The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  The jingle of the front door announced another customer, and Rick looked up from his paper to see Ambrose Powell Conrad, the youngest assistant DA in the Tuscaloosa County District Attorney’s office, heading his way.

  “What’s going on?” Powell asked, grabbing a seat and placing both elbows on the table. Powell was about six feet tall, stocky, with thin dirty-blond hair. He was no doubt the loudest person Rick had ever met, and his entry into the Waysider had, as usual, caused everyone in the place to look up.

  “Oh, not a whole lot. Just trying to decide which ambulance to chase today and waiting to get my breakfast fix,” Rick said. “How about yourself?”

  “Going over to that neighborhood behind Dreamland Ribs today. Guy selling crack out there got capped by a guy who wasn’t pleased with his purchase. When I talked to the defendant’s wife, who just happened to be screwing the dead drug dealer, two names popped up. Hopefully, one of them saw the shooting. Anyway, it gives me a good excuse to eat a slab for lunch.” Powell put on his best shit-eating grin. “God, I love my job.”

  And Rick knew, despite the grin, that Powell was not exaggerating. The man was born to be a prosecutor. He thrived in the courtroom, where most young lawyers cowered. Rick and Powell had been partners on the trial team at Alabama together. Powell was the star and Rick more of a late bloomer. Hell, if it weren’t for Powell coaching Rick before the final tryout, Rick knew he probably wouldn’t have made the team at all. The man was a natural. And his best friend.

  “So how’s the caseload?” Powell asked, his expression one of genuine interest—another reason Rick loved Powell. Rick’s parents couldn’t hide their disappointment when they asked how he was doing, but Powell, who knew the deal—hell, he’d had a front-row seat for Rick’s journey from the penthouse to the outhouse—was always supportive and encouraging.

  “Thin,” Rick said. “As it was last week and the week before that. Three workers’ comp files. But, hey, I got a walk-through today. If the judge approves, I’ll get two thousand dollars in fees. Just enough to make overhead and buy groceries next month.” Rick smiled. “So I got that going for me—”

  “Which is nice,” Powell finished, laughing at the line from Caddyshack, which was a staple in the usual banter between Rick and Powell.

  Breakfast was wolfed down quickly, with the talk turning to women. With football season over, there was little else to talk about other than work. Walking outside, they said their good-byes.

  “Let’s get together at Phil’s for a pitcher or two or three tomorrow night. Whattaya say?” Powell said, closing the door of his Honda and leaning his head out the window.

  “Sounds good, but you never know. A home run may walk into my office and thicken the old caseload. Or, by some act of God, I could wind up with a date.” Rick laughed. “I’ll call you.”

  Ten minutes later Rick trudged up the dusty steps to his second-floor office. Located on a side street two blocks from the courthouse, the law office of Richard Drake, Esq. sat above Larry and Barry’s Interior Design, a three-year-old company formed by two gay lovers from Missouri—Larry Horowitz and Barry Bostheimer. According to Powell, who seemed to know everyone and everything since joining the DA’s office, Larry and Barry had done well for themselves since opening up shop. Whatever their financial condition, they had both been very supportive of Rick, even sending one of their friends—a lesbian dancer named Sharnice—to see Rick about a car accident. Rick was able to arrange a quick settlement with the other driver’s insurance company, and since then Larry and Barry had acted as if Rick were the next coming of Clarence Darrow.

  At the top of the stairs, Rick unlocked the door and flipped the lights on. The office had once been a two-bedroom loft, but Rick thought he’d made a nice conversion. The den that the front door opened to was now a reception area, where Rick’s secretary, Frankie, sat. Behind Frankie’s desk the carpet turned to tile, and there was a small kitchen with a coffee pot and a refrigerator. To the left of the kitchen was the prior master bedroom—now a conference room containing a long table with several chairs—and to the right was the smaller bedroom, which Rick used as his private office.

  As Rick walked into his office, his eyes immediately locked on a picture on the wall. “ABA Regional Champions, the University of Alabama” was the heading stenciled under the photograph of Rick, Powell, and the Professor. Should be another one saying “National Champions” was the thought that went through Rick Drake’s mind every time he looked at it. Along with “You’re a hothead, Drake. A liability in the courtroom.” Rick glared at the gray eyes of the Professor, which seemed to mock him from inside the frame.

  Rick shook his head and tried to think about the day ahead, which, as usual, was not that busy. The workers’ comp walk-through was at 11:00 a.m. in front of Judge Baird. Rick’s client was Myra Wilson, who had fallen off a forklift at the Mercedes plant in Vance and broken her hip. She was set to arrive at 10:30 to review the settlement documents.

  Rick retrieved the Wilson file from his desk and walked back into the reception area, where he paced and read, wanting to make sure that everything was right. Every so often he looked at Frankie’s desk, expecting her to be there, but then reminded himself that she was off today. A forty-two-year-old mother of two whose husband, Butch, was a self-employed bricklayer, Frankie had worked out all right. She typed eighty-five words a minute, was usually in a cheerful mood, and worked steady hours without many complaints. Other than today, the only time she had taken off since being hired was the Friday before Labor Day when Butch had taken her and the kids to Panama City for a long weekend.

  As he noticed a mistake in the Wilson papers, a paragraph inserted on page 2 closing future medical benefits—The bastards always try that trick—Rick was jarred by the sound he craved more than any other. The most wonderful sound in the world. The all-powerful phone. Ringing. In his office. And it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m. Be a client and not Powell, he thought as he answered on the second ring, knowing that this could be the one. The one he knocked over the fence, turning Richard Drake into a household name.

  “Richard Drake,” Rick said in his most lawyerly voice.

  “Dude, you’ll never guess where I am.” Powell. Son of a bitch, Rick thought, smiling in spite of himself as the elusive chase of the home run was put on hold until the next call. The life of the plaintiff’s lawyer.

  12

  Tom watched his team from the jury box in the trial advocacy room—or, as his teams liked to call it, the “war room.” He focused in particular on their eyes. Were they listening to the opposition’s words, or were they trying to remember what they were going to say when they got up there? Tom taught the former, but from the look in their eyes he could tell they were doing the latter. This team will be lucky to make it through regionals.

  At the bench sat Judge Art Hancock—venerable old Judge Cock as he was known by most of the Birmingham bar. Judge Hancock had been a judge since the midsixties. His rulings were always quick, precise, and usually right on point. He put up with no grandstanding by lawyers and each year routinely called at least one young lawyer down on the carpet for “acting a fool” in his courtroom. As a young lawyer, Tom had tried his very first case in front of Judge Hancock, and Tom felt that he had earned the judge’s respect for knowing the basics and not going overboard with theatrics in front of the jury like so many inexperienced lawyers tended to do.

  Now seventy-seven years old and showing it, Judge Hancock sat at the bench stroking one of his thick, bushy eyebrows. Tom and the judge had struck an agreement back in the early eighties where Judge Hancock agreed to come to Tuscaloosa and preside over a mock trial between Tom’s A and B teams one day each year. It was great experience for the team, exposing them to a real judge whom they would see again in the future.

  However, that wasn’t the team’s only treat today.

  Sitting next to Tom in the jury box was without question the mo
st dominant trial lawyer in the state of Alabama. Jameson Randall Tyler. “The Big Cat” as the Birmingham trial bar referred to him with both admiration and fear.

  “They’ll come around,” Jameson whispered, nudging Tom’s elbow and seeming to sense his mood. “There’s a lot of growing that happens between years two and three.”

  Tom nodded, knowing Jameson was right. Rick Drake had proven that last year. A bull in a china shop his second year, Drake had blossomed into a real force as a third-year.

  And then the bull came back for nationals . . .

  “Had anything with Jerry lately?” Tom whispered back, trying not to think about Drake. Since talking with Ruth Ann, he had been racking his brain, thinking of attorneys he could refer her to, but he kept coming back to Rick Drake. Henshaw was a small town, and small-town juries liked hometown lawyers. The bottom line was that Drake was the only trial lawyer Tom knew with Henshaw ties that was worth a shit. Aside from the obvious problem that Drake was just eight months out of law school, Tom also didn’t have a clue where he was living or what he was doing.

  And there’s that little incident where he tried to take your head off last year.

  Jameson smiled. “Three last year.” He paused. “All defense verdicts.”

  Tom also smiled, shaking his head. Jameson was a senior partner with Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in the state. His specialty was defending large personal injury cases, many of which were filed by his former trial team partner, Jerry Snider. Jameson and Jerry had won Tom’s first national championship in 1979. After graduation they had gone in opposite directions, Jerry forging a career as a plaintiff’s attorney and Jameson as a defense lawyer. Both were considered at the top of their fields.

  But as good as Jerry Snider had turned out to be—many thought he was the best plaintiff’s attorney in the state—he was no match for Jameson if the facts were anywhere close to even. Jameson regularly handed Jerry’s ass to him, just like he did everyone else.

  “Still dating that court reporter?” Tom asked.

  Jameson’s smile widened. “Actually, I’m dating two court reporters,” he whispered. “Rival services.”

  “Competitors?” Tom asked.

  Jameson shrugged. “What can I say? They each try to outperform the other.” He raised his eyebrows, and Tom laughed.

  “You are such a bastard, Jamo,” Tom said, slapping Jameson on the back.

  Jameson grinned. “Don’t I know it.”

  A few minutes later the trial concluded and the teams shook hands. Tom turned the floor over to Judge Hancock and Jameson, who both offered constructive criticism and encouragement to each of the participants, keeping all of their comments positive. After the team was gone, Tom approached the bench, smiling at the judge.

  “Judge, as always we appreciate your patience. I’d love to hear your thoughts on what you observed.”

  “Sure, Tom. Hey, you still keep a fifth of Jack Black in your office?”

  Tom smiled. He had forgotten about the Cock’s love of sour mash whiskey. “I do indeed. Shall we reconvene upstairs?”

  Five minutes later the three of them were in Tom’s office, each drinking Jack Daniel’s on ice out of plastic cups.

  “Boys, I’m too old for this shit, you know it?” Judge Hancock said, laughing to himself and sitting on the edge of Tom’s desk. “Godamighty, I love it, though. I think my heart would up and die if I had to go longer than two weeks without a trial.” He took a sip of whiskey, coughed, and continued. “How you been, Tom?”

  “Not bad, Judge,” Tom lied, glancing down at the apology on his desk. The board meeting was tomorrow. “So what did you think of the team?”

  “Oh, you know, Tom. You can tell they’re well coached,” the judge started. “They speak well, kept their questions on cross short and sweet, and used effective visual aids in opening and closing. But I wasn’t wowed like I was last year. Now that team . . . shit fire and save the matches. That team got me excited.”

  “Drake and Conrad,” Tom said, nodding and glancing at Jameson, who was standing by the window. “You know that team should’ve won the title. I . . . I mismanaged the Drake kid a little and—”

  “He’s the one that clocked you, ain’t he, Tom?” Judge Hancock interrupted, laughing. “You know, I saw that on YouTube.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Tom said, turning to look at the judge. “You get on YouTube?”

  “Hell yes, I do,” Hancock answered. “My grandson’s junior high football highlights are put on there. Plus I like watching the old Alabama football games.” He smiled. “Drake has a pretty good overhand right.”

  Tom felt his face getting hot but he knew he shouldn’t be mad. He again looked at Jameson, remembering something he had wanted to ask him.

  “Jamo, do you know what happened to Drake? Didn’t he clerk for you guys one summer?”

  Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, he clerked both summers for us, and we made him an offer after the second. Even threw in a nice signing bonus when he accepted. But we terminated his contract after the incident with you, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t get one from anywhere else.” He laughed. “We let the little shit keep his bonus, though, because his contract didn’t specify whether he had to return it. Ten thousand dollars. Not a bad start to a career as a solo practitioner, if that’s where he ended up.” Jameson paused, eyeing Tom. “Why the interest in Drake?”

  Tom’s stomach tightened and he looked down at the floor. A sense of guilt crept over him. He hadn’t realized how devastating the altercation had been to Rick. Jesus Christ, his whole career . . . I should’ve done something.

  Tom shook his head, looking back at Jameson. “Just curious. Drake’s from Henshaw, and I have an old friend whose family was killed in a trucking accident in Henshaw. I’d like to refer her to someone with Henshaw ties.”

  Jameson smiled. “Can’t say I know of any Henshaw attorneys, but that sounds like a case for Jerry. His firm takes them from Huntsville to Mobile now. No one could blame you for referring her to Jer.”

  “I know, and maybe I’ll end up doing that,” Tom said, looking down. “But I’d really like a Henshaw connection, and I think Jerry would be the first one to recommend that approach. He may live in Montgomery, but he’s made his fortune in Greene County, where he was born and raised and where his momma still teaches Sunday school.”

  Jameson nodded. “I can’t argue with that. In fact, I only know of one lawyer who’s beaten Jerry in Greene County.” Jameson smiled, and Tom smirked back at him.

  “How do you fit that ego in the room, Jamo?”

  “It gets harder and harder, Professor. But I can’t help it.” He sighed and drained the rest of his whiskey. “I just keep winning.” He set the cup down on Tom’s desk and extended his hand. “Good luck with finding her someone. I’ll pray that whoever it is doesn’t have to face me.”

  Tom laughed and shook Jameson’s hand, holding it for a second. “Thanks for coming down, Jamo. It means a lot that you keep doing this.”

  “No problem. Actually, now that I’m representing the university, I had to be here anyway for meetings today and tomorrow.”

  “You must be joking,” Tom said, smirking. “You are the attorney for this fine institution?”

  Jameson held out his arms in mock protest. “What did Coach Bryant always say about coming here to coach? Momma called.”

  “Momma, my ass,” Tom said, shaking his head. “So this is a billable trip?”

  Jameson shrugged. “A man’s got to make a living,” he said, winking at Tom and shaking Judge Hancock’s hand. “Judge, always a pleasure.”

  The Cock raised a toast with his plastic glass and Jameson walked out the door.

  “So how are things really going?” Judge Hancock asked once Jameson had shut the door behind him.

  Tom squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

&nb
sp; “What the hell is this?” the judge asked, picking up the apology from the desk and shaking it.

  Tom shrugged, wishing he’d put the damn thing in a drawer. “I don’t know. Apparently, the YouTube video you saw has raised some eyebrows.”

  “This is bullshit,” Hancock said, reading through the apology. “Total bullshit.”

  “I know. I wish that was all of it. I’m meeting tomorrow with the board. They want me to make McMurtrie’s Evidence more user-friendly, and the dean said I can’t kick anybody else out of class, even if they’re not prepared.”

  “Jesus, Tom. You think the Drake deal is really pushing all that?”

  “I don’t know. Lambert’s been on my ass ever since he was hired. I think he wants new blood, and he’s trying to use the Drake incident as leverage to force me out.” Tom sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was tired. Thinking about Ruth Ann’s case and the board meeting had kept him up the night before.

  “So you gonna sign this crap?” Judge Hancock asked, throwing the apology down on the desk. He fixed himself another drink and took a seat in the chair across from Tom.

  “I don’t know, Judge.”

  “You wanna know what the Cock would do?”

  Tom smiled. “OK, Your Honor, what would you do?”