The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  “Sure thing, Julian,” Rick said, motioning to Dawn that it was time to leave. He had reached the door when Witt’s voice stopped him.

  “By the way, Rick, that YouTube video is awesome.” Julian chuckled, throwing a mock punch in the air, and Rick heard louder laughter to his side. Tyler.

  Rick felt the adrenaline pour through his veins, but he didn’t say anything. That’s what they want, he knew. He waved at Hank Russell. “Thanks again.”

  25

  Willard Carmichael smoked a pack of cigarettes during his shift. He also called home twice. He hadn’t done either in—he couldn’t remember when. Smoked or called home. Everything was fine at the house. Sally was about to go to bed. She had to be at the Cracker Barrel at six in the morning. Lindsay was out with a friend but due in by ten. Everything is fine, he thought.

  Willard tried to stay calm, but it was a slow night on the yard, giving him time to think. And worry.

  Willard was a world-class worrier. He worried about his thinning hair. He worried that Sally was cheating on him, since they worked separate shifts and hardly saw each other anymore. He worried Lindsay would get pregnant before she graduated. And he worried he’d get fired pretty much every day.

  But he wasn’t worried about any of those things tonight. Tonight he was thinking about Dewey Newton and the deal he made five months ago: If you ever talk, I won’t come back for the money. It’ll be your life, Willard. Everything you hold dear . . .

  “But I didn’t talk,” Willard whispered to himself over and over throughout his shift. I did exactly what he told me to do . . .

  At 1:00 a.m. Willard clocked out and walked to his car. When he climbed in the front seat, he lit up another cigarette and closed his eyes. The nicotine was helping but it wasn’t enough. I need to get drunk.

  He was thinking about what brand of six-pack he was going to buy at the filling station on the way home when he felt a blunt object press against the back of his head.

  “Don’t move, Willard,” a male voice said. “Don’t move and you might live to see tomorrow.”

  “What the—?”

  Willard’s face slammed against the steering wheel, and his head was jerked around. Now he saw the man, and he felt his bladder beginning to give way.

  “Yeah, it’s me, Willard. Remember our little agreement? I think you cashed in rather nicely.”

  “I didn’t say a word, I promise,” Willard said. “I told them I couldn’t remember anything.”

  Now the gun was pressed into Willard’s forehead, and he let go of his bladder.

  “That’s good, Willard. That’s real good. I like it when people meet their end of the bargain. I was just thinking how awful it was going to be to take out your indiscretions on Sally and Lindsay. What is Lindsay now, sixteen? She’s really pretty, Willard.”

  Willard was crying now, and his bowels had opened up too. “I . . . didn’t . . . say . . . anything.”

  “Good, Willard. Good. Well, it’s starting to stink in here. I’m going to go.”

  The man opened the car door but did not walk away. With minimal effort he forearmed the driver’s-side window, and the glass pelted down on Willard Carmichael’s crying face.

  “One more thing, Willard. If I ever see you talking with Rick Drake or his little hottie assistant again, after I rape and kill your wife and daughter while you watch, I’m going to cut your dick off and choke you to death with it.” The man winked at the petrified eyes that stared back at him. “Have a nice day.”

  26

  Rick barely said a word from Montgomery to Tuscaloosa. Of all the lawyers to defend this case, he kept thinking, trying to tell himself that it was a good sign that Jameson Tyler had been retained by Willistone. That means they know they’re exposed. They wouldn’t have retained a heavy hitter like Tyler if they weren’t scared. Though the thoughts were true, Rick couldn’t block out the needling he’d endured from Tyler and Julian Witt. It’s always going to be like that, he knew. Every lawyer I encounter is going to bring up the YouTube video. If they don’t bring it up, they’ll know about it and they’ll laugh behind my back.

  “You OK?” Dawn finally asked as the Tuscaloosa city limits sign came into view.

  “Fine,” Rick said, irritated at having his thoughts disturbed.

  “Coulda fooled me,” Dawn pressed, turning to face him. “You haven’t said a word in over an hour. I was about to check for a pulse.”

  “I’m fine,” Rick repeated. “It’s just”—Rick shook his head—“I let those guys get to me, that’s all.”

  “I think you handled them fine,” Dawn said. “They were very unprofessional, and I think it pissed off Mr. Russell.”

  Rick shrugged. “Russell was cool.” Reflexively, Rick reached into his pocket and pulled out the business card that Russell had given him. “Be sure to put this in the file,” he said, handing it to her. “I probably shouldn’t call him—Witt was right about that—but—”

  “Rick,” Dawn interrupted, her voice anxious. Glancing at her, Rick saw that she had turned the business card over. There were handwritten words on the back of the card.

  “What does it say?” he asked.

  “ ‘Faith Bulyard,’ and then a phone number.”

  Rick felt his stomach jump. “That name sounds familiar. Bulyard . . .” Rick thought back to the articles he’d read about the accident and the Ultron fire. “Damnit, why does—?”

  “Buck Bulyard was the president of the Tuscaloosa plant,” Dawn interrupted, her voice excited. “He died in the fire.”

  Rick raised his eyebrows at her in wonder. “How did—?”

  “I read your investigative files this morning when I got to work. The articles also said that his wife, Faith, worked for Ultron.”

  Rick shook his head in bewilderment. “Why the hell would Russell put Faith Bulyard’s phone number on the back of his business card? Do you think he gave me that by mistake?”

  Dawn shook her head. “No way. This has to be a subtle way of him trying to help us.”

  “But why?” Rick asked. “Why would Hank Russell want to help us?”

  “I don’t know. But why else would he give you a card with Ms. Bulyard’s name and number on it? The newspaper articles I read said that Faith Bulyard worked in . . . record keeping, I think. Oh my God, maybe she knows something.”

  Rick pondered the possibilities and knew Dawn had to be right. Hank Russell had seemed perturbed throughout the meeting with Willard Carmichael. Ms. Bulyard’s name and number had to be his way of throwing a bone their way.

  “Read the number out to me,” Rick said, taking out his cell phone.

  “You’re going to call her now?” Dawn asked.

  “No time like the present.”

  Dawn slowly read each digit of the phone number out loud, and Rick entered it in his phone. Then he waited. After six rings and no voice message, he ended the call.

  “Just have to keep trying,” Rick muttered, setting the phone in the console between the seats. “We need to get on finding Dick Morris too. Carmichael said Morris has family in Faunsdale, and my friend Powell has some connections there. I’ll check with him if you’ll do an Internet search.”

  “Will do. What about Ms. Bulyard?”

  Rick started to answer but then his cell phone started vibrating. He picked it up, and the caller ID was the number he’d just called. “It’s her,” he said, his heart pounding.

  “Hello,” Rick answered, trying to sound calm.

  “Yes. Did you just try to call me?” A female voice.

  “Yes, ma’am. Is this Faith Bulyard?”

  “It is. Who is this?”

  Rick’s eyes darted to Dawn, whose eyebrows were raised in anticipation. He nodded at her.

  “Ms. Bulyard, my name is Rick Drake. I’m a lawyer in Tuscaloosa and I represent a woman whose entire family was
killed back in September in a trucking accident with a Willistone Trucking Company driver who was hauling Ultron gasoline. I spoke with Hank Russell in Montgomery this afternoon, and he gave me your number as someone I should call.” Rick shrugged his shoulders at Dawn, and she gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Jesus Christ,” Ms. Bulyard said. Then, barely audible, she muttered, “Why can’t people just mind their own business.” She sighed, and the irritation in her voice was palpable. “Look, I remember that accident but only because my husband . . .” There was a pause, and Rick heard coughing on the other end of the line.

  “Ms. Bulyard?”

  “. . . my husband died the night of that accident. He died in a fire.”

  “I know, ma’am. And I’m so sorry.” Rick stopped, not sure what to say next.

  “What do you want, Mr. Drake?”

  Rick sucked in a quick breath. “I want to meet with you, ma’am. Just for a few minutes if that would be OK. I know you worked in record keeping at Ultron, and I wanted to ask you a few questions.” Rick crossed his fingers and held his breath while the other end of the line was silent for several seconds.

  “I don’t know . . .” Another sigh. “I . . .”

  “Fifteen minutes, Ms. Bulyard. I doubt I’ll need longer than that.”

  More silence. Then, finally, Faith Bulyard cleared her throat.

  “OK, but we are out of town this week on the boys’ spring break. Why don’t you call me again next week, and we can meet at the house?”

  It was all Rick could do not to scream out loud. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  When Ms. Bulyard said “Bye,” Rick pressed End and looked at Dawn. “She’ll meet us next week.”

  Dawn’s squeal must have lasted a full five seconds and the sound was so genuinely happy that it warmed Rick’s whole body. It doesn’t mean anything yet, he told himself, trying to calm down. Just because she’s agreed to meet you doesn’t mean she knows anything helpful.

  Still, it was a success after a day full of failures, and Rick wasn’t ready to throw water on it yet.

  He looked at Dawn. “Hey, are you hungry?”

  “Starved,” she said, leaning forward.

  “Then let’s go somewhere and get something. What do you say?”

  When Dawn didn’t immediately answer, Rick’s spirits sank. Nice work, Drake. Next time your instincts say do something, just do the opposite.

  “We don’t have to—” Rick began, but Dawn cut him off.

  “I’d love to, Rick, but I really need to get home. My daughter—”

  “Your daughter?”

  They looked at each other, and Rick came to the harsh realization that he really didn’t know anything about Dawn. She’s a mom?

  “Yes,” Dawn finally said. “My daughter. Julie. She’s five, and my mother is watching her, but”—Dawn looked at her watch—“it’s almost nine, and I’d like to be there to tuck her in before bed. I wasn’t able to last night when we went to Boone’s Hill, and she didn’t sleep well.” Dawn stopped, and Rick could see that she was frustrated. “I’m sorry, I really wish I could—”

  “Don’t apologize,” Rick said, his mind working overtime to try to find a solution. Then, like an oasis in the desert, the yellow and red lights of Taco Bell emerged in the distance.

  “I think I know how we can fix this,” Rick said, smiling.

  Fifteen minutes after going through the drive-through at Taco Bell, Rick pulled into Riverview Apartments, a small complex right outside of downtown Northport. They walked to the second story of the first unit, and Dawn pulled out a key from her purse.

  “Here we are,” she said, opening the door to Apartment 124.

  As they walked in, Dawn whispered, “Let me go check on Julie. Be right back,” and she disappeared down a short hallway.

  Rick sat down on a couch and waited. The room carried a pleasant, fruity scent, and Rick breathed it in. Smells like her, he thought.

  A few moments later Dawn returned, gave Rick a thumbs-up sign, and plopped down on the couch next to him. “Asleep,” she said, letting out a sigh of relief. She was now wearing a pair of plaid flannel pajamas, and she smiled sheepishly at Rick. “I hope you don’t mind, but I had to get out of those clothes.”

  “Not at all,” Rick said, feeling a slight jump in his stomach. Just like in all outfits he’d seen her wear, Dawn looked good in pajamas. “I like your place,” he said, forcing his eyes away from her.

  “Thanks,” Dawn said, getting up and beginning to put the food on a couple of plates. “We like it, but sometimes things can get pretty cramped. My mother . . .” She stopped for a second and looked up from the plate, her face red with embarrassment. “I live with my mother.”

  “Oh,” Rick said, trying not to sound surprised but failing. He had assumed that Dawn’s mother had just come over for the night to keep Julie.

  “Lame, huh?” Dawn asked.

  “No . . . not at all,” Rick stammered. He fought to think of something to say that would ease the awkwardness of the moment. “I’m sure it’s nice having help with Julie.”

  Dawn smiled. “It is nice. But still . . . a few years ago I would never have expected I’d be living with my mother with a five-year-old to care for.”

  “And I would never have expected I’d have my own law office. I thought I’d be at Jones & Butler bringing in eighty Gs, driving a sports car, and living in a bachelor pad in Homewood. Hamming it up with Julian Witt and standing in line to kiss Jameson Tyler’s ass. Instead, I live in the same apartment I lived in while I was in law school, and I barely make enough to cover the bills. That’s just”—he stopped, knowing he’d probably said too much—“that’s life, I guess.”

  “So what’s the deal with you and Tyler anyway? Did you clerk at Jones & Butler or something?”

  “Both summers,” Rick said. “After my first and second years, and got an offer after the second, which I accepted. And then . . .” Rick squinted at her. “Come on. I’m sure you’ve seen the YouTube video they were talking about.”

  “Sure, I’ve seen it,” she said. “But there’s gotta be more to it than that, right? I mean, the way . . .” She stopped, and Rick looked away, feeling heat on the back of his neck.

  “I’m sorry,” Dawn said, and Rick felt her touch his shoulder. “I can tell it’s a sore subject, and it’s none of my business.” She shrugged. “Curiosity got the cat.”

  Rick again looked over at her, wanting to tell her but feeling a twinge of fear. He liked Dawn. In just two days of working together, he already felt a connection with her. She was smart, funny, and easy to be around. Everything you could want in a law clerk.

  “You really want to know?” Rick asked.

  Dawn looked at him, her eyes kind. She nodded. “But only if you want to tell.”

  Rick looked down at the floor. He had never told this story to anyone, not even his parents. He saw the hallway in his mind and felt the heat behind his eyes and on the back of his neck. He had been so angry. If the Professor had just let him get out of there . . .

  Rick sighed, feeling that terrible mixture of disappointment, failure, and anger again. Then he started talking.

  27

  “I was on the trial team at Alabama. The Professor’s team. I never dreamed I’d make it, much less be one of the advocates. My second year of law school, I was a bull in a china shop. My best friend, Powell, was much smoother, and when the Professor teamed me and Powell together, that sort of relaxed me. Let me be myself. I don’t know, it just worked. I started coming into my own. We cruised through all our practice matches, and regionals was a breeze. We killed Stetson in the finals in New Orleans. Then in the spring we competed for the national championship in Washington, DC. We won our first four matches easily and faced Georgetown in the semis.

  “To this day I can’t say what really happened. I know the judge was awful.
From the get-go he seemed to overrule all of our objections and sustain all of Georgetown’s. And I couldn’t stand that team—they had two girls, and one was very annoying. Red hair, freckles, a little hefty, and a nasal voice that made you cringe, but the judge adored her.

  “At one point he sustained one of her hearsay objections. I argued that the statement I was trying to get in—essentially a confession by the defendant to the crime—was an admission by party-opponent, which is one of the recognized exceptions to hearsay. He said it was hearsay and sustained the damn objection. He was so obviously wrong, and it was going to cost us the trial. We were the prosecution that round, and we had to have the defendant’s confession as part of our case-in-chief.

  “I just lost it. I told the judge that I was astonished. Then I accused him of favoring the other team and asked that he recuse himself from the trial. The judge stared at me for a long time. I looked at Powell, and his face told me all I needed to know. I had blown it.

  “Anyway, the judge threatened to hold me in contempt if I had another outburst. I quickly apologized and went on. The rest of the trial was uneventful. I actually thought my closing was the best I had ever done. But in the end all five judges voted for Georgetown, each reminding me that a good lawyer had to keep his cool. Judges make honest mistakes all the time, and my outburst would have cost me a real trial. They just couldn’t send us on.

  “I was inconsolable. Powell tried to talk to me, but I couldn’t handle it. I’d let him down. Let everybody down. I just wanted out of there. The Professor yelled something to me as I opened the door, but I didn’t stop. When I got out in the hallway, I felt someone grab my arm, and it was, well, sort of instinctive. I was . . . so . . . mad. I’m not even sure my eyes were open when I swung the punch. I hit him, but he didn’t even look fazed. His face turned red, and all he said was . . . I’ll never forget it . . . He said, ‘You’re a hothead, Drake. A liability in the courtroom.’ ”

  “There’s no sound in the video.” Dawn said, breaking the silence that had engulfed the apartment when Rick had stopped talking. “You said something back, didn’t you?”