Damnit, Tom thought. If there had been any time to talk with Faith prior to putting her on the stand, he would know exactly what to ask her. Now he was just winging it, trusting his instincts and forty years of experience.
“Ms. Bulyard, other than what Buck told you, what do you know about the schedules?”
Faith took a deep breath and tried to calm down. She could tell the Professor was trying to help her. “Well, there were bills of lading for all of Willistone’s deliveries, and they all had the delivery and pickup times on them. On the night of this accident, there was a—”
“Objection, Your Honor. May I approach?” Tyler was already moving toward the bench. “The witness is clearly about to testify to the fire that destroyed the Ultron plant, which you specifically prohibited when you granted our pretrial motion in limine.”
“The objection is sustained,” Cutler said. “The witness is instructed not to mention the fire. Let’s move on.”
Tom glanced at Rick, who had joined Tom at the bench. “Any ideas, champ?” Tom asked.
“If I’d sued Ultron, Buck’s statements would come in as a party admission, but—”
“Too late for that,” Tom interrupted.
“She wants to help us,” Rick whispered, the desperation evident in his voice. “There’s gotta be something that’s admissible.”
Tom nodded, agreeing but unable to figure out what that was. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He’d taught Evidence for forty years, and the whole trial hinged on getting Faith Bulyard’s testimony into evidence.
“Professor, please continue,” Cutler said.
Tom nodded at the judge, his eyes rotating to Faith Bulyard, who looked almost as desperate as Rick. Then to the jury, many of whom had confused, irritated expressions. Finally, Tom looked at Tyler, who was now sitting down, the picture of cool. He thinks he’s won.
Tom’s mind drifted to his book. McMurtrie’s Evidence. The chapter on hearsay. There were twenty-three exceptions, and Tom had a subsection on each one. Then there were three types of statements that by definition were not hearsay. Tom felt a tickle in his brain. What did Rick just say about Ultron? If he had sued Ultron . . .
“Professor, if there are no further questions . . .” Cutler stopped, not needing to finish the thought.
Tom knew he was out of time. Think . . . With his back to the stand, Tom raised his eyes and looked to the galley. The courtroom was deathly quiet, all eyes on him. Adrenaline coursed through Tom, and as his eyes met Jack Willistone’s he felt the tickle again. And then . . .
. . . it all clicked.
“Ms. Bulyard,” Tom said, turning on a dime. “Have you had any conversations with anyone associated with Willistone Trucking Company regarding driver schedules, the bills of lading, or testifying at this trial?”
“Objection, Your Honor, the question clearly calls for—” Tyler started, but Tom was ready.
“Anything anyone from Willistone told her would be an admission by party opponent, which by definition is not hearsay. Rule 801 (d)(2) of the Alabama Rules of Evidence.” Tom paused. “Chapter forty-seven, subpart five of my book.”
Cutler opened his copy of McMurtrie’s Evidence to the page, then shot Tyler a look. “Mr. Tyler?”
“It would have to be an officer or high-ranking official with Willistone for that section to apply,” Tyler said, sounding weak.
“The objection is overruled,” Cutler said. “Ms. Bulyard, please answer the question.”
Faith cleared her throat and looked directly at Tom. “Yes. I’ve spoken with someone at Willistone.”
“Who?” Tom asked, holding his breath.
“Jack Willistone. The owner of the company.”
Tom’s eyes shot to Tyler. That high-ranking enough for you, Jamo?
“Ms. Bulyard,” Tom said, pausing and looking at the jury. This is it, he thought. “Tell the jury what Jack Willistone said to you.”
Faith did not look at the jury. Instead, she glared at Jack Willistone. How do you like me now, you bastard? she tried to convey with her eyes. Then, clearing her throat, she began to speak.
“Jack Willistone threatened me and my family if I testified today.”
“That is a goddamn lie!” Jack screamed, rising from his seat at the defense table and shaking his finger at Faith.
Loud banging came from the bench, and Judge Cutler stood. “Quiet! I’ll have quiet in this courtroom. Mr. Willistone, another word from you and I will put you in jail for contempt. The jury will disregard this outburst. Mr. Tyler, you need to get control of your client.”
Tyler turned toward Jack, but Jack waved him off, sat down, and crossed his arms. His face had turned beet red. Faith never blinked as she stared at the man who killed her husband.
“Ms. Bulyard.” The Professor’s calm voice broke through the tension like a gentle breeze. “How did Jack Willistone threaten you and your family?”
“He told me that if I testified or had any contact whatsoever with Mr. Drake, he would tell my sons that their father . . .” Faith’s voice broke and she looked down at her hands. “That their father was a homosexual.”
Several gasps rang out in the courtroom, and Faith looked up, this time turning her gaze to the jury.
“Jack had made videos and photographs of my husband with . . . other men. He sent them to me and told me he’d make them public if I testified in this case. He threatened me on the phone and in text messages. I never understood why he was so hot to keep me away. It wasn’t until I saw that bill again that it clicked. He didn’t want you to see that bill,” Faith told the jury, and Jameson Tyler bolted out of his seat.
“Objection, Judge. She’s just giving her opinion now. That’s—”
“Sustained,” Cutler said. “Just stick to what he told you, Ms. Bulyard. The jury will disregard that last comment.”
“He paid me to go to New York City so I wouldn’t be around this week, and he called me last night and reminded me what would happen if I came back. Well, I don’t care anymore, Jack.” Now it was Faith who was out of her seat. “My husband was gay and he cheated on me with other men. My sons know now because I told them.” She paused. “So I don’t care if you tell the whole world about it.”
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Tom let Faith’s answer hang in the air for five seconds as silence filled the courtroom. He watched the jury, seeing outrage on some of their faces, while others appeared to be in shock. He toyed with introducing the text messages but decided against it. He didn’t know what they said and, judging by the angry looks in the jury box, they would probably be overkill. We can’t end on a higher high than right now, Tom thought, clearing his throat and looking at Cutler.
“We have no further questions, Your Honor.”
“Recross, Mr. Tyler?”
Tom’s eyes moved to the defense table, where Tyler was having a heated discussion with his associate and Jack Willistone.
“Mr. Tyler?” Cutler repeated.
Tyler rose from his seat, his red face a dead giveaway that he was frustrated. Jamo is finally letting everyone see him sweat, Tom thought.
“Your Honor, may we approach?”
Cutler motioned them all forward.
“Your Honor, we have not seen the text messages mentioned by Ms. Bulyard. Can we see those?”
Tom knew the defendant was entitled to see the texts, so he did not object. He only prayed they were as bad as Faith testified.
“Here,” Faith said, leaning over the witness stand and handing her phone to Tyler. “Enjoy.”
Tyler took the phone, and for at least a full minute they all watched his face as he reviewed the texts and their attachments. Slowly, he handed the phone back to Faith. Then he looked at Cutler.
“Your Honor, I move to withdraw myself and my law firm as counsel for Willistone Trucking Company.”
“Denied,” Cutler s
aid, glaring at Tyler with unsympathetic eyes. “It’s too late to be quitting, Mr. Tyler. It would be too prejudicial to your client, and I am not stopping this trial so it can get a new lawyer.”
“Your Honor, Mr. Willistone’s . . . actions have made it impossible for me to effectively represent his company—”
“No, Mr. Tyler,” Cutler interrupted. “Mr. Willistone’s actions may have made it impossible for you to win this case. Your motion is denied. Mr. McMurtrie, are you going to be offering any further rebuttal?”
“No, Your Honor,” Tom said.
“Mr. Tyler. How about you? Any rebuttal witnesses?”
Tyler looked like a ten-year-old protesting a spanking. Gone was the aura of cool and invincibility.
“No, Your Honor.”
“OK, unless there are other motions to take up, let’s proceed with closing arguments.”
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Two hours later, at 4:00 p.m., the jury was given the case. There had been no motions. Tyler was so shocked by Faith Bulyard’s testimony that he forgot to renew his motion for judgment as a matter of law. Not that it would have mattered—Faith Bulyard’s testimony and the bill of lading killed any chance of Tyler getting the case thrown out.
Then came the closing arguments, which were predictably anticlimactic. Tom focused on Dewey Newton’s speed and the bill of lading, while Tyler hammered home his expert’s opinion that Bob Bradshaw should have seen Newton’s rig prior to making his turn. Rick handled the rebuttal, where he stood before the jury—a jury he had grown up knowing—and asked that they render a verdict in the amount of nine million dollars: three million dollars for each death.
After closings, Judge Cutler read the jury instructions agreed upon by both sides earlier in the week. Then he adjourned the jury to their room, where they were to deliberate and decide the case.
Rick and Tom waited out in the hallway. Across from them Tyler sat alone, having sent his associate back to Birmingham. Jack Willistone remained glued to his chair in the courtroom, staring straight ahead.
Ruth Ann and Dawn had gone with Rick’s parents to the farm. “Too nerve-racking to wait here,” Ruth Ann had said, and she’d asked Dawn to keep her company. Rick had promised to call when the jury came back.
Faith Bulyard had taken her sons back home, though she had asked to be called after the verdict. Most of the crowd had dispersed, the only ones hanging around being reporters hoping that the verdict might come in before the end of the day.
After an hour Judge Cutler’s bailiff came out and said the jury had asked to work late. They wanted to decide the case tonight without having to come back the next day. Tyler, Rick, and the Professor all grunted “OK,” each with a half-dazed, fog-of-war look on his face. Rick called Ruth Ann and gave her the update. “Shouldn’t be long now,” Rick had lied. He didn’t have a clue how long it would be.
Rick put the phone in his pocket and turned toward his partner, thinking of the long journey that had brought them to this point.
“Professor,” Rick said, and Tom, who had his arms folded and was slumped in his chair, turned his head toward him.
“Yeah.”
Rick paused, feeling emotion building in his chest. He was so tired. “I just wanted to thank you. I . . .” Rick wanted to say more but he couldn’t find the words. “Thank you,” he repeated.
Tom winced as he straightened himself in the chair. He couldn’t move without feeling pain in his groin and abdomen, and he’d just pissed more blood in the bathroom. He too was exhausted, and badly needed to see a doctor. But he wouldn’t leave Rick to wait for the jury alone. He’d come too far to abandon ship now. He looked into the boy’s eyes, knowing what was on the line for him. Knowing this twenty-six-year-old kid, a year out of law school, had gone toe-to-toe with Jameson Tyler and had been willing to go the distance alone.
“No thanks necessary, Rick. You got guts, son,” Tom said. “Guts and balls. What you have, a person can’t teach. That’s why I referred you this case. This case needed passion. It . . . needed you.” Tom winced again.
“Are you OK, Professor? Do you feel—?”
“You boys gonna kiss?”
It was Tyler. He had walked over and now stood in front of them, smiling weakly. It was the first time he’d spoken or moved since they had come out in the hallway.
“Hell of a job, men. Hell of a job,” Tyler said. “Not bad for your first trial, Rick. And Professor . . .” Tyler smiled, shaking his head. “Looks like the old bull still has a little gas in the tank.”
“A little, Jamo. Enough to whip your ass.”
For a moment the two men looked at each other. Then Tyler extended his hand.
“I know it doesn’t matter now, but I’m sorry about what happened with the board.”
Tom stood but did not extend his hand. “You’re right, Jamo,” he said, looking down on his former friend. “It doesn’t matter now.”
Tyler’s face turned a bright shade of pink. It looked like he was about to say something else, but he never got a chance. At that moment the doors to the courtroom swung open and the bailiff stepped through, an anxious look on his face.
“They’ve reached a verdict.”
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The courtroom was again filled to capacity. Apparently, the people who had left when the jury was given the case had stuck around, hoping the case might be decided that evening. The courtroom was buzzing with electricity as the spectators talked amongst themselves. The excitement was palpable. Judge Cutler banged his gavel, and the buzz came to a halt. In seconds the courtroom was silent as a church.
“Mr. Foreman,” Cutler bellowed. “Has the jury reached its verdict?”
In the back right corner of the jury box, Sam Roy Johnson stood holding a single piece of paper in his right hand. “Yes, we have, Your Honor.”
“What says the jury?” the judge asked.
Tom placed his elbows on the table and watched Sam Roy. The last time Tom had heard a verdict read was June 20, 1969, three weeks before his breakfast with the Man. If anything, his adrenaline was pumping harder now that it had then. There is no feeling in the world like this, Tom thought, savoring it and knowing in his heart that they had done all they could do. We left it on the field.
Next to Tom, Rick leaned forward, gripping the photograph of the Bradshaw family in his pocket. Please, God, give this family justice. Taking the photograph out of his pocket, he placed it in Ruth Ann’s hand and clasped hers with his. In this moment—the biggest moment of his life—Rick thought not of himself or his career. He thought only of the family in the picture. The young father and mother, not much older than Rick, who’d had their entire future and life shattered in the blink of an eye. The two-year-old little girl who should’ve had a long, wonderful life but instead burned to death in a Honda Accord. And finally, the grandmother who’d had the strength and courage to go the distance. Not for money or greed but for the truth. Tears burned Rick’s eyes. All he could do now was pray . . . and listen.
Sam Roy Johnson cleared his throat. “We the jury of the Circuit Court of Henshaw County, Alabama, hereby find for the plaintiff, Ruth Ann Wilcox, as to all claims against the defendant, Willistone Trucking Company, and award her the total sum of . . .
“Ninety million dollars.”
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There were a lot of hugs. Once Judge Cutler dismissed the jury, Rick hugged Ruth Ann, and Tom joined in for a group hug, kissing Ruth Ann gently on the cheek.
Then Billy Drake came over and grabbed Rick in a bear hug. “I’m so proud of you, son.”
Rick was in utter shock. Ninety million dollars?
When the verdict was read, there had been a collective, audible sigh from the courtroom. Sam Roy Johnson had gone on to read the jury’s allocation—which was thirty million dollars for Bob Bradshaw’s death, thirty million for Jeannie Bradshaw, and thirty million for little Nicole—but it w
as hard to hear due to the rustling in the courtroom. All of the reporters had headed for the double doors at the same time, each wanting to be the first to break the news.
Now it was a madhouse. People Rick didn’t know were slapping him on the back, and the Professor was engulfed in a sea of the same. It was overwhelming and wonderful. But not complete. There was still someone else Rick wanted to see. Where is she? Rick stood on his toes and searched the crowd, still not seeing her. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned.
“Looking for someone?” Dawn smiled, though her eyes were red with tears. “Congratulations, Rick. You really deserve—”
But her words were drowned out by Rick’s kiss. All of the energy, stress, and anguish of the past three days poured out of him. All he wanted to do now was be with Dawn. It took him a few seconds to realize that she was kissing him back.
“I love you,” Dawn said. “I wish I had said it sooner, but—”
Rick interrupted her with another kiss. “No buts. I love you too.”
“Damn, children, y’all need to get a room.”
They both turned, and Bocephus Haynes was smiling at them. He handed Rick a cigar, hesitated for a second, and then gave Dawn one too. Then he put his arm around both of them and placed an even longer stogie in his own mouth.
“Bocephus loves a happy ending.”
Jack Willistone grabbed Jameson Tyler by the throat.
“You better file an appeal tomorrow, you limp-dicked son of a bitch.”
Jack started to say something else, but then all of a sudden the side of his face was being pressed into the mahogany counsel table and his hands were twisted behind him. Looking to his left, he saw a sandy-haired man standing next to a police officer.
Powell Conrad stepped forward. “Mr. Willistone, on behalf of the District Attorney’s Office of Tuscaloosa County, it is my privilege to inform you that you are officially”—Powell leaned forward and lowered his voice so that only Jack could hear—“fucked.”
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