The Professor (9 page)

19

Dear Ruth Ann,

I’m sure you’ve seen or read the news by now. Because of the bad publicity surrounding me, I’m going away for a while. Rick Drake is a talented lawyer with Henshaw ties who will do a fine job for you. I recommend that you hire him to take your case.

Love,

Tom

Ruth Ann read the letter and then reread it.
Going away for a while?
She didn’t understand.

“Did he say anything else when he gave this to you?” Ruth Ann asked, looking up from the conference room table at Rick Drake.
He is so young
,
she thought.

“He said that you mean a great deal to him.”

Ruth Ann nodded, blinking back tears.
I mean so much to him that he could just leave without saying good-bye.

“Ms. Wilcox, I’ve taken the liberty of drafting this complaint,” Rick Drake said, sliding several stapled sheets of paper across the desk. “We would file against Willistone Trucking Company for two counts of negligence. First, for their driver’s negligence at the time of the accident. I’ve already spoken briefly with Sheriff Jimmy Ballard over the telephone, and he stands by the speed listed in the report: eighty miles per hour in a sixty-five-mile zone. That’s a clear basis for count one.” Rick paused and took a sip of water.

“What about the eyewitness’s statement? Ms. . . .”

“Batson. Rose Batson. I’ve also spoken with Ms. Rose—everyone in Henshaw calls her Ms. Rose—and unfortunately she just repeated what’s in her statement. The Honda turned in front of the rig.” Rick shrugged. “However, she added that the rig was about a hundred yards from the intersection when the Honda began its turn, so hopefully we can retain an accident reconstructionist who can give the opinion that your son-in-law couldn’t have seen the rig when he started to turn.”

Ruth Ann cringed when Rick said “son-in-law” and felt an ache in her heart. Bob had been such a good man. Strong. Protective of his wife and child. Exactly the kind of man a mother would want her daughter to marry.
Not the kind of man that would pull in front of an eighteen-wheeler.

“OK, that makes sense,” Ruth Ann said. “You mentioned a second count?”

Rick nodded. “Count two is for the company’s negligence in hiring, training, and supervising Newton.”

Ruth Ann raised her eyebrows. “So you think the company was negligent?”

Rick nodded. “I looked at Newton’s driving record this weekend. There’s a database online with that information. His record shows two speeding tickets within six months prior to the accident.”

“Two speeding tickets?”

Rick nodded. “Since Newton was speeding at the time of this accident, the prior tickets should’ve warned the company of a problem. I think we’ll probably need more than that to get to a jury, but the tickets give us a good-faith basis for bringing the claim.”

“How will we get more?”

“Well . . . based on the newspaper articles I read online, Harold Newton was hauling nine thousand gallons of Ultron gasoline at the time of the collision. Now, I doubt we have a claim against Ultron, but they might have information relevant to the case. Unfortunately, the Ultron plant in Tuscaloosa burned to the ground the night of the accident, so I’m worried that Ultron may not have any documents.”

“Do you think there could be some connection between the fire and the accident?” Ruth Ann asked.

Rick shrugged. “The fire marshal determined that the fire was accidental, so it appears to just be a bad coincidence. However, even if Ultron doesn’t have any documents, someone there had to load Newton’s truck on the day of the accident, and I’m going to make an all-out effort to find and talk with those employees.” Rick took a deep breath and sipped from a cup of coffee. “The articles also mentioned that the deceased truck driver, Harold Newton, had a widow.”

Ruth Ann felt her stomach tighten. She remembered hearing about Newton’s widow. Several times in the days following the accident she had thought of calling Ms. Newton, but she never had.
Too painful
, she thought, biting her lip.

“Why is that important?” Ruth Ann asked.

“It may not be,” Rick said. “But if there was something going on with Willistone that was making Harold Newton have to speed, then his widow may know about it. She may blame Willistone for his death.” He held out his palms. “Anyway, I think it’s worth exploring.”

Ruth Ann nodded. Then, pointing at the complaint, she looked at Rick. “When did you want to file this?”

“As soon as you’re ready. We could file today if you wish.”

Ruth Ann crossed her arms over her chest.
This is really happening
, she thought, gazing down at the draft complaint in front of her. She wished so badly that Tom was still here.

Ruth Ann closed her eyes.
Everything. These people took everything from me. They deserve to answer for it.
She saw Jeannie, Bob, and Nicole as she remembered them and she fought back tears.
This won’t bring them back
.
Are you sure you want to put yourself through this? Wouldn’t it be better to move on?

“Ms. Wilcox, you don’t have to decide today,” Rick said. “I mean, if you’d like some more time to think about it . . .”

Ruth Ann stood, her body trembling.
I have to know why.
She turned her back on Rick and walked to the door of the conference room. Then she turned around and looked Rick Drake directly in the eye.

“File it.”

PART THREE

20

Hazel Green, Alabama, is a one-stoplight town on the northern tip of the state. In 1939, two years before enlisting in the army and three years before joining the 101st Airborne, Sutton “Sut” McMurtrie bought a hundred-acre farm across the street from Hazel Green High School. A year later, on a cold and blustery day two weeks before Christmas, Sut’s wife, Rene, gave birth to their one and only child, a son. Wanting the boy to have a strong name, Sut named him after his grandfather’s hero, the general that Newt McMurtrie served under in the Civil War. Thomas Jackson. To the world, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson.

Tom was two when his daddy left the farm for the war, and he didn’t remember him going. But he did remember his return. Sut had been badly injured at the Battle of the Bulge when his battalion, led by General McAuliffe, refused to surrender at Bastogne. Sut came home in a wheelchair, wearing the Purple Heart given him by President Roosevelt. Despite his condition, when Sut had seen his son for the first time, he had picked six-year-old Tom up off the ground, sat him in his lap, and kissed him on the cheek and forehead. And for the first and only time in his life, Tom had seen his daddy cry.

The wheelchair had lasted a week. After breakfast one morning, Sut ran his rough fingers over Tom’s head and slowly stood from the chair. Walking with a limp, he heaved the chair off the ground and stuck it in the garage. “Come on, boy, we got work to do,” he had said. That summer, the summer of 1945, Sut and six-year-old Tom built the brick farmhouse that Tom gazed at now.

Tom breathed the fresh farm air and looked at the house he and his father built with their bare hands. He touched a brick, remembering how his daddy had laid each one individually. Feeling tears well in his eyes, Tom shook his head and looked away, toward Highway 231.

“Where the heck is he?” Tom asked out loud, looking down at Musso, who was chewing on an old shoe. They had arrived three days ago, but there wasn’t much Tom could do without some help. The house was a mess, not having had a tenant in over five years, and the yard that surrounded the house and led into the fields of corn might have to be bushhogged, the grass was so damn high. Tom silently cursed himself, feeling guilty that he’d let the place go to pot.

Sighing, he watched as Musso stopped chewing, coughed, and then made a god-awful throat-clearing sound. When the dog stood up and raised his ears, Tom turned his head and saw a car pulling up the driveway.

“’Bout time,” he said. As Musso barked and ran toward the vehicle—a Lexus SUV—Tom stood with his arms folded.

Once the car was parked, an enormous black man wearing a gray sweatshirt and jeans stepped out and immediately disarmed Musso, grabbing him behind the ears and stroking him. The dog stopped growling and started shaking his tail.

“Musso, you’re even bigger and fatter than the last time I saw you,” the man said, picking the sixty-pound animal up off his feet and letting him lick his face. Then, after planting his own kiss on the side of Musso’s massive head, the man—all six foot four and two hundred forty pounds of him—set the dog down, walked toward Tom, and stopped a foot in front of him.

“Well, well, well,” he said, extending his hand. “The Professor has gone to the farm.”

Shaking his hand, Tom couldn’t help but smile. In forty years of teaching, he’d had lots of students come and go, but—like all teachers—he had an all-time favorite. And he was looking at him now.

“Bocephus, you doing all right?”

“All right?” Bocephus smiled, feigning shock. “I’m living the dream, Professor. One day at a time. One case at a time. One million-dollar verdict at a time. We’re talkin’ wide . . . ass . . . open.”

He laughed and caught Tom in a bear hug, holding him close. “It’s not right what they’ve done, dog. Let me go after ’em. Don’t you think it’s time for Jameson ‘Big Cat’ Tyler to face Bocephus Haynes?” He let Tom go and laughed, pointing at Musso. “I’d treat him the same way that bulldog would.”

As if on cue, Musso let out his patented throat-clearing sound.

“Yeaaaah,” Bocephus said, turning to Tom and trying to make the same sound in his own throat. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Bocephus Aurulius Haynes was born and raised in Pulaski, Tennessee, which is about forty-five minutes northwest of Hazel Green. His father had died young, and Bo had grown up working on a farm, just like Tom. Also like Tom, Bo had a taste and a talent for football. The local town leaders of Pulaski had wanted Bo to wear orange and play for the Vols, but Bo had never been much for doing what other folks wanted him to do. In 1978 he signed a scholarship with Alabama. A year later, against Arkansas in the Sugar Bowl, Bo saw playing time on the Man’s last national championship team. His junior year, Bo was a preseason All-American, but he blew his knee out in the first game of the season. Though he returned for his senior year and played on the Man’s last team, he was never quite the same.

During Bo’s rehab, the Man had asked Tom to talk to Bo about his future. Bo had no clue what he wanted to do, still reeling from the reality that his knee would prevent him from playing in the NFL. For a semester, Tom asked Bo to follow him through trial team practices and got him a job as an intern in the Tuscaloosa DA’s office. Once he got a sniff of the law, Bo was hooked. Though his LSAT scores and grades weren’t great, they were solid. And with recommendations from the Professor and the Man, Bocephus Haynes was admitted to law school in 1982.

The rest, as they say, is history. Bo graduated in the top ten percent of his law school class and was the bell cow on Tom’s 1985 national championship trial team, making him the only student in Alabama history to have won national championships for both the Man and Tom. He had offers from every prestigious law firm in the state and even clerked a summer for Jones & Butler, working for a hotshot young partner named Jameson Tyler.

But the lure of the big firms had no impact on Bo. There was only one place Bo wanted to practice law, and he returned to Pulaski and hung up a shingle three months after graduation. Tom had never gotten the full story of why Bo wanted so badly to return home. When he asked him once, Bo had just shrugged and said, “Unfinished business.”

Regardless of the reasons, twenty-four years later Bocephus Haynes was the most feared plaintiff’s lawyer south of Nashville. But despite his amazing trial record—only one loss to go with countless victories—Bo had never forgotten where h
e
’
d come from. Or who had made his success possible.

Over the years Bo had called Tom several times a year and had stayed at Tom’s house on football weekends. Tom had been to Bo’s wedding, and Bo had been a pallbearer at Julie’s funeral, the only former student Tom had asked. For years Bo had always told Tom the same thing: “If things ever get bad for you, if you ever need anything, I want you to do something for me. After you’ve prayed to God and talked to Jesus, you come see Bocephus.”

Tom had laughed at the punch line, but now here he was. And Bo had done him one better.

Bocephus had come to see him.

It took the whole weekend to make the place livable. While Bo mowed the grass—he had to make two full turns around the massive yard to get it done—Tom cleaned out the house and contacted the utilities company to get the heat turned on. They also hiked out onto the farm a ways, and Bo cut down a tree for firewood. It had been years since Tom had walked the farm, and he was amazed at how grown up a lot of the brush had gotten. They had seen several deer and also heard the unmistakable squeal of a bobcat, which caused even Bocephus to raise his eyebrows.

On Sunday night Tom cooked steaks on the grill, and the two men drank beer and told war stories on the deck attached to the back of the house. For February the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees, and for the first time in weeks, Tom laughed. After the meal was finished and the sun had long since gone down, Bo passed Tom a cigar and lit one of his own. With Musso snoring below his feet, Bo blew a cloud of smoke in the air and eyed Tom.

“So, how’d the surgery go?”

Tom looked down at the table, feeling some of his good vibes begin to dissipate. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Bill said he thought he got it all, and the biopsy matched his initial thoughts. The mass was stage two but superficial.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s treatable.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Bo asked, seeming to sense Tom’s drop in mood.

“Better than the alternative.”

“Hell, yeah, it is,” Bo said, smiling. “So, what are you gonna do now?”

Lighting his cigar with the tip of Bo’s, Tom shrugged. “Don’t know. Gotta get through the damn cancer treatments first. This”—he gestured to the cigar—“probably ain’t helping.”

Bo laughed. “One won’t kill you. Now, how long will the treatments last?”

“The first one is next Friday. Bill referred me to Urology Associates in Huntsville, a Dr. Kevin Banks. I tried to schedule the appointments for Fridays so it wouldn’t hurt your workweek too much.”

“Professor, I would’ve taken you first thing every Monday morning if you had asked.”

“I know you would have, Bo. Just trying to make it easier.”

“Anyway, so the first treatment is next Friday. Then what?”

“Got four total per session, so three more after that. Wait two months. Then four more. Wait two months. Four more. Then they scope me and make sure none of it’s come back. If the scope is clean, I’m good to go. After that they’ll just rescope me every six months.”

“And you said some folks live more than thirty years doing this?”

Tom nodded. “That’s what Bill said.”

“And the treatment puts you down for about thirty-six hours?”

Tom blew a cloud of smoke to the side and took a sip of beer. “What is this? A cross-examination?”

“Just trying to understand. Thirty-six hours, right?”

“Right.”

Bo set his cigar in an ashtray and leaned forward on his elbows. “Then I have to ask you. What are you doing here, Professor? You need to be in Tuscaloosa, fighting to get your job back. For three out of the next six months, you’re going to miss a day and a half per week due to the treatments. But the other five and a half days you’ll be fine. The other three months you’ll be fine. It’s not like you’ve been sentenced to bed rest. You worked as hard as I did for the past two days, and you’re a week removed from surgery and I’m twenty years younger.” Bo paused, leaning back again. “So, what are you doing, Professor? It’s not like you to quit.”

Tom felt a flash of anger. “I’m not quitting, Bo. It’s a zoo in Tuscaloosa right now. Reporters wanting interviews, newspaper articles, crazy allegations that are total bullshit. I didn’t want to stick around and endure it in the face of cancer. I . . . I just needed a break from all of it.”

“I get that, I do. But didn’t you always teach us to hit first and hit hard? And if you couldn’t hit first, strike back twice as hard as your opponent. Jameson and the board hit first, but we can strike back by suing them. You had tenure. You were forced out for bullshit reasons. It’s straight-up breach of contract and maybe fraud.”

Tom smiled, shaking his head. “Bo, I appreciate the pep talk. But that would just make things worse. The press would never let it go. Besides, I’m not even sure if I want to teach again. At this point in my life, I’m not sure what I want.”

“So you’re just gonna wait?”

Tom shrugged but didn’t answer.

“For what?” Bo pressed.

“I don’t know. If the treatments don’t work . . .” Tom stopped, not wanting to say the obvious. “Bo, I’m sixty-eight years old. My wife is dead. I’ve lost my job and I’m too sick to start a new one. I guess maybe I came here to—”

“Whoa now, dog. You’re startin’ to sound like a country music song.” Bo paused, taking a sip of beer. “But I feel you now. I get it.”

“You do?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Then tell me. Because I haven’t the faintest of clues.”

“It’s like that break between the third and fourth quarters in a football game. When the teams switch sides of the field and TV goes to commercial, and everyone on both sides of the field makes a four with their hands.” Bo pulled his thumb back and held his hand over his head. “You know what I’m talking about?”