“Ain’t none of you boys . . . that played for that man . . . ever been average.”
62
For several hours, Tom drove the streets of Tuscaloosa. Up University. Down McFarland to Skyland Boulevard and then a right on Lurleen Wallace to head downtown. He traveled the length of Paul Bryant Drive. He passed the law school, where he’d spent forty years as an Evidence professor, and Sewell-Thomas practice field, where the Man had once stood high above the team on a tower and barked instructions.
Then he took Bryant Drive east past the city limits sign until it turned into Culver Drive. He ate by himself at Nick’s Original Filet House, a one-room steakhouse affectionately known as “Nick’s in the Sticks.” He and Julie had eaten here on Friday nights, and for three decades Tom’s order never changed. “Rib eye medium well, baked potato, and a salad with ranch.”
Two hours after Bill Davis had handed down his death sentence, Tom pulled his Explorer to a stop outside the office. While exiting the vehicle, he saw a news crew several yards down the sidewalk. As he walked toward the staircase, a female reporter stepped in his path. He recognized her as the same young journalist who had interviewed him after his and Rick’s win in Henshaw two years earlier.
“I’m sorry, Georgi, not tonight, OK.” Tom tried to step past her, but the reporter held her ground.
“Please, Professor, just one question.”
“Will you leave me be if I answer it?”
Georgi took a small notepad out of her back pocket.
“Shoot,” Tom said.
“Is this your last trial?”
Tom had expected a question about the defense of Wilma Newton, not one so personal to himself. But then again, he knew he was part of the story for the drama-craving media. Looking past the reporter to the lights of Bryant-Denny Stadium, where just a few hours earlier Bill Davis had told him he had approximately six months to live, and then to his right to the concrete facade of the Tuscaloosa County Courthouse, Tom saw no reason to quibble.
“Yes,” he said. Georgi’s mouth hung open in surprise. “This is my last trial.”
63
At 8:59 a.m. the next morning, Tom pushed through the double doors of the courtroom. His eyes burned after a sleepless night, and he kept them focused on the floor as he trudged toward the defense table. When he set his briefcase down, he felt a light touch on his forearm and looked up. Rick Drake wore a gray suit, white shirt, and blue tie. He had finally shaved the thick stubble he’d grown on the farm.
Tom brought a hand to the kid’s face and gave it a soft tap. “That’s my partner,” he croaked.
Rick gave a nervous smile and cocked his head toward the bench. Before Tom could turn in that direction, he heard the familiar rasp.
“Just get here when you can, McMurtrie.”
Tom’s stomach clinched as he met the contemptuous gaze of the Honorable Braxton Winfield Poe. “Am I late?” Tom asked.
The pretrial hearing had been set for 9:00 a.m., so Tom was not tardy. He knew he should probably apologize anyway, but he just didn’t have it in him.
Poe’s face turned beet red, but he didn’t answer Tom’s question. “I set this hearing for today to cover any pending motions before we start jury selection on Monday. Mr. Conrad and Mr. Drake have informed me that there is only one outstanding motion. Is that your understanding, McMurtrie?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He turned to the prosecution table. “Conrad, please proceed.”
Powell Conrad stood and buttoned his coat. “Your Honor, the defense has identified on its exhibit list a document described as Jack Willistone’s change of life insurance beneficiary form. Despite our request, the defense has not produced a copy of this form or provided the original for inspection.” He paused and looked at Tom. “Professor McMurtrie and Mr. Drake indicate that they do not have possession of the form, but it is now the Friday before trial. The state moves to exclude the document and to prohibit any mention of it by the defense in their opening statement.”
“Response?” Poe rasped at Tom.
Tom, who had yet to sit down, peered across the courtroom at the prosecutor. “Your Honor, as the district attorney said, we don’t have this document. However, we still have hope that we will obtain it before the close of trial, and we did not want to blindside the prosecution without notice. We understand from the victim’s ex-wife, Barbara Willistone, that the form was signed by Jack Willistone several weeks before his murder and that it purported to change his beneficiary from his wife, Kathryn, to his autistic son, Danny.” Tom paused. “Judge, the victim’s life insurance policy provided that his intended beneficiary receives three million dollars upon his death. It is the defense’s position that he was murdered because of his decision to change beneficiaries.”
Poe crinkled his eyebrows and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve studied your trial brief, McMurtrie, and it reads like a Grisham novel. It’s an entertaining theory, but one that isn’t supported by tangible evidence.”
“We would like for the jury to decide that, Your Honor.”
Poe smirked. “I bet you would.” He put on his bifocals and looked down at the paperwork in front of him, giving the impression that he was still thinking about what he was going to do. Then he peered at Tom. “I’m going to grant the motion. The form is excluded and there will be no mention of it by the defense.”
Tom ground his teeth, trying to keep his cool. “Your Honor, if we are able to obtain possession of the document, we would ask for an opportunity to revisit this issue.”
Poe coughed and cleared his throat. “If that happens, then I’m happy to hear what you have to say,” he said, looking anything but happy.
“Is there anything further?” Poe asked, moving his eyes from Tom to Powell.
“No, Your Honor,” Powell said.
“No,” Tom agreed.
“Well, there is one thing further that I would like to discuss,” Poe said, reaching behind him and grabbing a newspaper. He flung it in Tom’s direction, the paper landing a couple feet in front of the defense table. Rick moved around the table and picked it up. His eyes widened. He handed it to Tom.
On the front page of the Tuscaloosa News, the headline read, “McMurtrie’s Last Stand.”
“You just couldn’t do it, could you, McMurtrie?” Poe said, sneering at Tom.
“Couldn’t do what?” Tom asked, skimming over the article, written by Georgi Perry, which documented their short interview the evening before and then launched into a summary of Tom’s career as a trial attorney and law school professor.
“Couldn’t try a case without turning it into your own little drama.”
“Judge, I don’t know what you’re talking about. The reporter that wrote this article asked me one question and I answered it truthfully. The inquiry didn’t deal with any of the facts of this case and I saw nothing inappropriate about my response.”
Poe scowled and pointed a finger at Tom. “Now you listen to me. I will not have my courtroom turned into a circus like what happened in Henshaw. You don’t think that article might bring a few bystanders? Well, I’m not going to sit here and watch a parade of Alabama football legends like Lee Roy Jordan prance into my courtroom to show their support for you in your last foray. Such a spectacle will distract and prejudice the jury, and I’m not going to allow it. You hear me?”
Tom was unable to suppress the faintest of smiles. During the trial in Henshaw, ten members of the 1961 team, including Lee Roy, had shown up to support Tom in his first jury trial in forty years.
“You find this funny, McMurtrie?” Poe’s scowl turned mock serious. “Why, I would think a man of your morals, a longtime law professor, would understand the unfair advantage you gained in Henshaw.”
“My friends came to support me,” Tom said. “I didn’t ask them. They just came. It’s a free country.”
“It may be,” Poe said, “but this is my courtroom, and I won’t stand for any of those shenanigans.” He shot a glance at Powell.
“Since the prosecutor doesn’t seem bothered by your impropriety, by motion of the court, I hereby initiate a gag order prohibiting either side from having any interview with the press about any topic until after this case has been disposed. Also, unless they have a role in this case or some professional reason to be here, it is the order of this court that any current or former member of the University of Alabama football team be excluded from these proceedings. I further rule that there be no mention made by the prosecution or the defense of Tom McMurtrie’s history as a football player for Bear Bryant or Alabama.” He slammed his gavel down. “Do I make myself clear?”
Tom gazed up at the bench in utter disbelief. During his career as a trial lawyer and professor, he had never intentionally used his position as a football player to gain an unfair advantage. The insinuation infuriated him.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Powell said, his voice so loud that Tom’s entire body tensed. Tom looked across the courtroom, and the prosecutor’s face had darkened. “Perfectly clear.”
Poe smirked. “I hope the state isn’t prejudiced by your hero worship of opposing counsel, Conrad. Any prosecutor worth his salt would have made this motion without my involvement. You’re an embarrassment to the title you hold.”
“I respectfully beg to differ, Judge. I’m Powell Conrad, from Decatur, Alabama. By the time I could crawl, my momma had taught me to say three things: ‘Yes, ma’am’ . . . ‘No, ma’am,’ . . . and ‘Roll Tide.’” He paused and, when he spoke again, it was with such intensity that Judge Poe’s face went pale. “Without more reasons than the ones you’ve identified, the State of Alabama cannot back a motion to exclude the Crimson Tide football program from this courtroom.” He paused. “However, my staff and I will abide by and follow the court’s order.”
Poe scoffed. “You’re a real cowboy, aren’t you, Conrad?”
“No, sir. I’m the district attorney.”
Ignoring the answer, the judge turned his attention to defense counsel. “Does the defense understand the court’s ruling?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Rick said.
Unsatisfied, Poe peered at Tom. “And what about you, McMurtrie? Will you abide by my order?”
Tom glared at him, not seeing the sixty-year-old version of the man but instead a twenty-seven-year-old who had started law school later than most. Poe had been what the other students called a “gunner,” someone who sat in the front row, his hand shooting up every time Tom asked the class a question and seeming to enjoy hearing his own voice more than the Professor’s. He had tried out for the trial team and come across as smart and prepared. Unfortunately, he had no talent for speaking to juries or thinking on his feet, and Tom had to choose the team based on merit. Desire, which Braxton Poe had in spades, mattered, but Tom owed it to the team to choose the best advocates.
When Poe didn’t make the squad, he complained to the administration that his status as an editor on the law review and inclusion in the top 10 percent of his class made him overqualified for selection on the team. He argued that Tom played favorites and hadn’t chosen him due to a personality conflict. Tom held his ground, and the school sided with him. When that year’s team won the regional tournament and advanced all the way to the final match at nationals, Tom thought he had proven his point. Trial work was a different animal than writing briefs or memorizing legal theories; Poe wasn’t entitled to a spot just because of his grades and writing skills. He had to earn it, and Tom didn’t think he had.
The year had been 1979. Jimmy Carter was president. Bear Bryant still sat high on his tower at the Sewell-Thomas practice field, four years away from the heart attack that would take his life. And Tom McMurtrie had just started his second decade as an Evidence professor at the university.
“McMurtrie?” Poe rasped. “Has a cat got your tongue? Confirm that you will abide by my order, or I’m going to hold you in contempt.”
Tom looked past him to the ancient clock attached to the far wall. He wondered how long the wooden time-telling device had been in that exact location in this very courtroom. Had it been here in 1979? Had it switched places in the thirty-three years since Tom had cut Braxton Poe from the trial team? One thing that hadn’t changed was the hate that Tom saw in the eyes of his former student, now a circuit court judge whose ruling might sway the final trial of Tom’s career.
Not to mention the future of Wilma Newton.
Tom felt his arm being squeezed, and he gazed into his partner’s scared eyes. “Professor, answer him,” Rick whispered.
“McMurtrie, this is your last chance, or I’m throwing you in jail. Are you going to follow my rule?”
Tom swallowed, his throat dry as sandpaper. Visions of other disappointed and dejected students passed through his mind. Kids who hadn’t liked their grade in Evidence or who thought Tom had been too hard on them during class. Then there were the ones whom Tom had thought he had really helped. Kids like Jameson Tyler, who had been one of his finest pupils. Tom thought Jameson had grown into a great attorney and man, but the Big Cat had deceived him two years ago for money and fame. Tom hadn’t reached him at all. How many others were there like Tyler? In forty years of teaching law, Tom knew he’d had a positive impact on molding the futures of throngs of legal minds, but it burned him that he’d also had a role in producing the likes of Braxton Poe and Jameson Tyler.
Finally, as Rick again pinched his arm, Tom spoke, his voice almost as scratchy as his nemesis on the bench. “Yes, Your Honor.”
After Poe adjourned the hearing and had shut the doors to his chambers, Rick turned to Tom. “Are you OK, Professor? You kind of checked out on us there.”
“I’m fine, son,” Tom said, and he coughed to clear his throat. Since his talk with Bill Davis yesterday, Tom had noticed that he had been coughing more, which Bill had said to expect with lung cancer. “I just need some water.”
“When were you going to tell me that this was your last trial?” Rick pointed to the newspaper, and Tom felt a sense of guilt.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you before you found out that way. I just . . .” He trailed off in another fit of coughing.
“Are you sure you’re OK?” Rick asked, moving closer. “How did your appointment with Dr. Davis go yesterday?”
Tom considered his partner’s hazel eyes. The boy had endured enough heartache in the last ten months to last a lifetime. I’m not going to give him more today.
“Fine,” Tom said. “Bulging disc like I thought. Gonna treat it with pain meds and see how I do. Hopefully, I won’t need surgery.”
Rick looked at him, and Tom wondered if the boy could see through the lie. I’ll tell him the truth after the trial. I’ll tell everyone . . . after.
“Good deal,” Rick finally said. “Meet you back at the office? I want to talk with Powell for a second.”
“Sure thing,” Tom said.
64
“Yes, ma’am, no, ma’am, and Roll Tide,” Rick said, winking at his old friend as he approached the prosecution table. “I like it.”
Powell grunted and then pulled Rick in for a bear hug. “It’s good to see you, man.”
“It’s good to see you too.”
Powell looked over Rick’s shoulder to the defense table, where Tom had sat back down. “He OK?”
Rick glanced behind him and then back at Powell. “I think so. He and the judge . . . have a history.”
“I know,” Powell said, rubbing his chin. “If you guys want to file a motion for Poe to recuse, I won’t oppose it.” He stopped and glared toward the judge’s chambers. “However, I don’t think he likes me much better.”
“It wouldn’t matter,” Rick said. “Poe would deny a motion to recuse, and we have no evidence of prejudice. At least not yet. If we find that change form, and he doesn’t let it in, then—”
“Even if y’all come up with that document, it shouldn’t come in,” Powell snapped. “It’s hearsay. You won’t be able to authenticate it, and you have no physical evidence connecting Kat or Bull
y Calhoun to Jack’s murder. I have to agree with Poe that y’all are in Grishamland with any theory that the Calhouns killed Jack because they knew they were about to lose the three million.”
“I guess we’ll see.”
“She needs to plead guilty, Rick.”
“Your offer still on the table? Life and eligible for parole in fifteen?”
“Yes, but all bets are off once the jury is in the box and we start opening statements.”
“Understood,” Rick said.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence as the two friends stared at each other. “Your mom doing OK?” Powell finally asked.
“Yeah, man. She’s doing fine. Every day is a little better.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t called much, but once y’all got involved in this Newton mess . . .”
“No need to explain,” Rick said. He started to walk away but then snapped his fingers. “Hey, Powell, I forgot to ask.”
“What?”
“You got any opposition to my motion for trial by battle?”
In ancient times, in lieu of a jury trial, either party to a dispute could request “battle” as a remedy and could literally fight the other side with their bare hands or with swords or some other agreed-upon method. They could also hire someone to fight for them. When Powell and Rick had learned of this practice in their third-year civil procedure motion workshop, they had opened each mock hearing by stating, “Judge, assuming my motion for trial by battle is denied . . .”
The teacher never laughed and none of their classmates did either. But Powell and Rick thought it was hilarious.
Powell pursed his lips. “None. But I’ll need to see if Ric Flair is available first.”
“Sorry,” Rick said. “I’ve already got dibs on the Nature Boy. Wooo!”
“Wooo!” Powell replied. He held out a fist, which Rick tapped with his own. “I hate this,” the prosecutor said, glancing past Rick again to the Professor. “I hate being on opposite sides.”
The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3) Page 29
