The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  “Are we ready to proceed, Mr. McMurtrie?” Cutler asked.

  “Your Honor, during the break we learned that Willard Carmichael didn’t report to work last night and is believed to be missing. Mr. Carmichael was one of the witnesses we planned to call to authenticate the bill of lading. The other witness, Faith Bulyard, is out of town and we’ve been unable to locate her. Given these circumstances, we’d ask for the trial to be recessed until at least tomorrow morning.”

  Cutler started shaking his head before Tom finished. “I’m not going to do that, McMurtrie. This jury’s been patient and so have I, but we can’t postpone this case indefinitely while you search for a witness. You should’ve gotten your witnesses in line prior to trial.”

  “With all due respect, Your Honor, we just received this document yesterday and have done all we could do to find the two witnesses. If you would just—”

  “I gave you two hours. I’m not going to do any more than that,” Cutler snapped. “Now do you have any further witnesses, McMurtrie?”

  As the question hung in the air and silence engulfed the courtroom, Jameson Tyler could almost taste victory. If the bill of lading didn’t come in, Tyler knew he had the edge heading into closings. Watching his mentor squirm, Tyler felt a swell of pride. You’ve tried every trick, Professor, but you can’t beat me.

  Jack Willistone was also about to burst. Once Yoda said he didn’t have any further witnesses, all of Jack’s actions would be rewarded. The fire. The deal with Wilma. Taking out Mule. Blackmailing Faith. Last night’s game of Fear Factor with Willard. It will all be worth it, Jack thought as he closed his eyes and waited to hear the magic words.

  The word “No” was almost out of Tom’s mouth when a loud crashing sound broke through the silence, causing Tom to stop cold. Tom, Rick, and everyone in the galley turned to look at the back of the courtroom, where the sound had rung out.

  “Oh my God,” Rick said.

  A woman and two teenage boys stood just inside the double doors. The woman was dressed elegantly, wearing a black blouse over a crème-colored skirt.

  “It’s her,” Rick said, his voice cracking with relief as he walked toward the woman.

  Tom didn’t have to ask who “her” was. He turned back to the bench.

  “Your Honor, the plaintiff calls Ms. Faith Bulyard.”

  88

  As the door slammed behind her, Faith just stood there a moment. Her entire body shook with nerves and exhaustion. She had not slept since her afternoon nap the day before. After dinner in Little Italy she had broken down and listened to her messages. Then she had understood why Jack had called. She knew exactly what she had to do. She would not live the rest of her life in fear of Jack Willistone. He was a bully. You couldn’t negotiate with a bully and you couldn’t just ignore one. I have to fight back. And the only way to fight was to go to Henshaw. But first she had to tell her boys the truth.

  It had been the hardest thing she had ever done, but she did it. After two hours of anguishing over what to say and how to say it, Faith told Junior and Danny everything. That their father was gay, that he had cheated on her with other men, and that he had probably killed himself because Jack Willistone had threatened to reveal his sexuality. Now Jack was threatening Faith with the same stuff and it had to stop.

  Both boys had cried, but Junior’s sadness had turned to anger. It was as if he had aged a decade in fifteen minutes. “Nobody is ever going to threaten my momma,” Junior had said, hugging her as tightly as he ever had in his life.

  Now here they were, at the Henshaw County Courthouse, surrounded by hundreds of people, all of them staring at them.

  Am I in the right place? Faith wondered. Why are there so many people here?

  From the front of the courtroom, a young man walked hurriedly toward her. He wore a smile of relief, and Faith recognized him as the boy who came to her house.

  “Ms. Bulyard,” he said, grabbing her hand and shaking it. “Thanks so much for coming.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call,” she said. “It was all we could do just to get here.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, his eyes moving past Faith to the boys.

  “These are my two sons. Buck Jr. and Danny.”

  “Nice to meet you. My name is Rick Drake,” Rick said, shaking their hands.

  “Are you ready?” he asked, turning back to Faith.

  “Right now?” she asked, feeling her heart rate jump.

  “Yes. You’re our last witness.” He looked her in the eye. “Are you ready to testify?”

  Faith didn’t blink. “That’s why we came.”

  Jack Willistone could not believe his eyes. He had sent this bitch to New York fucking City. Why the hell would she come back? Behind Faith were two teenaged boys. Jack had never seen the younger one, but he recognized the older one right off. Buck Bulyard Jr. Again, Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. What is this crazy bitch thinking? Jack stood, wanting Faith to see him as she walked past. But she just stared straight ahead. He was helpless.

  This cannot be happening.

  Faith kept her eyes fixed straight ahead, walking tall with her boys at her heels. She knew Jack was somewhere watching her, but she’d deal with him later. When she got to the front, two men rose from their seats and let Danny and Junior sit down. Then a tall, stately looking man gestured toward the bench, and Faith stepped forward, seeing the judge for the first time.

  “Raise your right hand,” the judge ordered, and Faith did so. “Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  Faith sucked in a deep breath. “I do.”

  “Ms. Bulyard,” Tom began, forcing himself to ignore the shooting pain in his groin. You can’t pull up lame, old man, he told himself. Not at the finish line. “On September 2, 2009, where were you employed?” Tom asked, looking at the jury, then to the back of the courtroom, where Powell Conrad and Bocephus Haynes stood side by side behind the members of the 1961 team. Powell and Bo had left their seats so that Faith Bulyard’s sons could sit down. Tom wiped his forehead and met Bo’s eye, then glanced down to Billy Neighbors. Another flare of pain nearly brought Tom to his knees, but he steadied himself by grabbing the counsel table.

  “The Ultron Gasoline plant in Tuscaloosa, Alabama,” Faith said.

  Tom nodded and cleared his throat, and another shooting pain sent his hand to his knees.

  “Professor McMurtrie, are you all right?” Cutler asked.

  Tom blinked several times, trying to gather himself. His legs shook, and for a minute he thought he was going to fall. Feeling a hand on his arm, he looked up and saw Rick Drake’s blurry face.

  “Professor? Do you want me to take over?” Rick asked, and the words came out contorted, as if spoken through a piece of paper.

  Tom almost nodded. He almost said yes. Then, forcing his eyes to move, he again looked to the back of the courtroom.

  When he saw Neighbors, goose bumps broke out on his arm.

  His old teammate on the defensive line was standing. As were Lee Roy and the rest of the team. They were all standing, and as if the voice were speaking right to him, Tom heard words from long ago: Men, there’s gonna come a day in your life when things aren’t going too well. Your wife has left you or died, your house has burned down, you’ve lost your job, and you ain’t feeling too good about nothing. When that day comes, what are you gonna do? You gonna quit?

  Tom blinked back tears of pain as the words of the Man came back to him. It had been summer workouts, 1960. Blistering heat that made you want to puke—and some did. Gassers followed by push-ups followed by more gassers. Some quit.

  But not Thomas Jackson McMurtrie. Not then. Not now.

  Not ever.

  Tom removed his hands from his knees and straightened himself. He looked at Ruth Ann, and she too was standing, her face showing w
orry and strength. Turning, it appeared that half the courtroom was now standing. Rufus Cole, Bill Burbaker, every former student in the room and, finally, the Honorable Art Hancock.

  Tom steadied himself and faced the bench. “I’m fine, Judge. Ms. Bulyard, what was your position at Ultron?”

  On wobbly legs, Tom walked toward the back of the jury box, holding the bill of lading in his hand.

  “Records custodian.”

  “And in your position as records custodian, did you keep bills of lading?”

  “Yes, I did. When we received a bill, I would always sign at the bottom that I had received it and then I would file it away.”

  Tom approached the witness stand, handing the bill to Faith. “Ms. Bulyard, I’m showing you what’s been marked as Plaintiff’s Exhibit 2. Do you recognize this document?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “What is it?”

  “It is a bill of lading for a delivery made by Willistone Trucking Company on September 2, 2009.”

  “Is that your signature at the bottom of the bill?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Was this document made and kept in the normal course of business of Ultron Gasoline?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  Almost there, Tom thought, squeezing his fists together as another stab of pain hit him.

  “Your Honor, we would offer Plaintiff’s Exhibit 2.”

  “Any objection?” Cutler asked, and Tom followed his eyes to Tyler, who to Tom’s surprise remained seated.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “OK, the document is admitted,” Cutler said.

  Tom cut his eyes to Rick, but the boy was already moving, walking toward the defense table.

  “Your Honor,” Tom said. “We’d like to show this document to the jury. Would it be possible to use the defendant’s laptop computer, as we do not have any of that equipment?”

  Cutler shrugged and looked at the defense table. “Mr. Tyler?”

  Tom turned also. “Jameson, could we please borrow your laptop for a few seconds?”

  It was all Tom could do not to laugh. If Jameson refused the request, he would come off as a jerk, which in a case like this could be the difference between winning and losing.

  “Certainly,” Tyler replied, the voice of compassion and courtesy.

  “Thank you,” Tom said. Then he nodded at Rick, who inserted the flash drive in the laptop.

  The bill of lading came to life on the screen to the right of the witness stand, in full view of the jury. Tom took a pointer and flashed the red light at the top of the bill. He had forgotten his pain in the adrenaline of the moment.

  “What again is the date on this document?” Tom asked.

  “September 2, 2009.”

  “And I see there’s a blank for driver. What does that say?”

  “Newton,” Faith answered.

  “And the blanks for loaders?”

  “Morris and Carmichael.”

  “Can you tell on the bill where the load was going?”

  “Yes, place of delivery is identified as Montgomery. Filling stations seven and eight.”

  Tom lowered his pointer to the next blank, feeling his heart pounding in his chest. “And delivery time—what does that mean?”

  “That is the expected time that the load would be delivered.”

  “What was that time?”

  “11:00 a.m.”

  Tom lowered the pointer and looked at the jury. “What does pickup time mean?”

  “That is the time the load is picked up from the plant. The loaders are instructed to stamp the time in that blank right after they’ve loaded the truck.”

  Tom continued to gaze at the jury, all of whom were looking intently at the screen. “What is the time stamped in that blank, Ms. Bulyard?”

  “9:57 a.m.”

  Tom paused, letting the answer sink in. Time for the grand finale.

  “So, Ms. Bulyard, on September 2, 2009, driver Newton picked up a load of Ultron gasoline in Tuscaloosa at 9:57 a.m.” Tom made sure his voice carried to the far reaches of the courtroom.

  “Yes.”

  “And he was due in Montgomery by eleven?”

  “Yes.”

  Yes. Tom looked at the jury, seeing several knowing nods. “No further questions.”

  “Cross-examination, Mr. Tyler?”

  Jameson Tyler stood, smiling at the witness and trying to maintain his cool. For the first time since he was a pup lawyer, he didn’t know what to do. His instincts said this witness was a landmine and that he shouldn’t ask her any questions. But that’s not an option, he thought. I can’t let the jury’s last image of the trial be the bill of lading that shows we made Newton speed on the day of the accident. Even if I don’t score any points with her, maybe I can at least muddy the water a little.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Tyler said, approaching the stand. “Ms. Bulyard, you don’t have any personal knowledge of the schedule that Dewey Newton kept at Willistone Trucking Company, do you?”

  “Well . . . the bill of lading”—Faith pointed to the screen, and Jameson tensed as he noticed that the bill still showed on the screen; his associate had forgotten to take it off—“shows his schedule for September 2 with us.”

  As calmly as he could manage, Jameson walked to his counsel table and leaned into his associate’s ear. “Turn that damn thing off.”

  The screen went blank.

  “OK, Ms. Bulyard, the document says what it says. But you don’t know why Dewey Newton was late to your plant that day, do you?”

  Faith shrugged. “I don’t know he was late. For all I know, we may have been late.”

  Yes, Tyler thought, feeling relief flood his body as his eyes moved to the jury. Did you hear that? he tried to convey with his eyes. If the plant was late or slow loading the truck, then Willistone was in the clear. He could take all of the steam out of Tom’s direct.

  “That’s right, Ms. Bulyard,” Tyler said, keeping his voice measured. Just one more question. “So Mr. Newton’s schedule with Willistone on September 2, 2009 could have been just fine, and for all you know it was Ultron’s delay that caused the truck not to be loaded until 9:57, correct?”

  Jameson held his breath for the answer, intending to sit down immediately after hearing “Yes” or “Correct.” But the answer didn’t immediately come. Faith Bulyard’s face had reddened, and she looked angry, glaring not at Tyler but out in the galley.

  “Ms. Bulyard, would you like me to repeat the question?” he asked, feeling a deep sense of dread come over him.

  “No, I heard the question just fine,” Faith said, still glaring past Tyler into the audience. He followed her gaze, and his chest constricted when he saw its intended target. Oh, no . . .

  “Ms. Bulyard, let me—” he started, but Faith Bulyard’s words cut through his like a knife.

  “Shut up, Mr. Tyler,” Faith said as her eyes burned into Jack Willistone’s. The anger she’d built up for the past nine months pulsed in her veins. “I heard your question, and I’m going to answer it.” Faith cut her eyes from Jack and looked directly at the jury. “The answer is, for that day I don’t know exactly why the truck wasn’t loaded until 9:57, but—”

  “You answered my question,” Tyler interrupted. “And I have nothing—”

  “Let me finish,” Faith said, her whole body trembling as she rose from the chair. She sensed that her time on the stand was almost over, and she still hadn’t said what she came to say.

  “Your Honor, if the witness says anything further, it will be unresponsive and irrelevant. We have no further questions.”

  Faith whirled around and looked at the judge, who was rubbing his eyebrows. “Your Honor, I have more to—”

  “The witness will stop talking,” Cutler interrupted, banging his gavel. “I agree with Mr. Tyl
er. You’ve answered his question.”

  “No,” Faith said. “I—”

  “Ms. Bulyard, if you don’t stop talking I’m going to hold you in contempt,” the judge said, again banging his gavel. “Now, will there be any redirect from the plaintiff?”

  Faith continued to stand, moving her gaze to Rick Drake, whose eyes were as wide as her own. Behind Rick she saw her two sons. Junior’s face was crimson with anger, but Danny was staring off into space, still in total shock.

  What have I done? Faith thought. Have I come all this way for nothing?

  “Ms. Bulyard.”

  Faith turned at the sound of the voice, and the older man—the Professor—was standing in front of her. His hand was on her shoulder.

  “Please, ma’am, sit down and let me ask you a couple more questions.”

  Faith did as she was told.

  “Ms. Bulyard, what were you about to say before Mr. Tyler cut you off?”

  “Objection, Your Honor,” Tyler cut in. He too had remained standing. “Ms. Bulyard answered my last question. Allowing her to give an unsolicited speech to this jury, which may include hearsay and other inadmissible material, would not be proper and could be highly prejudicial to the defendants.”

  “I agree,” Cutler said. “The objection is sustained. Mr. McMurtrie, you’ll need to ask a different question.”

  Tom looked at Faith’s pleading face, thinking of the question that prompted her outburst. He had forgotten about the pain. He could sense that the entire trial might ride on what Faith Bulyard wanted to say.

  “Ms. Bulyard, what do you know about the schedules Willistone Trucking Company put its drivers on?”

  “Before he died, my husband, Buck, told me that—”

  “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay,” Tyler said.

  “Sustained,” Cutler agreed.