He dialed the number for his insurance agent.
“Hawkins,” the voice on the other end of the line answered.
“Bobby, it’s Jack. We got sued today in Henshaw.”
“Damn, that was fast,” Hawkins said. Jack had reported the accident to Hawkins the day after it happened, so Bobby was already up on all the facts.
“Tell me about it,” Jack said. “Listen, Bobby, no fucking around with the lawyer on this one, OK?”
“What do you mean?” Hawkins asked, his voice incredulous.
“I mean I know you insurance companies cut costs by hiring lawyers on the cheap, and I won’t tolerate that mess. I’ve paid BamaSure premiums for over three decades, and this is just my third lawsuit.”
“I assure you, Jack, that we will retain a very capable attorney to handle this file.”
“‘Very capable’?” Jack asked, chuckling. “What the fuck does that mean? Very capable is the way my dick performs after a six-pack of Budweiser, Bobby boy. I don’t want very capable. I want the goddamn best. I want a porn star. Am I clear?”
Several seconds of silence and then Bob’s muffled voice. “Yeah, Jack. I think I get it.”
“You think?” Jack asked. “Well, let me say it another way so there’s no miscommunication. Unless you want me to take my six-figure account somewhere else, Bobby boy–” Jack paused “–I’d suggest you get me the fastest horse in the stable.”
24
At 5 sharp the following evening, Rick and Dawn were escorted into a small conference room at the Ultron plant in Montgomery. Going on four hours sleep, Rick knew he should be tired but he was juiced on adrenaline. Every ten seconds, Wilma Newton’s words from the previous night popped into his head. Dewey Newton’s schedule was “crazy.” Dewey Newton’s schedule forced him to speed. Dewey Newton, at Jack Willistone’s direction, doctored his driver’s logs to fraudulently show compliance with DOT regulations.
I have my star witness, Rick knew, blinking and trying to focus on the task at hand.
The room had yellow cinder-block walls and Rick had the feeling he was in a prison instead of a gasoline plant. Introductions were quickly made. Present were Hank Russell, a tall, heavy-set man with silver hair who was the president of Ultron’s Montgomery plant, Willard Carmichael, a skinny man with a strawberry-blonde mullet and mustache, and Julian Witt, a lawyer from Milhouse & Wright, one of the larger Montgomery firms. Witt wore a navy-blue suit with a red power tie, and, after everyone had shaken hands, he took the lead.
“Rick, we understand that you have filed a lawsuit against Willistone Trucking Company in Tuscaloosa County.”
Rick smiled. “That’s correct.”
“That lawsuit arises out of a trucking accident that happened on September 2, 2009, involving a Willistone rig hauling Ultron Gasoline and a driver named Harold Newton.”
“Yes.” Rick didn’t like being cross examined by another lawyer, but he could understand Witt’s need to set the tone of the meeting and to also grandstand a little in front of his client.
“Your secretary told Mr Russell that you wanted to talk with any employee of this plant who may have worked at the Tuscaloosa plant on the day in question and loaded Newton’s truck.”
“That’s right,” Rick said. “And she was told that Mr Carmichael had been one of the loaders that day.”
“Correct. Well then...” A knock at the door interrupted Witt, and the lawyer looked irritated for half a second. Then, as if remembering something, his face broke into a grin. “Oh, I almost forgot. Come in!”
Rick squinted at Witt, then turned his head, not sure what to expect. When the door swung open, Rick’s stomach tightened into a knot.
He couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Julian, my boy!” boomed the unmistakable voice of Jameson Tyler. For a moment, Tyler stood at the door as if to let everyone in the room, especially Rick, get a good look at “the Big Cat”. Then he strode into the room, ignoring Rick and extending his meaty hand across the table, where Witt shook it eagerly.
“Jameson, I’m so sorry to have started without you.”
“No worries, Jules.” Tyler grabbed the pot of coffee that lay in the middle of the table and made a show of pouring himself a cup. He still had not looked Rick’s way, and Rick could feel the heat on his face. Rick glanced at Dawn, who raised her eyebrows as if to ask, Who the hell is that?
Jameson fucking Tyler, Rick thought, trying to stay cool.
As Tyler sat down at the head of the table – of course, that’s where he’d sit – Julian Witt, whose obvious man crush on Tyler made Rick nauseous, turned his flushed face back to Rick. “Sorry, Rick, but we thought it only fair to invite Willistone’s lawyer to this little soirée.”
Willistone’s lawyer? Rick thought, feeling his stomach jump. This had to be a joke.
“You are Willistone’s lawyer?” Rick asked what he was thinking, unable to contain the contempt in his voice as he glared at the man who withdrew Jones & Butler’s offer of employment to Rick nine months before.
Tyler’s mouth curved into a thousand-megawatt smile. “I am indeed. And you represent Ms Wilcox.” Tyler chuckled, chewing on the tip of his pen. “I can’t believe the Professor referred you this case. If I didn’t believe he’d lost his mind before, I definitely do now.”
Rick felt heat from the top of his forehead to the bottom of his feet as he glared a hole into Tyler, whose arrogant grin only widened. How could he possibly know about the Professor?
“Now, don’t get mad, Rick. None of us here want another YouTube incident. Deep breaths, now, boy. Deep breaths.” Tyler’s eyes moved to Dawn, and he cocked his head to the side. “Well, well, well...” he said, extending his hand. “Jameson Tyler.”
“Dawn Murphy,” Dawn said, giving Tyler’s hand a quick shake, but Tyler didn’t let go.
“You look familiar, Ms Murphy. Have we met before?”
“I don’t think so,” Dawn said, her voice firm, wriggling her hand out of his grasp. “If we did, you must not have made much of an impression.”
“I think you’re wrong,” Tyler said, pausing, still looking at Dawn. “We have. I just can’t place it. What’s your–”
“Can we got on with this?” Rick interrupted, glancing at Hank Russell, Ultron’s silver-haired president, who did not seem to be enjoying himself any more than Rick did, before glaring at Julian Witt.
“Go for it,” Witt said, winking at Tyler, who had crossed his legs, his eyes containing that amused “I know something you don’t” look Rick had remembered from his days clerking for the bastard.
“Mr Carmichael, did you know Harold ‘Dewey’ Newton?” Rick began, trying to keep his voice calm.
Carmichael pulled on his strawberry-blond mustache and looked at the table. “I knew Dewey. Not well or nothin,’ but I knew who he wuz.”
Rick nodded, forcing himself to look only at Willard. “Do you remember loading his truck the morning of September 2, 2009?”
Again, Willard pulled on his mustache. “Can’t say that I remember the date or nuthin.’ It was around Labor Day, I ’spect. I just remember later that day hearing that Dewey done been in a bad wreck.”
Rick leaned forward. “What do you remember about loading his truck that morning?”
Carmichael hesitated for a couple of seconds, looking around the table. Great, Rick thought, wondering how many times the poor SOB had already been through this with Julian Witt.
“Honestly, sir, I don’t remember nothin’ much at all about loading the truck that morning. Everything seemed normal to me.”
“Did Mr Newton seem in a rush?”
“I think he’s answered the question, Rick,” Tyler interjected, but Rick didn’t even look at the bastard.
“Did Mr Newton seem in a rush?” Rick repeated, unable to control his irritation.
“Hey, boy,” Tyler said, banging the table with his fist. “You deaf or something? He said he doesn’t remember what happened that morning.”
; Again, Rick didn’t look at Tyler. Instead, he glared at Julian Witt. “I came here, because Mr Russell said I could ask Mr Carmichael some questions. If you want to cut the meeting off, Julian, just say the word. Otherwise, I’d like to keep going.”
“Well...” Witt stammered, glancing at Tyler and then back at Rick. “I think Jameson has a point. I mean, if Mr Carmichael doesn’t remember...”
“Willard, was Dewey in a rush?” Hank Russell’s voice punctured the air like a knife.
“Mr Russell...” Julian began, but Russell cut him off.
“I’m busy, Julian. I got a gasoline plant to run and I don’t have time for this song and dance. Was he, Willard?”
“No, sir, boss. Not that I recall. But like I said, I just don’t remember that much.”
Hank turned to Rick. “Next question.”
“Had you loaded Dewey’s rig prior to that day?”
Willard shrugged his shoulders. “I ’spect.”
“Do you ever remember him being in a hurry?”
Willard shrugged again but didn’t say anything.
“Answer the question, Willard,” Hank prodded.
“Not that I recall,” Willard finally said, staring at the table.
“Did he ever say anything to you about the schedule he was on at Willistone?”
Willard wrinkled up his face like he didn’t understand the question.
Rick tried again. “Did Dewey Newton ever complain to you about how much he was having to drive or whether he was having to speed to make loads on time?”
Willard shook his head. “Oh, no. Dewey never said nothing to me like that. Least not that I recall.”
“I think that about covers anything relevant you could ask,” Witt said. “I’m not going to let him answer anything else unless you set up a deposition.”
“One more question,” Rick said, tapping his pen on the notepad he’d brought with him and praying Witt wouldn’t cut him off. A deposition was a discovery tool where a lawyer could ask questions of a witness under oath, and the answers were taken down by a court reporter and converted to a transcript. Rick might take Willard’s deposition down the road, but depositions tended to be expensive and he did not want to have to set up a deposition to ask one question. “I promise it’s relevant.”
Witt sighed, but didn’t say anything.
“Mr Carmichael,” Rick began. “Do you remember if anyone else helped you load Dewey’s truck the morning of the accident?”
Willard again looked around the table, but none of the other men spoke. They all knew it was an appropriate question. And all of them already know the answer.
“Answer the question, Willard,” Hank interrupted.
“It was Mule,” Willard blurted. “I mean Dick. Dick Morris. We all called him Mule.”
Rick turned to Witt. “Does Dick Morris work here at the Montgomery plant?”
“No,” Witt said, his voice firm and matter-of-fact. “Nor does he work at any other Ultron plant. We have no information on Morris.”
“I think he has family up near Faunsdale, but–”
“That’s enough, Mr Carmichael,” Witt interrupted, glaring at Willard. “You are excused now.”
Carmichael hesitated, then looked around Witt to Hank Russell, who waved him off. “You can get to work now, Willard. Thanks for coming in.”
Willard Carmichael stood awkwardly and nodded to Rick. “Evenin’.”
Rick nodded back and also stood. Then he looked at Hank Russell. “Mr Russell, thank you for setting this meeting up.” Russell rose from his seat, and extended his hand.
“My pleasure, son. Here’s my card. Call me if you need anything else.” Rick took the card and put it in his pocket. Then he shook Russell’s hand.
“Actually, Rick,” Julian Witt interceded. “You should call me if you need anything else. Ultron is represented by counsel, and it wouldn’t be appropriate for you to contact Mr Russell directly.”
Rick glanced at Russell long enough to see him roll his eyes, and Rick stifled a laugh.
“Sure thing, Julian,” Rick said, motioning to Dawn that it was time to leave. He had reached the door when Witt’s voice stopped him.
“By the way, Rick, that YouTube video is awesome.” Julian chuckled, throwing a mock punch in the air, and Rick heard louder laughter to his side. Tyler.
Rick felt the adrenaline pour through his veins, but he didn’t say anything. That’s what they want, he knew. He waved at Hank Russell. “Thanks again.”
25
Willard Carmichael smoked a pack of cigarettes during his shift. He also called home twice. He hadn’t done either in he couldn’t remember when. Smoked or called home.
Everything was fine at the house. Sally was about to go to bed. She had to be at the Cracker Barrel at six in the morning. Lindsay was out with a friend, but due in by 10. Everything is fine, he thought.
Willard tried to stay calm, but it was a slow night on the yard, giving him time to think. And worry.
Willard was a world-class worrier. He worried about his thinning hair. He worried that Sally was cheating on him since they worked separate shifts and hardly saw each other anymore. He worried Lindsay would get pregnant before she graduated. And he worried he’d get fired pretty much every day.
But he wasn’t worried about any of those things tonight. Tonight, he was thinking about Dewey Newton, and the deal he made five months ago: If you ever talk, I won’t come back for the money. It’ll be your life, Willard. Everything you hold dear...
“But I didn’t talk,” Willard whispered to himself, over and over throughout his shift. I did exactly what he told me to do...
At 1am, Willard clocked out and walked to his car. When he climbed in the front seat, he lit up another cigarette and closed his eyes. The nicotine was helping, but it wasn’t enough. I need to get drunk.
He was thinking about what brand of six-pack he was going to buy at the filling station on the way home when he felt a blunt object press against the back of his head.
“Don’t move, Willard,” a male voice said. “Don’t move and you might live to see tomorrow.”
“What the–”
Willard’s face slammed against the steering wheel, and his head was jerked around. Now he saw the man, and he felt his bladder beginning to give way.
“Yeah, it’s me, Willard. Remember our little agreement. I think you cashed in rather nicely.”
“I didn’t say a word, I promise,” Willard said. “I told them I couldn’t remember anything.” Now the gun was pressed into Willard’s forehead and he let go of his bladder.
“That’s good, Willard. That’s real good. I like it when people meet their end of the bargain. I was just thinking how awful it was going to be to take out your indiscretions on Sally and Lindsay. What is Lindsay now, sixteen? She’s really pretty, Willard.”
Willard was crying now, and his bowels had opened up too. “I... didn’t... say... anything.”
“Good, Willard. Good. Well, it’s starting to stink in here. I’m going to go.”
The man opened the car door, but did not walk away. With minimal effort, he forearmed the driver’s side window, and the glass pelted down on Willard Carmichael’s crying face.
“One more thing, Willard. If I ever see you talking with Rick Drake or his little hottie assistant again, after I rape and kill your wife and daughter while you watch, I’m going to cut your dick off and choke you to death with it.” The man winked at the petrified eyes that stared back at him.
“Have a nice day.”
26
Rick barely said a word from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa. Of all the lawyers to defend this case, he kept thinking, trying to tell himself that it was a good sign that Jameson Tyler had been retained by Willistone. That means they know they’re exposed. They wouldn’t have retained a heavy hitter like Tyler if they weren’t scared. Though the thoughts were true, Rick couldn’t block out the needling he’d endured from Tyler and Julian Witt.
It’s always go
ing to be like that, he knew. Every lawyer I encounter is going to bring up the YouTube video. If they don’t bring it up, they’ll know about it and they’ll laugh behind my back.
“You OK?” Dawn finally asked, as the Tuscaloosa City Limits sign came into view.
“Fine,” Rick said, irritated at having his thoughts disturbed.
“Coulda fooled me,” Dawn pressed, turning to face him. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. I was about to check for a pulse.”
“I’m fine,” Rick repeated. “It’s just–” Rick shook his head “–I let those guys get to me, that’s all.”
“I think you handled them fine,” Dawn said. “They were very unprofessional, and I think it pissed off Mr Russell.”
Rick shrugged. “Russell was cool.” Reflexively, Rick reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card that Russell had given him. “Be sure to put this in the file,” he said, handing it to her. “I probably shouldn’t call him – Witt was right about that – but...”
“Rick,” Dawn interrupted, her voice anxious. Glancing at her, Rick saw that she had turned the business card over. There were handwritten words on the back of the card.
“What does it say?” he asked.
“‘Faith Bulyard, (205) 645-5558.’”
Rick felt his stomach jump. “That name sounds familiar. Bulyard...” Rick thought back to the articles he’d read about the accident and the Ultron fire. “Damnit, why does–”
“Buck Bulyard was the president of the Tuscaloosa plant,” Dawn interrupted, her voice excited. “He died in the fire.”
Rick raised his eyebrows at her in wonder. “How did–”
“I read your investigative files this morning when I got to work. The articles also said that his wife, Faith, worked for Ultron too.”
Rick shook his head in bewilderment. “Why the hell would Russell put Faith Bulyard’s phone number on the back of his business card? Do you think he gave me that by mistake?”
(2014) The Professor Page 11
