“Forty years,” Rose answered.
She wore her normal outfit for work. A Texaco shirt, short sleeved, with her name stitched over her heart, and a pair of jeans.
“And in those forty years, how many times have you driven east on 82 and turned left onto Limestone Bottom to get to your store?”
Rose smiled. “Well, ever’ day, I ’spect. For thirty years I lived about a mile west of the store, so that was my normal way a goin’. The last ten years I been livin’ at the store, but every day I go downtown for a piece of pie and a Co’-Cola down at Eunice’s. Come back 82 and turn left on Limestone Bottom.”
Rick pulled out a marker board from the corner of the courtroom, set it in front of the jury, and took the top off of a black marker. “So, I’m no mathematician, but if we give you two weeks’ vacation every year, you would have made this turn three hundred fifty times a year for forty years.” Rick wrote “350 x 40” on the board. “Is that right?”
Rose shrugged. “I didn’t take that much vacation.”
Rick nodded. “So it would really be more than three hundred fifty days a year?”
“More like three hundred sixty.”
Rick erased “350” and replaced it with “360.”
“OK, three hundred sixty times forty is”—Rick worked the problem for the jury—“carry the two . . . fourteen thousand four hundred times. So . . .” He turned back to Batson and pointed at the board. “So, you’ve made the left turn from 82 onto Limestone Bottom about fourteen thousand four hundred times.”
“Your Honor, this is all very fascinating,” Tyler said, rising to his feet, “but we object. The number of times Rose Batson made this left turn is completely irrelevant.” Cutler motioned for counsel to approach the bench, and Tom joined Rick and Tyler in front of the judge.
When they were out of earshot of the jury, the judge peered down at Rick. “Mr. Drake?”
Rick had hoped to be further into the examination before Jameson’s objection, but Tyler was no dummy. He had to know where Rick was going by now, and he wasn’t going to wait another second.
“Judge, I’m just laying some foundation,” Rick said. “I can link it up if you give me a few more questions.”
“A foundation for what?” Tyler asked. “Rose Batson is a store clerk at a Texaco. She is not an expert. She can’t give opinions on the accident.”
“She has made the same turn that Bob Bradshaw made on the day of the accident over fourteen thousand times,” Rick said. “She has spent forty years at that Texaco. She knows that area better than any person on the face of the earth, and her opinion as a layperson would be beneficial to the jury.”
Cutler scratched the side of his face and pulled a book in front of him, which Rick instantly recognized. He glanced at the Professor, who nodded.
“Section thirty-five, part five,” Tom said, and Cutler looked down at him.
“Uh . . . thank you. This is your book, right, Mr. McMurtrie?”
“Yes, sir,” Tom said. “Second edition.”
“Are there other editions?” the judge asked.
“Yes, sir. There is a third and a fourth. The lay opinion section, though, hasn’t changed. Ms. Batson’s testimony should come in under the cases cited in it.”
“Your Honor, as I’m sure Tom says in his book, the general rule is that lay opinions do not come in.” Tyler’s usual calm and cool manner had been rattled, and his voice had risen to a higher pitch.
“That’s true, Judge,” Tom continued. “But I think you’ll find this case to be similar to Matthews Brothers v. Lopez, where the Alabama Supreme Court affirmed a trial court’s allowance of a lay witness to give his opinion on how long skidmarks had been on the pavement of a highway. Ms. Batson, like the lay witness in Matthews Brothers, has so much experience with the scene of the accident that her opinions will aid the jury in understanding what happened.”
Cutler continued to peer at the hornbook, running his finger along the page and whispering to himself. Finally, he looked up from the page. “OK, Mr. Drake, I’m going to allow you to continue, but I’m not yet sure whether I’m going to allow Ms. Batson’s opinions to come in. That will depend on what you’re asking her about. Mr. Tyler, you are welcome to object when the opinions are asked for.” He turned to Rick. “Please proceed.”
Rick walked back to the board and pointed at the number he’d written on it. “Ms. Batson, you’ve made the left turn from Highway 82 onto Limestone Bottom over fourteen thousand times.”
“Yes.”
“And is that the same turn you saw Bob Bradshaw making the day of September 2, 2009?”
“Yes, it is.”
“In the over fourteen thousand times you’ve made this turn, have you ever started to turn and then seen that a car was coming in the other direction?”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Tyler was out of his seat again. “Ms. Batson’s experience with this turn is irrelevant.”
Rick smiled, not looking at Tyler. “Your Honor, Ms. Batson’s experience with this turn establishes the foundation for the opinions I want to ask her about.”
“Overruled. Let’s get on with it, Mr. Drake.”
“Ms. Batson, you may answer the question.”
“Several times, yes. I can’t give you a number or nothing, but that has happened before. There is a little dip in the road about a hundred yards from the light and when a car is in that dip, it can be hard to see. A couple of times I haven’t seen the car and barely missed having a wreck.”
Rick shot Tom a look, and his face said it all. Now. Rick turned to the witness, noticing that Tyler had already stood behind him, ready to object.
“Ms. Batson, you have testified in this case that the rig was a hundred yards away from Bob Bradshaw’s Honda when the Honda began its turn. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So was the rig in the dip you were talking about?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ms. Batson, based on the over fourteen thousand times you’ve made the same left turn that Bob Bradshaw was attempting, in your opinion could Bradshaw have seen the rig before he started his turn?”
“Objection, Your Honor,” Tyler said. “May we—?”
“Overruled,” Cutler said, cutting him off. “You can answer the question, Ms. Batson.”
“It’s just impossible to tell,” Rose said, looking right at the jury. “I don’t see how anybody could say one way or another. We’re talking about split seconds. It’s happened to me several times, and I’ve never been hit, because the other car wasn’t hauling ass. With how fast that rig was moving—”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Tyler was out of his seat, his face as red as his tie. “Ms. Batson’s answer has gone beyond the scope of the question. I’d ask that any comments regarding the rig’s speed be stricken.”
“Sustained,” Cutler said. “The jury will disregard Ms. Batson’s description of the rig’s speed.”
Rick nodded, knowing it didn’t matter. Like they can forget.
“Thank you, Ms. Batson. I have no further questions.”
It was all Rick could do not to give a fist pump as he walked back to the counsel table. I can’t believe it worked. But he knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The minute Judge Cutler started flipping through his copy of McMurtrie’s Evidence, Tyler didn’t have a prayer. It was like arguing with Moses over the Ten Commandments.
As Rick took his seat, Tom nudged him with his elbow. “Great job,” Tom said. “That’s one down.”
And one to go, Rick thought, glancing at his cell phone. There was still no word from Faith. Given the brevity of Tyler’s cross-examinations, Rick figured they had fifteen minutes before they would have to call their next witness.
Our last witness.
Rick reached into his front pocket and touched the photograph of the Bradshaw family. Then he looked at Ruth An
n. Dark circles had formed under her eyes but she gazed stoically at the witness stand. It’s almost over, Rick wanted to tell her, feeling an ache in his heart for this woman who had lost so much.
All she wants is the jury to know the truth.
And there was still a chance they might know. A small chance but . . . a chance.
Rick squeezed his phone and began to pray. Fifteen minutes.
“Ms. Batson, you’re not an accident reconstructionist, are you?” Tyler asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“I don’t even know what that is. I run a gas station. Damn good one too.”
“You’ve never had any instruction on how to analyze an automobile accident for fault, have you?”
“I reckon not.”
“You’ve never investigated an automobile accident?”
“No.”
“You have no idea whether Bob Bradshaw should have seen Dewey Newton’s rig on September 2, 2009?”
“Like I said, it’s impossible to tell. We talkin’ split seconds.”
“You saw Bob Bradshaw’s Honda turn directly in front of the rig, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And that’s what you wrote right after the accident happened, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor,” Tyler said, shaking his head at the jury as if he couldn’t believe Rick and Tom had wasted the jury’s time with such an unqualified witness.
“Redirect?” Cutler asked, shooting a glance at Rick.
“No, Your Honor.”
“Very well. Ms. Batson is excused. Call your next witness.”
Tom turned to Rick, who shook his head. Damnit, Tom thought. Come on, old man, think. If Faith’s not gonna show, how else can we get this document in?
“Mr. McMurtrie, will the plaintiff be having any further rebuttal?”
“Let me see that bill again,” Tom whispered, and Rick slid it in front of him. Tom scanned the contents, looking for something, anything, that might help.
“Mr. McMurtrie?” Cutler pressed.
Tom’s eyes moved over the page at warp speed. Come on, there’s gotta be another way. There has to . . .
Tom’s heart caught in his chest when he saw it. Well, I’ll be . . . He cocked his head and blinked several times, making sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. How the hell did I miss that?
“Mr. Mc— ”
“Your Honor, may we approach?” Tom asked, standing and holding the document.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked.
“Just watch,” Tom said, approaching the bench as Cutler motioned him forward.
“What is it, Counselor?” Cutler asked, clearly irritated at being ignored.
“Your Honor, yesterday we were presented with this document.” Tom handed the bill to the judge. “It is the bill of lading for Dewey Newton’s gasoline delivery the day of the accident. Apparently, one of the loaders, Dick Morris, who is now deceased, had kept it at his home, and his cousin found it. We have given a copy to defense counsel and plan to introduce the document as part of our rebuttal.”
Cutler scanned the document quickly, looking unimpressed. “OK, so let’s get on with it. I got a jury waiting, Professor.”
“I understand that, Judge, but we just obtained the document and need more time to get a witness in court to authenticate it. Could we have a short recess? Maybe till after lunch?”
“Your Honor, I object,” Tyler said. “They’ve had plenty of time to get a witness here to testify. Besides, all we’ve seen of the document is a copy. If all they have is a copy—”
“Looks like blue ink on the signature and initials,” Cutler interrupted, handing the bill Tom had given him to Tyler.
“Even so,” Tyler said, reading as he talked, “we would object to a recess.”
Cutler sighed, looking back at Tom. “I have a feeling this trial would have run a lot smoother if you hadn’t shown up, McMurtrie. I’m gonna allow the recess.”
Yes, Tom thought, feeling an adrenaline surge. There’s still a chance.
“It’s eleven now, so you have two hours. We’ll start back at one o’clock.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Tom said, and started to walk away.
“McMurtrie.”
Cutler’s voice stopped him, and Tom turned around. The judge motioned him forward.
“Tell me something,” Cutler said, leaning over the bench and talking in a low voice. “Is that Lee Roy Jordan in the back row?”
Tom creased his eyebrows in surprise and slowly turned his head, finally letting himself look at the crowd. Up until now he had blocked everything out. He saw a lot of the same faces as yesterday. Former students, Will Burbaker, Rufus, the dean, the Cock. But when his eyes reached the back row, his stomach almost dropped. Lee Roy was wearing a blue blazer, white shirt, and a crimson tie. He was now a successful businessman in Dallas, and it had been years since Tom had seen old number 54, whom most viewed as the greatest middle linebacker in Alabama football history.
Next to him was Billy Neighbors, who had anchored the offensive and defensive line on the ’61 team and was now a stockbroker in Huntsville. From Tom’s view, he counted eight more. All wore blue blazers, white shirts, and crimson ties just like they used to for ball games.
It was a show of solidarity. From men who knew what loyalty was all about. The 1961 national champions. Tom caught Neighbors’s eye, and he nodded. Tom nodded back.
Win. It was unspoken but it showed in Neighbors’s eyes. As it did in Jordan’s and the rest’s. Like Tom, they had learned at the foot of the Man.
“Yes, sir,” Tom said, turning back to the judge. “That’s Lee Roy.”
“Jesus aged Christ,” Cutler muttered. “You’ve turned my courtroom into the damned Bryant Museum.”
He banged his gavel and turned toward the jury box. “Members of the jury, we will be taking a recess for lunch. Please return to the jury room by one o’clock.”
Rick grabbed Tom by the arm on the way back to the counsel table. “What if Faith doesn’t show by one o’clock? I still haven’t heard—”
“Faith’s not our only option,” Tom said, placing the bill on the table and pointing at the middle of it. “The truck was loaded by two people.”
“I know that, Professor, but Mule is dead and Willard Carmichael was a dead end. He didn’t remember any—”
“He’d remember his initials, wouldn’t he?” Tom asked, placing his hand on the page where Willard Carmichael had scribbled “WBC” in blue ink next to his name.
Rick squinted at the page and his eyes widened. “I . . . can’t believe I didn’t see that before. Is that enough to get it in?”
Tom shrugged. “If Faith doesn’t show, it’s all we’ve got. Willard states that this is his handwriting and that he normally initials all bills and gives them to record keeping.”
“Won’t he also have to say that it was made and kept in the normal course of business by Ultron?” Rick asked.
Despite the stress he felt, Tom smiled with pride. “Glad you paid attention in class. Yes, those are the buzzwords, and we’ll have to think of a creative way of proving them without confusing Willard. But first we have to get him here.” Tom looked at his watch. “We’ve got an hour and fifty-five minutes.”
“I’ll get him here,” Rick said, taking out his cell phone and running for the double doors.
85
“What do you mean, ‘piss in the wind’?” Tyler asked, slamming the bill of lading into Jack Willistone’s chest. “This document fucks us. I mean it fucks us up the ass with a sledgehammer.”
Tyler was on the edge of control, having lost every battle of the morning. Tom got Batson’s lay testimony in. Then he got his recess. If he were to authenticate the bill, then the whole complexion of the case changed. The bill wo
uld be the smoking gun that Willistone was negligently supervising Newton and forced him to speed to make the delivery. In other words . . . We’re fucked.
“Old Yoda’s really putting you through it, ain’t he?” Jack said. “Well, let me ask you, how does he get this document into evidence?” Jack stuffed the bill back into Jameson’s chest.
“Best way would be to call the records custodian who signed the bottom. Faith . . . Bulyard it looks like,” Tyler said, squinting at the page. “He might also try bringing in one of the loaders, but Morris is dead.”
“So his only options are Faith Bulyard and Willard Carmichael?” Jack asked, his chuckle turning into a full-bore laugh.
“Right. Is that funny to you? If either one of them shows up, then—”
“Relax, Darth,” Jack said. “Yoda’s all out of options.”
86
Rick hung up the phone and walked in a daze through the doors and toward the counsel table, not even noticing as a reporter snapped a photograph of him.
When he reached the counsel table, the Professor quickly rose from his notes. “What is it? Did you fi— ?”
“He’s gone, Professor. According to Hank Russell, Willard Carmichael didn’t report for his shift last night. He’s not answering his cell phone or his landline, and his wife doesn’t have a clue where he is. He’s . . . disappeared.”
Rick sat down, feeling numb. Another dead end. He turned his head to search for the man he knew had to be responsible. Jack Willistone was seated at the defense table, looking right at him, and . . .
You son of a bitch, Rick tried to convey with his eyes.
. . . smiling.
87
“Counsel, please approach,” Judge Cutler said as he walked into the courtroom at 1:00 p.m. sharp.
The judge appeared wired and anxious, clearly growing weary of the publicity the trial had generated. He’s in no mood to hear our excuses, Tom knew, cringing as a jolt of pain went through his groin and abdomen. The pain was getting hard to ignore. He would ask for another recess, but even if Cutler allowed it, what would that buy them? They had no idea where Faith had gone, and Willard was missing. And I doubt I can make another day of trial, Tom thought, grabbing his side as another jolt of pain hit him.
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