This ain’t about you, Rick told himself. It’s about them.
Taking a deep breath and then a last sip of coffee, Rick opened the door.
46
Tom woke to the sound of knocking. He turned to look at the alarm clock and yelled as the soreness from yesterday’s torture sent a flare of pain through his groin. 6:00 a.m. “Who the hell . . . ?” He rolled off the bed and looked down at the floor, where Musso remained snoring away. “Christ, boy, at least make an effort.” Tom put on a pair of sweatpants as the knocking continued. “I’m coming,” he yelled, and again felt a pull in his groin. Finally, Musso let out a weak bark and crawled off the bed.
“That all you got?” Tom snapped, shaking his head. “Fighting dog my ass,” he muttered as he walked down the hall to the den. “If this is Bo, so help me I am gonna whip his ass,” Tom said, limping through the den and beginning to wake up.
Tom stopped when he saw Rick Drake’s face behind the glass window.
“Can I come in?” Rick asked through the glass.
Tom squinted back at him, wanting to make sure he understood right.
“Can I come in?” Rick repeated. “Please, Professor . . . I . . . I know it’s early but I need to talk with you.”
Tom finally forced his legs to move forward. He unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door. He stood in the doorway but didn’t move back to allow access in.
“What’s this about, kid?”
Drake let out a breath. He looked like death warmed over, his eyes bloodred.
“I need your help.”
They sat in the den, as the kitchen table was still completely cluttered with unopened mail. Tom sat in his rocker and Rick on the couch. Tom had made a pot of coffee, and Rick leaned forward, holding his cup with both hands. The boy looked tired and scared.
“So how did you find me?” Tom asked, crossing his legs and drinking some coffee.
“Powell,” Rick said, placing his cup on the coffee table in front of him and then pulling a folded newspaper from his pocket. “He gave me this article.” Rick handed it over and Tom opened it, knowing full well what it was.
“The article mentions that you retired to a farm in Hazel Green,” Rick said, picking up his cup and gazing into it. “I think Powell managed to get your forwarding address from a friend at the post office in Tuscaloosa. He wouldn’t tell me the rest.”
“Well, you found me,” Tom said. “What’s on your mind?”
Rick drank some more coffee and finally raised his tired eyes. “I need to talk with you about the case you referred me, but . . . first . . .” Rick sighed, looking back down at the cup.
“First what?” Tom asked. He stopped rocking and watched the boy, noticing sweat beads on Rick’s forehead. After a half cup of coffee, Tom was finally awake and was beginning to realize how difficult being here must be for Rick. Whatever he came here to do, it’s killing him to do it.
“First . . . I wanted to say I’m sorry about punching you in Washington. I shouldn’t have done that. I lost my temper. I . . . I lost control of my emotions and it cost us the national title. I’m sorry.”
Rick stopped and met Tom’s eye, but Tom didn’t say anything. Did I just hear him right?
“Second,” Rick continued, “I’m sorry about how the law school forced you out. That’s a lot my fault too and—”
“Hold it,” Tom interrupted, putting his hand up for Rick to stop. “Son, I appreciate the apology, but you didn’t cost me my job. That was going to happen regardless of what happened in DC.”
Rick wrinkled his face in confusion, and Tom cursed under his breath. “The incident was just the pretext, all right? If it hadn’t been our fight, it would’ve been something else. Dean Lambert wanted new blood, and Tyler gave him the ammunition to get rid of me.”
“Tyler?” Rick asked. “Jameson Tyler?”
Tom nodded. “He became attorney for the university right before I was forced out. He orchestrated the whole thing.” Tom shook his head and stood, his agitation growing. “You said you needed to ask me some things about Ruth Ann’s case.”
Rick looked up from his cup. “I do, but . . . there’s one other thing.” The look of anguish on Rick’s face told Tom all he needed to know.
“Dawn?” Tom asked.
Rick nodded. “I have to know the deal. The newspaper—”
“The deal is simple,” Tom interrupted. “My last week I hired Dawn to be my student assistant. When I hired her, she was so relieved to get the job that she started crying, and the dean walked in my office while I was patting her hand.” Tom shrugged. “Later in the week, in the pouring-down rain, I walked Dawn to her car under an umbrella so she wouldn’t get wet. She gave me a hug as a way of saying thanks.” Tom sighed. “Somehow Tyler captured the whole thing in some photographs that paint a skewed picture. Dawn is . . .” Tom chuckled. “Well, hell, you’ve seen her. She’s attractive. Her T-shirt is wet in the photographs. I guess it probably looked bad but nothing happened.”
“You promise that was it?” Rick asked.
“I promise.”
“You paid her to work for me?”
Tom crossed his arms. “I did. I felt bad she’d lost her job when I was let go. And . . . I thought you could use some help.”
“I told you not to interfere,” Rick said.
“I know,” Tom said. “But you needed help.” He paused. “She helped you, didn’t she?”
Now it was Rick who stood, not answering the question.
“Didn’t she?” Tom pressed.
“Doesn’t matter,” Rick finally said, stepping behind the couch and gazing out the glass sliding doors to the deck. Sunlight poured through the panes, casting Rick’s entire body in an orange glow. “She confessed her arrangement with you, and I said some things that made her quit. My temper . . .” Rick’s voice drifted off, and Tom could see the regret in the boy’s eyes. Did something else happen with Dawn? he thought about asking him, but then held his tongue.
“Like I said, it doesn’t matter,” Rick repeated, sighing and turning to face Tom. “The only thing that matters now is that the biggest case of my life is three days away and I don’t have a clue what to do.”
Tom was jolted by the desperation in Rick’s voice and body language. He is scared to death, Tom thought, walking over to the rocker and plopping down in it. He gestured at the couch, and Rick took a seat.
“OK,” Tom said, crossing his legs and narrowing his gaze. “Tell me about it.”
For the next hour, Rick told the Professor everything.
“I’m just not sure what to do,” Rick said, wrapping things up. “But one thing I know, Ruth Ann won’t settle for any amount of money. She wants Willistone called on the carpet for everything they’ve done.” Rick sighed. “The problem is that with Mule dead the only way to expose Willistone is to put Wilma Newton on the stand. I mean, come on. The trucker’s wife sticking it to the trucking company. But—”
“You’re worried because you don’t have any sworn testimony from her,” Tom interrupted, rubbing his chin.
“Right. And Willistone’s lawyer hasn’t deposed her either, and we disclosed her as a witness months ago. It doesn’t make sense that they wouldn’t depose her unless—”
“They’ve talked to her and aren’t worried. Course, that might not be it. Willistone is probably being defended under a policy of insurance, and insurance companies are known to cut costs. They may have instructed the lawyer not to depose her.”
Rick nodded, throwing his palms up in the air. “So, that’s the dilemma. Any suggestions?”
Tom refilled both their coffee cups. Rick’s coffee buzz had hit overload, but he accepted the cup without argument. He had been up now for almost twenty-four hours, and he needed all the fuel he could get.
“That is a dilemma, Rick, but the safe play would certainly be to not call
her. You can still win without her, and if she were to turn . . .”
“It could kill the case.”
Tom shrugged in agreement.
“But without her I could lose. With Rose Batson sticking to her statement and Tyler’s expert saying Bradshaw should’ve seen the rig before making his turn, their contrib case is pretty strong. You know as well as I do that in Alabama, if a jury finds a plaintiff just one percent contributorily negligent, then they are supposed to award a defense verdict. Also, the case loses its heat. I mean, the truth is that Willistone was breaking the law by requiring its truckers to speed and falsify their driver’s logs. Newton was speeding on September 2, 2009 because he had to speed to make the load. He’d gotten two tickets in the months leading up to the accident. Mule Morris would’ve nailed Willistone and Ultron to the cross.”
“Rick, we both know the truth is worthless if you can’t prove it. Morris is dead and because of the fire you have no documents that are helpful. Ms. Bulyard didn’t give you anything, so—”
“All I’ve got is Wilma,” Rick blurted, his frustration mounting. “I know, I know. So you wouldn’t call her?” Rick asked, meeting Tom’s eye.
Tom squinted back at him with a noncommittal look. “I didn’t say that. I just said that was the safe play. Nobody could fault you for it.”
Rick sighed, feeling the first twinge of anger. So maybe, maybe not, huh? Thanks for nothing, old man.
“Rick, trying a lawsuit is ninety-five percent preparation and five percent gut. Once you’ve prepared yourself to the fullest, once you know your case backwards, forwards, and every whichaway you can know it, then you gotta let go and trust your gut. You can’t script everything out. Sure, you develop a plan, and you follow the plan. But there are times in a trial when all the preparation in the world doesn’t matter. In those situations you just have to trust your gut to make the best decision available.”
“Trust my gut?” Rick asked, unable to hide the sarcasm from his voice. “Well, my gut’s telling me I need help. That’s why I came here.”
“I’ve given you the best advice I can,” Tom said.
Rick looked up at the gray eyes of his mentor, seeing the truth in them. Advice was fine and Rick appreciated it. But he needed more. Bob, Jeannie, and Nicole Bradshaw deserved more. So did Ruth Ann.
“Professor . . . thank you for the advice, but . . .” He sighed.
“But what?” Tom asked.
“I know it’s pretty late in the day to be asking, but . . .” Rick paused, taking a deep breath. He couldn’t believe what he was about to do. “Will you try this case with me?”
47
“No,” Tom said, hating himself the minute the words were out of his mouth. He stood and turned his back on Rick, gazing into the kitchen, where the table of unopened mail seemed to glare back accusatorily at him. I can’t, Tom thought. I’m too old, too sick, and I don’t have time to get prepared.
“Why?” Rick asked, and Tom could hear the disappointment in the boy’s voice. “Didn’t you hear me? I really need—”
“No, you don’t,” Tom interrupted, turning around to face Rick. “I wouldn’t have referred this case to you if you weren’t ready. You’ve lived and breathed this case for half a year. You have a difficult decision to make, and I can’t tell you the way to go. You have to choose. Even if I were to say yes, it doesn’t change the Wilma Newton dilemma. You have to trust your gut and make that call. I would just be a distraction. If the Tuscaloosa News or the television stations got wind of it, they could turn the trial into a circus. You don’t want that and neither do I.”
“You’re really saying no?” Rick said, still not believing it.
“You don’t need me,” Tom said. “I . . .” He started to mention the cancer but stopped.
“If I didn’t need you, I wouldn’t have come here,” Rick said, brushing past Tom toward the kitchen. “I wouldn’t have banged on your door at six in the morning. That’s a cop-out, Professor, and you know it.”
Rick stopped when he reached the door to the kitchen. “What are you doing here, Professor?” He slowly turned, and his eyes burned with anger. “Seriously? You get run off by the law school and you split town? The school puts their spin on everything and you don’t say anything? What’s that all about?”
Tom again fought the urge to say something about his health.
“You once told our trial team that if we ever needed anything once we got out in practice, you would be there.” Rick’s voice cracked. “You’re a liar, Professor.”
“You’ve asked too much, son. You want me to try a case with you three days before the trial starts. Have you lost your mind?”
“You’re a liar, old man,” Rick repeated, ignoring Tom’s response. “And I’ve seen those photographs you’re talking about. The wet T-shirt ones. And you’re right. They do look bad.”
Tom froze. To his knowledge the photographs hadn’t been put in the newspaper. “How . . . ?”
Rick laughed bitterly. “Oh, I haven’t told you the best part. The defense lawyer for Willistone showed me those photographs. I guess he noticed Dawn working for me and recognized her. He got a real charge out of showing them to me, calling Dawn your whore, and telling me that the only reason you referred the case to me was to see me fail. I mean, why else refer a multiple-fatality wrongful-death case to a kid nine months out of law school?”
“Who?” Tom asked, already knowing the answer.
“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Rick said. “I’ve sent you a copy of every pleading in the case.”
“Say it,” Tom said, his voice stifled by anger.
Rick smirked, opening the door, and Tom lunged forward, grabbing his arm. “Say it, you son of a bitch.”
“Isn’t this how we got in all this trouble to begin with?” Rick asked, looking down at his arm. “Aren’t I supposed to punch you now? Where are the YouTube cameras when you need them?”
Tom let go of Rick’s arm and glared at the boy. “Say it,” he repeated.
“Tyler,” Rick said, stepping back out of the open door. “The defense lawyer is Jameson Tyler.”
48
Rick squealed his tires as he sped out of the driveway, but Tom wasn’t watching. He had already knocked all of the mail off the kitchen table and now was on his knees, going through the letters and packages from Rick that he had ignored for months. It didn’t take him too long to find what he was looking for. Willistone’s answer to the complaint was almost twenty pages long, denying all claims and asserting a number of affirmative defenses, including contributory negligence. Tom quickly turned to the last page and put his finger on the signature line. His stomach instantly turned to acid.
“Jameson R. Tyler, Attorney for the Defendant.”
“Son of a bitch,” Tom cursed, throwing the answer across the room. He leaned against the table, feeling dizzy. He wasn’t supposed to do much the day after a treatment, and he felt sick to his stomach. The room began to spin.
“Fuck!” he screamed, shaking his head and beginning to pace the kitchen floor. That son of a bitch, Tom thought, remembering Jameson’s words after the mock trial: “Good luck with finding her someone. I’ll pray that whoever it is doesn’t have to face me.”
Tom’s entire body shook with anger. I told him everything. Described the whole fucking case and mentioned I was thinking of referring it to Drake. He probably laughed his ass off when this case came in. Tom bit his lip so hard that it bled. He showed Rick the photographs and called Dawn my whore. Tom punched the cabinet above the microwave so hard that his fist went through the wood with a loud crash, sending splinters everywhere.
In the den, Musso growled and rose to his feet, ears up, watching his master.
Tom licked his knuckles and glared at his dog. “You got something to say?”
Musso growled louder, and Tom turned away, stumbling over the mail,
toward the door, which Rick had left open when he left. Tom knew he should sit down, but there was no way he could rest. He needed to move. To think. To do something. He looked back for Musso, but the dog was already on his heels.
“Come on, boy,” he ordered, shutting the door behind them and walking toward the cornfield. “Let’s go for a walk.”
49
Tom sat on a rock, looking down at the shallow stream at the edge of the farm. He was exhausted, and he didn’t know if he could make it back to the house. What was I thinking? Walking all this way the day after a treatment. I’m too damn sick to go on a two-mile hike. Below him, Musso’s breath came in gasps. It was way too hot for him to be walking this far. After going down to the stream for a drink of water, Musso had collapsed at Tom’s feet.
Closing his eyes, Tom let his mind wander. Rick needed him. Rick, whom Tom had referred Ruth Ann’s case to, had come to him. Had fallen on his sword and asked for help. That was big for him, Tom knew. Huge.
And Tom had said no.
Standing on wobbly legs, Tom gazed up at the sun. When he’d heard it was Jameson, he’d had an adrenaline rush like he hadn’t had since playing football. He had wanted to track Rick down and tell him he’d changed his mind.
But now the adrenaline was gone. Reality had set in. Regardless of what Bocephus had said, he was too old and sick to whip Jameson.
The cry of a bobcat rang out to the left, but Tom didn’t even turn his head. What use am I anymore? Below him, Musso let out a low guttural growl, but Tom didn’t pay him any mind. I did Rick a favor. The last thing he needs is a chemo-filled wash up to babysit during his first trial. Even if I helped a little on the front end, I couldn’t stand up to a full-blown trial. Hell, I haven’t tried a case in forty years, and Jameson . . . is the best.
The Professor Page 19
