(2014) The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  “I know,” Tom said.

  “Of course you know,” Rick said, feeling anger burn through his chest. “You and Tyler are all chummy. He probably called you right after he told me, and y’all probably had drinks to celebrate. Well, fuck him.” Rick took a step forward. “And fuck you too. I’d never take a referral from you. I don’t care how great the case is.”

  Tom walked to the door, moving slowly and deliberately. When he reached the knob, he turned around. “I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t realize the incident had affected you so badly. That’s, in part, why I’m here. I was hoping this case might, in some way, make up for how I’ve hurt your career.”

  Rick glared back, unable to form coherent thoughts. “Just get out,” he said. Without waiting for any further response, Rick turned and walked to his private office, slamming the door behind him. Listening, he heard a sigh and then the front door squeaked open and shut.

  Jesus Christ, he thought, pacing the floor of his office, looking up at the Regional championship photograph and cursing the gray eyes in the picture. Where does he get off? Trouncing in here and giving me a pop quiz before he refers me a case. Well, fuck him. I don’t need him. I don’t need his help.

  Rick took a deep breath, and glanced at his desk. Leaning up against it were his four thin file jackets. Three workers’ comp cases and a car wreck. Four measly files and you’re turning down a multi-million-dollar death case in your hometown with Ms Rose and Sheriff Ballard as witnesses? Are you out of your mind?

  Rick glanced around his office, knowing that he’d never get a job in this state working for a firm like Jones & Butler again. The incident would always keep him down. His only chance was to be a plaintiff’s lawyer and have a million-dollar case walk in the door.

  Rick felt panic from his head to his shoes as he realized what he had done. My million-dollar case just walked out the door.

  Rick ran. Through the reception area. Out the door. And down the stairs. Don’t be gone. Please... don’t be gone. He barreled outside and almost fell on the sidewalk. Looking in all directions, he didn’t see anyone.

  “Having second thoughts?” a gravelly voice asked from behind him. Rick turned, and saw the Professor leaning up against the brick outer wall of Larry and Barry’s.

  “I’m... sorry. I... you just caught me off guard,” Rick stammered, leaning forward and grabbing his knees to catch his breath.

  “Don’t worry about it. Do you want the case?”

  Rick looked up, and slowly nodded. “I do, but... I’ve got one condition. You have to stay away. You can’t be hanging around, second-guessing every decision I make. You can’t–”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Tom interrupted. “Like I said, I’m going away for a while. You won’t be hearing from me again about this or anything else.” Tom took several folded pieces of paper out of his front pocket, and gave them to Rick. “This is the accident report and my notes on the case. It’s all I have right now. There’s a sticky note on top with the client’s name and phone number.” He paused. “Her name is Ruth Ann Wilcox, and... she means a great deal to me. My only condition is that you call her when you get upstairs. Don’t wait until Monday. I want you to tell her that I had to go away, and that you have a note from me.” He stopped and pulled out an envelope from inside his jacket. “When you meet her for the first time, I want you to give her this envelope. I’ll trust you not to open it before you see her.” Tom handed Rick the envelope and grabbed his arm. “Promise me you’ll give her the note.”

  Rick squinted up at him. “I promise.”

  Tom gave a quick nod, and turned and began to walk down the sidewalk.

  “Professor... why...” Rick stopped, unsure of what he wanted to ask. A million questions seemed to flood his brain.

  When he reached the corner, the Professor turned and glared at Rick. “Second chances don’t come around every day, son.” He paused. “Don’t fuck it up.”

  19

  Dear Ruth Ann,

  I’m sure you’ve seen or read the news by now. Because of the bad publicity surrounding me, I’m going away for awhile. Rick Drake is a talented lawyer with Henshaw ties, who will do a fine job for you. I recommend that you hire him to take your case.

  Love,

  Tom

  Ruth Ann read the letter, and then reread it. Going away for a while? She didn’t understand.

  “Did he say anything else when he gave this to you?” Ruth Ann asked, looking up from the conference room table at Rick Drake. He is so young, she thought.

  “He said that you mean a great deal to him.”

  Ruth Ann nodded, blinking back tears. I mean so much to him that he could just leave without saying goodbye.

  “Ms Wilcox, I’ve taken the liberty of drafting this complaint,” Rick Drake said, sliding several stapled sheets of paper across the desk. “We would file against Willistone Trucking Company for two counts of negligence. First for their driver’s negligence at the time of the accident. I’ve already spoken briefly with Sheriff Jimmy Ballard over the telephone, and he stands by the speed listed in the report: 80 miles per hour in a 65-mile zone. That’s a clear basis for count one.” Rick paused, and took a sip of water.

  “What about the eyewitness’ statement? Ms...”

  “Batson. Rose Batson. I’ve also spoken with Ms Rose – everyone in Henshaw calls her Ms Rose – and unfortunately she just repeated what’s in her statement. The Honda turned in front of the rig.” Rick shrugged. “However, she added that the rig was about a hundred yards from the intersection when the Honda began its turn, so hopefully we can retain an accident reconstructionist who can give the opinion that your son-in-law couldn’t have seen the rig when he started to turn.”

  Ruth Ann cringed when Rick said “son-in-law” and felt an ache in her heart. Bob had been such a good man. Strong. Protective of his wife and child. Exactly the kind of man a mother would want her daughter to marry. Not the kind of man that would pull in front of an eighteen-wheeler.

  “OK, that makes sense,” Ruth Ann said. “You mentioned a second count?”

  Rick nodded. “Count two is for the company’s negligence in hiring, training and supervising Newton.”

  Ruth Ann raised her eyebrows. “So you think the company was negligent?”

  Rick nodded. “I looked at Newton’s driving record this weekend. There’s a database online with that information. His record shows two speeding tickets within six months prior to the accident.

  “Two speeding tickets?”

  Rick nodded. “Since Newton was speeding at the time of this accident, the prior tickets should’ve warned the company of a problem. I think we’ll probably need more than that to get to a jury, but the tickets give us a good-faith basis for bringing the claim.”

  “How will we get more?”

  “Well... based on the newspaper articles I read online, Harold Newton was hauling nine thousand gallons of Ultron gasoline at the time of the collision. Now, I doubt we have a claim against Ultron, but they might have information relevant to the case. Unfortunately, the Ultron plant in Tuscaloosa burned to the ground the night of the accident, so I’m worried that Ultron may not have any documents.”

  “Do you think there could be some connection between the fire and the accident?” Ruth Ann asked.

  Rick shrugged. “The fire marshal determined that the fire was accidental, so it appears to just be a bad coincidence. However, even if Ultron doesn’t have any documents, someone there had to load Newton’s truck on the day of the accident, and I’m going to make an all-out effort to find and talk with those employees.” Rick took a deep breath and sipped from a cup of coffee. “The articles also mentioned that the deceased truck driver, Harold Newton, had a widow.”

  Ruth Ann felt her stomach tighten. She remembered hearing about Newton’s widow. Several times, in the days following the accident, she had thought of calling Ms Newton, but she never had. Too painful, she thought, biting her lip.

  “Why is that important?” Ru
th Ann asked

  “It may not be,” Rick said. “But, if there was something going on with Willistone that was making Harold Newton have to speed, then his widow may know about it. She may blame Willistone for his death.” He held out his palms. “Anyway, I think it’s worth exploring.”

  Ruth Ann nodded. Then, pointing at the complaint, she looked at Rick. “When did you want to file this?”

  “As soon as you’re ready. We could file today if you wish.”

  Ruth Ann crossed her arms over her chest. This is really happening, she thought, gazing down at the draft complaint in front of her. She wished so badly that Tom was still here.

  Ruth Ann closed her eyes. Everything. These people took everything from me. They deserve to answer for it. She saw Jeannie, Bob and Nicole as she remembered them and she fought back tears. This won’t bring them back. Are you sure you want to put yourself through this? Wouldn’t it be better to move on?

  “Ms Wilcox, you don’t have to decide today,” Rick said. “I mean, if you’d like some more time to think about it...”

  Ruth Ann stood, her body trembling. I have to know why. She turned her back on Rick and walked to the door of the conference room. Then she turned around and looked Rick Drake directly in the eye.

  “File it.”

  PART THREE

  20

  Hazel Green, Alabama, is a one-stoplight town on the northern tip of the state. In 1939, two years before enlisting in the army and three years before joining the 101st Airborne, Sutton “Sut” McMurtrie bought a hundred-acre farm across the street from Hazel Green High School. A year later, on a cold and blustery day two weeks before Christmas, Sut’s wife Rene gave birth to their one and only child, a son. Wanting the boy to have a strong name, Sut named him after his grandfather’s hero, the general that Newt McMurtrie served under in the Civil War.

  Thomas Jackson. To the world, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson.

  Tom was two when his daddy left the farm for the war, and he didn’t remember him going. But he did remember his return. Sut had been badly injured at the Battle of the Bulge, when his battalion, led by General McAuliffe, refused to surrender at Bastogne. Sut came home in a wheelchair, wearing the Purple Heart given him by President Roosevelt. Despite his condition, when his father saw him for the first time, he had picked six year-old Tom off the ground, sat him in his lap, and kissed him on the cheek and forehead. And for the first and only time in his life, Tom saw his daddy cry.

  The wheelchair had lasted a week. After breakfast one morning, Sut ran his rough fingers over Tom’s head and slowly stood from the chair. Walking with a limp, he heaved the chair off the ground and stuck it in the garage. “Come on, boy, we got work to do,” he had said. That summer, the summer of 1945, Sut and six year-old Tom built the brick farmhouse that Tom gazed at now.

  Tom breathed the fresh farm air and looked at the house he and his father built with their bare hands. He touched a brick, remembering how his daddy had laid each one individually. Feeling tears well in his eyes, Tom shook his head and looked away, towards Highway 231.

  “Where the heck is he?” Tom asked out loud, looking down at Musso, who was chewing on an old shoe. They had arrived three days ago, but there wasn’t much Tom could do without some help. The house was a mess, having not had a tenant in over five years, and the yard that surrounded the house and led into the fields of corn might have to be bush-hogged, the grass was so damn high. Tom silently cursed himself, feeling guilty that he’d let the place go to pot.

  Sighing, he watched as Musso stopped chewing, coughed, and then made a god-awful throat clearing sound. When the dog stood up and raised his ears, Tom turned his head and saw a car pulling up the driveway.

  “’Bout time,” he said. As Musso barked and ran towards the vehicle – a Lexus SUV – Tom stood with his arms folded.

  Once parked, the driver of the car, an enormous black man wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans, stepped out and immediately disarmed Musso, grabbing him behind the ears and stroking him. The dog stopped growling and started shaking his tail.

  “Musso, you’re even bigger and fatter than the last time I saw you,” the man said, picking the sixty-pound animal off his feet and letting Musso lick his face. Then, after planting his own kiss on the side of Musso’s massive head, the man, all six foot four and two hundred forty pounds of him, set the dog down, walked towards Tom and stopped a foot in front of him.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, extending his hand. “The Professor has gone to the farm.”

  Shaking his hand, Tom couldn’t help but smile. In forty years of teaching, he’d had lots of students come and go, but – like all teachers – he had an all-time favorite. And he was looking at him now.

  “Bocephus, you doing all right?”

  “All right?” Bocephus smiled, feigning shock. “I’m living the dream, Professor. One day at a time. One case at a time. One million-dollar verdict at a time. We’re talkin’ wide... ass... open.”

  He laughed and caught Tom in a bear hug, holding him close. “It’s not right what they’ve done, dog. Let me go after ’em. Don’t you think it’s time for Jameson ‘Big Cat’ Tyler to face Bocephus Haynes?” He let Tom go and laughed, pointing at Musso. “I’d treat him the same way that bulldog would.”

  As if on cue, Musso let out his patented throat-clearing sound.

  “Yeaaaah,” Bocephus said, turning to Tom and trying to make the same sound in his own throat. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Bocephus Aurulius Haynes was born and raised in Pulaski, Tennessee, which is about forty-five minutes northwest of Hazel Green. His father had died young, and Bo had grown up working on a farm, just like Tom. Also like Tom, Bo had a taste and a talent for football. The local town leaders of Pulaski had wanted Bo to wear orange and play for the Vols, but Bo had never been much for doing what other folks wanted him to do. In 1978, he signed a scholarship with Alabama. A year later, against Arkansas in the Sugar Bowl, Bo saw playing time on the Man’s last national championship team. His junior year, Bo was a pre-season All American, but he blew his knee out in the first game of the season. Though he returned for his senior year and played on the Man’s last team, he was never quite the same.

  During Bo’s rehab, the Man had asked Tom to talk to Bo about his future. Bo had no clue what he wanted to do, still reeling from the reality that his knee would prevent him from playing in the NFL. For a semester, Tom asked Bo to follow him through trial team practices and got him a job as an intern in the Tuscaloosa DA’s office. Once he got a sniff of the law, Bo was hooked. Though his LSAT scores and grades weren’t great, they were solid. And with recommendations from the Professor and the Man, Bocephus Haynes was admitted to law school in 1982.

  The rest, as they say, is history. Bo graduated in the top ten per cent of his law school class, and was the bell cow on Tom’s 1985 national championship trial team, making him the only student in Alabama history to have won national championships for both the Man and Tom. He had offers from every prestigious law firm in the state, and even clerked a summer for Jones & Butler, working for a hotshot young partner named Jameson Tyler.

  But the lure of the big firms had no impact on Bo. There was only one place Bo wanted to practice law, and he returned to Pulaski and hung up a shingle three months after graduation. Tom had never gotten the full story of why Bo wanted so badly to return home. When he asked him once, Bo had just shrugged and said, “Unfinished business.”

  Regardless of the reasons, twenty-four years later, Bocephus Haynes was the most feared plaintiff’s lawyer south of Nashville. But despite his amazing trial record – only one loss to go with countless victories – Bo had never forgotten where he came from. Or who made his success possible.

  Over the years, Bo called Tom several times a year, and stayed at Tom’s house on football weekends. Tom had been to Bo’s wedding, and Bo had been a pall bearer at Julie’s funeral, the only former student Tom had asked. For years, Bo had always told Tom the same thin
g: “If things ever get bad for you, if you ever need anything, I want you to do something for me. After you’ve prayed to God and talked to Jesus, you come see Bocephus.”

  Tom had laughed at the punchline, but now here he was. And Bo had done him one better.

  Bocephus had come to see him.

  It took the whole weekend to make the place livable. While Bo mowed the grass – he had to make two full turns around the massive yard to get it done – Tom cleaned out the house and contacted the utilities company to get the heat turned on. They also hiked out onto the farm a ways, and Bo cut down a tree for firewood. It had been years since Tom had walked the farm, and he was amazed at how grown up a lot of the brush had gotten. They had seen several deer and had also heard the unmistakable squeal of a bobcat, which caused even Bocephus to raise his eyebrows.

  On Sunday night, Tom cooked steaks on the grill and the two men drank beer and told war stories on the deck attached to the back of the house. For February, the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees and, for the first time in weeks, Tom laughed. After the meal was finished, and the sun had long since gone down, Bo passed Tom a cigar and lit one of his own. With Musso snoring below his feet, Bo blew a cloud of smoke in the air and eyed Tom.

  “So, how’d the surgery go?”

  Tom looked down at the table, feeling some of his good vibes begin to dissipate. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Bill said he thought he got it all, and the biopsy matched his initial thoughts. The mass was stage two, but superficial.”

  “Meaning?”

  “It’s treatable.”

  “Well, that’s good, right?” Bo asked, seeming to sense Tom’s drop in mood.

  “Better than the alternative.”