The Professor (28 page)

72

“You were working for Ms. Wilcox’s attorney, Rick Drake, at the time of this conversation with Wilma Newton, correct?”

Jameson Tyler wasn’t even completely out of his seat before hurling his first question on cross, and Dawn cringed.

“Yes,” she said, trying to sound composed.
Just relax
, she told herself.

She knew the Professor’s direct had gone well, with Dawn hitting all the high points of the conversation with Wilma—Dewey’s schedule forced him to speed, Jack Willistone checked the driver’s logs himself, and Wilma helped Dewey doctor the logs to make it look like he was within the ten-hour rule.
That was easy
,
Dawn thought.

Now came the hard part. Jameson Tyler was tall, handsome, and his eyes shone with intensity as he walked toward her like a tiger stalking his prey. It was hard not be intimidated, but Dawn knew she had to be strong.

“So you were paid to be there that night, right, Ms. Murphy?”

“Right.”

“But you were being paid by Ms. Wilcox’s other attorney, Tom McMurtrie, correct?”

Dawn felt heat on her neck.
How could he possibly know that?

“Yes.”

“Whom you were also having an affair with, correct?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom said, bolting to his feet. “The question has no relevance and is meant to harass the witness.”

“The question,” Tyler began, looking at the jury before meeting the judge’s eye, “goes straight to this witness’s bias, Your Honor. The defense is entitled to the same
thorough and sifting
cross-examination as the plaintiff.”

“Overruled,” Cutler said. “Answer the question, Ms. Murphy.”

“No.”
Dawn said. “That is a lie.”

“Oh, really?” Tyler said, smiling. “Ms. Murphy, you read the
Tuscaloosa News
, don’t you?”

“Sometimes.”

“Remember seeing your picture on the cover of it with the headline ‘Student Believed to Be in Inappropriate Relationship with Professor Revealed’?”

“Yes, I remember seeing that picture, but those allegations are not true.”

“Isn’t it true, ma’am, that you’re just here trying to help your boyfriend out?”

“What?”

“Oh, come on, Ms. Murphy. You honestly expect this jury to believe that you’re here out of the goodness of your own heart?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Tom said. “Counsel is arguing with the witness.”

“Overruled,” Cutler said, a hint of impatience in his tune. “Get on with it, Mr. Tyler.”

“Which is it, Ms. Murphy? Are you here for money or love?”

There it is
, Dawn thought, remembering the Professor’s instructions:
answer the leading questions firmly with denials. But if he ever gives you an open
-
ended question, let . . . him . . . have . . . it.

Dawn glared at Jameson Tyler. “Let me tell you why I’m here, Mr. Tyler. I’m here to tell the truth about what I saw and heard when Rick Drake and I interviewed Wilma Newton. I haven’t been paid a dime to be here and I’ve
never
had a relationship
with Professor McMurtrie other than as the Professor’s student assistant and as Rick Drake’s law clerk. I—”

“Ms. Murphy, I’m going to stop you right there,” Tyler interrupted, his voice for the first time losing its arrogant, sarcastic tinge. “Now—”

“Oh, no, you’re not,”
Dawn said, standing up from the witness chair. “You asked me why I’m here, and I’m going to finish my answer.
You
,
Mr. Tyler, have made false allegations about me and the Professor for three months. The truth is you have no proof whatsoever that I had an affair with the Professor, because there is none. But you’re trying to mislead this jury by continuing your lies.”

“Your Honor, may I approach?” Tyler asked, walking past Dawn to the bench.

He was smiling but his face had gone pale.

The Professor was right. He’s got no comeback
,
Dawn thought.

“We’d ask that you strike Ms. Murphy’s answer for being unresponsive,” Tyler said, his voice hurried and frustrated. “Her comments about me are clearly irrelevant.”

The Professor cleared his throat, smiling. “Your Honor, I objected when counsel started down this road on the basis of relevance and you overruled my objection.” He paused, and his smile vanished. “Respectfully, Judge, Mr. Tyler asked for the tongue lashing he just received. The witness’s testimony should stand.”

Cutler hunched his shoulders and looked down at the bench, then back at Tom. “You’re saying he opened the door to it.”

Tom nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

Cutler turned to Tyler. His gaze was unsympathetic. “I agree with the Professor . . . er . . . Mr. McMurtrie. The witness’s testimony will not be stricken. Move on to something else, Counselor.”

Jameson Tyler blinked but he didn’t say anything. He looked at Dawn and then back to his own counsel table, where his associate looked like he’d tasted something bad.

“I . . .” Tyler stammered and grabbed the index finger of his right hand. He looked at the jury and smiled.

He’s got nothing
, Dawn thought.

“. . . have no further questions.”

Rick was stunned.
That’s it
?
He got nothing. Plus Dawn made him look like a bully.

“Redirect, Mr. McMurtrie?” Cutler asked, looking at the Professor, who had just made it back to the table.

“No, Your Honor.”

“OK, then, the witness is excused.”

Dawn stood and walked past the counsel tables. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not looking at Rick or Tom, and Rick felt a pang in his heart.
She doesn’t want the jury to see her smiling at us
, Rick knew. Still, he couldn’t help but feel sad.
Am I gonna see her again?

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Cutler said once Dawn had exited the double doors in the back of the courtroom, “we are going to take a one-hour lunch recess. Please return to the jury room at one o’clock.”

Rick was out of his seat the minute Cutler’s gavel hit the bench.
Please still be here
, he thought, bursting through the doors and looking in both directions for Dawn. When he saw her standing next to Powell, relief flooded his body.

“Hey—” Rick started to say, but Powell cut him off.

“Dude, you’re not going to believe this,” Powell said, thrusting a sheet of paper in front of Rick.

Rick looked at Dawn, but she was pointing at the page.

“You have to read it,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement.

Rick looked down. The top of the page had the blue and red logo of Ultron Gasoline. Underneath the logo the title of the document read “Bill of Lading.” It was dated September 2, 2009. There were six columns underneath the title. “Cargo: nine thousand gallons. Loaders: Carmichael, Morris. Driver: Newton. Location: Montgomery. Time of delivery: 11:00 a.m. Time of pickup: 9:57 a.m.”

All of the information on the document was typed except the time of pickup, which was stamped. The stamp was red, so the document had to be original.

“Where did you get this?” Rick asked, looking up at Powell.

“Doolittle Morris came by the courthouse this morning and gave it to me. Said he found it in Mule’s Bible, where Mule kept important
documents.”

“Holy shit,” Rick said, looking at Dawn. “Mule never mentioned he had the actual
bill of lading, did he?”

She shook her head. “He never said he had any documents, but . . . didn’t he say he might send you something in the mail?” She smiled. “A little extra butter—”

“On the bread,” Rick finished, slapping his hands together. “You’re right!”

“What’s wrong?”

Rick turned at the sound of the voice, and the Professor was standing behind him.

“I think we just found the smoking gun,” Rick said, handing the document to Tom.

The Professor reviewed it quickly and his eyes widened. “Holy . . . shit,” Tom said, whistling.

Rick laughed. “I know.”

“It’s no good to us if we can’t put a witness on the stand to authenticate it,” Tom said, his voice sober. He looked up and turned the document around so Rick could see it. “We’ll need to find the records custodian and . . . we’ll need to find her fast.”

Tom pointed to the bottom of the page, where, in a smaller font than the rest of the document, was the following sentence: “I certify that I received this bill on the date above.” Underneath the sentence was a signature line, below which was the typed title “Records Custodian.” Above the line was a signature written in blue, original ink. The handwriting wasn’t great, but Rick could make it out. Even if he couldn’t have read it, he knew who it was. Who it had to be.

She told us
, Rick remembered.
She signed every one of them.

73

Faith Bulyard sat on a stone bench in Central Park, eating a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar and watching the boys throw the football. It was a beautiful but hot summer day in New York, and Faith could feel sweat pooling in her belly button underneath her tank top. Every so often, out of habit she’d reach into her front pocket for her cell phone, but it wasn’t there. She had turned the damn thing off and left it at the hotel.
Good riddance
, she thought, watching her boys. The only people in the world she cared about were right here with her, and the only person who would be wanting to reach her this week was Jack Willistone.

Faith bit into the chocolate Mickey Mouse ear and closed her eyes, relishing the sweet, comfortable taste. It was Wednesday afternoon. They had two more days in New York and then it was back to reality.

“Hey, Mom,” Junior said, pointing at a couple who were walking toward them.

Junior was snickering and Faith looked at the couple, noticing that they were both men and were holding hands. Their T-shirts read “Celebrate Pride Weekend.”

“Look, Danny. Queers.”

The words hit Faith like a punch to the gut.

Both boys continued to giggle as the two men walked past the bench. Faith tried not to watch but she couldn’t help herself. Her husband had been like these men and she hadn’t known it. They’d been married for twenty-five years.

“Can you believe those rope suckers?” Junior said, walking over to Faith, his brother right behind him.

Again, Faith’s stomach tightened as if she’d been punched.
Rope sucker
. . .
She’d only heard that term used once before in her life:
“Unless you want your boys to know their daddy was a rope sucker, I suggest you never, ever talk with the lawyers you just met with again.”

“They really flaunt it here,” Junior continued. “Like being a rope sucker is just as natural as—”

“Don’t you
ever
call them that again,” Faith said, surprising herself with the anger she felt. She was shaking. “You can call them gay or homosexual, but do not make fun of them—do you understand, young man?”

“Mom, what’s the—?”

“Don’t you ‘mom’
me. You promise me you’ll
never
make fun of another homosexual person, male or female, again.”

When Junior didn’t say anything, Faith pointed her finger at him. “Promise me now.”

“OK, jeez, I promise. What’s got into you?”

“I’m your mother,” Faith said, still shaking. Her ice cream was dripping down her closed fist but she didn’t care. She was going to make this point if she had to beat it into them with a sledgehammer. “When you act like an ignorant brat, I’m going to tell you. Homosexuals are people too, and the Bulyards don’t make fun of people, do
both
of you understand?” She peeked around Junior to Danny, who was staring back wide-eyed.

“Yes, ma’am,” both said at the same time.

“Good,” she said, feeling light-headed.

She plopped back down on the bench, opened her fist, and gazed at the remains of her melted ice cream, which had dripped onto her shorts.

“Mom, are you OK?” Danny asked.

Faith looked up into the boy’s innocent eyes. Behind him, Junior’s face blushed crimson with shame. Faith hadn’t yelled at either boy at all since their father’s death. Lip trembling, Faith tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was the text that Jack Willistone had sent her at the airport.

It’s never gonna stop
, she thought.
I can turn my phone off and pretend it will be over soon, but it won’t be. Jack Willistone will never turn loose of an advantage. Buck knew that. That’s why Buck . . .

Faith wiped her eyes but the tears came anyway. She had long suspected that Buck might have taken his own life. That Jack had threatened Buck with the same evidence he’d shown Faith, and Buck had decided to walk into an inferno rather than have to deal with the repercussions. She had listened to Buck’s 911 call a million times, and it just didn’t sound right to her. Buck was smart. He wouldn’t just barrel into a fire to save a building. He didn’t love Ultron that much.

But he loved his boys . . .
She could still remember the photographs Buck kept of Junior and Danny in his car, which she now kept in her own.
The boys worshipped him and he them. He took his own life so they wouldn’t have to be ashamed of him.

“Mom, why are you crying?” Danny asked, sitting beside her.

Junior continued to stand but moved closer and put his hand on her shoulder.

If Buck died to protect their memory of him, don’t I owe it to him and them to keep his secret?
she thought.
She pictured Jack Willistone’s arrogant face.
That’s what he’s counting on.

“Mom, I’ll never make fun of another gay person as long as I live,” Junior said. His eyes were blue like his father’s, but his voice carried more command.

He is so strong
, Faith thought.
He’s basically raised his brother for me these last seven months, while I—

“Danny never will either, right, Danny?”

“Right,” Danny said.

Faith looked at both her boys. Her strong boys, whom she was trying to protect. And then she thought of Jack Willistone, holding Buck’s sexuality over her head for the rest of her life.
He thinks he can control me. He thinks he has me checkmated.

“What’s wrong, Momma?” Danny asked.

Faith looked at him. Danny had her own brown eyes, and he was a good-natured, happy-go-lucky boy. He was also very concerned about always looking cool. He hadn’t called her Momma in five years.

Hearing the words seemed to break Faith out of her spell. She stood up from the bench and felt the sun burn into her back. For seven months she had been numb, feeling nothing. Now she felt everything. She was hungover, sunburned, and sticky from ice cream and sweat. She felt uncomfortable to the point of misery and yet . . .

. . . she felt better.

“Momma . . .”

Danny stood next to her, and the words soaked into her body like hot chicken noodle soup. God, it felt good to hear those words.

“Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” Faith finally said, turning to Danny and placing her hand on his cheek. “Momma’s just fine. Let’s go back to the hotel.”

Thirty minutes later they were back in the hotel room, and the boys turned on the TV. Faith lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking. Stretching her arms over her head, she smelled her own body odor and almost gagged. Then she glared hard at her cell phone. For a second she reached for it, but then just as quickly she stopped and got off the bed. Seconds later she was shutting the bathroom door and turning on the tub. She had a lot of decisions to make and a lot of thinking to do.

But first she needed a bath.