The Last Trial (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers Book 3)

by Robert Bailey

  Wade Richey returned the gesture and pushed past Lusk, slapping Tom hard on the back. Tom winced as a lightning bolt of pain hurtled down his shoulder blades and legs all the way to his feet.

  “Well, I’m mighty damn glad to see you,” Wade said, shaking his head and keeping his arm around Tom’s shoulder. He leaned close and whispered in Tom’s ear, “I think we’ve got an open-and-shut murder case, but I know Powell wanted to talk with you before making the charge.”

  Tom’s eyes had watered from the pain of Wade’s back slap and he was still gathering himself when he heard Lusk’s voice from behind him.

  “Detective?”

  “What is it, Lusk?” Wade turned, glancing at the deputy and then back at Tom. “Have you two been introduced?”

  When neither man answered, Wade gestured at Tom. “Lusk, this is Professor Tom McMurtrie.”

  The deputy nodded but didn’t make any move to shake Tom’s hand. He blinked his eyes, moving them from Wade to Tom and back to Wade.

  “Is something wrong, Deputy?” Wade finally asked.

  Before Lusk could answer, the door that Wade had come out of opened again, and the district attorney of Tuscaloosa County stepped out. Powell Conrad wore khaki pants and a white shirt; his red tie was loosened at the neck. His sandy-blond hair lay like a mop on his head, and Tom probably would have chuckled a bit if the circumstances of his visit had been different. Powell always had a bit of a disheveled look about him that Tom found endearing, and he knew juries did as well. The smile of relief that spread across Powell’s face felt like a hot poker on Tom’s chest. “Professor, I was just hoping for a phone call. You didn’t have to come over in person.”

  Tom couldn’t find the words as he gazed at his former student. Mercifully, Lusk broke the awkward silence.

  “He says he’s Newton’s attorney.”

  “What?” Powell asked, looking at Tom and not believing his ears. “Is that true, Professor?”

  “Powell, I intended to return your text messages, but before I could a member of Ms. Newton’s family asked me to talk to her.”

  “So, it is true then.” Powell’s voice, which was normally loud and boisterous, was so low that Tom could barely hear it.

  Tom glanced at Wade, whose face had grown pale, before returning his eyes to Powell. “I’m her attorney for the limited purpose of talking with her right now, OK? I promised her daughter that I would do that and . . .” He held out his palms. “Here I am.”

  “You need to run for the hills, son,” Wade said, his voice a low drawl. “Like I just told you, this is an open and shut—”

  “Enough!” Powell cut him off, his tone sharp and the volume turned up full throttle. He glared at Wade and gave Tom the same look.

  Tom kept his face neutral and nodded at the holding cell. “Can I see her now?”

  For several seconds, Powell just looked at Tom. The glare had softened into a glazed expression of confusion and disappointment. Finally, he grunted and gave a quick jerk of his head. “Lusk,” he said, his eyes now focused on the tile floor. “Show Ms. Newton’s lawyer to the attorney room.”

  12

  The “attorney room” was a drab five-foot-by-eight-foot enclosure with cinder-block walls and a fluorescent overhead light that flickered every few seconds. There were no air vents in the room and no fan, and Tom suspected that these omissions were intentional. By the time Lusk returned ten minutes later with the suspect, Tom had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, still sweating. He was also thirsty but doubted anyone would be offering him a drink.

  He stood when Wilma Newton entered the room. As Lusk removed the cuffs, the suspect gazed across the small space at Tom. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Once the deputy had closed the door and they were alone, Wilma took a step closer and squinted at her visitor, cocking her head. Finally, she spoke. “Professor McMurtrie?”

  Tom nodded. The only pieces of furniture in the room were a square folding table and two plastic chairs, and Tom sat in one of the chairs and gestured for Wilma to sit in the other. But the suspect remained standing.

  “Why . . . ? How? I didn’t call you. I called Morris Claiborne and Larry Reed. I left messages with their receptionists. I just thought . . .”

  Tom had taught Larry Reed two decades ago, and he knew of Claiborne. Both made their bread and butter working criminal defense cases. He wasn’t surprised that she would call them. “Larry and Morris are both excellent lawyers.”

  Before Wilma could say anything else, Tom added, “Your daughter asked me to talk with you.”

  Wilma wrinkled her eyebrows. “Laurie Ann?”

  “Yes. She came to my office yesterday and requested that I take your case. I . . . promised her that I would talk with you.”

  “Why?”

  Tom blinked and looked down at the table. Why? He repeated the question in his own thoughts, remembering the look of betrayal he received just moments ago from Powell Conrad. Why are you here, old man? The truth was that he really didn’t know. For the first time since being forced into retirement by the law school and simultaneously learning he had bladder cancer over two years ago, he felt unstable and a bit unsure.

  “McMurtrie?” Wilma had taken a step closer, but she still remained standing.

  Finally, Tom sighed. “Ms. Newton, would you please sit down?”

  Wilma crossed her arms but didn’t move. She glared at Tom. “Not until you tell me why you came down here. I don’t remember us being friends, and last time I saw you, you were busy ruining my life.” She took another step closer and leaned over the desk. “Now, I’m going to ask you again, and if you don’t answer, I’m knocking on the door for the deputy to come get me. Why are you here?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said, figuring the truth was his best option. “Your daughter asked me to come, and she was very persuasive and persistent. She filled me in on some of the things that have happened to you since the trial and . . .” He trailed off.

  “So you feel sorry for me. Is that it? Poor old Wilma.” She scoffed. “I guess a rich, famous attorney like yourself can indulge in pity meetings at the jail with clients he’s never going to actually represent.”

  Tom had heard enough. “No, Wilma. That’s not it. I don’t feel sorry for you. You are an adult woman, and your choices have put you where you are.” He paused and stood from his chair. “But I felt very bad for your daughter. She’s an innocent victim of your actions and . . . to a much lesser extent, mine. If I hadn’t come to the courtroom that day and cross-examined you—”

  “Willistone wins the case, I get my money, and Laurie Ann is a cheerleader at Lincoln County Middle.”

  Tom squinted at her. “Money? What money?”

  Wilma sighed and her lip began to tremble. “Damnit,” she whispered under her breath, covering her face with both hands. “Just . . . go, Professor. You can’t help me. Ain’t nobody can help me.”

  Tom felt a prickle of pain vibrate along his shoulder blade and he lowered himself to his seat. Rubbing his back with the palm of his right hand, he looked up at her. “Did you kill Jack Willistone?” Tom knew he had just broken the cardinal rule of criminal defense attorneys. Never ask your client if he or she did the deed. But he didn’t care. He was old. His back hurt. And he was too tired to hold on to the unwritten commandments of a profession that he was beginning to lose faith in. He wanted to see her reaction.

  Wilma removed her hands from her face and met Tom’s eye. “I wish that I had. I wish . . .” Her lower lip began to shake again. “I wish I would’ve had the guts to kill that bastard.”

  “Did you kill Jack Willistone?” Tom repeated the question.

  Wilma wiped her tear-streaked eyes and shook her head. “No.”

  For several seconds they looked at each other across the small, stuffy space. Finally, Tom once again gestured to the chair. “Then sit down, and let’s talk this out.”

  13

  An hour later, Tom trudged out the exit to the jail, weighed
down by his briefcase, fatigue, and the story he had just heard. It was impossible to know if Wilma had held anything back, but he believed the parts that she had revealed. At the end of the day, crazy as it all sounded, she sounded sincere and . . .

  . . . I believe her.

  Thinking about his next move, Tom placed his briefcase in the back seat and felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. He flinched and looked behind him.

  Wade Richey held up his hands. “Sorry about that. Is something up with your back?”

  Tom shook his head. “You come out here to fuss some more?”

  Wade smiled and rubbed his mustache. “How long we been friends?”

  Tom shut the door and leaned his back against it. “Since Nixon was president.”

  “A long time, right?”

  Tom nodded.

  “I meant what I said in there, Tom. You need to run for the hills.” Then, looking left and right to make sure no one was in earshot, Wade took a step closer to Tom and spoke under his breath. “The murder weapon was registered in Wilma Newton’s name and was found with only her prints on it underneath the dock where Willistone was killed.” He paused. “You want me to tell you how many cases I’ve lost in thirty years in the Sheriff’s Office when we have the murder weapon and it belongs to the defendant?” He made a zero symbol with the thumb and index finger of his right hand.

  “Does Powell know you’re telling me this?” Tom asked, also shooting a quick glance around the lot before looking into Wade’s blue eyes.

  “Who do you think asked me to come out here?”

  Tom wiped sweat from his forehead. At almost noon, the Tuscaloosa heat had announced its presence with authority. “Tell him I appreciate the heads-up.” Tom knew that most prosecutors wouldn’t share evidence—especially of the magnitude of what Wade just told him—absent a request from the defense attorney and would hold out as long as ethically possible before turning it over.

  “Will do.” Wade took a couple steps back. “You’re not seriously thinking about taking this case, are you?”

  Tom opened the driver’s-side door to the Explorer, stalling for time.

  “Well?”

  Tom finally looked at him. “Since she’s only a suspect, there isn’t a case to take. When are you going to charge her?”

  “This afternoon,” Wade said. “Like I told you in there, the reason she hasn’t already been charged is that the district attorney had wanted to talk with his mentor about the case. But the funniest thing happened. His old law professor blew him off and lo and behold showed up at the jail today and said he’s Newton’s lawyer.” Wade leaned in closer and spoke through clenched teeth as he pointed at the brick facade of the Sheriff’s Office. “My guy in there has been loyal to the bone to you, Tom. He helped you in Henshaw two years ago, and him and I both came to your aid last year in Pulaski.”

  “I know that, Wade, but—”

  “I’m not finished,” Wade said, his voice rising. “This is Powell’s first big murder case since being appointed DA. You know the deal. Griffith stepped down last October to care for his wife, who has Alzheimer’s, and the governor had to appoint a replacement. Well, guess what had just happened?”

  Tom gazed down at the pavement.

  “Powell and I had just arrested JimBone Wheeler on the square in Pulaski. You’ve seen the video, haven’t you?”

  Tom nodded.

  “Powell tackled Wheeler before he could kill anyone else on the square and took his gun away from him. Took a psychopathic killer’s gun away from him. They don’t teach that kind of bravery in law school, Tom.” Wade paused to catch his breath. “Powell was appointed DA because arresting Wheeler made him a rock star. It was the popular move and the governor seized on it, and you and I both know that Powell was already the most talented prosecutor in the office.”

  “He’s a natural,” Tom agreed, gazing up at his old friend. “What are you trying to say, Wade?”

  “What I’m trying to say, old friend”—Wade stuck a finger in Tom’s sternum—“is that because Jack Willistone is the victim, the press is going to be all over this case. Hell, they’ve been crawling the halls of the office since the body was found. Right or wrong, the success of Powell’s term and his chance for election may hinge on what happens here.” Wade looked Tom right in the eye. “That’s why he wanted your counsel. But instead of advice and support, he gets . . .” Wade cocked his head to the side and smirked. “Whatever the hell you’re doing.”

  Tom shook his head. “Look, tell Powell I’m sorry. When I got his text, I was at my grandson’s baseball game. I had been in Huntsville for Billy Neighbors’s funeral and, with everything going on with Rick, I’m having a hard time keeping track of who I’ve called back and who I haven’t. Ms. Newton’s daughter showed up last night at my office and begged me to talk with her mother, and I just couldn’t say no.”

  For a few seconds, neither spoke. Wade broke the silence. “I’m sorry about Billy. I know how close everyone on that team is.”

  Tom nodded and gazed at the ring on the third finger of his right hand. Around the edge and stenciled in gold were the words “National Champions.” In the middle were the numerals “1961.” His throat had become dry and he blinked down at the asphalt to gather himself.

  “You didn’t answer my question. Are you going to take the case?”

  Tom wiped sweat from the back of his forehead and continued to gaze down at the ground. “I don’t know what I’m going to do yet. I . . . need to talk with my partner.”

  Now it was Wade who blinked, and the detective also looked down at the pavement. “Well, tell the kid I’ve been praying for him.” He shook his head and started to walk away.

  “Hey, Wade.”

  The detective stopped and turned his head as Tom climbed into the SUV. Squinting at his old friend, Tom managed a tired smile. “Have you talked with Bully Calhoun yet?”

  The detective’s face hardened and his voice was even harsher. “Don’t do this, Tom. You know I love you, and Powell worships the ground you walk on.” He paused. “But if you take this case, you won’t get any more freebies from us. We’ll play for blood.”

  The smile faded from Tom’s face. “I would expect nothing different.” He put the car in gear and eased it forward, pausing next to the detective as he walked back toward the entrance.

  “Hey, son,” Tom said.

  Wade looked at him.

  “You didn’t answer my question.” Before Wade could respond, Tom pressed the accelerator. In his rearview mirror, he noticed that the detective had stopped walking and was watching him leave with his hands on his hips.

  14

  Henshaw, Alabama, is a small farming community halfway between Tuscaloosa and Montgomery. For as long as anyone in town can remember, there’s been a gas station and convenience store at the intersection of Limestone Bottom Road and Highway 82. Originally, it was known as Sloan’s Bait and Beer, but in 1990 old Tom Sloan sold out to Texaco and retired to the sandy white beaches of Gulf Shores.

  The intersection also has a stoplight, where, in the midmorning hours of September 2, 2009, an eighteen-wheeler owned by Willistone Trucking Company and driven by Harold “Dewey” Newton collided with a Honda Accord operated by Bob Bradshaw. Newton had massive head injuries and died at the hospital. Bradshaw, a thirty-year-old tax attorney from Huntsville, and his two-year-old daughter, Nicole, burned to death when the Accord exploded after flipping several times. Jeannie Bradshaw, Nicole’s mother and Bob’s wife, was thrown from the car and died from massive internal injuries, but not before trying to pull her daughter from the wreckage.

  Tom sat on the bench outside the Texaco and gazed past the four pumps to the traffic light, thinking of the carnage the accident had wrought and the lives affected, including those who had perished and those left behind. Ruth Ann Wilcox—Jeannie Bradshaw’s mother and Tom’s college sweetheart. Wilma Newton and her two daughters. Jack Willistone.

  Me . . .

  Tom knew the accident
had changed his life forever, putting together a chain of events that eventually led to him returning to the courtroom after forty years as a professor and winning the largest jury verdict in west Alabama history. But as he saw the rusty Saturn approach on Highway 82 and flick its blinker on, Tom knew that his own redemption couldn’t have happened without a certain young lawyer who called this town his home.

  The Saturn took a left on Limestone Bottom and an immediate right into the station, parking in one of the places that ran along the side of the building. Tom stood as Rick Drake opened the door and slid out of the car.

  As his partner approached, Tom couldn’t help but think that the “kid,” as Wade Richey had called him, who wasn’t yet thirty, looked as if he had aged a decade in the last few months. He wore a pair of faded blue jeans, a sweat-stained gray T-shirt, and boots caked with dried mud. His normally clean-shaven face now carried at least a week’s worth of brown stubble, and his hair, which was typically trimmed short for court, was over his ears and longer in the back than Tom had ever seen it. His head was covered by a blue cap pulled low over his eyes with the words “Drake Farms” embroidered in gold on the front.

  Tom shook Rick’s hand and held it for a second. “How you doing?”

  Rick shrugged. “Making it.” Then he gestured with his right arm, and Tom noticed another man emerge from the Saturn. He had fuzzy brown hair and a scruffy beard and reminded Tom of Mr. Edwards from Little House on the Prairie. The man wore blue-jean overalls with no shirt underneath and had a toothpick stuck in his mouth. If he was an inch under six feet six, Tom wasn’t buying.

  “Professor, this is Keewin Brown. He was Dad’s right-hand man, and he’s been mine these last few months.”

  Tom nodded and shook hands with Keewin, whose grip was as strong as an oak tree and caused Tom to grimace.

  “Pleasure, sir,” Keewin said. Then he headed for the front door. “Want your usual, Ricky?”

  “Yeah, that’ll be good,” Rick said. “I’m going to need a few minutes.”