The Professor (17 page)

33

“I’m sorry,” Dawn said, hanging her head once they were back in the car.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rick said, trying not to be mad. Even if Dawn hadn’t interrupted, his gut told him that Faith Bulyard wouldn’t have budged on testifying.

“I shouldn’t have blurted it out like an amateur. That was really uncool, and it messed up what you were doing.”

Rick shrugged. “I think we probably got all we could get from her. Besides, she didn’t really answer your question.”

“True,” Dawn said, nodding her head and coming out of her funk. “She didn’t answer the question. And after everything she said about her husband and Willistone, the fire seems even more fishy than before. Those bills of lading would’ve killed Willistone.”

“Ultron too,” Rick added. “If Buck Bulyard knew about the DOT violations and acquiesced to them because his company was making more money, then we could have also sued Ultron. But with Bulyard dead and the documents destroyed in the fire . . .” He sighed. The meeting had been one big tease. The information they learned was fantastic.
But we can’t prove any of it in court.

“I guess, unless we were to sue Ultron, everything Buck Bulyard told Ms. Bulyard would be hearsay,” Dawn said, reading Rick’s mind.

“Yep,” Rick said. “With Ultron as a defendant, it comes in as an admission by party opponent. Without Ultron in, it’s rank hearsay.”

“But we can’t force her to testify because of the husband-wife privilege,” Dawn added.

“Bingo. Glad I wasn’t the only one paying attention in Evidence.”

“So we can’t get anything she told us into evidence?” Dawn asked, her agitation matching Rick’s.

“Nope.”

“What about Wilma? Think she might have seen a bill of lading or two?”

“I guess it’s possible,” Rick said, shrugging. “Our better bet would be Dick Morris.”

Again, Dawn hung her head. “I’m sorry, Rick. I know I should’ve found Morris by now, but we’ve been so busy the last month and—”

“It’s not your fault,” Rick cut her off as he pulled the Saturn into the parking lot outside his office. “I’ve been trying to find him myself with no luck, and my buddy Powell, who goes to Faunsdale every year for the Crawfish Festival, hasn’t had any luck either.”

“Isn’t the Crawfish Festival going on this weekend?”

Rick chuckled and opened his car door. “Yeah, and Powell’s going again. He said he’d ask around, so maybe he’ll get lucky.”

As they walked toward the building, Dawn caught Rick by the arm. “I really am sorry for ruining the conversation with Ms. Bulyard. I just got too excited.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rick said, opening the door that led to the stairs. “I think she was done talking anyway.”

Rick waited for Dawn to walk through and then followed her up the steps.

When they stepped into the reception area, Rick saw a piece of paper taped to the computer screen on Frankie’s desk.
Must have got some mail this afternoon
, he thought, knowing that Frankie liked to tape deadlines from the court or deposition notices on the computer screen so she’d remember to calendar them. Rick started to walk down the hall to his private office but stopped when he heard Dawn’s voice.

“Rick, you better come here.”

He did as he was told, and Dawn pointed to the computer screen.

“Read it,” she said, her eyes looking anxious.

Rick strode to Frankie’s desk and ripped the page off the screen. When he saw the case caption, his stomach turned a flip. Then he read the words.

I’ll be damned.

It was an Order from the Circuit Court of Henshaw County. Rick glanced up at Dawn, knowing his eyes looked a lot wilder than hers. Then he lowered his gaze to the paper, his hands shaking as he reread the order.

“This case is set for trial on June 7, 2010.”

34

Faith Bulyard didn’t go to the gym. Instead, she cracked open a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. Then another. And then another. By the fourth glass, her hands stopped shaking. Then she cracked open another bottle and walked down the hall to her bedroom. The boys would be fine. In the months since Buck’s death, they had leaned on each other. Once one of them walked downstairs and saw the empty bottle on the kitchen table, they’d know to leave her alone. Faith shut the door to her bedroom, locked it, and took a long sip from the glass. The first month after Buck’s death she had drunk herself to sleep every night. The next month she had cut back to twice a week. By the end of November, she found she was able to go long stretches of time without drinking. Only when someone brought Buck up or when a particular memory struck her did she turn to the bottle.

Tonight was one of those nights. Talking with Rick Drake and Dawn Murphy had brought it all back. The sadness. The emptiness. And most of all the guilt.

It’s my fault
, she thought.
If I had only been more under-standing
. . .

Buck hadn’t been himself the night of the fire. He had gotten home from work and immediately poured himself a Jack and Coke, which was unusual because Buck wasn’t a big drinker, especially during the week. Faith knew something was wrong and asked Buck about it, but Buck just waved her off. While she and the boys ate dinner, he paced in the den, watching the news. When Faith heard glass shatter, she ran into the den, and Buck wasn’t even making an effort to clean it up. On the television screen a reporter was talking as a field burned behind her.

“Everyone died,” Buck had said. “Everyone.”

Faith watched as the reporter recapped that there had been an accident in Henshaw with a Willistone Trucking Company eighteen-wheeler hauling Ultron gasoline and a Honda Accord. Faith had put her arm around Buck, trying to console him. She knew immediately that this was what Buck had always worried about when doing business with Jack Willistone.

“Have you talked to Hank yet?” she had asked.

When Buck turned to her, the fear in his eyes had been palpable. “Hank can’t help. Not this time.” It looked like he had wanted to say more, but instead he walked past her and grabbed his keys. At the door to the garage he stopped and without turning around said, “I’m sorry, Faith. For everything.”

Five hours later Faith got the call from the fire department.

If we had just been able to talk. If we could talk . . .

She drank a gulp of wine, set the glass on her bedside table, and rocked back and forth on the bed. In the last two or three years of their marriage, Faith knew something had been wrong. Buck had rarely touched her, but Faith had been too selfish to notice. She was so busy with the kids’ different activities, work, and all of her social clubs that she barely had time for sex herself. Being the manager of the plant, Buck worked late a lot, but sometimes he smelled funny when he got home. Smoky, like he’d gone to a bar.
Had he been having an affair?
She knew it was possible, maybe even probable. Their lives had become all about their boys, neither of them making time for the other.

Buck had talked with her many times in the last few months of his life about his worries over Willistone, but she had never given him the advice she should have:
Cut the cord. It doesn’t matter how great things are now. Eventually, dealing with Jack is going to burn you.

And it had.
Literally
, she thought, laughing bitterly as the tears fell. She didn’t have any evidence that the fire was intentionally set, but it had never seemed right to her.

Faith took another sip of wine and was pondering pouring another glass when the phone came alive on the bedside table. She closed her eyes, deciding not to answer it.
Maybe it was for one of the boys.
She cringed when she heard Junior’s high-pitch yell.

“Mom, it’s for you!”

Great
, she thought, sitting up again and grabbing the handle of the phone.
Please let this be quick.

“Hello.”

“Well, hello, Faith.” The voice was male, loud, and eerily familiar. “This is Jack Willistone.”

35

Rick sat on the dusty couch and sipped bad coffee from a paper cup. As was customary whenever he was nervous, he was fighting a queasy stomach and had already taken about four trips to the bathroom this morning. Now, though, in the living area of Ms. Rose’s apartment at the back of the Texaco, there was nowhere to go. He’d have to suck it up and hold it in. He leaned forward and, looking down, noticed that his pants were showing leg between the cuff and his socks.
Nice
,
Rick thought. Sitting next to him, Jameson Tyler was the picture of cool. Charcoal suit, red power tie, crossed legs, not a single hair out of place. They were waiting for Ms. Rose to take her leave from the front desk, which should be any minute.

Taking a deep breath, Rick reviewed his notes and prayed that Dawn or Powell would find Dick “Mule” Morris soon. Rick had called Wilma last night, and she had no memory of seeing any bills of lading. So, unless they found Mule Morris and Mule remembered the bills or Dewey Newton’s crazy schedule, all the information gained from Faith Bulyard would be useless.

Dawn was back at the office now, making phone calls and searching every corner of the Internet, while Powell had gone to the Crawfish Festival this morning.
We’ll get him
, Rick told himself, thinking of the trial date looming less than two months away.
We have to.

The sound of foot patter jerked Rick’s eyes open, and his stomach tightened. Seconds later the door to the room opened, and Rose Batson stepped through, looking pissed off and ready to kick ass.

“All right, let’s get this over with. I got thirty minutes.”

“Ms. Batson, let me show you what I’m going to mark as Defendant’s Exhibit A,” Tyler said, his voice gentle and deferential, two qualities that Rick could not conceive Jameson Tyler possessing.
Give the man an Oscar
, Rick thought, trying not to cringe as Tyler placed Ms. Rose’s statement in front of her.

Outside of Rick, Tyler, and Ms. Rose, the only other person in the apartment was a striking blond court reporter named Vicki. Vicki had set her stenograph machine on a coffee table in the living area.

“OK.” Ms. Rose took the statement and glanced down at it. She was sitting in a worn La-Z-Boy, which Rick figured was the chair she watched TV in every night.

“Ms. Batson, what is Exhibit A?”

“It’s the statement I wrote after the accident.” Ms. Rose sounded firm but guarded, and she looked at Tyler as if he might be a dangerous animal.
Which, of course, he is
, Rick thought.

“And would you please read it into the record, ma’am.”

Ms. Rose took a pair of bifocals out of her shirt pocket and held the piece of paper in front of her. Then she read: “Walked outside to get a breath of fresh air. Saw eighteen-wheeler coming west on 82. Saw a Honda coming east. Honda put blinker on to turn on Limestone Bottom. Honda turned in front of the rig, and trucker put on the brakes. When crash occurred, I was knocked out for a few minutes.” Ms. Rose took off her glasses and looked up from the paper.

Tyler smiled. “And does what you just read fairly and accurately depict your memory of the accident?” Tyler said, his voice remaining in that deferential tone that Rick had never heard before.

“I don’t remember much about the accident,” Ms. Rose started. “I wrote this right after it happened and I didn’t have no reason to lie.”

Tyler crossed his legs and paused. “Ms. Batson, you wrote Exhibit A shortly after the accident occurred, correct?”

“Yes, that’s what I just said.”

“And that’s your signature at the bottom of the page, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Ms. Batson, your statement indicates—and I quote—‘that the Honda turned in front of the rig, and trucker put on the brakes,’
correct?”

“Right,” Ms. Rose said, shooting Rick a glance. “That’s what I saw.”

“And I believe you’ve told me over the phone that the rig was just a hundred yards away from the Honda when the driver of the Honda started turning. Is that correct?”

Rick tensed, recognizing a setup question when he heard one. A sense of dread came over him.

Rose nodded. “Yes. There and abouts.”

“I have nothing further,” Jameson said, turning and smiling at Rick as Rick’s dread intensified.

He has an expert
, Rick thought, walking through the gravel to his car with his head down, anxiety pulsing through his veins.
Why else would he ask her to confirm the distance? He talked to her before just like I did, and he’s found someone that will say that Bradshaw should’ve seen the rig.
Rick felt a wave of nausea. If Tyler had an accident reconstructionist and he didn’t, then
. . .
He hasn’t disclosed an expert yet. I could be reading too much into it.

Rick tried to shake off his anxiety but it was impossible.
He had known this deposition would be bad for his case, but he felt uneasy, as if he was missing something important.

He had almost reached his car when Tyler’s voice stopped him.

“See the order setting trial, Rick?” Tyler asked, pointing his keyless entry device at the crimson Porsche parked next to Rick’s Saturn. The court reporter, Vicki, was walking next to him.

“June 7,” Rick said.

Tyler put his file in the Porsche, bent over, and started the car, while Vicki walked around the vehicle and opened the passenger-side door. Rick had not realized they had ridden together.

“That’s pretty close,” Tyler continued, leaving his car door open and approaching Rick. “You know, even with Ms. Batson’s testimony, which almost assures that we’ll win at trial, my client would still appreciate a settlement demand. No use trying a case if the parties can agree on something.”

Despite the bastard’s arrogant delivery, Rick felt goose bumps break out on his arm at the mention of settlement. “I’ll talk with Ms. Wilcox and get back to you,” Rick said.

“You do that,” Tyler said. “You might also want to talk with the Professor. I would hope that he’d want you to cut your losses and get something for his friend.”

Rick snorted, feeling his blood pressure rise. “I think I can manage that decision on my own.”

“I bet you can,” Tyler said, laughing. Then he sighed. “You know, for the life of me I can’t understand why the Professor referred this case to you. I mean, I guess he didn’t want to refer Jerry a dog, but still. One of Jerry’s minions could have probably settled this case pretty quick. So why you?” He paused. “You want to hear my theory?”

“Do I have a choice?”
Rick asked.

“I think he wanted to get back at the student that did him in. I think he must not think much of Ms. Wilcox either. Maybe she’s an old flame that ended bad, or one of Julie’s friends that he didn’t care for. Anyway, I think he referred you this case because he knew you couldn’t handle it. The incident with you was part of the reason for his retirement, so he wanted to stick it to you by giving you a case that you would most certainly lose.” Tyler paused. “What a
bastard
,” he said, chuckling. “But that’s not even the worst of it. Hiring his whore to work for you. Now that just takes the cake.”

Rick felt a wave of heat roll down his body. “What did you just say?”

Tyler’s smile spread wide across his face. “His whore.” Tyler reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a manila folder. “Here, see for yourself.”

Rick took the folder. When he saw the first photograph, his heart constricted.
What th— ?

“My favorite is the wet T-shirt shot,” Tyler continued, pointing as Rick flipped through the photographs. “No one can accuse Tom of having bad taste in his old age. Ms. Murphy is a fine piece if I ever saw one. Well . . .” Tyler ripped the folder from Rick, who was too stunned to say anything.

“Let me know if your client wants to put this case out of its misery,” Tyler said, slapping Rick on the back and grabbing the open door of the Porsche. “We’ve just retained an accident reconstructionist, and it would be nice to avoid that expense.” Tyler smiled, showing all of his teeth. “Have you hired an expert yet, Rick?”

“Y-y-you’re wrong,” Rick stammered, ignoring the question. “About Dawn.”

Tyler shook his head. “Am I? Are you paying Ms. Murphy?”

When Rick didn’t answer, Tyler laughed long and hard. “Dawn Murphy is in the top twenty percent of her class, son. Lives with her mother and has a five-year-old kid.” He paused. “That ain’t the type of girl who works pro bono.”

As Rick struggled to say something, anything, Tyler sat down in the Porsche. He put the car in gear and whipped it around, slinging gravel to the side. Then he pulled in front of Rick and rolled down the window.

“Wake up and smell the coffee, Rick. The Professor is playing you like a fiddle.”