Bo blew a cloud of smoke in the air and eyed Tom.
“So, how’d the surgery go?”
Tom looked down at the table, feeling some of his good vibes begin to dissipate. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Bill said he thought he got it all, and the biopsy matched his initial thoughts. The mass was stage two but superficial.”
“Meaning?”
“It’s treatable.”
“Well, that’s good, right?” Bo asked, seeming to sense Tom’s drop in mood.
“Better than the alternative.”
“Hell, yeah, it is,” Bo said, smiling. “So, what are you gonna do now?”
Lighting his cigar with the tip of Bo’s, Tom shrugged. “Don’t know. Gotta get through the damn cancer treatments first. This”—he gestured to the cigar—“probably ain’t helping.”
Bo laughed. “One won’t kill you. Now, how long will the treatments last?”
“The first one is next Friday. Bill referred me to Urology Associates in Huntsville, a Dr. Kevin Banks. I tried to schedule the appointments for Fridays so it wouldn’t hurt your workweek too much.”
“Professor, I would’ve taken you first thing every Monday morning if you had asked.”
“I know you would have, Bo. Just trying to make it easier.”
“Anyway, so the first treatment is next Friday. Then what?”
“Got four total per session, so three more after that. Wait two months. Then four more. Wait two months. Four more. Then they scope me and make sure none of it’s come back. If the scope is clean, I’m good to go. After that they’ll just rescope me every six months.”
“And you said some folks live more than thirty years doing this?”
Tom nodded. “That’s what Bill said.”
“And the treatment puts you down for about thirty-six hours?”
Tom blew a cloud of smoke to the side and took a sip of beer. “What is this? A cross-examination?”
“Just trying to understand. Thirty-six hours, right?”
“Right.”
Bo set his cigar in an ashtray and leaned forward on his elbows. “Then I have to ask you. What are you doing here, Professor? You need to be in Tuscaloosa, fighting to get your job back. For three out of the next six months, you’re going to miss a day and a half per week due to the treatments. But the other five and a half days you’ll be fine. The other three months you’ll be fine. It’s not like you’ve been sentenced to bed rest. You worked as hard as I did for the past two days, and you’re a week removed from surgery and I’m twenty years younger.” Bo paused, leaning back again. “So, what are you doing, Professor? It’s not like you to quit.”
Tom felt a flash of anger. “I’m not quitting, Bo. It’s a zoo in Tuscaloosa right now. Reporters wanting interviews, newspaper articles, crazy allegations that are total bullshit. I didn’t want to stick around and endure it in the face of cancer. I . . . I just needed a break from all of it.”
“I get that, I do. But didn’t you always teach us to hit first and hit hard? And if you couldn’t hit first, strike back twice as hard as your opponent. Jameson and the board hit first, but we can strike back by suing them. You had tenure. You were forced out for bullshit reasons. It’s straight-up breach of contract and maybe fraud.”
Tom smiled, shaking his head. “Bo, I appreciate the pep talk. But that would just make things worse. The press would never let it go. Besides, I’m not even sure if I want to teach again. At this point in my life, I’m not sure what I want.”
“So you’re just gonna wait?”
Tom shrugged but didn’t answer.
“For what?” Bo pressed.
“I don’t know. If the treatments don’t wor
k . . .” Tom stopped, not wanting to say the obvious. “Bo, I’m sixty-eight years old. My wife is dead. I’ve lost my job and I’m too sick to start a new one. I guess maybe I came here to—”
“Whoa now, dog. You’re startin’ to sound like a country music song.” Bo paused, taking a sip of beer. “But I feel you now. I get it.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Then tell me. Because I haven’t the faintest of clues.”
“It’s like that break between the third and fourth quarters in a football game. When the teams switch sides of the field and TV goes to commercial, and everyone on both sides of the field makes a four with their hands.” Bo pulled his thumb back and held his hand over his head. “You know what I’m talking about?”
“I know the part of the game you’re talking about. But what’s your point?”
“That’s where you are. This farm. This place. This is the sideline. You’re about to start the fourth quarter, but you’re not there yet.” Bo paused. “They’re still at commercial.”
Tom laughed. “You’re so full of shit, Bocephus.”
“No, sir,” Bo said, smiling back at him. “I’m speaking the truth. You’ve got one quarter to play, and you have to decide what to do.”
Tom looked away, to the fields of corn past the freshly mown yard. “What if I’m at the end of the fourth quarter, Bo? What if I’m at the end and the other side’s snapping the ball and taking a knee? There’s time left on the clock, but there ain’t a damn thing I can do. They’re goin’ run the clock out on me, and I can’t win.” Tom paused and looked into Bo’s dark eyes. “What if that’s where I’m at?”
Bo looked back at him, his eyes sharp, piercing Tom with their intensity. “Is that where you think you’re at?”
Tom didn’t answer. As the crickets chirped and the lightning bugs flashed around them, the question hung in the air like a bubble.
I don’t know, Tom thought. I just don’t know.
An hour later the food and beers were gone, and Bo had to go home.
“Jazz will have my ass if I’m not home by ten,” Bo said, rubbing Musso behind the ears and opening the door to his SUV. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot.” Bo reached into the car and pulled out two large manila envelopes. “The mail has started to come to my house like you asked, and you got these two packages.”
Bo handed the packages to Tom, whose stomach tightened when he saw Rick Drake’s return address on one of them.
“Thanks,” Tom said.
“No problem. Your first treatment is next Friday at 9:00 a.m., right?”
“Right. You sure you don’t—?”
“Don’t ask me that again, Professor. You know I don’t mind. If it wasn’t for you, I’d probably be a PE teacher somewhere. You saved my life by introducing me to the law, and now it’s time for Bocephus to pay his debts.”
Bo winked at Tom, then started the ignition. A minute later the Lexus was pulling out of the driveway.
Tom brought the packages into the kitchen and made a pot of coffee. The other envelope didn’t have a return address, so Tom opened Rick’s first. Inside, the heading read “Ruth Ann Wilcox, as Personal Representative of the Estates of Bob Bradshaw, Jeannie Bradshaw, and Nicole Bradshaw v. Willistone Trucking Company, Inc.” The date of filing was Monday, January 31, 2010. Rick had filed suit less than forty-eight hours after getting the referral. On the top of the first page there was a yellow sticky note with five words scribbled in blue ink—“I won’t fuck it up.”
Tom couldn’t help but laugh. Piss and vinegar, he thought. That boy is piss and vinegar and the rest balls.
Tom opened the other package, still thinking about Drake. The boy was probably about to be hit with a firestorm of discovery by whoever was hired to defend Willistone. Tom cringed, remembering Rick’s converted loft of an office and his lack of office staff. He can’t do it by himself. He has no partner, no associate, and no clerk, and he may have lied about having a secretary. How the hell is he going to handle everything?
Sighing, Tom pulled a bound notebook from the second package. What the hell is this? he wondered. Flipping the notebook over to the front, Tom read the cover page out loud: “McMurtrie’s Evidence, Fifth Edition (Daubert Excerpt).” Flipping through the pages that followed, Tom saw a nice summary of all the cases dealing with the Daubert expert witness standard since the publishing of his last supplement. Well, I’ll be damned . . . The actual cases were also attached, with a notation on the front of each case that said “Still Good Law.” Tom closed the notebook and ran his hand through the package to see if there was anything else. He pulled out a small piece of pink notebook paper. The message on the page was short and written in cursive handwriting:
Professor, I’m so sorry about your retirement. Please know that all the students are very upset about it, especially me. I was really looking forward to being your student assistant. Anyway, I finished your first assignment, and I wanted you to have the benefit of my work. Though you didn’t ask, I went ahead and prepared an excerpt, summarizing the cases I found so that you would have it for your new edition. Please call me if you have any questions.
Dawn
Tom couldn’t believe it. In his rush to get out of Tuscaloosa, he had forgotten all about Dawn Murphy. Reading the note again, he was relieved that it appeared that Dawn had no idea that she was implicated in his being forced to leave the school. At least Jameson kept his promise about that.
As Tom looked again at the notebook, he felt a lump in his stomach. The assignment had just been to find the cases, but Dawn had gone above and beyond. This is exactly what I would have wanted, he thought. She had anticipated correctly and finished in record time. She’s good, Tom thought. Very good.
As Tom glanced from Dawn’s work to Drake’s complaint, an idea popped into his head. Dawn Murphy had wanted to be Tom’s student assistant because she needed money to provide for her daughter.
Now she’s out of a job . . .
Tom picked up Dawn’s note. Below her name, she had left her home and cell phone numbers. You told Rick that you would stay away. That you wouldn’t interfere.
He stood, walked into the den, and grabbed the phone. Looking at the note, he started to dial Dawn Murphy’s cell number. He hesitated before pressing the last digit. This is crazy, he thought. Just hang up the phone and stay out of it. Tom started to lower the phone, and then his instincts took over. Fuck it, he thought, pressing the final digit and holding the phone to his ear.
21
Wilma Newton, bride of the late Harold Newton, now lived in Boone’s Hill, Tennessee. According to Doris Bolton, Wilma’s next-door neighbor in Northport, she had moved sometime around the first of November. Ms. Bolton had been nice when Rick dropped by. Invited him in for tea and talked about a host of different subjects. The weather. Her late husband, Earl. Alabama football. After he had been there almost thirty minutes, Rick had asked about Harold Newton. “Poor Wilma,” she had said. “A widow at thirty-one. Damn shame.” Ms. Bolton didn’t have the address or number but said that Wilma and her girls had moved to Boone’s Hill, Tennessee—“you know, over there by Fayetteville”—a few months back. Rick didn’t know but nodded as if he did. Fifteen minutes later he was gone, having promised Ms. Bolton that he would come by for tea again sometime. “Roll Tide,” Ms. Bolton had yelled from her front door as Rick opened his car. “Roll Tide,” Rick had yelled back.
When Rick had returned to the office, he called information and learned that there were five Newtons in the Fayetteville, Tennessee area. He started calling them and got a hit on the third when a girl who sounded about eight answered the phone, saying, “She’s not here right now” when Rick asked for Wilma. Instead of leaving a message, he told the girl that he’d call back later and asked if her mother would be home that night. “She’s working late at the Sands, so I don’t know,” the girl had said.
&
nbsp; Rick then obtained the number and address for the Sands Restaurant online. He called the number and asked for Wilma. When whoever answered the phone said, “She’s taking an order right now. Can she call you back?” Rick had politely declined, saying he’d call back later.
But he wasn’t going to call back.
“Sure you want to just drop in on her?” Frankie asked, handing Rick his briefcase.
“I’m sure,” Rick said, annoyed at being questioned. “She’ll be more willing to talk if she knows I’ve come a long way. On the phone she could just tell me to go to hell and hang up on me.”
Frankie was sucking on a green lollipop she’d gotten at the bank, and she made a loud smacking sound with the candy. “She could tell you to go to hell in person and slam the door in your face. Be a lot quicker to call. We called ahead with Carmichael, and you are meeting with him tomorrow night at five.”
“That’s different,” Rick said, biting his lip. “We called ahead with Carmichael because we got to him through Ultron. If I just showed up at the Ultron plant in Montgomery and asked to talk with the loaders of Harold Newton’s rig on the day of the accident, the plant manager would have me thrown off the premises.”
“The restaurant manager could do the same thing tonight,” Frankie said, sucking on the lollipop. “Could throw your skinny butt right out of there.”
Rick started to snap something back but stopped himself. Sighing, he shook his head at her. “Thanks for the support.”
“Just telling you like it is,” Frankie said, biting off a piece of the lollipop and turning around. As her teeth began to grind the candy up, she added, “If you come back empty-handed, don’t blame me.”
Rick gritted his own teeth and, with Frankie’s back turned to him, he made a choking gesture with his hands toward her. Then he opened the door and began thinking about how he would prove his secretary wrong.
The Professor Page 9
