“Look, what did you say your name was again?” Wilma interrupted.
“Rick.”
“OK then, Rick. You want to know about Dewey’s schedule? Well, it was crazy. Not just that day but every day. Dewey would drive twenty straight hours at times just to keep up. He knew that was more than the law allowed—he told me—but the company didn’t care. Jack Willistone inspected the driver’s logs himself every week, making sure that whatever was on the logs was compliant with DOT regulations, regardless of how many hours were actually driven. Dewey was so terrified of Jack, a lot of times he asked me to help him fill out his driver’s logs so it looked like he was under ten hours.
“Dewey also got a couple of speeding tickets in the months before he died. He was pissed about ’em, but he said he didn’t have a choice. If he didn’t speed, no way he could make the load on time.” Wilma sighed. “He wanted to quit. He even filled out his notice, but I”—she breathed deeply, her bottom lip trembling with anguish—“but I wouldn’t let him turn it in. The money was so much better than he could’ve made anywhere else.” She stopped and put her face in her hands.
“How could they get away with doctoring the driver’s logs?” Rick asked. “Aren’t they inspected by—?”
“DOT?” Wilma interrupted, her voice dripping with bitterness. “Jack Willistone has all the local and state DOT inspectors in his back pocket. He also has an in with the Alabama State Troopers’ office. Dewey said Jack was Teflon.” Wilma glared at Rick. “He’s been getting away with this shit for years.”
There was a pause, and Wilma saw Rick glance at his pretty partner. Then he returned his eyes to Wilma.
“Ms. Newton, would you be willing to tell a jury what you just told us?”
Wilma folded her arms. Persistent bastard. Not sure I’d call him a jackass, though. Just doing his job.
“I don’t know,” she said, looking down at her cup. “I’d really rather not get involved.”
“I understand that, ma’am,” Rick started, “but you may be the only person who can explain why Dewey would’ve been speeding the day my client’s family died. The day Dewey died. If Jack Willistone has the DOT and State Troopers’ office in his pocket, then no one there is going to be able to help. And I doubt any of his current employees are going to spill the beans.” Rick paused. “But you could. You could pull the net over his whole operation. Forcing employees to falsify driver’s logs is a federal crime. Not only could you give my client justice, but you could help put Jack Willistone where he belongs—in prison.”
Wilma continued to gaze at the coffee cup, remembering Dewey’s anguished face the day he tore up his notice. The resigned look in his eyes. He knew it was just a matter of time. Then she thought of the hours after she left the hospital, holding her girls as they cried their eyes out. “Daddy can’t be dead. He can’t be. No. No. No.”
Wilma looked up from the coffee cup, first at Dawn and then at Rick Drake. Slowly, she nodded her head.
“OK,” she said. “I’ll do it.”
23
Through the windshield of his El Camino, he watched them talk, knowing that he was too late. He’d already run the plates on the Saturn—he had friends everywhere, including the Alabama State Troopers’ office—and confirmed what his instincts had already told him. The car belonged to Richard Drake. It seemed the plaintiff’s lawyer and his hot-to-trot assistant were having a heart-to-heart with Ms. Newton. He cracked the window and blew cigarette smoke into the cool night air. He knew this complicated things, and he hated complications. He crushed the cigarette out on the dash and flipped the butt onto the floorboard. Then he dialed the number.
“Bone?” the familiar raspy voice answered.
“Yeah, boss.” He paused, dreading what he was about to say. “We’ve got a problem.”
Jack Willistone slammed the phone down on the hook.
“Damnit,” he said out loud, bringing the side of his fist down on the complaint that lay on his desk. It had been served on him just eight hours earlier.
Jack had expected a lawsuit. He just hadn’t expected it so soon. The accident was barely five months old, and the statute of limitations on trucking claims was two years. In his over forty years of hauling freight, Jack had been sued only twice, and both times the lawyers had waited until the bitter end to file the complaint. This lawyer, Richard Drake, had filed in four months.
One month prior to closing the merger with Fleet Atlantic.
An hour after he received the complaint, Jack got the call he was dreading. Out of an abundance of caution, Fleet Atlantic wanted to postpone the closing of the merger until after the disposition of the lawsuit.
“That might take years,” Jack had said, but Fleet Atlantic’s president wouldn’t back down.
“A wrongful death lawsuit with three deaths and a speeding trucker is cause for concern on our end, Jack. I’m sure the case will resolve in your favor or settle, and then we can move forward with the deal.”
The minute Jack hung up the phone, he had dispatched Bone to handle Wilma Newton, Dewey’s widow. Since Buck Bulyard had died in the fire, Willard Carmichael and Dick Morris were bought and paid for, and the plant holding all of the documents was ash and rubble, the only possible weak link was Wilma.
But Drake got to her first . . .
Jack sighed. He would have Bone shadow Drake from here on out, but he would have to fix the Wilma Newton situation. God knows what she might have told them if Dewey talked at home . . .
Jack shook his head and grabbed the phone off the hook. First things first, he thought. Before he could figure out how to handle Wilma, there was a more pressing priority.
He dialed the number for his insurance agent.
“Hawkins,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.
“Bobby, it’s Jack. We got sued today in Henshaw.”
“Damn, that was fast,” Hawkins said. Jack had reported the accident to Hawkins the day after it happened, so Bobby was already up on all the facts.
“Tell me about it,” Jack said. “Listen, Bobby, no fucking around with the lawyer on this one, OK?”
“What do you mean?” Hawkins asked, his voice incredulous.
“I mean I know you insurance companies cut costs by hiring lawyers on the cheap, and I won’t tolerate that mess. I’ve paid BamaSure premiums for over three decades, and this is just my third lawsuit.”
“I assure you, Jack, that we will retain a very capable attorney to handle this file.”
“ ‘Very capable’?” Jack asked, chuckling. “What the fuck does that mean? ‘Very capable’ is the way my dick performs after a six-pack of Budweiser, Bobby boy. I don’t want ‘very capable.’ I want the goddamn best. I want a porn star. Am I clear?”
Several seconds of silence and then Bob’s muffled voice. “Yeah, Jack. I think I get it.”
“You think?” Jack asked. “Well, let me say it another way so there’s no miscommunication. Unless you want me to take my six-figure account somewhere else, Bobby boy”—Jack paused—“I’d suggest you get me the fastest horse in the stable.”
24
At five sharp the following evening, Rick and Dawn were escorted into a small conference room at the Ultron plant in Montgomery. Running on four hours’ sleep, Rick knew he should be tired, but he was juiced on adrenaline. Every ten seconds Wilma Newton’s words from the previous night popped into his head. Dewey Newton’s schedule was “crazy.” Dewey Newton’s schedule forced him to speed. Dewey Newton, at Jack Willistone’s direction, doctored his driver’s logs to fraudulently show compliance with DOT regulations. I have my star witness, Rick knew, blinking and trying to focus on the task at hand.
The room had yellow cinder-block walls, and Rick had the feeling he was in a prison instead of a gasoline plant. Introductions were quickly made. Present were Hank Russell, a tall, heavy-set man with silver hair who was
the president of Ultron’s Montgomery plant; Willard Carmichael, a skinny man with a strawberry-blond mullet and mustache; and Julian Witt, a lawyer from Milhouse & Wright, one of the larger Montgomery firms. Witt wore a navy-blue suit with a red power tie, and after everyone had shaken hands he took the lead.
“Rick, we understand that you have filed a lawsuit against Willistone Trucking Company in Tuscaloosa County.”
Rick smiled. “That’s correct.”
“That lawsuit arises out of a trucking accident that happened on September 2, 2009, involving a Willistone rig hauling Ultron gasoline and a driver named Harold Newton.”
“Yes.” Rick didn’t like being cross-examined by another lawyer, but he could understand Witt’s need to set the tone of the meeting and also grandstand a little in front of his client.
“Your secretary told Mr. Russell that you wanted to talk with any employee of this plant who may have worked at the Tuscaloosa plant on the day in question and loaded Newton’s truck.”
“That’s right,” Rick said. “And she was told that Mr. Carmichael had been one of the loaders that day.”
“Correct. Well then—” A knock at the door interrupted Witt, and the lawyer looked irritated for half a second. Then, as if remembering something, his face broke into a grin. “Oh, I almost forgot. Come in!”
Rick squinted at Witt, then turned his head, not sure what to expect. When the door swung open, Rick’s stomach tightened into a knot.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Julian, my boy!” boomed the unmistakable voice of Jameson Tyler.
For a moment Tyler stood at the door as if to let everyone in the room, especially Rick, get a good look at the Big Cat. Then he strode into the room, ignoring Rick and extending his meaty hand across the table, where Witt shook it eagerly.
“Jameson, I’m so sorry to have started without you.”
“No worries, Jules.”
Tyler grabbed the pot of coffee that lay in the middle of the table and made a show of pouring himself a cup. He still had not looked Rick’s way, and Rick could feel the heat on his face. Rick glanced at Dawn, who raised her eyebrows as if to ask, Who the hell is that?
Jameson fucking Tyler, Rick thought, trying to stay cool.
As Tyler sat down at the head of the table—Of course that’s where he’d sit—Julian Witt, whose obvious man crush on Tyler made Rick nauseous, turned his flushed face back to Rick.
“Sorry, Rick, but we thought it only fair to invite Willistone’s lawyer to this little soiree.”
Willistone’s lawyer? Rick thought, feeling his stomach jump. This had to be a joke.
“You are Willistone’s lawyer?”
Rick asked what he was thinking, unable to contain the contempt in his voice as he glared at the man who had withdrawn Jones & Butler’s offer of employment to Rick nine months before.
Tyler’s mouth curved into a thousand-megawatt smile. “I am indeed. And you represent Ms. Wilcox.” Tyler chuckled, chewing on the tip of his pen. “I can’t believe the Professor referred you this case. If I didn’t believe he’d lost his mind before, I definitely do now.”
Rick felt heat from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his feet as he glared a hole into Tyler, whose arrogant grin only widened. How could he possibly know about the Professor?
“Now, don’t get mad, Rick. None of us here want another YouTube incident. Deep breaths now, boy. Deep breaths.” Tyler’s eyes moved to Dawn, and he cocked his head to the side. “Well, well, well . . .” he said, extending his hand. “Jameson Tyler.”
“Dawn Murphy,” Dawn said, giving Tyler’s hand a quick shake, but Tyler didn’t let go.
“You look familiar, Ms. Murphy. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” Dawn said, her voice firm, wriggling her hand out of his grasp. “If we did, you must not have made much of an impression.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Tyler said, pausing, still looking at Dawn. “We have. I just can’t place it. What’s your—?”
“Can we got on with this?” Rick interrupted, glancing at Hank Russell, Ultron’s silver-haired president, who did not seem to be enjoying himself any more than Rick did, before glaring at Julian Witt.
“Go for it,” Witt said, winking at Tyler, who had crossed his legs, his eyes containing that amused I know something you don’t look Rick had remembered from his days clerking for the bastard.
“Mr. Carmichael, did you know Harold ‘Dewey’ Newton?” Rick began, trying to keep his voice calm.
Carmichael pulled on his strawberry-blond mustache and looked at the table. “I knew Dewey. Not well or nuthin’, but I knew who he wuz.”
Rick nodded, forcing himself to look only at Willard. “Do you remember loading his truck the morning of September 2, 2009?”
Again, Willard pulled on his mustache. “Can’t say that I remember the date or nuthin’. It was around Labor Day, I ’spect. I just remember later that day hearing that Dewey done been in a bad wreck.”
Rick leaned forward. “What do you remember about loading his truck that morning?”
Carmichael hesitated for a couple of seconds, looking around the table. Great, Rick thought, wondering how many times the poor SOB had already been through this with Julian Witt.
“Honestly, sir, I don’t remember nuthin’ much at all about loading the truck that morning. Everything seemed normal to me.”
“Did Mr. Newton seem in a rush?”
“I think he’s answered the question, Rick,” Tyler interjected, but Rick didn’t even look at the bastard.
“Did Mr. Newton seem in a rush?” Rick repeated, unable to control his irritation.
“Hey, boy,” Tyler said, banging the table with his fist. “You deaf or something? He said he doesn’t remember what happened that morning.”
Again, Rick didn’t look at Tyler. Instead, he glared at Julian Witt. “I came here because Mr. Russell said I could ask Mr. Carmichael some questions. If you want to cut the meeting off, Julian, just say the word. Otherwise, I’d like to keep going.”
“W-well . . .” Witt stammered, glancing at Tyler and then back at Rick. “I think Jameson has a point. I mean, if Mr. Carmichael doesn’t remember—”
“Willard, was Dewey in a rush?” Hank Russell’s voice punctured the air like a knife.
“Mr. Russell—” Julian began, but Russell cut him off.
“I’m busy, Julian. I got a gasoline plant to run and I don’t have time for this song and dance. Was he, Willard?”
“No, sir, boss. Not that I recall. But like I said, I just don’t remember that much.”
Hank turned to Rick. “Next question.”
“Had you loaded Dewey’s rig prior to that day?”
Willard shrugged his shoulders. “I ’spect.”
“Do you ever remember him being in a hurry?”
Willard shrugged again but didn’t say anything.
“Answer the question, Willard,” Hank prodded.
“Not that I recall,” Willard finally said, staring at the table.
“Did he ever say anything to you about the schedule he was on at Willistone?”
Willard wrinkled up his face like he didn’t understand the question.
Rick tried again. “Did Dewey Newton ever complain to you about how much he was having to drive or whether he was having to speed to make loads on time?”
Willard shook his head. “Oh, no. Dewey never said nothing to me like that. Least not that I recall.”
“I think that about covers anything relevant you could ask,” Witt said. “I’m not going to let him answer anything else unless you set up a deposition.”
“One more question,” Rick said, tapping his pen on the notepad he’d brought with him and praying Witt wouldn’t cut him off. A deposition was a discovery tool where a lawyer could ask questions
of a witness under oath, and the answers were taken down by a court reporter and converted to a transcript. Rick might take Willard’s deposition down the road, but depositions tended to be expensive, and he did not want to have to set up a deposition to ask one question. “I promise it’s relevant.”
Witt sighed but didn’t say anything.
“Mr. Carmichael,” Rick began. “Do you remember if anyone else helped you load Dewey’s truck the morning of the accident?”
Willard again looked around the table, but none of the other men spoke. They all knew it was an appropriate question. And all of them already know the answer.
“Answer the question, Willard,” Hank interrupted.
“It was Mule,” Willard blurted. “I mean Dick. Dick Morris. We all called him Mule.”
Rick turned to Witt. “Does Dick Morris work here at the Montgomery plant?”
“No,” Witt said, his voice firm and matter-of-fact. “Nor does he work at any other Ultron plant. We have no information on Morris.”
“I think he has family up near Faunsdale, but—”
“That’s enough, Mr. Carmichael,” Witt interrupted, glaring at Willard. “You are excused now.”
Carmichael hesitated, then looked around Witt to Hank Russell, who waved him off. “You can get to work now, Willard. Thanks for coming in.”
Willard Carmichael stood awkwardly and nodded to Rick. “Evenin’.”
Rick nodded back and also stood. Then he looked at Hank Russell. “Mr. Russell, thank you for setting this meeting up.”
Russell rose from his seat and extended his hand. “My pleasure, son. Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything else.”
Rick took the card and put it in his pocket. Then he shook Russell’s hand.
“Actually, Rick,” Julian Witt interceded, “you should call me if you need anything else. Ultron is represented by counsel, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to contact Mr. Russell directly.”
Rick glanced at Russell long enough to see him roll his eyes, and Rick stifled a laugh.
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