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 goosebumps 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 80 in a 65 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 80 in a 65 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, showing 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 80, and Tyler had to move it out of the way and erase it before he could begin his c
ross.
“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.” Tyler was the picture of confidence as he waited for the Judge.
“Overruled,” Judge Cutler said. “Answer the question, Specks.”
“Well, that’s what her statement says,” Specks said.
“You aren’t suggesting that Rose Batson was untruthful in her statement, are you, Sheriff?”
“Oh, no. Ms Rose would never lie. When she says something, you can bet it’s the gospel.”
“The gospel,” Tyler said, smiling at Specks and then the jury.
“Yes, sir,” Specks said.
“I have no further questions,” Tyler said, winking at Rick as he took his seat.
Judge Cutler turned to Rick, who was stunned by the brevity of Tyler’s examination. What was that? Six questions? “Re-direct, counsel?”
Rick started to say something, but stopped himself. There was no way he could counter Tyler’s cross. It was short, effective and went straight to the theme of Tyler’s case. It was the perfect lead in to Batson’s testimony, where the jury would get to see Ms Rose’s statement.
Which Specks called “the gospel”, Rick thought.
“Counselor?” Judge Cutler repeated, scowling at Rick with impatience.
“No, your honor,” Rick said, trying to sound confident. No big deal, he thought. You still got Newton’s speed on the table. Tyler scored the only points he could score. He’s not the best trial lawyer in the state for nothing.
“Very well, call your next witness,” Cutler ordered.
Rick glanced down at the table. He’d placed his cell phone between his notebook and file, and the red light wasn’t blinking. He had asked Powell to roam the courthouse, and text him if he saw any sign of Wilma. He’d also sent Wilma another text this morning, asking her to contact him as soon as she arrived at the courthouse. She’s still not here, Rick thought, staring at the cell phone and feeling his stomach twitch. What was most disconcerting was that Wilma had not made any contact with Rick since her text Sunday night – no returned phone calls, no texts, no nothing. This stinks, he thought.
“Counselor?” Judge Cutler pressed, and Rick glanced up, realizing he’d let almost ten seconds lapse without a word. He glanced at the jury, and Judy Heacock had a worried look on her face. Pull it together, Drake, Rick told himself. Wilma’s not here and we can’t call Rose right now – not after what Specks said. We need a little gap before they hear “the gospel”.
Rick looked to his right, and Ruth Ann met his eye. “You ready?” Rick whispered.
Ruth Ann nodded, looking anxious but determined.
“Your honor,” Rick said, standing. “The plaintiff calls Ms Ruth Ann Wilcox.”
54
Thirty miles away and half cocked on Jack Daniels, Doolittle Morris pulled his pickup to a stop in the gravel driveway off Highway 25. Doo took a sip of the pint of black Jack he’d been holding between his legs and wiped his mouth, gazing at the clapboard house. The grass, which Mule had always kept like a golf green, had grown high, covering the front porch where Doo and Mule used to sit and pick guitars on Monday nights. Neither of them could play for shit, but they liked getting together and blowing off steam, drinking a little whiskey and playing the chords they knew. Doo sighed, stumbling out of the truck and slamming the door.
“Goddamnit, Mule,” Doo said out loud, kicking at an empty paint bucket that lay in the front yard. For over a month, Doo had been putting off this chore. After the visitation, the funeral and the investigation, Doo just didn’t have it in him to clean out Mule’s house. But the house couldn’t just sit out here for ever. It was Doo’s now – Mule had left everything he owned, which wasn’t much, to Doo – and Doo knew the longer the house sat the harder it would be to sell. All of Mule’s stuff had to be cleaned out, the yard had to be mowed and, judging by the different shades of paint and the empty paint bucket, he’d have to finish the paint job his cousin had started before his death.
“Goddamnit,” Doo repeated, his eyes stinging with tears as he climbed the steps of the porch and saw Mule’s guitar leaning against one of the rocking chairs. Maybe I can get it all done in a day or two, Doo thought, taking the key out of his pocket and opening the door. The stench of rotten food and a stale house hit him like a ton of bricks.
Maybe not.
55
Ruth Ann came off just as Rick expected. Poised. Polite. Graceful. And emotional at the right times, as when she teared up when describing how old Nicole was at the time of her death. Rick’s direct lasted until noon, and Cutler ordered a recess for lunch. At 1pm, the jury was back in the box and Cutler addressed Tyler. “Are you ready for cross examination, Counselor?”
Rick’s stomach tightened as he glanced at Tyler and then back at Ruth Ann. He knew he had prepared Ruth Ann well and that there were hardly any points Tyler could score with her. Regardless, he was terrified. As he’d heard Powell and the Professor say many times, there was nothing in a trial as scary as turning over your client or witness to the other side for questioning.
“Your honor,” Tyler said, standing and buttoning his coat. “We do not wish any more suffering on Ms Wilcox for this terrible accident. We have no questions.” Tyler bowed slightly, and Ruth Ann, the relief evident on her face, said, “Thank you.”
Rick couldn’t believe it. No questions. He glanced at the jury and saw several nods, including Judy Heacock. Bastard scored points and didn’t ask a single question.
“OK then,” Cutler said, also looking a bit surprised as his eyes shifted to Rick. “Call your next witness.”
Rick again glanced at his cell phone, which still showed nothing from Wilma or Powell. This time, though, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t finish his case in chief with Ms Rose, because he didn’t want to end on a downer. He had toyed with not calling Batson at all, but he knew Tyler would have a field day with that. “They didn’t want you to hear from the eyewitness,” Tyler would hammer in his closing. Better to bury her in the middle and end with a flourish with Wilma, Rick thought, praying that he’d hear from Wilma soon.
“Your honor,” Rick said, standing and sucking in a quick breath. This isn’t going to be fun, he knew. “The plaintiff calls Ms Rose Batson.”
Rick had resolved to handle Ms Rose like ripping off a Band-Aid. He didn’t pull any punches, having her describe everything she remembered. When he finished, he had basically brought out all of the points he knew Tyler would make, albeit not emphasizing them as he knew his adversary would. He can’t s
ay I’m hiding anything, Rick thought, walking back to his table. Sitting down, he checked his cell phone and there were still no new texts or missed calls. He looked at his watch. 3pm. Tyler would finish around 3.30, which would leave time for one more witness.
And I only have one more witness, Rick thought, beginning to feel sweat beads on his forehead. If Wilma doesn’t show in thirty minutes, I’m toast.
56
Wilma Newton sat in the passenger-side seat of the El Camino. She wore a long black dress, appropriate for a funeral. “Handpicked by the boss,” JimBone had said this morning, as he watched her get dressed.
Wilma sighed, wishing she could wake up from this nightmare but knowing it was only starting. She had spent most of the last forty-eight hours in a Rufalin-filled haze. JimBone had started drugging her from the moment he picked her up, which had been Sunday morning, and every time she drifted back into lucidity, he force-fed another pill down her throat.
Last night, she had been awake long enough to realize that they were staying at a Quality Inn in Tuscaloosa. The room was a business suite with a Jacuzzi right in the middle of it. Nice room, Wilma had thought, but then she’d been forced to take another pill, and the haze set back in. Occasionally, she opened her eyes and saw him on top of her, but she couldn’t feel anything. It was as if she were watching a horror movie, and she was the main character.
As they pulled onto the courthouse square, a sense of dread overcame Wilma. This is it. She thought of Rick Drake and that pretty girl he brought with him to the Sands. Of the lady whose family died. Of Dewey. Poor, sweet Dewey. This is all so wrong. She closed her eyes and tried to shake it off. I can’t go back. She took a tube of lipstick out of her purse and applied a fresh batch.
(2014) The Professor Page 20
