The bobcat’s cry rang out again. Regardless of what the Cock said, Tom reflected, Jameson is in his prime. He’s the best lawyer in the state. Rick at least gives Ruth Ann a fighting chance. He was just panicking this morning. That’s the only reason he asked me to try the case with him. When I didn’t give him an easy answer, he panicked. Come Monday he’ll be fine. He’s trying the case in his backyard, and he’ll be fine.
Musso whined, and Tom looked down at him. In thirteen years the only time he’d ever heard Musso whine was when the dog wanted to go out. “Musso, what’s . . . ?”
This time the cry of the bobcat was more of a squeal, and Tom turned around, searching out the sound. It was much closer than before. Behind him, Musso’s whine grew louder, but the dog had yet to move.
Instinctively, Tom reached down for his shotgun, but it wasn’t there. In his anger after learning about Jameson, he had forgotten to bring his gun or his cell phone. Tom felt his body tense.
“Where are you?” he yelled, hoping his voice might scare the animal off.
The high-pitched squeal he got in response sent a chill down his spine. Tom turned slowly in a circle, squinting, trying to focus . . .
There. Twenty yards away, crouching in some brush by the edge of the creek, he saw it. It had a black-speckled yellow coat, and its yellow eyes were looking straight at Tom. It had been years since Tom had actually seen a bobcat on the property. Usually, they stayed a fair distance away and all you heard was an occasional cry. As he had told Bocephus over and over, bobcats were harmless. Unless they are . . .
Tom saw the foam flying from the animal’s mouth and heard another blood-curdling squeal as it bared its teeth.
. . . rabid. He’s rabid and . . .
. . . I’m shit out of luck. Tom was two miles from the house without a gun or a phone. He took a step backwards and instantly knew it was the wrong move. The bobcat lunged forward, heading straight for him. Tom only had a few seconds before it would be on top of him. Moving his body to the side, he put his left foot in front of his right and held his hands out, seeing the animal’s yellow eyes closing in on him.
I’m not strong enough, Tom thought. If he gets ahold of me . . . Taking another step back, Tom saw the yellow eyes of the bobcat veer to the left, and then Tom was stumbling, having stepped on an uneven rock. Putting his hands up to protect himself, Tom waited for the moment that he’d see nothing but yellow as the bobcat pounced. It’s over, he thought.
But as Tom’s head cracked against something sharp, he didn’t see yellow.
All he saw was white.
50
“ALL RISE!” the bailiff bellowed. “THE HENSHAW COUNTY CIRCUIT COURT IS NOW IN SESSION, THE HONORABLE BUFORD CUTLER PRESIDING.”
Heart pounding in his chest, Rick stood as Judge Buford J. Cutler strode through the doors of his chambers and up to the bench. Rick had once heard his father describe the judge as hard on crime and not real personable—a lot of folks said the J stood for “Jackass.”
“All right,” Cutler said, banging his gavel a couple of times. “Wilcox v. Willistone Trucking Company. Are the parties here?”
“Rick Drake for the plaintiff,” Rick said, trying to sound confident. Beside him stood Ruth Ann dressed elegantly in an ankle-length black skirt and a white sweater top.
“Jameson Tyler for Willistone Trucking Company,” Tyler said, looking his typical best with a blue pinstripe suit, white shirt, and baby-blue tie. Next to him sat another lawyer from Jones & Butler—a young guy. Jack Willistone, also wearing a dark suit, rounded out the defense table.
“Pretrial motions?” the judge asked, peering over the bench.
“Your Honor, we have filed a motion in limine regarding the exclusion of any mention of the fire that destroyed the Ultron plant on September 2, 2009,” Tyler responded. “The fire was ruled an accident by the Tuscaloosa fire marshal, and any mention of it would be irrelevant and highly prejudicial to the defendant.”
“We have no objection,” Rick said, knowing Tyler was right and not wanting to fight a battle he couldn’t win.
“OK, that’s easy. Granted. Are we ready to bring in the jury pool?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tyler said.
“Yes, sir,” Rick added. Here we go.
51
Faith Bulyard sat at Gate A22 on the Delta wing of Birmingham International Airport. The plane wouldn’t board for another fifteen minutes, but she had ordered the boys to go to the bathroom. They had a long trip ahead of them. Faith gazed down at the three tickets she held in her right hand and blinked back tears. Now that she was here, she was having a hard time controlling herself. She’d already taken two Xanax this morning, but might have to take a Valium if the Xanax didn’t do any better. This is wrong, she thought. Wrong, wrong, wrong.
Faith’s hands began to shake and she reached into her purse for the Valium. When she did, she heard the familiar beep showing she had a new text message. She opened the phone and saw that the message had come from a number she didn’t recognize. There was a photo attachment, and Faith clicked on it without thinking.
When she saw the picture, she dropped the phone. A person sitting next to her reached down to pick it up.
“No!” Faith yelled, causing the person—an elderly black gentleman—to jerk his hand back and look at her with wild, scared eyes. Faith grabbed the phone and pressed her face close to the screen. It was grainy but what it depicted was unmistakable. Buck was on his knees and there was a man behind him. Underneath the photograph the message was simple. “Hope you’re on that plane. Wouldn’t want this to get in the wrong hands . . .”
Faith closed out of the message and covered her face with her hands.
“Flight 1432 to New York now boarding,” came a female voice over the loudspeaker.
“Let’s go, Mom!” Danny yelled, bounding up to her with Junior right behind the boys. The boys grabbed their bags and got in line, but Faith couldn’t seem to make her feet work. As bad as that picture is, it’s just the tip of the iceberg. The video . . .
Faith cringed as she remembered the clipped telephone conversation she’d had with Jack Willistone after Rick Drake and Dawn Murphy had left her house. “You’re going to get a video delivered to your door in about an hour. I’ll give you another hour to watch . . . and digest it. Then I’ll call you.”
Faith had watched the video and seen the last vestiges of the life she’d perceived she had with Buck crumble in front of her. When the next call came, the message was even more to the point. “Unless you want your boys to know their daddy was a rope sucker, I suggest you never, ever talk with the lawyers you just met with again.” The phone clicked dead when Jack finished, and Faith had lived in fear ever since. Last week the plane tickets came in an envelope, with a handwritten note. “Unless you want the video to become public, I’d make plans to spend next week in New York.”
Now here she was, doing exactly as she was told. This is wrong, she thought again. A bully never stops. Next he’ll want money. Or sex . . . Faith remembered the way Jack had looked at her with a predatory gaze at a fund-raiser a few years back. He won’t stop with money . . .
“Mom, let’s go!” Junior waved to her from the front of the line. Next to them a clerk waited to take the tickets Faith still held in her hand.
Faith forced her legs to move forward. It didn’t matter. All she had now were her boys, and all they had of their father was their memories of him. I won’t ruin that for them. I don’t care what I have to do.
52
At 1:00 p.m. Judge Cutler pounded his gavel and motioned for his bailiff to usher the jury in. For the past three hours, Rick and Tyler had whittled a jury pool of thirty-six down to twelve. They had started with voir dire, where first Rick, then Tyler got to ask the jury questions about their prior experiences with truckers, car accidents, lawsuits, and whether any of them knew any of the lawyers or witne
sses in the case. Then each side was allowed to strike from the pool twelve people for any reason except race. The result of the process was walking into the courtroom now. Seven men. Five women. Rick had wanted more women than men, because he thought they’d be more sympathetic. Unfortunately, the pool was male-heavy, and Tyler was able to strike most of the women.
Fortunately, however, Tyler couldn’t strike all the jurors who knew either Rick or the Drake family. Sam Roy Johnson was a black man who owned an auto parts store on the west side of town and had played football with Rick’s father. Judy Heacock was a retired schoolteacher who had taught both his parents. Now they were both on the jury.
My jury, Rick thought, nodding at Sam Roy as he sat down in the front row. Rick was beginning to understand why the Professor had recommended him. I may not have the experience or the talent to hang with Tyler, he reasoned, but I do have the home field advantage. No one likes playing the Packers at Lambeau, and that’s what this is gonna be like for the Big Cat. Instinctively, Rick glanced over at the defense table, and the smug look on Tyler’s face seemed to say that this was the perfect jury—exactly the twelve people Tyler wanted. Whatever, Rick thought, knowing that Tyler was just following one of the Professor’s mantras. Never let them see you sweat.
Rick glanced out in the galley and caught the eye of Powell, who was taking off work this week to help Rick with the trial. Powell nodded and gave the thumbs-up sign.
Rick nodded back, feeling his stomach twist into a knot. He had practiced two versions of his opening statement—one with Wilma in it and one with her out—and he still wasn’t sure which one he was going to use. Last night Wilma had texted Rick saying she couldn’t miss more than one day of work and asking which day she was going to testify. The request was reasonable—most witnesses didn’t want to sit at the courthouse more than a day—but it still made Rick queasy. What if she doesn’t show?
After trying to call her several times and getting no answer, Rick texted back, telling her to be at the courthouse Tuesday morning and to bring the signed affidavit with her.
Now the time was at hand, and he had to make his call. Trust your gut, Rick thought, remembering the Professor’s advice and knowing he must follow it.
“Are you OK?” Ruth Ann asked.
Rick looked at her, but before he could answer, Judge Cutler banged on the bench with his gavel.
“Counsel, are we ready for opening statements?” the judge asked.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tyler said, rising and buttoning his coat.
Rick felt goose bumps break out on his arm. What’s it gonna be, Drake?
“And is the plaintiff ready?” Judge Cutler cut his eyes to Rick, who couldn’t seem to make his feet work. You have to choose.
“Mr. Drake?” Judge Cutler said, leaning over the bench. “Are you ready to give your opening statement?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Rick finally said.
“OK,” Judge Cutler said, gesturing to the jury. “Please proceed.”
Rick slowly stood and buttoned his coat. “May it please the court,” he began. “Your Honor . . . Counsel . . .” Rick gestured at both the judge and Tyler before facing the jury box.
“Members of the jury . . .”
“. . . and finally . . .” Rick paused; he had saved the best for last. “You’re going to learn that Dewey Newton’s driving schedule was crazy. You’re going to learn that he was put on a schedule that forced him to speed. These people”—Rick pointed at the defense table with malice and glared at Tyler, then back at the jury—“gave Dewey Newton no choice but to lay the hammer down. On September 2, 2009, Dewey Newton wasn’t going eighty in a sixty-five because he wanted to. He wasn’t going fifteen miles over the speed limit just because he was negligent. No, ladies and gentlemen, it goes much deeper than that. You’re going to learn that Dewey Newton had to speed.” Rick paused, making eye contact with Sam Roy Johnson. Then Judy Heacock. “After you have seen all the evidence and heard all the testimony, I am confident that you will find that this case is not just about an accident. This case is about greed. Willistone Trucking Company forced their driver to break the law in order to make a delivery, and their negligent and wanton behavior killed three innocent people.” Rick again paused, letting it sink in. Then he nodded his head. “Thank you.”
He walked back to his table and sat down. He had sweat through his shirt, but he knew no one could tell, because he had his jacket on. That was OK, Rick thought, knowing it was better than OK. He had managed to plant the seed of the conspiracy without technically committing Wilma to the stand. He couldn’t prove any of what he’d said without Wilma, so he knew he would have to call her. But by not mentioning her by name, the damage wouldn’t be as bad if she flaked on him. Somehow, on the fly and in the heat of the moment, he had found middle ground.
Rick turned his head, and Powell’s beaming grin let him know all he needed to know. He had nailed it.
Maybe I am cut out for this shit after all.
53
Jimmy “Specks” Ballard had been the sheriff of Henshaw County for eighteen years. The physical feature that you could not escape when you looked at Sheriff Ballard was the freckles that covered almost every square inch of his face. He had been called Specks for the first time by Coach Silas Mooney, in the seventh grade, because his face looked like it was covered with specks of dirt and the nickname had stuck. Around Henshaw, most folks addressed him as either Specks or Sheriff Specks. All except Rose Batson, who thought it was a mean name and rode Coach Mooney to the day he died about it every time he came in her store.
As the sheriff strode into the courtroom Tuesday morning to be sworn in, Rick tried to contain his excitement. Judge Cutler had adjourned yesterday after Tyler’s opening, which had predictably focused on Rose Batson’s statement and his accident reconstructionist’s expert testimony. Now it was time for Rick to put on his case, and he had always known his first witness would be the sheriff. “Hit First and Hit Hard” had been the Professor’s mantra, and Rick was leading off with the strongest part of the case. Newton’s speed.
After Sheriff Ballard had taken the oath, he sat in the witness chair, leaning back and nodding at the jury. He looked relaxed, his khaki uniform unbuttoned at the top to reveal a thick clump of red chest hair. As Rick approached the bench, the sheriff nodded at him.
“Sheriff Ballard, would you please introduce yourself to the jury,” Rick said, gesturing with his arm to the jury box, where several of the jurors were smiling.
“Specks Ballard,” the sheriff said, smiling back at them and then looking at Rick.
“Sheriff, would you prefer that I call you Specks?” Rick asked, taking a piece of advice his father had given him last night.
The sheriff beamed with pride. “Well, your momma and daddy have for fifty years; I don’t see why you can’t.”
Laughter from the jury box, and Rick smiled, taking the time to look Jameson Tyler right in the eye. Welcome to Henshaw, baby.
Rick slowly walked to the end of the jury box, a good twenty feet away from Specks. He wanted the sheriff to be center stage. During direct examination, the witness is the star, the Professor had always said. You want it to seem like the witness is just having a conversation with the jury. Your only role is to facilitate that conversation.
Rick paused, glancing at the jury and then back at Specks. Rick knew this would be the high-water mark of the trial for him. The hardest lick Rick could deliver was Newton’s speed, and it was up to the sheriff to drive it home.
“Specks,” Rick began, taking a deep breath. “Did you investigate an accident on September 2, 2009?”
An hour later Rick sat down knowing it couldn’t have gone much better. Specks was fantastic, leaving no question that Dewey Newton was going eighty in a sixty-five at the time of the accident. Specks was most effective when Rick had him get off the stand and diagram the wreck on a chalkboard, s
howing the jury how he calculated Newton’s speed based on the number of skid marks found at the scene. The last thing on the board when Rick sat down was a big eighty, and Tyler had to move it out of the way and erase it before he could begin his cross.
“Sheriff,” Tyler began, “when you investigated this accident, did you learn whether anyone saw it happen?”
“Yes, sir. Ms. Rose did.”
“And by ‘Ms. Rose’ you mean Rose Batson, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And isn’t it true that Ms. Batson was the only eyewitness to the accident?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And when you arrived on the scene, you asked Ms. Batson to write a statement, correct?”
“I did. I always ask the eyewitnesses to write down what they saw.”
“And why do you do that, Sheriff?” Tyler looked at the jury, watching them as Specks answered.
“Well, it helps us figure out what happened. An eyewitness usually got no reason to lie. They just write down what they saw.”
“And that’s what Rose Batson did immediately after the accident, correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
Tyler walked along the edge of the jury box, nodding his head. “You’ve read Ms. Batson’s statement, correct?”
“I have,” Specks answered, shooting a worried glance Rick’s way.
“Well, isn’t it true, Sheriff, that Rose Batson indicated that Bob Bradshaw pulled out in front of Dewey Newton’s rig?”
Rick was out of his chair. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”
Cutler cut his eyes to Tyler, who held out his palms. “I’m not offering it for the truth, Your Honor. At least not through this witness. I’m just offering it to show the sheriff’s state of mind in conducting his investigation.”
The Professor Page 20
