Georgi started to wave at Paul to click off the camera, but Rick’s voice, stronger and more forceful, broke through. The tape kept rolling. “As for me, now that justice has been obtained for Grace Simpson, I have only one goal.” He took a step closer to the camera, not fully conscious of his movement, and looked directly into the lens. “I am representing the families of Alvin Jennings, Gregory Zorn, and William Drake in wrongful death lawsuits filed in Walker, Baldwin, and Henshaw Counties. Mr. Jennings, a middle school basketball coach, was killed in a lawn mower explosion at his home in Jasper. Mr. Zorn, a local bankruptcy attorney, was gunned down by three sniper bullets while walking on the sand a half mile from the Flora-Bama Lounge in Orange Beach. Mr. Drake, my father”—Rick forced the crack out of his voice—“was forced off Highway 82 in Henshaw by a hit-and-run driver, and his truck collided with a tree. He died on impact.”
Rick paused, and despite the exhaustion he felt from the eight-day trial, his body trembled with adrenaline. When he spoke again, he could hear the intensity in his voice. “Our complaint alleges that a woman named Mahalia Reyes wrongfully caused these deaths at the bequest of her employer, the late Marcellus ‘Bully’ Calhoun. If you know of the whereabouts of Ms. Reyes, who is avoiding service of process and goes by the nickname Manny, please call my office. A cash reward will be given to any person who provides information that helps me find her.” Rick paused and glared into the camera. “It is my mission in life to obtain justice for the victims and their families. Thank you.”
When Rick stopped talking, the lights of the camera went out. “Alright . . . that’s a wrap,” Georgi said.
Rick opened the door to his car and climbed inside. After he started the vehicle, he heard knocking on the Saturn’s window and he rolled it down. Georgi was standing there, smiling at him. She was still holding the microphone, but Paul had already loaded up the rest of the equipment. “Two more questions, counselor?” she asked. “Off the record.”
Rick sighed. “Shoot.”
“You’re a multimillionaire trial lawyer and you’re what, thirty years old?”
“Twenty-nine,” Rick said.
“So why are you driving this piece of junk?”
Rick patted the steering wheel and smiled. He had fielded that same question at least ten times from the Professor. And even more from Dawn.
“What did Crash Davis say in Bull Durham? You don’t mess with a winning streak.” He shrugged, knowing that was only part of the reason. He also didn’t like the idea of jurors seeing him arriving at court in a fancy sports car. If someone on the jury saw him, he wanted them to see a normal guy just trying to make it. “I’ve got to go, Georgi. I’ll see you around.”
“Wait, I said I had two questions.” She held up the index and middle fingers of her right hand.
“And you’ve already asked them. My age and why I drive this piece of crap. So—”
“Three then,” Georgi interrupted, holding up one additional finger, her lips curving into a shy grin. “Want to buy me a drink?”
Rick smiled up at her. He couldn’t deny the attraction. He had felt it the first time they were around each other. “Not tonight,” he said. “I have some things I have to do.”
She creased her eyebrows. “Really? You just finished an eight-day jury trial. One drink. Don’t you want to celebrate the victory?”
Rick rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
“You are single now, aren’t you?” Georgi pressed. “You’ve been single for over a year, right?”
Rick sighed and squinted at her. “You’re up to five questions, Georgi.”
“Just one drink?” she asked, poking her lip out. “You don’t want to hurt my feelings, do you?”
“I can’t,” Rick repeated. “I have to be in Jasper at ten in the morning for a pretrial conference, and it’s going to take me all night to get ready for it.”
The reporter blinked her eyes, and Rick could instantly tell that curiosity had replaced disappointment. “Is that the Jennings case you just mentioned?”
Rick nodded. “Pretrial tomorrow morning, and jury selection is supposed to begin Monday.”
“Supposed?”
“Calhoun’s estate has a pending summary judgment motion that will be heard in the morning. If it’s granted, then the case is over.” Rick paused and felt a cold chill on the back of his neck as he pondered the stakes in play at tomorrow’s hearing. Prior to any civil jury trial, a defendant can move the court for a summary judgment if they can show that there is no issue of material fact and that the plaintiff has failed to present substantial evidence supporting the elements of their claim. Though the court is supposed to view all facts in a light most favorable to the plaintiff, Rick knew his evidence against Jennings was thin. Still, We should win tomorrow, Rick told himself. “But if the judge denies that motion like he should, then we’re teeing it up next week.”
Georgi frowned. “How can you try the case if you haven’t served the killer with the complaint yet?”
“I’ve got the estate of Bully Calhoun served, and Bully was Manny Reyes’s employer.”
“So you say.”
Rick glared up at her. “I have a witness who will testify that she worked for Bully, and I have an eyewitness that puts her near Jennings’s house the day of the explosion.”
“That sounds weak. I’m not surprised that Bully’s estate has moved for a summary judgment.”
Under normal circumstances, Rick might have been angry at the reporter’s comment, but fatigue had settled in. Besides, he was impressed with her knowledge of the legal system. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Rick said, leaning back in his seat and gazing over the steering wheel.
“How are the other cases going?” Georgi asked. “Zorn’s and . . . your dad’s.”
Rick coughed and continued to peer through the windshield. “A lot depends on tomorrow. If the Walker County judge kicks us to the curb, then it’s only a matter of time before the courts in Baldwin and Henshaw do the same.” He paused. “Our best chance is in Jasper. As you accurately concluded, our evidence is thin, but I think we have enough to avoid summary judgment and get to the jury.” He looked up at her. “And it’s anyone’s ball game in front of the jury. Jameson Tyler and JPS Van Lines found that out the hard way today. Kathryn Calhoun Willistone will too. I just can’t lose tomorrow.”
Georgi smiled down at him. Then, without prompting, she leaned her head through the open window and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck, counselor,” she whispered in his ear. Before Rick could respond, the reporter turned her back and started to walk away. When she reached the television van, she peered at him over her shoulder. “I’ll let you buy me that drink some other time.” Frowning, she added, “And winning streak or not, you really need to get a new car, Rick. The most eligible bachelor in Tuscaloosa shouldn’t be driving that piece of crap.”
Then, flipping her hair with mock bravado, she opened the passenger-side door to the van and it peeled away, leaving Rick alone in the empty parking lot.
Shaking his head, Rick Drake put his Saturn in gear but kept his foot on the brake. He had just won the biggest victory of his young legal career, but he felt hollow inside as his thoughts turned to Manny Reyes and the hearing in Jasper in the morning.
Rick sighed and pressed the accelerator. A long night was ahead.
14
The law office of McMurtrie & Drake, LLC, was located on a side street off of Greensboro Avenue, a couple blocks from the courthouse. Due to the close proximity, Rick normally walked to court, but he’d chosen to drive for the Simpson trial because of the media coverage the case had garnered. He had figured that driving would allow for a quicker exit.
I figured wrong, Rick thought, pulling his car to a stop on the curb in front of the building and looking down at his watch. It was 8:30 p.m., and it seemed that the only illumination in downtown Tuscaloosa came from the traffic and streetlights. The office buildings were dark, the business of the day done.
Rick grabbed his briefcase and climbed out of the car, taking a moment to breathe in the cold winter air. He was exhausted and knew that there would be no rest tonight. But as he took in a gulp of oxygen, he remembered the look on the face of Barbara Simpson after the verdict was read and smiled. Like many cases in the Alabama court system, the Simpson matter had dragged on for over two years before it reached a conclusion. And if Jameson Tyler has his way, it could last two more. Rick drew in another deep gust of air and slowly blew it out. A win is a win, he thought, repeating in his mind what he had told Jameson Tyler.
Then another phrase popped into his head. Appeals are for losers, the Professor had jokingly told their trial team during the first practice each year. And in a way he was right. A party can’t appeal unless he or she has lost the case at trial. I’m going to teach you how to win in front of the jury so that you can spend your time in appellate courts defending victories instead of trying to overcome defeat.
Rick smiled at the memory as he trudged toward the breezeway that led to the stairwell. But as he thought about the Professor, the good vibes left him almost as soon as they had come. He missed his partner. As gratifying as winning the Simpson case was, especially with Jameson Tyler on the other side, the triumph was bittersweet without the Professor here to share it with him.
And today is his birthday, for Christ’s sake, Rick remembered, snapping his fingers and resolving to call his partner as soon as he was upstairs. News of the Simpson win would make for a nice present, and he could also go over his plan for the Jennings hearing.
Rick picked up his pace as he passed the display window of Larry and Barry’s Interior Design, the ground-floor business that had produced Rick’s first few clients when he’d hung his shingle four years earlier. The two owners, Larry Horowitz and Barry Bostheimer, were gay lovers from Missouri who’d made a killing helping the ladies of the Junior League of Tuscaloosa decorate their lavish homes. They had become friends of Rick’s over the time they had shared this building, and during the dark times of the past year, as Rick had dealt with the breakup with Dawn, his father’s murder, and the Professor’s illness, they had been kind souls who had offered support and encouragement. And the occasional unsolicited dating advice.
Rick managed another tired smile as he began to ascend the stairs that led to the firm’s office on the second floor. An elevator had been discussed for years but had yet to happen. In truth, Rick didn’t mind the climb. It was about the only exercise he got anymore.
“You always walk up these steps in the dark?” a loud voice rang out above him, and Rick blinked as the overhead bulb of the stairwell clicked on. When he was able to focus his eyes again, he saw a familiar and welcome sight. A heavyset man with sandy-blond hair sat on the top step clad in khaki pants, a white button-down, and a fire-engine-red jacket. A toothpick dangled out of his mouth. Ambrose Powell Conrad, the district attorney of Tuscaloosa County, broke into a grin. “I hear that Grace Simpson is twenty-two point five million dollars richer.”
“Not exactly,” Rick said. “Jameson’s going to appeal.”
“Appeals are for losers,” Powell said, standing as Rick continued to ascend the stairs. “At least that’s what my trial team coach always said.”
“Mine too,” Rick said. Powell had been Rick’s partner on the Professor’s last team. The sandy-haired prosecutor was also Rick Drake’s best friend in the world and the loudest human being he had ever been around in person.
“You come to buy me a beer and tell me how great I am?” Rick said, extending his hand.
Powell’s grin faded. “I wish.”
“What then?” Rick asked, feeling his stomach tighten as he noticed the look of fear in his friend’s eyes.
“JimBone Wheeler escaped from Riverbend this morning.”
Rick felt his heart constrict and his breath catch in his throat. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
“The cops in Nashville think he has an accomplice,” Powell added, putting a firm hand on Rick’s shoulder. “The only description they gave is of a tan-skinned woman.”
Rick swallowed and his mouth felt as dry as sandpaper. “Manny?” he whispered.
In the dull glow of the overhead light, Powell Conrad’s eyes blazed with fury. Finally, the prosecutor nodded his head.
15
Tom sat at the head of a long cherrywood table, listening to his grandchildren serenade him with a stirring rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
His granddaughter, Jenny, yelled “Cha, cha, cha” after every line of the song, which caused her older brother to roll his eyes. Tom noticed that Nancy, who sat between Jenny and Jackson, was staring at the cake with a blank look on her face. Meanwhile, at the far end of the table, Tommy worked his jaw and gazed down at the table.
Though both of them had insisted that the “party must go on,” the news of JimBone Wheeler’s escape had cast a pall over everything.
Tom peered down at the cake that lay on the place mat before him. It was German chocolate, his favorite. Julie used to make him one every year for his birthday and Christmas. In the middle of the cake was one lone candle, and Tom smirked. If they had wanted to put seventy-three on the damn thing, the cake would have needed to be three times its current size. Of course, given his diminished lung capacity and overall weakness, he doubted he’d be able to blow out just this one. When the singing stopped, they all looked at him with expectation and perhaps a little worry.
Tom leaned forward and cocked his head at Jackson, who sat to his right. “How about a little help, Forty-Nine?” he asked, winking at the boy. Together, Tom and his grandson blew out the one candle.
“Did you make a wish, Papa?” Jenny asked, and Tom felt his stomach tighten. He had, in fact, made a wish, but he was not going to burden the six-year-old with what he had requested.
“All my wishes have come true, Jenny girl,” he said, winking at her too.
Dutifully, Tom took a bite of the cake and a small sip from the glass of sweet tea that Nancy had poured him. He was conscious of the phone in his pocket, which still had not beeped or rang. He looked at Nancy. “Did Bo ever call?”
Her face fell. “No. I’m sure . . . he would be here if he could.”
Tom nodded and felt a flutter in his stomach. At the prison nineteen months earlier, JimBone had not just promised to bring Tom a reckoning. He had also threatened to kill Bo and his family. And Rick . . . and Powell . . . and Wade . . .
. . . Everyone I hold dear.
Moving his gaze from Jackson, who had already cleaned his plate, to Jenny, whose lips and chin were now covered with a film of chocolate icing, to Nancy, peering at him with palpable fear in her eyes, to his son, who was staring at his coffee cup, looking, as he often did, lost in thought, and finally, behind them, to the baby’s playpen, where one-year-old Julie, her grandmother’s namesake, sucked on a pacifier, Tom felt his chest swell with equal parts love and terror. He dropped his fork, and the utensil clanged off his plate and onto the floor.
“I’ll get it,” Jackson said, leaning his head under the table and placing the fork back on the place mat.
“Go get Papa another one, son,” Nancy instructed, and the boy hopped off his seat and strode toward the kitchen.
“You OK, Dad?” Tommy asked, his eyebrows creased with worry.
Tom tried to drink a sip of tea, but his throat clenched before he could swallow, producing a fit of coughing. He closed his eyes and tried to push through it. These episodes had become more and more frequent over the past few weeks, which Tom figured was not a good omen for his scans in the morning. The mass has grown. Tom knew it in his bones. After several minutes, the coughing finally subsided and Tom brought his fist to his mouth. He cleared his throat and opened his eyes. He saw that Nancy had removed everyone’s plate at the table but his own, and that only he and Tommy remained. His son had taken Jackson’s seat and was patting Tom on the back.
“Better now?” Tommy asked.
Tom nodded, hating the shell o
f a man he had become. What have I brought on my family? he thought, picturing JimBone Wheeler’s copper eyes in his mind.
“Dad, what—?”
“Do you know where my shotgun shells are?” Tom interrupted, his voice a low wheeze.
Tommy again creased his eyebrows. “Of course. There’s a lockbox in one of the cubbyholes in the utility room. Since the kids were born, you’ve always kept the shells and bullets separated from the guns.”
Tom closed his eyes, nodding as he remembered. “The key is in a cabinet above the washer. Go get the whole box.” He paused and let out a ragged breath. “I’ve laid out most of my guns on the bed in my room. Bring them too.”
Tommy’s eyes twitched. “Dad, General Lewis said she had lined up security here and at our house. I haven’t been home yet, but this place is crawling with officers. Are you sure—?”
“Yes,” Tom said, opening his eyes and peering at his son. “I trust Helen and I’m sure the deputies she’s enlisted to protect us are good. But all the same, JimBone Wheeler is a former Army Ranger, and he managed to break out of a maximum security prison. He’s a trained killer and so is Manny Reyes.” He paused. “Get the guns, OK?”
Tommy opened his mouth as if to argue some more but then thought better of it. He gave a swift nod and stood from the table. “Yes, sir.”
16
Thirty minutes later, Tom and Tommy escorted Nancy and the kids to their car. Three Giles County Sheriff’s Office sedans were parked side by side where the asphalt driveway abutted the farm, and beyond them Tom saw the headlights of two more government SUVs, one on the north end of the land and the other the south. But despite this police blanket, both father and son held twelve-gauge shotguns in their hands, and Nancy’s voice shook with dread when she told Tom goodbye.
“It’s OK,” Tom said, patting her arm while moving his eyes around the driveway and the farm to the north. Like with the General an hour earlier, regardless of the security she had arranged, he had the same feeling of being sitting ducks for a sniper. If someone wanted to pick us off with a rifle right now . . .
The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4) Page 7