Jack shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Tom looked at the jury for effect, and he could tell they were all listening. “If Dewey Newton had to make it to Montgomery in one hour from the Ultron plant in Tuscaloosa, he’d have to go over the speed limit of sixty-five miles per hour, wouldn’t he, Mr. Willistone?”
Jack folded his arms across his body. “That’s not what happened here, but, hypothetically, the answer to your question is yes.”
“Dewey was going eighty at the time of the accident, wasn’t he?” Tom pressed.
“According to the officer,” Jack said, nodding.
“According to the sheriff, Mr. Willistone. You’re not telling this fine jury in Henshaw County that Sheriff Ballard was wrong in determining Dewey Newton’s speed, are you?”
“No,” Jack said. “That’s not what I’m saying.”
“And if the schedule you put a driver on forces him to speed, then you’ve violated DOT regulations, haven’t you?”
“Well . . . yes, but Dewey’s schedule was fine.”
Tom glared at Jack, pausing for effect. “Yet on September 2, 2009”—Tom lowered his voice—“at the time of the accident that killed Bob Bradshaw, Jeannie Bradshaw, and two-year-old Nicole Bradshaw . . .”
Tom’s voice was now just above a whisper, his eyes locked on the jury.
“. . . Dewey Newton was speeding, correct?”
“Yes.”
Tom kept his eyes on the jury, making eye contact with several of them. “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”
Jack’s body tingled with adrenaline as he walked back to the defense table. It had been a long time since Jack had faced off against a man who had shown no fear in his presence. This man—this Tom McMurtrie—was different. Jack could see it in the son of a bitch’s flat eyes. He had come after Jack. Challenged him. Still, what bothered Jack wasn’t his own performance during McMurtrie’s examination but the questions themselves. The only reason the bastard asks those questions is if he’s got something else. He’s setting us up.
As Judge Cutler banged his gavel to announce a break, Jack, as gracefully as possible, stood from the table and walked out the double doors of the courtroom into the lobby. He dialed the first number before the doors closed behind him.
It was time to circle the wagons.
77
Tyler’s accident reconstructionist, Eugene Marsh, was the next witness for the defense. Marsh’s testimony was short, sweet, and effective.
Based on Rose Batson’s testimony that the rig was a hundred yards from the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82 at the time the Honda began its turn, Bob Bradshaw should’ve seen the rig and not pulled out in front of it. Even with Newton’s speed, Bradshaw caused the accident by pulling into the intersection.
Rick could barely watch. When Ted Holt told him that it was impossible to say whether Bradshaw could’ve seen the rig, Rick had doubted that Tyler could find an expert. Never doubt Jameson Tyler, Rick thought, ashamed that he hadn’t at least tried to get someone else once Tyler disclosed Marsh. I didn’t have the money, Rick pointed out to himself. He could’ve disclosed Holt, but what would that have accomplished? Tyler’s hired gun says it’s our fault, and our guy’s not sure. Win for Tyler.
Rick sighed and glanced down at his phone. He had turned the volume to silent, but the screen showed no missed calls or texts. Faith Bulyard still hadn’t responded, and it was getting late in the day. She has to have heard my messages by now, he reasoned. Neither Powell nor Dawn had texted either, so they must not be having any luck. We have to find her, Rick thought, squeezing his hands together. We have to.
As Tyler smiled and said, “No further questions,” Rick turned around, hoping he might see a smiling Powell or Dawn walking through the double doors. Instead, all he saw was a mass of people. The galley was now completely full, and there were a few people standing near the back. What’s going on? Rick wondered. Though this was his first jury trial, he knew that most trials were not attended by an audience. Several of the faces looked familiar. Law students that he’d seen roaming the halls, one of whom nodded at him. There was also Professor Burbaker, who taught property law, and Albert Sweden, the Cumberland School of Law trial team coach. Rick even thought he saw the judge from Birmingham who had come down in the fall to judge one of their practice trials.
This is crazy, Rick thought, turning around as the Professor strode toward Eugene Marsh.
This is crazy, Tom thought, genuinely shocked by the crowd that had filled the Henshaw County Courtroom. But it wasn’t just the number of people—it was who they were. Judge Art Hancock sat in the third row from the front. The Cock was looking sporty, with a golf shirt and khaki pants. He also wore a smile, winking at Tom and shooting him a thumbs-up. Next to him sat Rufus Cole, who wore a suit a size too small and had his arms crossed. Rufus nodded at Tom and mouthed, “Kick his ass,” pointing at Tyler. Tom forced himself not to smile.
There were numbers of others he recognized. Former students. Professors both current and former, including Will Burbaker, who had last seen Tom doubled over the sink in the men’s room. Dean Lambert was there, but he averted his eyes when Tom glared at him. There was also a line of reporters, including the young lady who had interviewed Tom the day he was forced out.
The best, though, standing at the very back of the courtroom and leaning his six-foot-four-inch frame against the double doors, was Bocephus Haynes. Bo eyed Tom, and then his mouth broke into a humorless smile. It was the smile of a predator whose prey was near. “I’m always around,” Bo had said, and he had meant it. Tom nodded at his friend, and Bo gestured to the witness stand. Then he formed a zero with the index finger and thumb of his right hand. This morning Tom had called Bo with one final assignment. And as usual Bo had delivered.
Let’s do this, Tom thought, turning toward Eugene Marsh and feeling the energy in the room.
They’re here to see me, he told himself. Some want me to fail. Some want me to succeed. And some are just curious. But they’re here to see if this old dog has anything left. Tom felt a twinge of pain in his abdomen. I’m overdoing it, he thought. In the bathroom during the last break, he had seen a trickle of blood. He knew he should call Bill Davis, but now wasn’t the time. Now it’s time to kick ass. Tom took a deep breath. Calm . . . slow . . . Andy . . .
“Mr. Marsh,” Tom said, his voice booming to the back of the courtroom. “Your opinion came with a price today, didn’t it?”
Tom spent fifteen minutes covering every aspect of Marsh’s payment arrangement with Jameson Tyler and the Jones & Butler firm. Marsh was making three hundred dollars an hour and had already collected twenty thousand dollars prior to the trial starting. He stood to make ten thousand dollars for his testimony today.
“So you’re giving a thirty-thousand-dollar opinion—correct, Mr. Marsh?” Tom made eye contact with Sam Roy Johnson, who made a whistling gesture with his mouth. It was an obscene amount of money for an expert.
“That’s how much I charge, yes.”
“Now Mr. Tyler contacted you through the National Trucking Association. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You are one of the association’s recommended experts, right?”
“I . . . guess.”
“And that’s because all you do is testify for trucking companies, correct?” Tom asked, looking out at Bo, who nodded.
“Well . . . I . . .”
“You’ve given testimony in how many cases, Mr. Marsh?”
Marsh shrugged. “Maybe thirty.”
“And in every single one of those cases, you either found that the trucker was not negligent or that the other driver was contributorily negligent, correct?”
“I don’t remember,” Marsh said.
Tom glared at the bastard. “You’ve never testified against a trucking company, have you, Mr. Marsh?”<
br />
Tom motioned for Bo to walk down the aisle. Bo did as he was told and handed Tom a list of cases and a deposition transcript.
“Forty-two total cases,” Bo whispered. “All for trucking companies. This deposition was taken three months ago. Page forty-seven, line fifteen, he testifies he’s never given an opinion against a trucking company. Stick this up his ass.”
Tom turned to Marsh, who still hadn’t answered the question, his eyes alternating between Tom and Bo.
“Mr. Marsh, are you going to answer the question?” Tom asked, striding toward him with the deposition in hand. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten your testimony in the Hockburger v. Swift Trucking case from only three months ago?”
“I . . . don’t understand.”
“Isn’t it true, Mr. Marsh,” Tom boomed, slamming the deposition transcript onto the stand in front of Marsh so that he could read the highlighted language, “that you have never testified against a trucking company?”
Marsh gazed down at the transcript and then back at Tom. “Yes, that’s correct.”
Tom walked back to Bo. “How many for Tyler?”
“Three.”
Tom turned back around. “And three of those times you have testified for Jameson Tyler and the Jones & Butler law firm?”
Marsh looked unsure of himself and scared. “I think that’s right.”
“And they paid you each time, correct?”
“Yes.”
“How much did they pay you in those other cases?”
Marsh shrugged and looked down at his hands. “About the same.”
Tom looked at the jury. “So you’ve made about a hundred twenty thousand dollars on the Jones & Butler nickel. Is that correct?”
“Something like that.”
Tom let the answer hang in the air for several seconds. A hundred twenty thousand dollars was probably more money than half the jury collectively made in a year. Tom had made his biggest and best point. Now time for the setup.
“Mr. Marsh, you’d agree that visiting and understanding the accident scene is very important to coming to your opinion, correct?”
Marsh smiled, relieved to have the subject changed. “Yeah, probably the most important.”
“And you’ve testified to going out to the scene three times to look at it, correct?”
“Yes.”
“In your whole life”—Tom spread his arms wide—“you’ve only been to the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82 three times, correct?”
Marsh wrinkled up his face in confusion. “Well, yes, I—”
“No further questions.”
78
“Your Honor, the defense rests,” Tyler said as Eugene Marsh stood from the witness stand and left the courtroom.
Tom was not surprised. Jamo is keeping it simple, he thought. Marsh gives him contrib, and Jack Willistone testified that the schedules were appropriate. Unless we can locate Faith Bulyard, all we’ve got on negligent supervision and training is two speeding tickets.
“Very well,” Judge Cutler said. “Members of the jury, it is almost five o’clock, so we are going to recess for the day. We will start back at nine in the morning.”
Cutler nodded at his bailiff, who escorted the jury out of the courtroom.
As they filed out, Tom wondered where they stood right then. Are we winning? Losing? Is it a dead heat? It was impossible to tell from the looks on their faces. They all just looked tired.
When the jury had all exited the courtroom, Judge Cutler lowered his gaze to the counsel tables. “Counsel, please approach.”
Once Jameson, Tom, and Rick were in front of him, Cutler looked over their shoulders to the crowd that remained in the courtroom despite the jury’s adjournment. “Gentlemen, it appears that this case has garnered some public attention. I’ll advise each of you not to discuss the facts of this case with the press until after the trial. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” all three attorneys said at basically the same time.
“Mr. McMurtrie, will the plaintiff be calling any rebuttal witnesses in the morning?”
Tom paused, glancing at Rick. The answer to this question was yes, but he didn’t want to give Tyler any information he didn’t have to.
“We may, Your Honor,” Tom said. “We will be deciding that question tonight.”
Judge Cutler frowned but didn’t say anything. Tom knew that Cutler might press a younger attorney like Rick for a clearer answer, but the judge didn’t seem to know how to handle Tom. That’s an advantage I hope to exploit tomorrow, Tom thought.
“OK, is there anything more to take up tonight?” Cutler asked, yawning into his fist.
“No, Your Honor,” Tyler said.
“No, Your Honor,” Tom repeated.
“All right, then, we’re adjourned till tomorrow at nine.”
Tom quickly made his way through the crowd, shaking hands with the people he knew and telling the reporters that he’d have no comment on anything until after the trial. When he finally made it to his car, he saw a familiar figure leaning against the hood.
“So you decided to take the Cock’s advice,” Judge Hancock said, smiling and extending his hand, which Tom shook.
“Just helping out an old friend and a former student.”
“Right,” the judge said, chuckling. “None of this is for you.”
Tom finally smiled. “Maybe a little.”
Judge Hancock slapped Tom on the back. “Well, I’m glad to see it.” The judge took a couple steps away, then turned back. “And I’m not the only one, buck. You see this?” The judge had been holding a folded newspaper under his left armpit, and he handed it to Tom.
“State Legend ‘The Professor’ Trying Trucking Case in Henshaw County.” Above the title was a photograph of Tom and Coach Bryant that had been taken a couple years before the Man’s death during a reception at the law school to honor Tom’s first national championship.
“Five months after his forced retirement and subsequent disappearance,” the article began, “Professor Thomas Jackson McMurtrie, defensive end on Coach Paul ‘Bear’ Bryant’s 1961 national champions, founder of the trial program at the University of Alabama Law School, coach of three national championship trial teams, and author of McMurtrie’s Evidence, has emerged in Henshaw County, trying a trucking case with former student Rick Drake.”
Tom skimmed the rest of the article, which described the nature of the case, Tom’s dramatic appearance Tuesday during the cross-examination of Wilma Newton, and Tom’s strange partnership with Rick Drake, “a student partly responsible for the Professor’s forced retirement.”
Tom raised his eyes from the paper and met the Cock’s eyes.
“This has got some folks pretty stirred up,” the judge said. “You saw the crowd today?”
Tom nodded. “They weren’t all friends.”
“Most were.” Hancock paused and looked down at the ground. “I’ve been a judge in Jefferson County for forty-five years, Tom. I’ve never traveled to another county just to watch a trial. Never until today.” He smiled again. “And you know what?”
“What?”
“I’ll be here tomorrow too.”
“Well, I doubt anyone else will,” Tom said.
“You’re wrong, buck. Like I said, what you’re doing here, coming back after all you been through, has got folks stirred up. That article was positive. Reverent even. You’re the Professor, goddamnit, and I think the news and the general public have started to realize it.” The judge walked away but then turned back and squinted into the setting sun. “And so have your friends.” He paused. “You know, sometimes a man can be so consistently good that people take him for granted. I remember another man kinda like that. Coached football and wore a houndstooth hat.” The Cock nodded. “People will come tomorrow, Tom. Rest assured . . .
people will come.”
“What was that all about?” Rick asked, reaching Tom just as Judge Hancock began walking away. Rick had stayed behind to iron out the jury instructions with Tyler’s associate.
“Just an old friend wishing us luck,” Tom said, trying to refocus, a little overwhelmed by the Cock’s words of support. “You get the jury instructions worked out?”
Jury instructions comprised the law that Judge Cutler would read to the jury after closing arguments, just before the jury was given the case to decide. Alabama had published a pattern set of jury instructions for negligence cases, and Tom had been involved, along with a panel of four other lawyers and judges, in drafting them.
“Yeah, nothing unusual. Just sticking with the patterns. You should recognize them pretty well.” Rick smiled, but he looked exhausted and stressed.
“You OK?” Tom asked.
“We still haven’t found Faith Bulyard. I’ve left her at least a dozen messages on her cell phone.” Rick sighed. “Powell and Dawn spoke with several of her neighbors, and one of them thinks she may have taken her kids on a trip. Wherever she is, she may not have cell phone service. I—”
“If we don’t get the bill of lading in, it’s not the end of the world. It . . .” But Tom stopped. He didn’t want to sugarcoat things. “It would sure help, though. It would make Jack Willistone look like a liar and kill all of his credibility. It would also make Dawn’s version of what Wilma Newton said at the Sands ring true.”
“I know,” Rick said. “I know . . .”
He hung his head, and Tom patted his shoulder.
“Just stay after it. She probably just has the phone turned off or is spending the afternoon at a place where her signal is weak.”
Rick nodded. “I hope that’s it.”
For a moment neither man spoke. They were both dog tired, but there was a lot of work to be done tonight.
“You think tomorrow will be it?” Rick asked.
Tom shrugged. “Hard to say for sure, but probably. If Faith shows up, we’ll be calling two rebuttal witnesses. Then post-trial motions and closings. Still, I think there’s a good chance we’ll finish.”
The Professor Page 27
