The Final Reckoning (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 4)

by Robert Bailey

  “OK, but you promise me that you’ll watch after yourself. I wish you would stay home. Powell called me and said he begged you not to go to Jasper today.”

  Rick had closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

  “He loves you, son. More like a brother than a friend. He’s just looking out for you.”

  “I know, but I have a job to do, and I’m not going to be scared off from doing it.”

  She had surprised him then. Instead of continuing to argue, she chuckled and said, “So much like your daddy. He was stubborn as a mule, and the apple didn’t fall far. I swear.”

  Rick had forced back tears as he said goodbye and told his mother he loved her.

  Now, as his fifteen-year-old car hurtled down Highway 69, he let his emotions go. Rick wouldn’t allow himself to cry around his mother or his friends. But alone behind the wheel of the Saturn, he would occasionally drop his guard when he thought about his father. One of the things he missed most was their conversations in the car. As a trial lawyer, Rick traveled a lot, and to break up the monotony of the trips, he would often call his dad to shoot the bull. These conversations usually revolved around Alabama football or golf, which had become a passion of Billy Drake’s. Sometimes they talked about the farm, and occasionally they asked each other for advice. Hey, big boy was how Billy always answered the phone when Rick called him. Same as when Rick had been eight years old. Hey, big boy.

  “I miss you, Dad,” Rick said out loud, tapping the dashboard with an open palm and then wiping his eyes. “And I’m gonna make things right,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  The ring of the cell phone from the passenger seat startled Rick out of his memories, and he glanced at the caller ID. The word “Professor” popped up on the screen. Rick groaned, realizing he had forgotten to call his partner last night after Powell had dropped the bombshell about JimBone Wheeler. He snatched the phone and clicked the “Answer” icon.

  “Happy belated birthday,” Rick said, looking in his rearview mirror to make sure the police car was still tailing him. It was.

  “Where are you?” The Professor’s voice was hoarse and weaker than Rick had ever heard it.

  “On Highway 69. Headed to Jasper. Summary judgment hearing on Jennings is at ten.”

  “Did Powell arrange the police escort?”

  “Yep. There’s a deputy in hot pursuit right behind me.”

  “Good.” There was a pause and then a cough on the other end of the line. “Congratulations on the Simpson verdict. I know Barbara and Grace had to be pleased.”

  Rick blinked his eyes as the road took another sharp turn. It seemed like a hundred years since the verdict in Simpson was read just twelve hours ago.

  “Thanks,” Rick said. “You laid the groundwork, Professor. I just finished things out.”

  “That’s horse manure and you know it,” Tom said. “You won that trial with very little input from me, and you carried the case from the discovery phase all the way to verdict. That victory is all yours, Rick, and you earned it. I’m proud of you.”

  Rick felt heat on his face, embarrassed at hearing accolades from his partner. “Jameson is going to appeal.”

  “Appeals are for losers,” Tom said, and they both laughed.

  “Don’t you have your scans today?” Rick asked, feeling a nervous trickle in his stomach.

  “Headed there now.”

  “Bo taking you?”

  “No, Bill Davis. I’m hoping that Bo is at home watching after his family.” Another pause and cough. “I had hoped that you might ask for a continuance of the hearing today and head to Henshaw. I trust you’ve told your mom about things.”

  Rick smiled. “The farm is being guarded by the sheriff of Henshaw County. Mom says it would take the National Guard to get inside the house. Besides . . .” He felt the smile fade. “I had to go today, Professor. The judge isn’t going to continue the case after transferring venue, and he darn sure isn’t going to postpone this hearing again. You know how odd it is to have a summary judgment hearing four days from trial.”

  “It’s unusual, but I’ve seen it happen before. Some judges hate to rule on dispositive motions because they can’t bear the thought of not allowing a plaintiff to have his or her day in court.” He coughed again. “So they put it off until the last second.”

  “I hope that’s what’s going through Judge Conner’s mind.”

  “The Cock says Conner is the best draw in Walker County. Tough, fair, and, best of all, smart.”

  Rick couldn’t help but smile. “The Cock” was the Professor’s friend, the Honorable Art Hancock, a now-retired circuit court judge in Birmingham who had judged mock trials for all of the Professor’s trial teams when he was teaching at the law school, including Rick and Powell’s. He had also been a leader among the judicial branch in Alabama and was familiar with most of the judges in other counties. “He would know,” Rick said.

  “Damn right he would. Conner transferred venue, which was the right thing to do but not an easy decision. I like our chances today.”

  Rick felt his heart warm when he heard the word “our.” Even fourteen months into a stage four lung cancer diagnosis and a year into retirement, the Professor still talked like he was an active member of the firm. Rick prayed he always would. “I hope you’re right.” He paused. “Good luck with the scans.”

  “Thanks, son. Take care of yourself, OK? Keep your eyes and ears open.”

  “Will do. You heard from Powell?”

  “Yeah. He called a little while ago from the Waysider.”

  Rick again smiled, thinking of all the times he’d eaten at the Tuscaloosa breakfast establishment with the prosecutor. “What’s his status?” Rick asked.

  There was a pause on the other end of the line, but no coughing this time.

  “Professor?”

  “Yeah, I’m still here.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Just . . . Powell sounded weird on the phone. Grunted a lot and didn’t say much other than he was heading to Pulaski today and would call when he got closer.”

  “When he gets focused on something, he can check out for a while,” Rick said. “Everything disappears but what he’s thinking about. It’s what makes him such a damn good lawyer, but . . . it can be a little unsettling if you’re not used to it.”

  “I guess,” the Professor said, unconvinced.

  “You can’t worry about all of us,” Rick said, his voice rising. “I know what Wheeler threatened at the prison, but you can only do so much. You take care of you—get through the scans and keep your own eyes and ears open. The rest of us can fend for ourselves.”

  For a long moment, there was more silence, and Rick knew his partner was continuing to worry and think it through. Finally, there was a cough, and the gravelly voice that had taught Rick everything he knew about being a lawyer came through, even weaker than when the conversation started. “I have every confidence in you, son.” Then, coughing again, he added, “But if the only protection you have at this hearing is a police escort to the courthouse, then you’re bringing a knife to a gunfight.”

  “That’s not all I’m bringing,” Rick said, squeezing the wheel as he saw another green sign: “Jasper. 28 MILES.”

  “What are you—?” the Professor started to ask, but Rick cut him off.

  “I’ve got to go, Professor. You take care of yourself and I’ll do the same. Call me when you have the results of the scans.”

  They said their goodbyes, and Rick felt a deep resolve come over him as the Saturn passed another sign. This one said “Entering Walker County.” In a few minutes, he’d drive through the small town of Oakman, Alabama, home of the famous Bull Pen Steakhouse. Ten minutes after that, he’d be in Jasper. Rick set his phone back on the passenger seat and unclicked the glove compartment. His Glock pistol was inside, and he pulled it out, holding the steering wheel steady with his thighs while he took the handgun out of its case and placed it be
side his phone. The weapon was loaded, and he was prepared to fire it if need be. Of course, once he parked on the Walker County downtown square and stepped out of the car, he wouldn’t be able to take the gun with him. He didn’t want to walk into the courthouse with a weapon and, even if he did, he’d have to relinquish it at the metal detector. No, he’d be flying naked once he was out of the friendly confines of the Saturn, his only protection being one uniformed deputy from Tuscaloosa, his instincts, and . . .

  . . . That’s not all I’m bringing. He repeated in his mind what he’d told his partner a few moments ago. He wondered if he was a fool to think there was actually someone else out there who might be watching his back today.

  But there is, Rick told himself, nodding and gritting his teeth as he thought of the one stop he had to make before going to the courthouse. “There is,” he whispered out loud, pressing the accelerator down and feeling the wheels of his sedan tug the asphalt.

  Another green sign came into view: “Jasper. 15 MILES.”

  26

  The Clearview Cancer Institute is a fortress of a medical facility located behind the old Butler High School, off Fourteenth Street in west Huntsville. At 8:32 a.m., just a few minutes after checking in to the imaging area and taking a seat in the waiting room, Tom saw the wooden door to the back swing open and a technician step through.

  “McMurtrie,” she said, scanning the waiting room until her eyes met his. Though he didn’t recognize every face at CCI, after fourteen months of treatment he knew a lot of the staff. This tech—a twentysomething light-skinned African American woman with a great smile—was named Keisha.

  Tom stood and gazed down at Bill Davis, who was reading USA Today. “I’ll see you in a few hours,” Tom said, patting his friend’s shoulder. Bill nodded up at him, knowing the drill, and then returned his focus to the headlines. As Tom walked gingerly toward Keisha, he moved his eyes around the waiting room, and the familiar depression began to set in. On a Thursday morning, he counted at least ten folks just in this small wing of the facility. When Tom and Bill had arrived in the parking lot a little while earlier, it had taken them several minutes to find a place. Tom was astounded and saddened by how many people from all walks of life came to CCI for treatment. Young and old. Rich and poor. Black, white, Asian, Mexican, and other ethnicities. He saw Alabama and Auburn shirts. Democrats and Republicans.

  Unlike people, cancer didn’t discriminate. And when you were touched by any form of the awful disease, you joined a club that wasn’t marked by skin tone, political affiliation, or religious denomination. The uniform of the cancer patient and his or her family was always some combination of fear, desperation, and depression that Tom saw in everyone’s eyes and which he knew he carried in his own gaze. As he passed by a middle-aged black couple, who a few moments earlier had kissed their teenage daughter on the cheek as she was taken to the back in a wheelchair, Tom nodded at them both. He recognized them from prior visits.

  “How is she today?” Tom asked.

  The father’s eyes were bloodshot from either lack of sleep, crying, or both. He glanced at his wife, who peered up at Tom. “She’s having more pain, so . . .” She trailed off, and Tom didn’t need her to fill in the rest. So they’re doing more tests. “How are you?” she managed.

  Tom forced a smile. “I guess I’m about to find out.”

  The woman opened her mouth as if to say something else, but then she closed it and forced her own smile. Hard to know what to say to people whose life could be changed forever by the results of a test. Tom found himself reaching for words many times that wouldn’t come. Instead, he would give a nod, or perhaps shake the person’s hand or squeeze their shoulder. As a lawyer and a professor, Tom had learned that sometimes the most effective tool of communication wasn’t found in words but in nonverbal cues. And though not all the patients and family members at CCI exhibited it in the same way, there was another vibe that permeated these walls.

  Grim determination. He saw it in the woman’s tight smile and in her husband’s red-rimmed eyes.

  The feeling reminded Tom of something his father, Sut, had told him a few years after returning from World War II. Sut had fought with General McAuliffe at the Battle of the Bulge and was part of the battalion that refused to surrender at Bastogne. He had been badly injured in combat but was lucky he wasn’t killed, like many of his fellow brothers-in-arms. Sut said that as the army faced certain casualties, one of his commanders would softly utter four words over and over again: We can do this.

  Sut had told young Tom that hearing the words and repeating them had helped in the moments when he thought his demise was certain and that, even years later, when he was worried about a crop or whether he could pay the mortgage, he’d whisper them to himself.

  Though Tom had never seen combat, he’d been in many football games, trials, and crises in his life that had seemed like lost causes. Fighting a stage four lung cancer diagnosis was the ultimate uphill battle, and he found himself repeating the commander’s words to his father for comfort and motivation, both to himself and others. Tom stooped and placed a hand on the father’s shoulder, looking first at him and then the mother. “We can do this,” he whispered.

  The woman bit her lip and Tom saw her eyes glaze over. She nodded and her husband put his hand over Tom’s and gave a squeeze.

  Then, wiping his own eyes, Tom strode toward the imaging technician, who was patiently waiting to take him for a collection of tests that could mean more bad news. As he walked, he thought about JimBone Wheeler and Manny Reyes on the loose and presumed to be coming after him. When he reached the door, he took as deep a breath as he could manage and slowly exhaled.

  “Hello, Keisha,” he managed.

  “Professor McMurtrie, how are you today?” Her voice was warm and cheerful.

  Tom thought for a half second about telling her the God’s honest truth—that he was scared to death and exhausted—but then he just smiled. “I’m great. Let’s get this mess over with.”

  27

  Once Rick had reached the Jasper city limits, the barren landscape of Highway 69 had transformed into a steady stream of strip malls and fast-food chains. Most of the businesses and restaurants were advertising Christmas specials, and the marquee at the Jasper Mall said that Santa was in the house. With everything that was going on, Rick had a hard time even contemplating Christmas.

  As Rick had done on several occasions since filing the Jennings lawsuit, he passed the turn for downtown and, a mile or so later, pulled into a Waffle House. He locked the Saturn and ambled toward the front door. His stomach was queasy—he doubted he’d be able to eat anything—but food wasn’t the reason for this stop.

  Rick opened the door and breathed in the mingled scent of bacon and coffee. As was the case with every Waffle House he’d ever been in, he saw a long counter directly in front of him with about ten stools. On both sides of the counter and curving around to the back were a number of booths.

  At 8:35 a.m. on Thursday morning, the place was crowded but not full, and Rick found a stool at the long counter. He ordered raisin toast and a cup of coffee. Then he waited.

  Ten minutes later, after he’d taken a few uninspired bites of the meal, a waitress whose name tag said “Jill” handed him a napkin that he hadn’t requested. Rick took the paper and made a show of wiping his mouth before unfolding it. The message on the inside was always the same, the only difference being the color ink pen Jill was using to write her tickets that day. Today, appropriately enough, the shade was dark red.

  “Now.” Rick read the word silently. Then he crumpled the napkin and placed it on his plate.

  “Need anything else, sugar?” Jill asked, glancing at him briefly over her shoulder before simultaneously pouring coffee from a steaming pot into a white mug and removing several slices of bacon with a spatula from a pan on a burner. Jill was a bone-thin woman, whom Rick guessed was in her late thirties or early forties. It seemed that every time he came in, her hair was colored a diffe
rent hue of brown or blond. Today, her medium-length locks were lighter, which Rick thought was a better choice given her wan skin and yellowish-gray teeth.

  “No, I’m good,” he said, lifting himself off the stool and laying a five-dollar bill on top of the ticket that had been placed by his plate. “Keep the change.”

  “Thanks, sugar,” Jill said, but Rick was already on the move.

  Instead of heading for the exit, he walked to the bathroom in the back. He opened the door and stepped inside, locking the door behind him. As always, the lights were off, and when he turned around, the only thing Rick could make out was the shadow of a very large man in the corner of the small room.

  “What color today?” the man asked.

  “Blond,” Rick said. “I think it’s more becoming.”

  The man chuckled, but Rick could tell it was forced. “Brown is my favorite. If Jill would gain fifteen pounds, get a decent haircut, and invest in some teeth whitener, she’d have to beat the boys off with a stick.”

  “She doesn’t seem to have any trouble keeping you interested,” Rick teased. When the man didn’t answer, Rick thought he might have gone too far.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers, boy. Besides, when you get to my age, there are certain qualities you value more than appearance. Loyalty for one . . .” He trailed off and took a few steps closer to Rick. Now they were only a foot apart, and Rick could make out the whites of his eyes. The faint scent of hair gel mixed with cinnamon gum filled the small space. “And persistence,” he added, placing an enormous hand on Rick’s shoulder and squeezing. “Thank you for getting us this far.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” Rick said, hearing the tension in his voice. “In a little over an hour, Judge Conner may kick us out of court.” He paused. “Besides, without your help we wouldn’t have stood a snowball’s chance in hell today.”

  For several seconds, neither man spoke. In the small confines of the dark restroom, Rick felt a tad dizzy and a lot scared. “You know about Wheeler?” Rick finally whispered.