He was so lost in his own thoughts, he almost ran over the young woman standing at the foot of the stairs.
“Are you Rick Drake?” the woman asked.
Leaning back from her, Rick sized the woman up. Black pant suit, brown hair cut off above her shoulder line, around five feet four inches tall with olive skin and brown eyes. Beautiful no doubt, but judging by the needy look in her eye, she wanted something from Rick. Another reporter, he thought.
“Look, if this is about the Professor, I’m not giving any interviews,” Rick said, brushing past the woman and beginning to walk toward his car. He had continued to be pestered by various news outlets since the Professor’s retirement, and his stance hadn’t changed. He would not be made a fool of.
“I don’t want to interview you,” the woman said, catching up to him. “I want a job.”
Rick had started to walk faster but then stopped in his tracks.
“What?”
“Mr. Drake, I’m a second-year law student at Alabama and”—she sucked in her breath—“I was hoping to talk to you about a job.”
Rick laughed and started walking again. “Tell Powell I said this was very funny, but I don’t have time for pranks. I have a long trip ahead of me. How long have you been in the DA’s office?”
Rick pressed the unlock button on his key chain and reached for the door, but the woman stepped in front of him.
“I don’t know what you think this is,” she began, “but I don’t work for the DA’s office and I don’t know anyone named Powell. I want to work for you. I want to be your law clerk.”
Rick started to make another smart-ass comment but stopped when he saw the look in her eyes. She was furious. This can’t be real.
“You want to work for me?” Rick asked.
“Yes.”
“Me?” Rick repeated.
“Yes, are you deaf?”
Rick chuckled. “Insulting me is probably not the best way to go about this.”
The woman’s face turned crimson. “I’m sorry, I—”
“I’m kidding,” Rick said. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but the fact is that I just don’t have the funds to take on a—”
“I’d work for free,” she interrupted. “For the experience. If that’s OK.”
Rick’s jaw dropped. “You’re shitting me?”
For the first time the woman smiled. “No,” she said, stepping closer to him. “I’m not. Here.” She reached into the small briefcase she was holding and pulled out a sheet of crème-colored bonded paper. “This is my résumé. I’m in the top twenty percent of my class. I’m on law review. I clerked for Tomkins & Fisher last summer and got the defense perspective, but now I want some experience from the plaintiff’s side. I’ll work around my school schedule and I’ll work weekends if need be. I . . .” She paused, gathering herself. “I want to be a trial lawyer . . . like you.”
Like me? How did you even hear of me? Rick wondered, glancing down at the résumé. It was all there: 4.0 undergrad from Alabama, and a 3.8 at the law school. Top twenty percent, law review, etc.
“I . . . I don’t know . . .” Rick said. He was stalling, trying to figure out what to do. This is crazy. He thought about the four-hour trip he was about to make. What would Wilma Newton be like? Receptive? Defensive? A grade A bitch?
Then he turned back to the woman, who, now that he had a chance to size her up, looked every bit the part of the eager law student. Naive. Sincere. Passionate.
“Look . . .” Rick began to tell her “thanks but no thanks,” then stopped. She might be able to help. If Ms. Newton won’t talk to me, then maybe . . .
He gazed into her brown eyes, which did not waver from his own. Beautiful, smart, and she wants to work for me. Rick almost laughed at the absurdity of it. Then, remembering the immortal words of Crash Davis—“Don’t think; it can only hurt the ball club.”—Rick made his decision.
“OK, I’ll hire you but only on one condition.”
“Name it,” she said, her eyes narrowing.
“I’m leaving right now to go to Boone’s Hill, Tennessee, to meet with a witness. It’s four hours away, so we probably won’t get back until past two in the morning. I’ll brief you on the way, but you have to go with me. Now.”
The woman didn’t blink. Instead, she stepped around Rick and hopped into the front seat.
“Fine by me,” she said, smiling up at him. “But I get to drive.”
Rick gazed down at her, feeling completely out of sorts. He had not expected her to say yes. Forcing his legs to move, he walked around the front of the car and opened the passenger-side door. He had never sat in the passenger seat before, nor had he let anyone else, even Powell, drive his car. This is surreal.
He looked at his pretty new clerk and held out the car keys. When she took them, he held on to her hand.
“I guess before I let you drive my car I need to know your name.”
The woman smiled. “It’s Dawn.” She squeezed his hand and then put the key in the ignition. “Dawn Murphy.”
22
The Sands Restaurant had a Waffle House feel to it, Rick thought as he looked around the place and took in the scent of grilled hamburgers and coffee. There were several booths that lined the main window with a view of the parking lot, and Rick and Dawn had taken one of these. At a little after eight on a Thursday night in mid-February, the place was basically empty. A couple of rugged-looking gentlemen wearing jeans and heavy jackets sat drinking coffee at the counter, and there was a middle-aged couple at one of the tables. Rick and Dawn were the only other patrons, which suited Rick just fine. He knew Wilma Newton would be less likely to talk if there was a crowd.
“So you really think this is gonna work?” Dawn asked, raising her eyebrows and looking around. Rick had spent the drive briefing her on the case and the reason for the meeting with Ms. Newton. To his relief, Dawn had easily grasped the big picture, asking good questions, to some of which Rick hadn’t had answers. But to his chagrin, Dawn had agreed with Frankie that he probably should’ve called ahead.
Only one way to find out, Rick thought, trying to look confident as a large, buxom woman walked around the counter toward them. Is that her? he wondered. As she got closer, his gut told him no.
“What can I get for y’all?”
She had short, curly red hair and teeth a dark shade of yellow.
“I think I’m gonna need a minute. Maybe some water to start off with,” Dawn said in a friendly voice.
“And you?” the large woman asked Rick.
“Coke, please.”
“All right. I’ll be back with your drinks in a jiffy.”
As she turned to go, Rick noticed a more attractive-looking waitress pouring tea into a glass at the table where the middle-aged couple sat. Is that her? This time Rick’s gut was inconclusive.
A couple of minutes later the large red-headed waitress was back, drinks in hand. “Now what can I get y’all to eat?”
Rick had barely looked at the menu but knew what he wanted. Dawn nodded at him to go first.
“I think I’ll have a cheeseburger and fries,” Rick said, smiling at the waitress.
“You want that burger with everything?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How about you, honey?”
“I think I’ll have the same thing,” Dawn said, closing her menu.
“Ma’am, I was wondering,” Rick led in, feeling his heart rate speed up. “Is there a Wilma Newton working here tonight?”
“Who wants to know?” the woman replied, a suspicious look on her face.
“Just a couple of folks from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. In the neighborhood and wanted to speak with her. She used to live nearby.”
None of what Rick said was a lie, but he still felt a little guilty. And anxious. Maybe I should have called . . .
The waitress maintained her suspicious look and didn’t move from in front of their table. She then turned her head toward the table with the middle-aged couple.
“Hey, Wilma!” she yelled.
The attractive waitress Rick had noticed earlier looked up.
“Come over here. Got some folks from Tuscaloosa that want to see you.”
As she walked over, Rick realized that she wasn’t as young as he’d originally thought. Several lines ran down her forehead, no doubt the result of a hard life. Her hair was cropped off about midway down her neck, and like their waitress, she wore the Sands uniform.
“Hi, there,” Wilma said in an unsure voice.
“Ms. Newton, my name is Rick Drake, and this is my coworker, Dawn Murphy. We’re from Tuscaloosa.” Rick smiled. “We were wondering if you might have a few minutes to talk with us.”
Wilma Newton looked at them, her expression curious. The other waitress also continued standing in front of them, looking back and forth from Wilma to Rick and Dawn.
“Everything all right, Wilma?” she asked.
Ms. Newton continued to look at Rick and Dawn, sizing them up. “Yeah, no problem, Judy. Listen, why don’t you let me take this table? These folks being from Tuscaloosa and all.”
“Well, all right,” the other waitress replied, hesitating before walking away.
Once she was out of earshot, Wilma’s expression hardened and she glared at Rick. “I guess you folks want to talk about the wreck.”
“Well, actually—” Rick began, but was quickly cut off.
“I already told the newspapers everything I know about it. I got nothing else to say. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
She walked off and disappeared behind the front counter and into the kitchen. Rick took a sip of Coke, wincing at Dawn.
“Still think not calling ahead was a good idea?” Dawn asked, a playful smile on her face.
Rick just shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe not. But let’s give her some time. If she’s our waitress, she’ll have to bring the food out and then the check after that. We’ll get a couple more cracks at her.”
“Hope those go better than that,” Dawn said, now laughing.
“Well, I didn’t have much help from my new partner. Why don’t you give it a try.”
“Really?”
“Why not?”
A few minutes later Wilma Newton reappeared, carrying two plates.
“Cheeseburger and fries,” she said, placing one of the plates in front of Dawn. “And the same thing,” she continued, setting the other plate hard on Rick’s place mat, making a rattling sound.
“Sorry,” she said, throwing a dirty look at Rick that said, Not really. Before either of them could say anything, she was gone, walking back behind the counter and turning on the sink, where some dirty dishes had piled up.
“That went well,” Rick said, but Dawn ignored him, got up from the booth, and walked over to the counter.
He saw her get the attention of Ms. Newton, who walked over and folded her arms. She started talking, and Rick could tell that Wilma Newton was listening. Once during their conversation, Ms. Newton pointed her finger at Rick. When she did, Dawn looked over and gave Rick a long look as if she was sizing him up. When she turned back to Ms. Newton, they both laughed, and Rick got a little self-conscious. What the hell? Five minutes later Dawn sat back down.
“She said she’ll talk to us when she gets off. Around ten or so. If no one’s in the place at nine forty-five and all her cleaning’s done, she’ll come over then.”
She smiled proudly and looked at Rick, who was impressed.
“Well, how might I ask did you pull it off?”
Dawn grinned. “Promise you won’t be mad?”
“Yes, promise. How’d you do it?”
“I told her to forgive you. That you couldn’t help coming across like a jackass. It was just natural. I had begged you to call ahead so we wouldn’t startle her like we obviously did. But that, you know, since we were already here, we’d really like to talk with her. We represent this poor lady whose whole family died in the wreck and are just trying to help her out.”
“And that worked?”
“Yeah, partner, it did.”
“What about when y’all looked over at me and laughed. What was that all about?”
“Oh, that. Well, after she agreed to talk with us, she looked at you and said, ‘Kinda cute for a jackass, ain’t he?’ ”
She laughed when she finished, and Rick smiled.
“Well, partner, I’m impressed,” he said, saluting her with his glass.
“You should be.”
Good as her word, at around 10:00 p.m. Wilma Newton walked over and sat down next to Dawn. She looked tired, her eyes a little red at the edges.
“Like I said earlier, I told the damn reporters everything I know, which wasn’t much. But if y’all have some questions, go ahead and shoot.”
She made almost all of her comments with her head cocked to the side, looking at Dawn. Rick nodded at Dawn to start things off.
“Thanks again, Ms. Newton. We know you must be tired. I guess we were first wondering how long Mr. Newton—Harold that is—had been working for Willistone prior to the accident.”
“Well, Dewey—nobody’s ever called him Harold as far as I know—started there in . . .” She paused, turning her eyes upward, thinking. “Probably around 2003. We bought the house in ’04, so it had to be late ’03. It was our first house . . .” She stopped, and Rick saw a tear running down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I haven’t talked about this in a while. It’s just . . . it’s hard, you know? I got two girls at home. Daddy’s girls both of them. They . . .” Now there was a steady stream of tears.
Dawn grabbed a napkin out of the dispenser on the table and handed it to Wilma, who dabbed her eyes.
“Would y’all like some coffee?” Wilma asked.
Rick could tell that maybe Ms. Newton wanted a minute to gather herself, so he accepted, as did Dawn.
A few minutes later she was back with three hot cups of coffee, a small layer of steam hanging over the top of each cup like fog lifting from the morning. The coffee smelled good and tasted better. There was something about a cup of coffee from a place like this, Rick thought. It was probably just Folgers or Maxwell House, but somehow it tasted better.
“Well, what other questions do y’all have?” Wilma asked, smiling, though Rick could still tell that she had been crying.
“What sort of schedule did your husband keep at Willistone?” Rick finally piped in, hoping he hadn’t jumped the gun.
She looked at him a long time before answering. “Who did you say y’all represent?” she finally asked.
“Our client is Ruth Ann Wilcox. Ruth Ann’s daughter, granddaughter, and son-in-law were killed in the wreck. She wants some answers about what happened, and I’m sure you do too.”
“Dewey was a good driver. I just can’t believe this was all his fault,” she said in an accusing voice directed at Rick.
Rick did not immediately reply. Handle this with care.
“Ms. Newton, here is a copy of the accident report.” Rick reached into his pocket and slid the report over. He gave Wilma several seconds to review it. In a quiet voice he continued: “The accident report shows your husband going eighty miles per hour at the time of the accident. The speed limit was sixty-five.” Rick paused and placed both hands around his coffee cup. “We came here tonight to find out if you knew of any reason why Dewey would have been speeding on the morning of the accident. That’s why I asked about his schedule with Willistone.”
Wilma stared at the report. “Well, I just . . .” She stopped, appearing flustered. “Damnit,” she whispered under her breath.
“Ms. Newton, please. We’re trying to figure out—”
“It was pretty hectic,” she
said, meeting Rick’s eye. “Dewey’s schedule was hectic.”
“How so?” Rick returned. Keep her going.
“I . . . I don’t know. It was hectic.” She stopped and looked down again. She’s stalling. Why? Rick wondered.
“Was Dewey’s driving schedule difficult for him to meet?” Rick asked.
Wilma didn’t immediately answer, taking a sip of her coffee.
“You’re gonna sue Willistone, aren’t you? Regardless of what I say, you’re gonna sue them.” Wilma’s voice was calm, even. Her eyes went from Rick to Dawn and then back to Rick.
“We’ve already sued them,” Rick answered, maintaining eye contact with Wilma.
“Ms. Newton,” Dawn said, putting her arm around her, “our client lost her whole family—just like you did, except imagine if the wreck had taken your girls too. She wants answers. She wants to know why this happened.”
“It was an accident. Accidents happen,” Wilma replied.
“His schedule, Ms. Newton. Was it hard for him to meet?” Rick again asked. Come on, lady.
Wilma Newton took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. She thought back to that terrible night in the hospital. Having to sign that form. Putting an end to her husband’s misery.
“Yes,” she finally answered, looking Rick right in the eye. “He had a hard time meeting his schedule. There was usually not much time to spare.” None, more like it.
“Do you remember whether he was running late the day of the accident?” he asked. “Tell us about that morning.”
“I don’t remember a whole lot. He got up pretty early and left—that’s about it.” She stopped. Why am I protecting those bastards? They were real nice at the funeral and all. “We’re so sorry for your loss, Ms. Newton. Dewey was a fine trucker for us and a good man. We want to help you, and we’ll be in touch.” But they hadn’t been in touch. Wilma hadn’t heard so much as a peep from the company since the funeral. Willistone left me and my girls high and dry. No help. No nothing.
She sighed and took a sip of coffee. Fuck ’em, she thought.
“Anything he said, anything at—”
The Professor Page 10
