(2014) The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  “They’ve reached a verdict.”

  91

  The courtroom was again filled to capacity. Apparently, the people who had left when the jury was given the case had stuck around, hoping the case might be decided that evening. The courtroom was literally buzzing with electricity, as the spectators talked amongst themselves. The excitement was palpable.

  Judge Cutler banged his gavel, and the buzz came to a halt. In seconds, the courtroom was silent as a church.

  “Mr Foreman,” Cutler bellowed. “Has the jury reached its verdict?”

  In the back right corner of the jury box, Sam Roy Johnson stood, holding a single piece of paper in his right hand. “Yes, we have, your honor.”

  “What says the jury?” the Judge asked.

  Tom placed his elbows on the table and watched Sam Roy. The last time Tom had heard a verdict read was June 20, 1969, three weeks before his breakfast with the Man. If anything, his adrenaline was pumping harder now that it had then. There is no feeling in the world like this, Tom thought, savoring it and knowing in his heart that they had done all they could do. We left it on the field.

  Next to Tom, Rick leaned forward, gripping the photograph of the Bradshaw family in his pocket. Please God, give this family justice. Taking the photograph out of his pocket, he placed it in Ruth Ann’s hand and clasped hers with his. In this moment – the biggest moment of his life – Rick thought not of himself or his career. He thought only of the family in the picture. The young father and mother, not much older than Rick, who’d had their entire future and life shattered in the blink of an eye. The two-year old little girl who should’ve had a long, wonderful life, but instead burned to death in a Honda Accord. And, finally, the grandmother who’d had the strength and courage to go the distance. Not for money or greed, but for the truth. Tears burned Rick’s eyes. All he could do now was pray... and listen.

  Sam Roy Johnson cleared his throat.

  “We the jury of the Circuit Court of Henshaw County, Alabama hereby find for the Plaintiff, Ruth Ann Wilcox, as to all claims against the Defendant Willistone Trucking Company and award her the total sum of...

  “...$90 million dollars...”

  92

  There were a lot of hugs. Once Judge Cutler dismissed the jury, Rick hugged Ruth Ann, and Tom joined in for a group hug, kissing Ruth Ann gently on the cheek. Then Billy Drake came over and grabbed Rick in a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, son.”

  Rick was in utter shock. $90 million dollars?

  When the verdict was read, there had been a collective, audible sigh from the courtroom. Sam Roy Johnson had gone on to read the jury’s allocation, which was $30 million for Bob Bradshaw’s death, $30 million for Jeannie Bradshaw and $30 million for little Nicole, but it was hard to hear due to the rustling in the courtroom. All of the reporters had headed for the double doors at the same time, each wanting to be the first to break the news.

  Now, it was a madhouse. People Rick didn’t know were slapping him on the back, and the Professor was engulfed in a sea of the same. It was overwhelming and wonderful. But not complete. There was still someone else Rick wanted to see. Where is she? Rick stood on his toes and searched the crowd, still not seeing her. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned.

  “Looking for someone?” Dawn smiled, though her eyes were red with tears. “Congratulations, Rick. You really deserve–”

  But her words were drowned out by Rick’s kiss. All of the energy, stress and anguish of the past three days poured out of him. All he wanted to do now was be with Dawn. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was kissing him back.

  “I love you,” Dawn said. “I wish I had said it sooner, but–”

  Rick interrupted her with another kiss. “No buts. I love you too.”

  “Damn, children, y’all need to get a room.” They both turned, and Bocephus Haynes was smiling at them. He handed Rick a cigar, hesitated for a second, and then gave Dawn one too. Then he put his arm around both of them and placed an even longer stogie in his own mouth.

  “Bocephus loves a happy ending.”

  Jack Willistone grabbed Jameson Tyler by the throat. “You better file an appeal tomorrow, you limp-dicked sonofabitch.” Jack started to say something else, but then, all of a sudden, the side of his face was being pressed into the mahogany counsel table and his hands were twisted behind him. Looking to his left, he saw a sandy-haired man standing next to a police officer.

  Powell Conrad stepped forward. “Mr Willistone, on behalf of the District Attorney’s office of Tuscaloosa County, it is my privilege to inform you that you are officially–” Powell leaned forward, and lowered his voice so that only Jack could hear “–fucked.”

  Jack’s eyes widened and Powell smiled. Then the police officer took cuffs out of his pocket and slapped them on Jack’s wrists. As Powell’s smile widened, the officer spoke in a loud voice. “Mr Willistone, you are under arrest for blackmail and witness tampering. You have the right to remain silent...”

  A few minutes later, the victorious party exited the courtroom, flashbulbs going off everywhere. Rick and Dawn came through first, with Rick’s mom and Dad in tow. Then came a procession of Tom’s former students and colleagues, who had all shaken Tom’s hand before leaving. Slinking through them like a snake was Dean Richard Lambert, who kept his head down and feet moving.

  But the one the reporters had been waiting for was Tom. He held Ruth Ann’s hand, and slowly walked down the steps of the courthouse. Tom planned to make an appearance at Rick’s farm – Rick’s mother had invited everyone over to celebrate – and then head straight to Bill Davis’ office. He doubted his urologist would deliver a verdict as good as the jury just did, but Tom wasn’t going to think about that now. It is what it is.

  Bocephus Haynes walked in front of Tom, serving as the lead blocker. At Tom’s side was Judge Art Hancock, who seemed almost as happy as Tom about the result. And at Tom’s flank were ten men wearing blue sport coats, all with the same ring on the third finger of their right hand. The same one Tom wore. The rings said “National Champions, 1961”. They had stayed to the bitter end.

  “Professor McMurtrie, how does it feel to have hit the largest verdict in Henshaw County history?”

  “Professor, do you feel any vindication today for being forced to retire five months ago by the law school?”

  “Professor, do you have any words for the law school or the University?”

  The questions came from all directions, and Tom was blinded by the camera flashes. He was too tired for this.

  Mercifully, Bocephus Haynes held up his hands and took over. “The Professor will be taking all of you good folk’s questions in due time. As his attorney, however, I must tell you that I will be advising him not to answer questions about the law school, as we plan on having a little chat with them.” Then Bo made a path through the crowd, and Tom and his entourage followed.

  Just as Tom had almost made it through the crowd, one last question reached his ears.

  “Professor, how does a sixty-eight year-old near-death law professor who hasn’t tried a case in forty years hit the largest verdict in West Alabama history?”

  Feeling one last tickle of adrenaline, Thomas Jackson McMurtrie turned and looked at them, moving his eyes past their greedy faces to the female reporter who’d raised the question. It was the same reporter who had accosted him immediately after he was forced to retire. The raucous mob turned silent in half a second.

  Catching Judge Hancock’s eye next to him, Tom said in a quiet voice. “What was Gus always saying in Lonesome Dove?” The Cock smiled, and the Professor’s mouth broke into a wide grin. He turned back to the reporter and spoke the words of Captain Augustus McCrae of the Texas Rangers.

  “The older the violin the sweeter the music.”

  EPILOGUE

  On the northern tip of the Hazel Green farm, nestled between two cherry trees, is the McMurtrie family cemetery. In this twenty feet by twenty feet plot, there are three large h
eadstones and Tom took a minute with each one, running his fingers over the engraved letters.

  Sutton Winslow McMurtrie. July 5, 1908–May 9, 1979.

  Rene Graham McMurtrie. December 6, 1910–May 25, 1992.

  Julie Lynn Rogers McMurtrie. March 16, 1943–April 17, 2007.

  On his walk from the house, Tom had picked fresh wildflowers, Julie’s favorite, and now he placed them on her grave as well as his momma’s and daddy’s. He stood back and gazed upward at the beautiful blue sky, taking in the fragrance of the wildflowers. Then he turned from them and walked to the edge of the plot, where the last headstone lay.

  This one was small and it contained no dates or even a last name. Tom wiped a tear from his eye as he looked at the stone that so amply described the friend buried underneath.

  MUSSO: “A Fighting Dog”

  “First time I’ve ever been quoted on a monument.”

  Tom turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Bocephus Haynes approached and put his huge hand on Tom’s shoulder.

  “You want to tell me about it?” he said, his voice low.

  Tom nodded, feeling the emotion in his chest as he thought back to the day when the world went white. “The day after my last treatment, when Rick came out here and asked me to try the Wilcox case with him–” Tom paused, wiping his eyes “–I refused at first. Didn’t think I could do it. Too old. Too sick. I went for a long walk to think about it, and didn’t bring a gun. This farm is pretty tame, but it’s not without its wild animals. Remember hearing that bobcat squeal?”

  “Yeah, dog. You said they were harmless.”

  “They normally are,” Tom said, squinting at him. “Unless they’re rabid...”

  Bo’s eyes widened.

  “Took Musso with me,” Tom continued. “It was too long a walk for him, and when I stopped at the creek, I thought I might have to carry him back. Musso was so old.” Tom’s lip quivered but he continued. “He started limping halfway to the creek, but I wouldn’t stop. Anyway, after he’d fallen asleep, I heard something behind me. It was that same high-pitched squeal that you heard, and I knew immediately it had to be a bobcat. I turned and, sure enough, it was a yellow and black bobcat. Had to be at least fifty pounds, which is big for them.” Tom paused. “When I saw the foam on its mouth, I knew I was screwed.”

  “Aw, shit,” Bo whispered.

  “I barely had time to move,” Tom said. “The sonofabitch lunged for me and I tripped over an uneven rock. Must have hit the back of my head on something, cause I was out cold for a while.”

  Tom stopped, wiping his eyes and gazing down at the small headstone.

  “Then what happened?” Bo asked.

  “Well, damnedest thing. I woke up and, other than the back of my head hurting, I was fine. The damn thing hadn’t touched me.” Tom paused. “Which was impossible. He was coming right for me, and he was rabid. I looked around, and didn’t see the bobcat. Then I noticed that Musso was gone too.” Tom’s heart hurt as he talked, but he continued. “I walked around a little bit, and saw them about thirty yards away, nestled against an oak tree.”

  “Them?” Bo raised an eyebrow.

  “At first, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. I could tell the bobcat was dead, cause I saw its tail underneath the red thing on top of him. When I got closer, I saw that... that the red thing was Musso. He was so scratched up, his white coat was almost solid red.”

  “But... but how ...” Bo tried to ask, but Tom interrupted.

  “Musso had the bobcat’s neck in his mouth and his eyes were shut. He had clamped down and held on.”

  Bo let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

  “He was thirteen years old and knocking on death’s door, and he killed a fifty-pound rabid bobcat.”

  “Was he still... I mean when you found him...”

  Tom felt the tears again but forced them back. “I spoke to him. I said, ‘Musso, it’s me. It’s me...’ and... he opened his eyes and let out the lowest, most ornery, growl I’ve ever heard in my life. Then he finally let go. He had been holding on that whole time. Hours... He sank to the side of the bobcat, but he didn’t move. I put my hand down to his mouth, and he licked it. Then...” Tom put his hand over his face, and let the tears flow.

  “He waited until he knew you were safe before he let himself die.”

  Tom nodded. “He fought, Bo. Just like you said he would.”

  “And so did you.”

  “Just like you said I would.”

  Bo smiled. “What can I say? I know a bulldog when I see one.”

  They walked back to the house, and the talk turned to the future.

  “So what’s the news from Tuscaloosa?” Tom asked. Since the trial, Tom had finally given in to Bo’s urging to strike back at the law school. Bo had written the Board of Directors a letter, stating that Tom’s retirement had been under duress and demanding that Tom be immediately reinstated to the faculty and that all of the “conditions” imposed by the Board on his return be removed.

  “As a matter of fact,” Bo said, chuckling. “Rufus called me this morning. They’ve offered you your job back, Professor.”

  Tom cocked his head towards Bo and raised his eyebrows.

  “Yep,” Bo continued. “Evidence professor and trial team coach. They’re throwing in a $10,000 raise too.”

  “Jesus, Bo. How did you do it so fast?”

  “Wasn’t me,” Bo said. “You saw the papers after the trial. The press may be annoying, but they aren’t stupid. The school suspended you for your actions toward Rick Drake and Dawn Murphy, both of whom helped you try and win the Wilcox case. The Tuscaloosa News and the local television stations called the Board’s decision ‘fishy’ in light of Drake and Murphy’s obvious allegiance to you. Anyway, after all the negative press, one of your supporters on the Board was able to get a couple of the board members who had voted with Tyler to see the error of their ways.”

  “Rufus,” Tom said, chuckling.

  “Bingo,” Bo said.

  “What about Lambert?” Tom asked.

  “Gone,” Bo said, laughing. “Once Rufus got a majority of the Board to vote you back in, that same majority voted to fire Lambert.”

  Tom shook his head. “And Tyler?”

  Bo’s laughter stopped, and his face grew solemn. “That... is actually the best part. Rufus’ majority asked the Board of Trustees of the University to remove Tyler as the law-school attorney, and the President of the Board of Trustees issued a mandate that Jameson Tyler and the Jones & Butler firm never be allowed to do any legal work for the University ever again.” Bo paused. “I believe you know the President of the Board of Trustees, don’t you?”

  Tom nodded, feeling goosebumps break out on his arm. “Paul Bryant, Jr.”

  “Seems appropriate, doesn’t it?” Bo asked, but Tom was too moved by the gesture to speak. “Yeah...” Bo continued, nodding. “I think Coach would have loved that.”

  When they reached the driveway, Bo opened the door to the Lexus and then turned to look at Tom. “How did the surgery go?”

  “Good,” Tom said. “Bill said he got it all this time. I’ll have to live with being scoped every three months for a while, but... I’m in pretty good shape.”

  Bo leaned against the open door, and looked Tom in the eye. “So what are you gonna do now, dog? You’ve got your job back if you want it. Your health is good. And you just hit the largest verdict in West Alabama history. Sounds like the world is your oyster, Professor.”

  “I don’t know yet, Bo. You’ve given me a lot to think about.” He paused, and looked back towards the farm. “But, whatever it is, it’ll be something. No more sitting around. I plan to live the rest of my life like Musso died.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Bo said. “Now...” A low whine interrupted Bo’s words, and Bo smiled. “Ah hell, I almost forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” Tom asked, watching Bo walk around the car and open the back.

  “Well, when you told me why I was coming up
here today, I bought you a little present.” Bo stepped back and gestured at a small green crate.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tom said. Inside the crate was a tiny white and brown English bulldog puppy. Tom opened the crate, and took the pup in his arms. Then he looked at his friend.

  “You saved my life, Bo. I can’t thank–”

  “Save your thank yous, Professor,” Bo said, sliding into his car and turning the ignition.

  “So back to Pulaski?” Tom inquired, once the automatic windows had come down.

  “Home sweet home,” Bo said.

  “You ever gon’ tell me why you practice in that town? You could make even more millions in a bigger city.”

  “I did tell you, remember?”

  Tom’s stomach tightened as the memory came back to him. “Because of what happened to your dad?”

  Bo nodded, the smile leaving his face. “Unfinished business, dog.”

  “You ever gonna tell me the whole story?”

  Bo shook his head. “Maybe, but not today. It’s too long and I have to get home before Jazz tears me a new one.”

  Before Tom could say anything else, Bo eased the car forward. When it reached the end of the driveway, Tom remembered something Bo had said many moons ago.

  “Bo!” Tom yelled, leaning back as his new puppy licked his face.

  The car stopped, and Bo leaned his head out the window, waiting for Tom to speak.

  But Tom didn’t say anything. He simply held up the four fingers of his right hand.

  Tuscaloosa, Alabama. Six months later.

  He arrived at the Waysider about 7am. Hungry, both literally and figuratively. He ate eggs and bacon and read the newspaper, looking for new opportunities – an angle for the firm – but he didn’t see any.