“I told him to go fuck himself,” Rick said, looking sheepish. “The next day Jameson Tyler called and terminated my contract with Jones & Butler. Said that the firm was embarrassed by the incident and that they didn’t have room for a hothead who couldn’t control his emotions. I tried to get another job somewhere else, but no one would touch me. Hanging up a shingle was the last resort, in case you were wondering.”
Dawn ate a chip and looked at her plate, trying to take it all in.
“Have you talked to the Professor since?”
“Just once,” Rick said, shaking his head. “When he referred me Ruth Ann’s case.”
“It’s a good case, isn’t it?”
Rick shrugged. “It’s not a guaranteed win if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But he could’ve referred it to anyone, right?”
Rick nodded. “Sure. What’s your point? Oh, let me guess. You took Evidence from the Professor and worship the ground he walks on like everyone else.”
Dawn’s face turned pale. “I . . . uh . . . I did have Evidence with him, and . . .”
Something’s wrong, Rick thought. Dawn looked visibly upset, like she might cry.
“. . . I did like him,” Dawn continued. “I thought he was a good teacher.”
She’s just worried you’re going to be mad at her for liking him, Rick realized, feeling guilty.
“No worries,” Rick quickly recovered. “He was a good teacher.” For a moment he paused. When he spoke again, his words were soft, just above a whisper.
“Can I ask you a question?” Don’t do this, Rick tried to tell himself, but it was no use.
“Sure.”
“Why do you do it? Working for me, I mean. You’re smart, beautiful. Grades are fantastic. You could be working for someone who could afford to pay you. Why this job? Why me?”
Dawn looked up, and her face was even paler than before.
You moron, Rick thought. Can’t you just enjoy a good thing?
“Like I said when we first met. I wanted to see the life of a plaintiff’s lawyer to get a broad view before making any long-range career choices. I think this is good for me. And I’m enjoying it. I’ve already done more for you this week than I did all last summer clerking for Tomkins & Fisher.”
“That’s a good group,” Rick said.
“I like working for you better,” Dawn said. The color had returned to her face, and her eyes radiated with warmth.
“I like it too,” Rick said, holding his fist out, which she nudged with her own.
Dawn watched from the window as Rick’s Saturn pulled out of the complex.
“I have to tell him,” she whispered, looking down at the check she held in her hand. It came in the mail today and was for the agreed amount, written from what must be a personal checking account. At the top left corner was a Tuscaloosa address, above which in bold letters was his name. “Thomas J. McMurtrie.” Dawn closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cold glass. “I have to.”
28
When Jameson Tyler walked in the door of his two-story townhouse in Homewood, he was too wired to go to sleep. The whole drive home he kept thinking of the young lady that had accompanied Rick Drake to the Ultron plant. Dawn Murphy . . . He knew he had seen the girl before, and her name had tickled a memory. But it can’t be, he kept telling himself. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling, and a few minutes later he pulled up the folder entitled “Professor Investigation” on his computer. Then he clicked on the photographs and waited for confirmation.
Well, I’ll be damned, he thought, smiling, as the first photograph popped up on the flat screen. It can be.
Jameson had never met “Dawn” before, but he definitely knew who she was. As he looked at her perfectly shaped breasts poking through the wet T-shirt, he couldn’t help but laugh out loud. How in the hell did she end up working for Rick Drake? Jameson shook his head, but his gut immediately told him the answer. Same way Drake ended up with the Wilcox case. The Professor.
“You can’t take back your sins, Tom,” Jameson laughed as he continued to admire Dawn Murphy’s rain-soaked body. Referring Drake a case he can’t handle and getting your paramour a new job isn’t going to help them. Jameson clicked off the computer and began to whistle as he walked down the hall to fix himself a drink.
It’s just going to make my life easier.
29
As the sun set over Henshaw County, Rick stood in the middle of the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82, drinking a twenty-ounce Sun Drop and waiting for the verdict. Next to him a white-bearded man with a black Stetson hat, also holding a Sun Drop, pointed east.
“With the Honda right here when it started its turn and the rig a hundred yards out”—the man had placed an orange cone a hundred yards down the shoulder of the road—“the bottom line is . . .”
Rick held his breath. He was paying two thousand dollars for this opinion.
“. . . it’s just impossible to tell whether the driver of the Honda should’ve seen the rig before starting his turn.”
Shit, Rick thought, glancing over to the edge of the highway, where Dawn’s expression registered the same thought. Shit . . .
At seventy-five years old, Ted Holt had been reconstructing accidents for fifteen years, which was a retirement gig after he had spent most of his life working for the Swift Trucking Company in Fort Worth, Texas. Rick had gotten to know Ted during Rick’s time clerking at Jones & Butler, as Holt was Jameson Tyler’s go-to expert in wheels cases. Rick remembered Jameson saying that Ted was “the best in the business” and that the affable Texan could make a jury eat out of his hand.
When Holt had stepped out of his rental car to begin his inspection, looking ever the Texan with his jeans, plaid flannel shirt, and black Stetson, Rick had smiled, knowing he’d gotten the jump on Tyler.
Now, though, none of that mattered.
“Honestly, Rick, I just can’t say,” Ted said, talking in his slow drawl. “At ninety-five yards, which is still in the dip, Bradshaw probably should’ve seen the rig. At a hundred and five yards, Bradshaw probably can’t see shit. But at a hundred”—Holt rubbed his chin—“it’s just too close to call. We’re talking a couple of yards and split seconds. I”—he scratched his head and walked out of the road as a car began to come toward them—“I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking the stand.”
Great. I’m sure you’ll feel comfortable depositing my two thousand dollars, Rick thought, taking a long sip of Sun Drop and trying to calm down.
But as the sugar from the soft drink flooded his system, Rick knew he was being shortsighted. If Ted couldn’t give him a strong opinion, then he’d rather know that now than find out at trial after Tyler had torn him and Rick to shreds.
“I appreciate you shooting straight with me, Ted,” Rick managed.
Ted nodded, and Rick could tell he felt bad.
“If it makes you feel any better, I doubt Jameson will find anyone either.”
That did make Rick feel better. Sort of.
“Anyway,” Ted said, slapping Rick on the back. “Sorry I couldn’t help.”
Rick and Dawn stood in front of Rick’s Saturn as the last vestiges of sunlight began to dissipate, neither speaking. Like a punch-drunk boxer, Rick tried to steady himself from the blow of Holt’s unhelpful opinion. He knew he couldn’t afford another opinion. He’d have to try the case without an expert and hope to hell that Holt’s prediction that Tyler would not be able to get one was correct. Turning his head, Rick looked beyond Ms. Rose’s store to the south, where miles and miles of farmland stretched across Henshaw County and into Marengo County. The Drake farm was only three miles away.
Rick had hoped that after a successful meeting with Ted Holt, he and Dawn could stop by the farm and tell his parents about his new case. It had been a long time since he’d had something good to share wit
h them. They had both been so disappointed when Jones & Butler terminated his contract, especially Rick’s father. “Seven years of putting you through college and law school and you blow everything we worked for in a matter of seconds,” Billy Drake had said, storming out of the house after Rick broke the news. Since then Rick had barely talked with his father, and while his mother was more approachable, the sadness in her voice and eyes was difficult to take.
“How can y’all drink that?” Dawn finally asked, nodding at the plastic bottle in Rick’s hand.
“Sun Drop?” Rick said, unable to suppress his smile. “Are you kidding? How can you not?”
Dawn smirked. “There’s so much sugar . . .” She had barely taken three sips of hers, but like a good sport she’d tried to tough it out.
“So . . . what now?” she asked.
Rick looked into her brown eyes, thinking of the other night at her apartment. Things had been a little uncomfortable since then, neither of them quite knowing how to act around each other.
“Well,” Rick began, forcing his eyes away from her, “it looks like our case on liability will rest in the capable hands of Sheriff Jimmy Ballard. We’ll have to pump the speed angle and not emphasize whether Bradshaw should have seen the rig. I just hope Ted is right about Tyler. If Tyler finds an accident reconstructionist and we don’t have one to cancel him out, that could hurt.”
Rick sighed as they both climbed into the Saturn. He pulled the car toward the exit onto Highway 82, and he hesitated, knowing that he could turn right and be at the farm in five minutes. His mother probably had a good dinner waiting, with plenty for him and Dawn.
Shaking his head, Rick turned the wheel left. As they headed toward Tuscaloosa, he felt Dawn’s hand touch his forearm.
“Hey,” she said, smiling. “I know that didn’t go like you hoped, but don’t forget about Wilma. Even without an accident reconstructionist or Rose Batson, and even if Dick Morris and Faith Bulyard turn out to be dead ends, we’ve still got Wilma.”
Rick couldn’t help but smile back at her. She was right. If Dewey Newton’s widow told the jury that her husband was forced to speed to meet his schedule and that she helped him fraudulently record his driver’s logs, then combined with Sheriff Ballard’s testimony that Dewey was speeding, nothing else would matter. Wilma would be a lot more powerful than any hired-gun accident reconstructionist.
Rick nodded, feeling a deep sense of resolve. Softly, almost to himself, he repeated Dawn’s words.
“We’ve still got Wilma.”
30
Wilma Newton left the Sands fifteen minutes after closing time, tired and wishing she could go home. But now she had to crank it up for job number two. She grabbed a pint of Jack Daniel’s out of her glove box and took a swig. “Goddamn,” she said out loud, feeling the burn of the whiskey as it made its way down her throat.
It was about a twenty-minute drive from the Sands to the Sundowners Club, and Wilma had found that she did better when she started out with a buzz. Ironically, staying semidrunk allowed her to focus better on the job at hand—pleasing the men that came in. Flirting with them, persuading them to pay for a private dance, and literally talking and dancing the money out of their pockets. When the buzz wore off and she was back to the real world—picking up her kids from Ms. Yost’s house or refilling a pitcher of iced tea at the Sands—she hated what she had become. Unfortunately, it was the only way she could support her kids by herself.
She had come back to Boone’s Hill because it was the only home she had ever known. Her mom and dad were dead, but Ms. Yost—her mom’s best friend—was still around, and Wilma had been able to rent a small house down the road from her.
Lately, the rent was getting hard to pay. Also, Laurie Ann would start middle school in the fall. She was pretty and wanted to be a cheerleader. Those outfits cost money—more than Wilma had. She wanted Laurie Ann and Jackie, her youngest, to have the things she never had. Since there was nobody around but her, she knew she had to do something.
So a month earlier she had gone looking for a second job. She worked 2:00 p.m. to 10:00 p.m. at the Sands Monday through Saturday, so she had her mornings and late nights free. Her first thought had been a morning waitressing gig, but then she had met Darla Ford. Darla had come into the Sands for a cup of coffee right before closing one night. Said she was a “dancer” and needed a little energy boost before she started work. They struck up a conversation—Darla was a regular chatterbox—and Wilma asked her what a waitress might make at the club. Darla laughed and said, “Not much.” The money was in the “skin.” The dancers—the good ones—made twice what the waitresses made. Then she told Wilma that she had made fifty thousand dollars the year before.
Wilma had not hesitated. Fifty thousand dollars! She had gone to the Sundowners Club that night, and after enduring a job interview that included taking off all her clothes, leaning over to touch her toes, and getting slapped on the ass by the owner, Larry Tucker, she was hired.
The first weekend had been awful, and she thought she might be fired. She was uptight, nervous, and, according to Darla, a “buzzkill.” Darla, whose stage name was Nikita, finally made her do three quick shots of whiskey, and things got better. During the last two hours of the first weekend, she had three men ask for lap dances. After that she picked a stage name and Smokey was born.
She was now over a month into her job, and she was doing pretty well. On course to make $30K if she kept it up.
As she parked in the lot, which was framed in the neon blue light of the Sundowners Club sign, she took another shot of Jack and closed her eyes, allowing the hot liquid to settle into her stomach before turning off the car. Showtime.
He watched her walk into the club before he stepped out of the car. He lit a cigarette and leaned against the El Camino, taking in his surroundings. The Sundowners Club was like so many other joints he’d been in. Concrete-slab building, parking lot with only a couple of light poles, long neon sign marking the front door, and broken beer bottles strewn everywhere. Good place to get a tire blown out, he thought, stomping out his cigarette. He reached in the car and took a little Afta and dabbed it on his stubbly face. He wore a golf shirt, khaki pants, and a pair of dusty boots. Six feet three inches tall, he knew he wasn’t handsome, but he had never had much problem with the ladies, or anything else for that matter. Of course, he didn’t give a shit, which he knew was the secret to his success. With women, with work—hell, with everything. Jim Bone Wheeler, a.k.a. the Bone, just didn’t give a shit.
As he walked toward the front door, he laughed out loud thinking of the thousands of dollars in cash in his wallet and his assignment from the boss.
31
This is my lucky night, Wilma thought. Lap dances were twenty dollars a pop and this man, James, had already paid for five of them. They were sitting at a table in the corner of the club, and she was drinking a Jack and Coke, which he had bought for her. Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me” was blaring from the speakers, and Darla Ford, a.k.a. Nikita, was sliding down the pole on the main stage while Tammie Gentry, a.k.a. Sweet & Nasty, was pouring a sack of flour all over Nikita and herself. It was one of the highlight dances that always drew a big crowd. Most nights Wilma liked to be walking around during this dance, trying to seize on the momentum by landing a few lap dances right after the show was over. But tonight she had already hit the jackpot.
As Nikita and Sweet & Nasty’s show was coming to a close, James leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Listen, is there a VIP room where I can get a private dance without all these folks around?”
For a moment Wilma panicked. Lap dances were performed on a long bench near the back of the building. There was a small divider every few feet, separating the bench into little stalls. She was not aware of a more private area.
“I’ll be right back, honey.”
Without waiting for an answer, Wilma approached the main stage.
Darla was walking down the steps, covered in a towel.
“Smokey is smokin’ tonight,” Darla said, hugging Wilma. “How was the show?”
“Great, as always,” Wilma replied. “Listen, this guy back there”—Wilma positioned herself so Darla could see—“is asking about a VIP room. Do we have one of those?”
“You’re shitting me,” Darla answered, walking to the bar while Wilma tagged close behind. “Seven and Seven, Saint Peter,” she bellowed, and the bartender—a bearded man named Peter—slid the already-made drink over to Darla. “Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said, winking at him and downing half her drink in one swallow. Then she turned and looked at Wilma.
“Listen, honey, if he’ll pay a hundred dollars, then go through that door past the benches. There is a stairwell that will take you upstairs to a hallway with two rooms. You can use either one. The first has an old beat-up leather chair, and the other one has a couch.”
“What do you do up there? I mean, I guess you’re supposed to . . .” She stopped because she didn’t have a clue what she was supposed to do.
“Anything and everything. There are no cameras up there. No rules like there are on the floor. If you like him and he’s nice, show him a good time. If not, then don’t.”
“How long should I stay up there?”
“As long as he’s paying and you’re comfortable.”
Wilma had another question, but she wasn’t sure how to ask it. She looked back at James and then Darla.
“Have you ever . . . ? I mean . . . up there have you ever let the guy . . . ?”
“Yes, honey. I have.” She put her hands on Darla’s shoulders. “But only because I’ve wanted to. I’ve gotten hot just like the guy. The guy’s hard, he’s throwing money at you, it’s, you know . . . you’re still a woman. But I don’t do it because he’s paying for it—I do it because I want to. There’s a difference.” Darla drained the rest of her drink and put her glass on the bar.
The Professor Page 13
