The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  Taking a deep breath, Rick reviewed his notes and prayed that Dawn or Powell would find Dick “Mule” Morris soon. Rick had called Wilma last night, and she had no memory of seeing any bills of lading. So, unless they found Mule Morris and Mule remembered the bills or Dewey Newton’s crazy schedule, all the information gained from Faith Bulyard would be useless.

  Dawn was back at the office now, making phone calls and searching every corner of the Internet, while Powell had gone to the Crawfish Festival this morning. We’ll get him, Rick told himself, thinking of the trial date looming less than two months away. We have to.

  The sound of foot patter jerked Rick’s eyes open, and his stomach tightened. Seconds later the door to the room opened, and Rose Batson stepped through, looking pissed off and ready to kick ass.

  “All right, let’s get this over with. I got thirty minutes.”

  “Ms. Batson, let me show you what I’m going to mark as Defendant’s Exhibit A,” Tyler said, his voice gentle and deferential, two qualities that Rick could not conceive Jameson Tyler possessing. Give the man an Oscar, Rick thought, trying not to cringe as Tyler placed Ms. Rose’s statement in front of her.

  Outside of Rick, Tyler, and Ms. Rose, the only other person in the apartment was a striking blond court reporter named Vicki. Vicki had set her stenograph machine on a coffee table in the living area.

  “OK.” Ms. Rose took the statement and glanced down at it. She was sitting in a worn La-Z-Boy, which Rick figured was the chair she watched TV in every night.

  “Ms. Batson, what is Exhibit A?”

  “It’s the statement I wrote after the accident.” Ms. Rose sounded firm but guarded, and she looked at Tyler as if he might be a dangerous animal. Which, of course, he is, Rick thought.

  “And would you please read it into the record, ma’am.”

  Ms. Rose took a pair of bifocals out of her shirt pocket and held the piece of paper in front of her. Then she read: “Walked outside to get a breath of fresh air. Saw eighteen-wheeler coming west on 82. Saw a Honda coming east. Honda put blinker on to turn on Limestone Bottom. Honda turned in front of the rig, and trucker put on the brakes. When crash occurred, I was knocked out for a few minutes.” Ms. Rose took off her glasses and looked up from the paper.

  Tyler smiled. “And does what you just read fairly and accurately depict your memory of the accident?” Tyler said, his voice remaining in that deferential tone that Rick had never heard before.

  “I don’t remember much about the accident,” Ms. Rose started. “I wrote this right after it happened and I didn’t have no reason to lie.”

  Tyler crossed his legs and paused. “Ms. Batson, you wrote Exhibit A shortly after the accident occurred, correct?”

  “Yes, that’s what I just said.”

  “And that’s your signature at the bottom of the page, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ms. Batson, your statement indicates—and I quote—‘that the Honda turned in front of the rig, and trucker put on the brakes,’ correct?”

  “Right,” Ms. Rose said, shooting Rick a glance. “That’s what I saw.”

  “And I believe you’ve told me over the phone that the rig was just a hundred yards away from the Honda when the driver of the Honda started turning. Is that correct?”

  Rick tensed, recognizing a setup question when he heard one. A sense of dread came over him.

  Rose nodded. “Yes. There and abouts.”

  “I have nothing further,” Jameson said, turning and smiling at Rick as Rick’s dread intensified.

  He has an expert, Rick thought, walking through the gravel to his car with his head down, anxiety pulsing through his veins. Why else would he ask her to confirm the distance? He talked to her before just like I did, and he’s found someone that will say that Bradshaw should’ve seen the rig. Rick felt a wave of nausea. If Tyler had an accident reconstructionist and he didn’t, then . . . He hasn’t disclosed an expert yet. I could be reading too much into it.

  Rick tried to shake off his anxiety but it was impossible. He had known this deposition would be bad for his case, but he felt uneasy, as if he was missing something important.

  He had almost reached his car when Tyler’s voice stopped him.

  “See the order setting trial, Rick?” Tyler asked, pointing his keyless entry device at the crimson Porsche parked next to Rick’s Saturn. The court reporter, Vicki, was walking next to him.

  “June 7,” Rick said.

  Tyler put his file in the Porsche, bent over, and started the car, while Vicki walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger-side door. Rick had not realized they had ridden together.

  “That’s pretty close,” Tyler continued, leaving his car door open and approaching Rick. “You know, even with Ms. Batson’s testimony, which almost assures that we’ll win at trial, my client would still appreciate a settlement demand. No use trying a case if the parties can agree on something.”

  Despite the bastard’s arrogant delivery, Rick felt goose bumps break out on his arm at the mention of settlement. “I’ll talk with Ms. Wilcox and get back to you,” Rick said.

  “You do that,” Tyler said. “You might also want to talk with the Professor. I would hope that he’d want you to cut your losses and get something for his friend.”

  Rick snorted, feeling his blood pressure rise. “I think I can manage that decision on my own.”

  “I bet you can,” Tyler said, laughing. Then he sighed. “You know, for the life of me I can’t understand why the Professor referred this case to you. I mean, I guess he didn’t want to refer Jerry a dog, but still. One of Jerry’s minions could have probably settled this case pretty quick. So why you?” He paused. “You want to hear my theory?”

  “Do I have a choice?” Rick asked.

  “I think he wanted to get back at the student that did him in. I think he must not think much of Ms. Wilcox either. Maybe she’s an old flame that ended bad, or one of Julie’s friends that he didn’t care for. Anyway, I think he referred you this case because he knew you couldn’t handle it. The incident with you was part of the reason for his retirement, so he wanted to stick it to you by giving you a case that you would most certainly lose.” Tyler paused. “What a bastard,” he said, chuckling. “But that’s not even the worst of it. Hiring his whore to work for you. Now that just takes the cake.”

  Rick felt a wave of heat roll down his body. “What did you just say?”

  Tyler’s smile spread wide across his face. “His whore.” Tyler reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a manila folder. “Here, see for yourself.”

  Rick took the folder. When he saw the first photograph, his heart constricted. What th— ?

  “My favorite is the wet T-shirt shot,” Tyler continued, pointing as Rick flipped through the photographs. “No one can accuse Tom of having bad taste in his old age. Ms. Murphy is a fine piece if I ever saw one. Well . . .” Tyler ripped the folder from Rick, who was too stunned to say anything.

  “Let me know if your client wants to put this case out of its misery,” Tyler said, slapping Rick on the back and grabbing the open door of the Porsche. “We’ve just retained an accident reconstructionist, and it would be nice to avoid that expense.” Tyler smiled, showing all of his teeth. “Have you hired an expert yet, Rick?”

  “Y-y-you’re wrong,” Rick stammered, ignoring the question. “About Dawn.”

  Tyler shook his head. “Am I? Are you paying Ms. Murphy?”

  When Rick didn’t answer, Tyler laughed long and hard. “Dawn Murphy is in the top twenty percent of her class, son. Lives with her mother and has a five-year-old kid.” He paused. “That ain’t the type of girl who works pro bono.”

  As Rick struggled to say something, anything, Tyler sat down in the Porsche. He put the car in gear and whipped it around, slinging gravel to the side. Then he pulled in front of Rick and rolled down
the window.

  “Wake up and smell the coffee, Rick. The Professor is playing you like a fiddle.”

  36

  Rick sped back to Tuscaloosa in a stunned fog. All he could see in his mind were the photographs that Tyler had showed him. Dawn hugging the Professor. Dawn, wearing a wet T-shirt, leaning into the Professor. The outline of Dawn’s nipples through the wet T-shirt. And the needy look on the Professor’s face. Just below the fog of his confused thoughts, he knew he should be concerned about the case. As Rick had dreaded, Tyler had retained an accident reconstructionist. Rick, on the other hand, had been shot down by Ted Holt and couldn’t afford a second opinion.

  But the anxiety over Tyler’s expert was drowned out by his anger at seeing the photographs. If it’s true . . . He squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Tyler’s just trying to get under my skin. It can’t be true. It can’t be . . .

  But Rick knew that some of Tyler’s comments had the ring of truth to them. Why did Dawn work for him? She did have a young child and did live with her mother. How could she afford to work for free? Rick had always questioned Dawn’s motivation. So, if she’s lying, then who would want to pay her to work for me?

  Rick could think of only one person and again squeezed the wheel, seeing the photographs play through his mind like a PowerPoint presentation. Only one way to find out, he knew as he reached downtown and turned onto Greensboro Avenue.

  He parked the Saturn in front of the office and jumped out of the car, his heartbeat racing. Just be cool, he told himself as he took the steps two at a time, his anger increasing with each step. Just . . . be . . . cool . . .

  Rick opened the door and didn’t bother to shut it. “Dawn!” he yelled, forgetting everything but the photographs. The Professor is playing you like a fiddle, Tyler had said, and Rick’s entire body tensed as he remembered the look on the SOB’s face. “Dawn!”

  “Well, hello to you too,” Frankie said, and Rick wheeled to face his secretary. He hadn’t even noticed her when he had barreled in.

  “Where’s—?”

  “In the conference room.”

  Rick started for the door as Frankie added, “She has a visitor.”

  Rick jerked the door open and glared into the room. “Are you . . . ?” He stopped when he saw who was there.

  “Hey, brother,” Powell said, eating from a massive bag of vinegar and salt potato chips and drinking a canned Miller High Life beer. “Want a cold one?” Powell twisted a can out of the six-pack sitting on the table and tossed it to Rick. Rick caught it and looked at Dawn, whose face was glowing red. She too was drinking from a Miller High Life can. It was hard to look at her without thinking of the wet T-shirt photograph.

  “What’s going on?” Rick asked. “You two know each other?”

  “We just met,” Dawn said, sounding giddy. “I thought I was good at finding people, but your friend here . . .” Dawn looked toward Powell, who popped a chip in his mouth and winked at Rick.

  “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Rick asked, still not getting it as he held the lukewarm beer in his hand.

  “I found him, brother,” Powell said, standing up and licking his fingers. “I found Mule.”

  37

  Faunsdale is a sleepy town about forty-five minutes west of Tuscaloosa. In most respects it’s like every other small town in the state. It has one school, where all the kids go, one stoplight, and a couple of restaurants. But for one weekend every April, Faunsdale becomes the center of Alabama. The Alabama Crawfish Festival was started in 1992 by John “Ca-John” Broussard, who got his nickname from his roots in southern Louisiana. The center, or hub, of the festival is the Faunsdale Bar & Grill, also called Ca-John’s, which Ca-John bought in 1995. There is a cooking area in the street outside the restaurant, where thousands of pounds of crawfish are prepared. On the Friday of the festival, crawfish is served starting at 11:00 a.m. and continues to be served until the last song is sung on Saturday night. Faunsdale is known for good crawfish, good beer, and good music, and Alabamians and even folks from other states flock there every April.

  Powell loved the Crawfish Festival, having attended the last three years by himself. This year he’d gotten there early and started asking questions. After three hours, two beers, and a half pound of crawfish, he’d run into a man named Doolittle Morris, whom everyone seemed to call Doo. Doo’s job at the festival was to run the mechanical bull, which had been set up right outside of Ca-John’s. After admittedly asking several questions about the operation of the mechanical bull, which Powell was fascinated by, he finally got around to asking Doo if he knew a Dick Morris. Doo had laughed long and hard.

  “Only all my life,” Doo had said. “Mule’s my cousin.”

  So now here they were. Rick and Dawn. Seated in the back of Ca-John’s, gazing across the table at Dick “Mule” Morris.

  Rick immediately understood the reason for the nickname. The man must have been six feet five inches tall and well over three hundred pounds.

  “Listen, I can make this quick.” Mule said. He spoke with a slight lisp and his eyes were droopy. “The day Dewey died, he didn’t even get to our place until nine forty-five, ’cause his rig wasn’t ready.” Mule chuckled. “Ol’ Dewey was just a-cussing. We got the trailer hooked on pretty quick but it didn’t matter. It was still almost ten before he hit the road, and he had to be in Montgomery by eleven.” Lowering his voice, Mule placed his gigantic elbows on the table and added, “I still remember the last thing he said to me.”

  Rick’s adrenaline had hit overload, but he forced the question out with as much calm as he could muster. “What did he say, Mule?”

  “He said, ‘Guess I’ll either make it or I’ll get a ticket. Same shit, different day.’ ”

  Rick wanted to kiss Mule Morris on the forehead.

  “Mule, had you loaded Dewey Newton’s truck prior to the day of the accident?”

  “Oh, yeah. I probably saw Dewey in there once, maybe twice a week.”

  “Did he ever complain about his schedule before the accident?”

  Mule nodded. “Dewey was always bitching about that, and it wasn’t just him. All those Willistone drivers did.”

  Rick glanced at Dawn for a second, and her eyes were as wide as saucers. Holy shit, he thought.

  “I tell you what you need,” Mule continued, leaning back and rubbing his chin. “Every time a driver left the yard with a load, we did a bill of lading. The bill would have the time they were supposed to deliver the load already on it, and we’d stamp the pickup time on the front. The bill for Dewey’s run the day of the accident was stamped 9:57 or something like that and the delivery time, like I said, was 11:00. That ain’t enough time to get to Montgomery by the speed limit.” He paused. “I stamped a bunch of bills, and there was a lot of that going on. I told our plant manager about it, and he said not to worry.” Mule shrugged, shaking his head. “So I didn’t.”

  “We’ve tried to get the bills,” Dawn chimed in. “But the Ultron plant burned to the ground the night of the accident.”

  Mule opened his mouth, then nodded, as if he had just remembered something. “The fire . . .” He shook his head and took a deep breath. For a second Rick thought he was going to say something else, but instead he just smiled. “Is there anything more I can help you with?”

  Rick looked at Mule, knowing there was just one other thing. The most important thing. “Mr. Morris, will you testify to everything you just told us at trial?”

  Mule’s smile widened, and he slammed both hands on the table. “Damn right I will. I liked Dewey Newton. He’s dead because of the schedule he was on, same as the people in that Honda.” Mule stood up and grabbed a coaster from the table across from them. He turned the coaster around and wrote two phone numbers on the back. “Here’s how to reach me. Just let me know when and where, and I’ll be there.” He slapped Rick on the ba
ck. “You got a card?”

  Rick fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. Mule snatched it from him and leaned down. “I may send y’all a little surprise in the mail. A little extra butter on the bread, if you know what I mean.”

  Rick didn’t have a clue what he meant, but he smiled back. “Sounds . . . good,” Rick stammered.

  “All right, then. Best get back to the festival. Been aiming to ride Doo’s bull all night.” He stuck out his hand, and Rick shook it. “Damn nice to meet you Rick. Ms. Dawn.”

  Rick watched Mule walk all the way out of the bar. Then he turned to Dawn, whose eyes were just as wild as his own.

  “Holy shit!” they both screamed at the same time.

  Rick grasped Dawn in a bear hug and squeezed her tight, and she squealed in pain and delight. All thoughts of the conversation with Jameson Tyler were gone. Dick “Mule” Morris was on the team and batting cleanup. This case just went from good to a grand slam home run, Rick thought.

  They were both so excited that neither of them noticed the stubbly-faced man who followed Mule out the door.

  38

  Mule Morris drove a 1987 Ford F-150 pickup truck and lived in a clapboard house three miles from the Faunsdale Bar & Grill. After drinking three more beers and eating another pound of crawfish, Mule said good-bye to his cousin and headed home. It felt good telling someone about Dewey Newton. He had felt guilty for six months for not saying something right after it happened and even guiltier for accepting the $5K to stay silent. He didn’t owe nobody nothing, and he was tired of having a guilty conscience.