Mule saw his little piece of heaven up on the right and pressed the brake to begin slowing down.
Nothing happened.
What the . . . ? Mule slammed his foot this time on the brake, and still nothing. “Oh, shit.” Up ahead, past his house, Highway 25 made a sharp right turn. He slammed his foot three more times on the brake and still nothing. The yellow sign marking the ninety-degree turn gave a maximum speed to safely make the turn at twenty-five. Mule looked at the speedometer. He was going fifty-five.
“Fuck!”
Mule Morris turned the wheel hard right and braced himself.
The truck crashed into the metal railing that guarded the far side of the highway, and for a second Mule thought the railing would hold. But the truck was going too fast. It broke through the railing and hurtled down the steep embankment. Mule squeezed the wheel till his knuckles were chalk white. If I can make it all the way to the bottom, maybe it flattens . . .
The truck flipped on its side, and Mule’s shoulder exploded in pain.
Somebody tripped my brakes, he thought, picturing the man who made him the bribe. Then out of the corner of his eye he saw the clump of trees through the windshield.
I’m going to die.
39
Rick, Dawn, and Powell laughed all the way back to Tuscaloosa. While Rick and Dawn had been meeting with Mule, Powell had won the annual Crawfish Eating contest, and for his victory he had been given the Crawfish Cup, a huge bowl of a trophy that had a picture of a crawfish emblazoned on the side of it. Since the contest, Powell had delighted in filling the cup with beer and drinking from it, which he was doing now in the backseat of the Saturn.
“All right, Delta Dawn, your turn,” Powell said, handing her the full cup.
“Powell, I’ve had enough. And would you please stop calling me that.”
Of course her protests just led Rick and Powell to serenade her with “Delta Dawn” for the tenth time since she’d said she hated the song because her ex-husband used to sing it to her all the time.
“All right! Enough!” Dawn took the cup from Powell and turned it up. Spilling a little bit down her chin, Dawn finished and handed the cup back to Powell. “There, happy?” she asked, smiling.
Powell made a mock-serious face. “Ms. Dawn, it gives my heart great joy to see you drink from my trophy.”
Dawn shook her head and started to say something, but Powell began singing again, and Rick couldn’t stop himself from joining in. As Powell’s voice rose higher than Rick’s, Dawn covered her ears, and Rick’s entire body tingled with happiness.
Good times, he thought.
40
Mule opened his eyes. The truck was on its back, but he was still alive. He couldn’t move his right arm, but everything else felt OK. He kicked at the windshield, and after three efforts, the glass shattered.
I’m going to make it, he thought.
Pulling his body forward with his left arm, he was almost out of the truck when he saw the boots on the dirt. Mule squinted upward.
“You,” he said, not believing his eyes.
“Me,” the man said. “Hard to stop when your brakes give out, huh, Mule?”
“Fuck you, you mother— ”
Mule saw the boot coming but there was nothing he could do. His nose exploded in blood and pain. Mule tried to move forward, but now the man was stepping on his hand.
“Before you die, Mule, I want you to know that I spared your daughter and ex-wife. They were both so damn ugly I wouldn’t have fucked either with your dick. I am going to have to kill Doolittle, though. And his wife . . .” The man whistled. “Now that is one nice piece of ass.”
Mule struggled but he couldn’t move.
Doo . . .
Then he saw the boot coming again and he closed his eyes.
JimBone Wheeler took a few steps back and lit a cigarette, admiring his handiwork. Too easy, he thought. Tailing Drake and the girl had turned another profit. Last night it was Faith Bulyard, whom the boss said he’d handle himself. Tonight Mule Morris was the spoils. And he’s all mine, JimBone thought, knowing that, given what JimBone had seen and heard in the bar, there was only one way to handle this problem.
This is just too much fun, he thought. He wasn’t really going to kill Mule’s cousin and he didn’t even know whether Doolittle Morris had a wife nor not. “Just fucking with you, Mule,” he said, laughing out loud.
After enjoying as much of the cigarette as he wanted, he went over to the patch of gasoline he’d seen on the ground and let the cigarette drop from his fingers. He watched the small flame ignite and slither like a snake toward the truck. Then he walked away.
About halfway up the embankment he heard the explosion, but he didn’t turn around. JimBone just smiled, remembering something the boss had once told him.
Sometimes the only way you can put out a fire is by starting one.
41
Rick and Dawn dropped Powell off at his apartment. “You sure you’re OK to walk up those stairs?” Rick asked, laughing.
“Drinking and walking is not against the law, sir.” Powell pointed at Rick. “As a district attorney, I know these things.”
Powell took Dawn’s hand and planted a kiss on it. “Ms. Dawn, I have a new appreciation for Tanya Tucker after meeting you.” He opened the door and stumbled forward, singing the words to “Delta Dawn” as he walked, holding his trophy up high.
“He kills my soul,” Dawn said, smiling as she watched Powell walk away.
As they drove to the office, Rick caught himself glancing at Dawn every few seconds. At Powell’s urging, Dawn had done a few more “cannonballs” from the Crawfish Cup, but she didn’t appear drunk. Just relaxed. And beautiful, Rick thought.
“Do you mind if I come in and get some coffee?” Dawn asked when Rick parked in front of the office. “I doubt I should be driving.”
“Not at all,” Rick said. Not at all.
When they got upstairs, Rick made a pot of coffee, and they stood in the reception area. Stop staring at her, Rick told himself.
“What?” Dawn asked, punching him on the shoulder.
Rick shook his head. “Nothing. Just . . . I can’t believe this is happening. With Mule saying what he said, we can add Ultron as a defendant. We can tell the jury that Ruth Ann’s family died because of a conspiracy between two huge companies to make more money by encouraging speeding and DOT violations. Newton was speeding at the time of the accident and complained about his schedule at the time of pickup. You heard what he told Mule. ‘Guess I’ll either make it or I’ll get a ticket.’ ”
“ ‘Same shit, different day,’ ” Dawn added.
Rick slapped his hands together. “Mule told the plant manager—”
“Buck Bulyard,” Dawn interrupted.
“About what was happening and—”
“Bulyard told Mule not to worry about it.”
“Right,” Rick said, again slapping his hands together. “So we have evidence that a higher-up at Ultron knew about the situation and let it go.”
“Time to sue the bastards,” Dawn said, laughing and causing Rick to laugh.
“Sue the bastards,” Rick repeated, making a mock toast with his drinkless hand. “Think Willistone and Ultron will want to settle?” Dawn asked.
Rick wrinkled up his face. “Are you kidding? They’ll be begging for a settlement. I can just see Tyler now—”
“That arrogant SOB,” Dawn cut in. “So how did it go with Ms. Batson? We were so busy with Mule, I never got a chance to ask you about that. Was Tyler his normal asshole self?”
Rick felt his stomach tighten as the conversation with Tyler came back to him. Tyler’s hiring of an accident reconstructionist. The allegations against Dawn. The photographs . . .
“It was a good day,” Rick said. “Let’s not ruin it.” He took a step closer and
glanced down at her breasts, their outline barely visible underneath her conservative black blouse. He saw the wet T-shirt in his mind, the hard nipples poking against the damp fabric.
“OK,” Dawn said, creasing her eyebrows slightly. “I . . . I had fun after the festival. Powell really is a trip.”
Rick took another step toward Dawn. “He is.”
Again, neither of them spoke, and Rick took another step closer, violating her personal space. He wasn’t sure what he was doing—he knew he should confront her about the things Tyler had said—but the heat he felt below his waist was unbearable. The confusion and anger from the conversation with Tyler, the elation over the meeting with Mule, and his pent-up, long-repressed desire for Dawn had combined with the alcohol to make him loopy.
Dawn averted her eyes and looked down. “So, what do you want to do now?” she asked, her voice soft. She looked up at him, and Rick finally let himself go.
He pressed his lips to hers and plunged his tongue into her mouth with an energy that was desperate and uncontrollable. When his mind returned to the photographs, he squeezed his eyes shut and kissed her harder, moving his hand up under her shirt. He expected her to protest but she didn’t. Instead, she pressed into him, and her hands began fumbling at Rick’s belt buckle.
Rick caressed her breasts, but his mind could not stop seeing the wet T-shirt. Dawn had leaned into the Professor and hugged him, just as she was leaning into Rick now. He could almost hear Tyler’s laughter. Wake up and smell the coffee, Rick. The Professor is playing you like a fiddle.
Rick started to kiss Dawn again but then pulled away from her. He turned his back and wrapped his hands around his neck. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I . . . Don’t be,” Dawn said, sounding confused. “It’s OK. I . . . I want to.” She walked over to him and gently put her hand on his arm. “I want to,” she whispered.
She raised on her tiptoes to kiss his neck. “Rick—”
Before she could say anything else, Rick wheeled around. Don’t do this, he thought, but the words were already coming out of his mouth. “Is the Professor paying you to work for me?”
“What?” Dawn took a step back.
“It’s a simple question. Is the Professor paying you to work for me? Jameson Tyler thinks he is and said so today. I blew Tyler off because you told me you were working for the experience, and I didn’t think you’d lie to me. But now I’m asking. Is he paying you?”
Dawn’s lip began to tremble and she looked down at the floor. “Rick—”
“Answer the question,” Rick interrupted, feeling anger boiling inside him as the truth shone on Dawn’s face.
“Yes,” Dawn croaked, closing her eyes. “I’m sorry. I meant to tell you but—”
“Bullshit,” Rick said as the confirmation burned through him like buckshot. “You lied to me and didn’t mean to tell me shit.” Rick turned away, feeling heat behind his own eyes. How could he have been so stupid to think that a young, pretty, smart law student would voluntarily work for him for free? You are an idiot.
“Rick, please listen,” Dawn said, her words distorted with emotion. “The Professor has been paying me to work for you. I . . . I know I should have told you earlier, but the Professor told me not to say anything to you about it. He said that you wouldn’t understand that he was trying to help you.”
Rick’s jaw stiffened. He didn’t want to hear this crap. “Let me ask you, Dawn, when the Professor was giving you these instructions, was it in his bedroom, or did y’all just find a place at school to do it?”
“What?” Dawn stopped trembling and glared at Rick, which only seemed to fuel his anger. He took a step toward her.
“Tyler showed me photographs of you leaning into the Professor and hugging on the Professor and wearing a wet T-shirt. So, my question is, when you struck this deal with the Professor, did you do it before you had sex? Afterwards? During? Are you meeting him on the weekends and giving him a little consideration for his payment? Tyler called you the Professor’s whore. Is that—?”
Rick couldn’t finish the question, because Dawn’s slap caught him right across the face. Before he could say anything else, she slapped him again, this time harder, and stuck her finger in his chest. “Don’t you ever call me that again. The Professor is paying me to work for you because he felt guilty that he was forced to leave after hiring me to be his student assistant. I accepted because I’m a single mother and his offer was better than what I could get working as a law clerk for any other firm in town. Yes, I took the deal, and yes, I should’ve told you about it, but the rest of what you said is an outright lie.”
Rick knew he needed to calm down, but he couldn’t contain his emotion. “I saw the photographs. I saw you leaning into him and hugging him.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dawn said. “What photographs? I remember the Professor walking me to my car in the rain one night when I didn’t have an umbrella. I hugged him at the car to thank him. That’s it!”
“Why should I believe you?” Rick asked, feeling the bitterness in his words. “You’ve lied to me from the beginning. About everything. Tell me why I should believe a word you say.”
Dawn put her hands on her hips and glared at him, not saying anything. Her lip had started to tremble again. “Rick . . .” She cut herself off and bit her lip. “You know what? I don’t care if you believe me or not.” Then, blinking back tears, she calmly walked to the counter, where the coffee had finished brewing. She poured herself a cup and grabbed her purse from the floor. When she reached the door, she paused but did not turn around. “I quit,” she said.
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Rick said, walking toward the door and catching the knob before it closed shut. “And tell the Professor that I don’t need his help or his hand-me-downs. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him soon. Tell him!”
Rick watched her as she slowly descended the steps, his blood boiling with anger and bitterness. Part of him wanted to stop her, but he was just too angry. He started to slam the door, but Dawn’s voice stopped him.
“You know what, Rick?” Her voice cracked with emotion, and when she turned around, tears streamed down her face. “The Professor was right about one thing. You are a hothead. And a liability. Maybe not in the courtroom, but you’re a liability to yourself. If you would just have calmed down and let me explain . . .” She chuckled bitterly and wiped her eyes. “But it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is you’re still hung up on what happened between you and the Professor.”
42
Jameson Tyler woke up at 5:00 a.m. and, before getting ready for work, checked the computer in his office. He clicked on the website for the Tuscaloosa News, waiting impatiently the two seconds it took for the site to open. When he saw the front page headline, he laughed out loud. “Student Believed to Be in Inappropriate Relationship with Professor Revealed.”
When he had leaked the details the day before, he had known the News would be all over it. But the front page? Even better than I could have hoped. The photograph was perfect too. Nothing overly salacious. Just Ms. Murphy’s picture from the law school directory.
Jameson laughed. The case might not be perfect but it was starting to come together. Rose Batson’s testimony had allowed him to retain an accident reconstructionist, which Drake didn’t have. Plus, according to Jack Willistone, Wilma Newton was “handled,” and there was no need to depose her. Though Jameson was uncomfortable letting a client “handle” anything, his adjuster, Bobby Hawkins, had instructed him to leave Willistone alone—saying that Willistone’s “cowboy shit” always had a way of working out. So Jameson would follow his marching orders, which was a lot easier to do with Batson deposed and an expert on board.
And now there should be considerable tension in the Wilcox camp, Jameson thought, laughing all the way down the hall.
“Everyone’s right about you, Ja
mo,” he said out loud as he climbed into the shower. “You are such a bastard.”
43
Rick drove for hours. Up and down McFarland. Back and forth down University and over to Paul Bryant Drive. He cranked the radio loud and he just drove. All he wanted was for the conversation with Dawn to have not happened. Why had he gotten so mad? Are you gonna let your temper blow things with Dawn like it ruined nationals?
At 7:30 a.m. he stopped at McDonald’s for two sausage biscuits and a couple of coffees. He figured Powell would probably be hungover from the night before and craving some grease.
As he walked back to his car, he almost spilled one of the coffees when he glanced at the newsstand and saw the front page headline of the Tuscaloosa News. Rick quickly put the food in his car and fiddled in his pocket for change. He walked back to the stand, bought a paper, and skimmed the contents of the article as fast as he could.
As he read, anger and adrenaline again broke through his fatigue. The News wouldn’t run this story unless they had it on good authority. He shook his head and trudged back to the Saturn, trying to calm down. It says “believed to be,” he thought. Not “is” or “was.” They qualified it. He sighed. She could still be telling the truth. Rick looked at the photograph on the front page and for a second pictured Dawn’s horror when she saw it. He closed his eyes and beat his head softly on the steering wheel. This is so fucked-up.
Rick drove over to Powell’s apartment in a confused haze. He knew he needed to get some rest. But he couldn’t sleep. Not with all the crazy thoughts swirling around in his head.
Seeing Powell’s place brought on a deep sadness, and he felt numb as he walked up the steps. Everything had been so right when he and Dawn had dropped Powell off last night. Now everything was so incredibly wrong.
The Professor Page 17
