“No, Your Honor.”
“OK, then, the witness is excused.”
Dawn stood and walked past the counsel tables. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not looking at Rick or Tom, and Rick felt a pang in his heart. She doesn’t want the jury to see her smiling at us, Rick knew. Still, he couldn’t help but feel sad. Am I gonna see her again?
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Cutler said once Dawn had exited the double doors in the back of the courtroom, “we are going to take a one-hour lunch recess. Please return to the jury room at one o’clock.”
Rick was out of his seat the minute Cutler’s gavel hit the bench. Please still be here, he thought, bursting through the doors and looking in both directions for Dawn. When he saw her standing next to Powell, relief flooded his body.
“Hey—” Rick started to say, but Powell cut him off.
“Dude, you’re not going to believe this,” Powell said, thrusting a sheet of paper in front of Rick.
Rick looked at Dawn, but she was pointing at the page.
“You have to read it,” she said, her eyes wide with excitement.
Rick looked down. The top of the page had the blue and red logo of Ultron Gasoline. Underneath the logo the title of the document read “Bill of Lading.” It was dated September 2, 2009. There were six columns underneath the title. “Cargo: nine thousand gallons. Loaders: Carmichael, Morris. Driver: Newton. Location: Montgomery. Time of delivery: 11:00 a.m. Time of pickup: 9:57 a.m.”
All of the information on the document was typed except the time of pickup, which was stamped. The stamp was red, so the document had to be original.
“Where did you get this?” Rick asked, looking up at Powell.
“Doolittle Morris came by the courthouse this morning and gave it to me. Said he found it in Mule’s Bible, where Mule kept important documents.”
“Holy shit,” Rick said, looking at Dawn. “Mule never mentioned he had the actual bill of lading, did he?”
She shook her head. “He never said he had any documents, but . . . didn’t he say he might send you something in the mail?” She smiled. “A little extra butter—”
“On the bread,” Rick finished, slapping his hands together. “You’re right!”
“What’s wrong?”
Rick turned at the sound of the voice, and the Professor was standing behind him.
“I think we just found the smoking gun,” Rick said, handing the document to Tom.
The Professor reviewed it quickly and his eyes widened. “Holy . . . shit,” Tom said, whistling.
Rick laughed. “I know.”
“It’s no good to us if we can’t put a witness on the stand to authenticate it,” Tom said, his voice sober. He looked up and turned the document around so Rick could see it. “We’ll need to find the records custodian and . . . we’ll need to find her fast.”
Tom pointed to the bottom of the page, where, in a smaller font than the rest of the document, was the following sentence: “I certify that I received this bill on the date above.” Underneath the sentence was a signature line, below which was the typed title “Records Custodian.” Above the line was a signature written in blue, original ink. The handwriting wasn’t great, but Rick could make it out. Even if he couldn’t have read it, he knew who it was. Who it had to be.
She told us, Rick remembered. She signed every one of them.
73
Faith Bulyard sat on a stone bench in Central Park, eating a Mickey Mouse ice cream bar and watching the boys throw the football. It was a beautiful but hot summer day in New York, and Faith could feel sweat pooling in her belly button underneath her tank top. Every so often, out of habit she’d reach into her front pocket for her cell phone, but it wasn’t there. She had turned the damn thing off and left it at the hotel. Good riddance, she thought, watching her boys. The only people in the world she cared about were right here with her, and the only person who would be wanting to reach her this week was Jack Willistone.
Faith bit into the chocolate Mickey Mouse ear and closed her eyes, relishing the sweet, comfortable taste. It was Wednesday afternoon. They had two more days in New York and then it was back to reality.
“Hey, Mom,” Junior said, pointing at a couple who were walking toward them.
Junior was snickering and Faith looked at the couple, noticing that they were both men and were holding hands. Their T-shirts read “Celebrate Pride Weekend.”
“Look, Danny. Queers.”
The words hit Faith like a punch to the gut.
Both boys continued to giggle as the two men walked past the bench. Faith tried not to watch but she couldn’t help herself. Her husband had been like these men and she hadn’t known it. They’d been married for twenty-five years.
“Can you believe those rope suckers?” Junior said, walking over to Faith, his brother right behind him.
Again, Faith’s stomach tightened as if she’d been punched. Rope sucker . . . She’d only heard that term used once before in her life: “Unless you want your boys to know their daddy was a rope sucker, I suggest you never, ever talk with the lawyers you just met with again.”
“They really flaunt it here,” Junior continued. “Like being a rope sucker is just as natural as—”
“Don’t you ever call them that again,” Faith said, surprising herself with the anger she felt. She was shaking. “You can call them gay or homosexual, but do not make fun of them—do you understand, young man?”
“Mom, what’s the—?”
“Don’t you ‘mom’ me. You promise me you’ll never make fun of another homosexual person, male or female, again.”
When Junior didn’t say anything, Faith pointed her finger at him. “Promise me now.”
“OK, jeez, I promise. What’s got into you?”
“I’m your mother,” Faith said, still shaking. Her ice cream was dripping down her closed fist but she didn’t care. She was going to make this point if she had to beat it into them with a sledgehammer. “When you act like an ignorant brat, I’m going to tell you. Homosexuals are people too, and the Bulyards don’t make fun of people, do both of you understand?” She peeked around Junior to Danny, who was staring back wide-eyed.
“Yes, ma’am,” both said at the same time.
“Good,” she said, feeling light-headed.
She plopped back down on the bench, opened her fist, and gazed at the remains of her melted ice cream, which had dripped onto her shorts.
“Mom, are you OK?” Danny asked.
Faith looked up into the boy’s innocent eyes. Behind him, Junior’s face blushed crimson with shame. Faith hadn’t yelled at either boy at all since their father’s death. Lip trembling, Faith tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was the text that Jack Willistone had sent her at the airport.
It’s never gonna stop, she thought. I can turn my phone off and pretend it will be over soon, but it won’t be. Jack Willistone will never turn loose of an advantage. Buck knew that. That’s why Buck . . .
Faith wiped her eyes but the tears came anyway. She had long suspected that Buck might have taken his own life. That Jack had threatened Buck with the same evidence he’d shown Faith, and Buck had decided to walk into an inferno rather than have to deal with the repercussions. She had listened to Buck’s 911 call a million times, and it just didn’t sound right to her. Buck was smart. He wouldn’t just barrel into a fire to save a building. He didn’t love Ultron that much.
But he loved his boys . . . She could still remember the photographs Buck kept of Junior and Danny in his car, which she now kept in her own. The boys worshipped him and he them. He took his own life so they wouldn’t have to be ashamed of him.
“Mom, why are you crying?” Danny asked, sitting beside her.
Junior continued to stand but moved closer and put his hand on her shoulder.
If Buck died to
protect their memory of him, don’t I owe it to him and them to keep his secret? she thought. She pictured Jack Willistone’s arrogant face. That’s what he’s counting on.
“Mom, I’ll never make fun of another gay person as long as I live,” Junior said. His eyes were blue like his father’s, but his voice carried more command.
He is so strong, Faith thought. He’s basically raised his brother for me these last seven months, while I—
“Danny never will either, right, Danny?”
“Right,” Danny said.
Faith looked at both her boys. Her strong boys, whom she was trying to protect. And then she thought of Jack Willistone, holding Buck’s sexuality over her head for the rest of her life. He thinks he can control me. He thinks he has me checkmated.
“What’s wrong, Momma?” Danny asked.
Faith looked at him. Danny had her own brown eyes, and he was a good-natured, happy-go-lucky boy. He was also very concerned about always looking cool. He hadn’t called her Momma in five years.
Hearing the words seemed to break Faith out of her spell. She stood up from the bench and felt the sun burn into her back. For seven months she had been numb, feeling nothing. Now she felt everything. She was hungover, sunburned, and sticky from ice cream and sweat. She felt uncomfortable to the point of misery and yet . . .
. . . she felt better.
“Momma . . .”
Danny stood next to her, and the words soaked into her body like hot chicken noodle soup. God, it felt good to hear those words.
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” Faith finally said, turning to Danny and placing her hand on his cheek. “Momma’s just fine. Let’s go back to the hotel.”
Thirty minutes later they were back in the hotel room, and the boys turned on the TV. Faith lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking. Stretching her arms over her head, she smelled her own body odor and almost gagged. Then she glared hard at her cell phone. For a second she reached for it, but then just as quickly she stopped and got off the bed. Seconds later she was shutting the bathroom door and turning on the tub. She had a lot of decisions to make and a lot of thinking to do.
But first she needed a bath.
74
Rick entered the courtroom at exactly the same time as Judge Cutler. It was 1:00 p.m. on the dot, and he had unsuccessfully tried to reach Faith Bulyard for the last hour. Even worse, Dawn and Powell had driven to her house in Northport and found no one home, nor any sign of her.
“Any luck?” the Professor asked as Rick took his place beside him.
“Nothing,” Rick said, feeling unsteady on his feet. Things were happening too fast.
“Counsel, call your next witness,” Judge Cutler directed from the bench.
Rick looked to the Professor, whose entire demeanor registered perfect calm.
“What are we gonna do?” Rick asked. “We’re out of witnesses and we can’t find Faith. Like you said, the bill of lading is worthless if we can’t put Faith on the stand to authenticate it. Your cross of Wilma and Dawn’s testimony this morning saved us from getting killed, but we need something substantive. We can’t win this case with just Newton’s speed, because Ms. Rose’s statement that Bradshaw pulled in front of the rig cancels it out. It’s a wash, and that’s all the Wilma fiasco was. A wash.” Rick rubbed his forehead. “Professor, we have to get that bill in front of the jury.”
“I know,” Tom said. “Look, I have a plan. Just trust me, OK?”
Rick sucked in a breath as the Professor stood.
“Your Honor, at this time we’d like to offer a certified copy of Harold ‘Dewey’ Newton’s driving record from the Alabama Department of Public Safety,” Tom said, standing and delivering a copy of the exhibit to the judge and then another to Tyler. The driving record showed Dewey Newton’s two speeding tickets in the six months prior to the accident.
Rick exhaled, grateful that the Professor was here. In the wake of Wilma’s testimony, the chase for Dawn last night, and trying to find Faith Bulyard, Rick had forgotten all about Dewey’s driving record.
“Any objection?” Cutler asked, darting his eyes to Tyler.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Very well, the document is admitted. Counsel, call your next witness.”
Rick’s stomach tightened into a knot. We don’t have a next witness.
“Your Honor, the plaintiff rests,” Tom said, and Rick could hardly believe his ears. How can we rest? We’ve finally got a document that helps us. We just need a recess so we can find Faith and get her down here.
“Professor . . .” Rick whispered, but Tom ignored him.
“Are there any motions the defendant would like to bring at this time?” Cutler asked, looking to the defense table, where Tyler was already standing and walking toward the bench. At the close of the plaintiff’s case-in-chief, it was customary for the defendant to make a motion for judgment as matter of law.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tyler said, and Tom also started to approach. Rick followed and grabbed the Professor’s forearm. “Professor . . .”
Tom turned and put his arm around Rick, whispering slowly into his ear, “You’re just going to have to trust me, son.”
75
Wilma Newton awoke to the sound of knocking.
“Housekeeping!” a female voice said.
Wilma tried to get up but couldn’t. “Come back later,” she managed.
She rolled over and felt a wave of nausea. She was on the floor of the hotel room, her arms cradled over the telephone. What the hell . . . ? She let go of the phone and tried to stand but she was too weak. The room began to spin, and she grabbed the side of the hot tub. She again tried to stand, but the nausea was too much and she puked in the tub.
“Damn. Damn,” she said out loud.
She looked around, trying to get her bearings. JimBone was gone. Good. She looked at her knees, which were red and partially skinned. Then she glanced back at the phone, which still lay on the floor below the bedside dresser. She closed her eyes and saw a fleeting vision of herself rolling off the bed and crawling on the carpet toward the bedside table, reaching for the phone. She had known JimBone would try to kill Dawn and had wanted to warn Rick. Did I get him? she wondered. She couldn’t remember and wasn’t even entirely sure she had made the call. Everything was a blur. Please let her be all right, Wilma prayed.
After several dry heaves she tried to stand. When she did, another rush of nausea came over her. This time she made it into the bathroom. After puking for several more minutes, she ran some water at the sink and looked in the mirror. Whiskey and roofies apparently don’t mix well, she thought, looking into her swollen eyes and feeling disgusted and ashamed. She barely recognized herself. Who the hell am I?
She walked out of the bathroom. The bed was unmade, but she could still see the note. It was lying on a pillow like a mint left by housekeeping.
You talk. You die.
Despite how weak she felt, she managed to laugh. Man of few words that JimBone. Crinkling up the note, she stood and saw her figure in the mirror facing the bed. She felt her lip starting to quiver and tried to hold it in.
She had been raped. Beaten. Broken.
And bought. She let go and the tears came. It was over.
Finally.
76
“So let me get this straight, Mr. Willistone,” Tom began, taking his customary stance at a forty-five-degree angle between the witness stand and jury box.
Tyler’s motion for judgment as a matter of law had been denied, and Jack Willistone, Tyler’s first witness, had just testified on direct examination that Dewey Newton was supervised appropriately and that Dewey’s driving schedules were within DOT guidelines.
“On September 2, 2009, Willistone Trucking Company knew that Dewey Newton had received two speeding tickets in the past six months while trying to make deliveries on ti
me.”
“Yes,” Jack responded without hesitation.
“Armed with that knowledge, Willistone Trucking Company put Mr. Newton on the road that day.”
“Yes. Two tickets in seven years is an acceptable driving record.”
Jack remained calm and matter-of-fact.
Tom walked across the courtroom and stood behind Ruth Ann’s chair. “And while on the road that day, Dewey Newton had an accident that killed Ruth Ann Wilcox’s entire family.” Tom let his eyes move to the jury, then back to Jack.
“Yes, there was an accident. Mr. Newton also lost his life.”
Jack was appropriately somber. Tom nodded, then walked slowly back to within a few feet of the jury railing. Time to throw the curve.
“It takes about an hour and a half to get from Tuscaloosa to Montgomery on Highway 82, doesn’t it, Mr. Willistone?”
Jack wrinkled his brow. “I . . .”
“You’re familiar with that route, aren’t you?”
Tom was taking a chance here but not a big one. He could prove this fact with another witness. But it would be more effective later if Jack would give it to him.
“Well . . . yeah,” Jack said, his brow still furled. “That is a standard run for our crew.”
“Takes an hour and a half, doesn’t it?”
Jack shrugged. “’Bout that. Give or take five minutes either way.”
“You couldn’t do it in an hour, could you?” Tom asked.
Jack glared at Tom, the two men locking eyes. For the first time in the examination, Jack Willistone looked put out. I know something you don’t know, Tom tried to say with his eyes.
“Are you asking me if it’s possible?” Jack asked, recovering and forcing himself to chuckle.
“That’s exactly what I’m asking,” Tom said, glancing at the jury. “For example, let’s say a driver decided to go eighty miles an hour the entire way. He could make it then, couldn’t he?”
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