(2014) The Professor

by Robert Bailey

  At the top of the stairs, Rick unlocked the door and flipped the lights on. The office had once been a two-bedroom loft, but Rick thought he’d made a nice conversion. The den that the front door opened to was now a reception area where Rick’s secretary, Frankie, sat. Behind Frankie’s desk, the carpet turned to tile and there was a small kitchen with a counter containing a coffee pot and a refrigerator. To the left of the kitchen was the prior master bedroom – now a conference room containing a long table with several chairs – and to the right was the smaller bedroom, which Rick used as his private office.

  As Rick walked into his office, his eyes immediately locked to a picture on the wall. “ABA Regional Champions, the University of Alabama” was the heading stenciled under the photograph of Rick, Powell and the Professor. Should be another one saying “National Champions” was the thought that went through Rick Drake’s mind every time he looked at it. Along with “You’re a hothead, Drake. A liability in the courtroom.” Rick glared at the gray eyes of the Professor, which seemed to mock him from inside the frame.

  Rick shook his head and tried to think about the day ahead, which, as usual, was not that busy. The workers’ comp walkthrough was at 11am in front of Judge Baird. Rick’s client was Myra Wilson, who had fallen off a fork lift at the Mercedes plant in Vance and broken her hip. She was set to arrive at 10.30 to review the settlement documents.

  Rick retrieved the Wilson file from his desk and walked back into the reception area, where he paced and read, wanting to make sure that everything was right. Every so often, he looked at Frankie’s desk, expecting her to be there, but then reminded himself that she was off today. A forty-two year-old mother of two whose husband was a self-employed bricklayer, Frankie had worked out all right. She typed eighty-five words a minute, was usually in a cheerful mood, and worked steady hours without many complaints. Other than today, the only time she had taken off since being hired was the Friday before Labor Day when Butch took her and the kids to Panama City for a long weekend.

  As he noticed a mistake in the Wilson papers, a paragraph inserted on page two closing future medical benefits – the bastards always tried that trick – Rick was jarred by the sound he craved more than any other. The most wonderful sound in the world. The all-powerful phone. Ringing. In his office. And it wasn’t even 9am. Be a client and not Powell, he thought as he answered on the second ring, knowing that this could be the one. The one he knocked over the fence, turning Richard Drake into a household name.

  “Richard Drake,” Rick said, in his most lawyerly voice.

  “Dude, you’ll never guess where I am.” Powell. Sonofabitch, Rick thought, smiling in spite of himself as the elusive chase of the home run was put on hold until the next call. The life of the plaintiff’s lawyer.

  12

  Tom watched his team from the jury box in the trial advocacy room or, as his teams liked to call it, the “war room”. He focused, in particular, on their eyes. Were they listening to the opposition’s words or were they trying to remember what they were going to say when they got up there? Tom taught the former, but, from the look in their eyes, he could tell they were doing the latter. This team will be lucky to make it through Regionals.

  At the bench sat Judge Art Hancock, venerable old “Judge Cock”, as he was known by most of the Birmingham bar. Judge Hancock had been a judge since the mid-Sixties. His rulings were always quick, precise and usually right on point. He put up with no grandstanding by lawyers, and each year routinely called at least one young lawyer down on the carpet for “acting a fool” in his courtroom. As a young lawyer, Tom had tried his very first case in front of Judge Hancock, and Tom felt that he had earned the Judge’s respect for knowing the basics and not going overboard with theatrics in front of the jury, like so many inexperienced lawyers tended to do.

  Now seventy-seven years old and showing it, Judge Hancock sat at the bench stroking one of his thick bushy eyebrows. Tom and the Judge had struck an agreement back in the early Eighties where Judge Hancock agreed to come to Tuscaloosa and preside over a mock trial between Tom’s A and B teams one day each year. It was great experience for the team, exposing them to a real judge whom they would see again in the future.

  However, that wasn’t the team’s only treat today.

  Sitting next to Tom in the jury box was, without question, the most dominant trial lawyer in the state of Alabama. Jameson Randall Tyler. “The Big Cat”, as the Birmingham trial bar referred to him with both admiration and fear.

  “They’ll come around,” Jameson whispered, nudging Tom’s elbow and seeming to sense his mood. “There’s a lot of growing that happens between year two and three.”

  Tom nodded, knowing Jameson was right. Rick Drake had proven that last year. A bull in a china shop his second year, Drake blossomed into a real force as a third-year.

  And then the bull came back for Nationals...

  “Had anything with Jerry lately?” Tom whispered back, trying not to think about Drake. Since talking with Ruth Ann, he had been racking his brain, thinking of attorneys he could refer her to, but he kept coming back to Rick Drake. Henshaw was a small town, and small-town juries liked hometown lawyers. The bottom line was that Drake was the only trial lawyer Tom knew with Henshaw ties that was worth a shit. Aside from the obvious problem that Drake was just eight months out of law school, Tom also didn’t have a clue where he was living or what he was doing.

  And there’s that little incident where he tried to take your head off last year.

  Jameson smiled. “Three last year.” He paused. “All defense verdicts.”

  Tom also smiled, shaking his head. Jameson was a senior partner with Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in the state. His specialty was defending large personal injury cases, many of which were filed by his former trial team partner Jerry Snider. Jameson and Jerry had won Tom’s first national championship in 1979. After graduation, they had gone in opposite directions, Jerry forging a career as a plaintiff’s attorney and Jameson as a defense lawyer. Both were considered at the top of their fields.

  But, as good as Jerry Snider had turned out to be – many thought he was the best plaintiff’s attorney in the state – he was no match for Jameson if the facts were anywhere close to even. Jameson regularly handed Jerry’s ass to him, just like he did everyone else.

  “Still dating that court reporter?” Tom asked.

  Jameson’s smile widened. “Actually, I’m dating two court reporters,” he whispered. “Rival services.”

  “Competitors?” Tom asked.

  Jameson shrugged. “What can I say? They each try to outperform the other.” He raised his eyebrows and Tom laughed.

  “You are such a bastard, Jamo,” Tom said, slapping Jameson on the back. Jameson grinned. “Don’t I know it.”

  A few minutes later, the trial concluded and the teams shook hands. Tom turned the floor over to Judge Hancock and Jameson, who both offered constructive criticism and encouragement to each of the participants, keeping all of their comments positive. After the team was gone, Tom approached the bench, smiling at the judge.

  “Judge, as always, we appreciate your patience. I’d love to hear your thoughts on what you observed.”

  “Sure, Tom. Hey, you still keep a fifth of Jack black in your office?”

  Tom smiled. He had forgotten about the Cock’s love of sour mash whiskey. “I do indeed. Shall we reconvene upstairs?”

  Five minutes later, the three of them were in Tom’s office, each drinking Jack Daniels on ice out of plastic cups.

  “Boys, I’m too old for this shit, you know it?” Judge Hancock said, laughing to himself and sitting on the edge of Tom’s desk. “Godamighty, I love it though. I think my heart would up and die if I had to go longer than two weeks without a trial.” He took a sip of whiskey, coughed, and continued. “How you been, Tom?”

  “Not bad, Judge,” Tom lied, glancing down at the apology on his desk. The Board meeting was tomorrow. “So what did you think of the team?”
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br />   “Oh, you know, Tom, you can tell they’re well coached,” the Judge started. “They speak well, kept their questions on cross short and sweet, and used effective visual aids in opening and closing. But I wasn’t wowed like I was last year. Now that team... shit fire and save the matches. That team got me excited.”

  “Drake and Conrad,” Tom said, nodding and glancing at Jameson, who was standing by the window. “You know that team should’ve won the title. I... I mismanaged the Drake kid a little and...”

  “He’s the one that clocked you, ain’t he, Tom?” Judge Hancock interrupted, laughing. “You know, I saw that on YouTube.”

  “Oh, Christ,” Tom said, turning to look at the Judge. “You get on YouTube?”

  “Hell, yes, I do,” Hancock answered. “My grandson’s junior high football highlights are put on there. Plus, I like watching the old Alabama football games.” He smiled. “Drake has a pretty good overhand right.”

  Tom felt his face getting hot, but he knew he shouldn’t be mad. He again looked at Jameson, remembering something he had wanted to ask him.

  “Jamo, do you know what happened to Drake? Didn’t he clerk for you guys one summer?”

  Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “Actually, he clerked both summers for us, and we made him an offer after the second. Even threw in a nice signing bonus when he accepted. But we terminated his contract after the incident with you, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t get one from anywhere else.” He laughed. “We let the little shit keep his bonus, though, because his contract didn’t specify whether he had to return it. Ten thousand dollars. Not a bad start to a career as a solo practitioner, if that’s where he ended up.” Jameson paused, eying Tom. “Why the interest in Drake?”

  Tom’s stomach tightened, and he looked down at the floor. A sense of guilt crept over him. He hadn’t realized how devastating the altercation had been to Rick. Jesus Christ, his whole career... I should’ve done something.

  Tom shook his head, looking back at Jameson. “Just curious. Drake’s from Henshaw, and I have an old friend whose family was killed in a trucking accident in Henshaw. I’d like to refer her to someone with Henshaw ties.”

  Jameson smiled. “Can’t say I know of any Henshaw attorneys, but that sounds like a case for Jerry. His firm takes them from Huntsville to Mobile now. No one could blame you for referring her to Jer.”

  “I know, and maybe I’ll end up doing that,” Tom said, looking down. “But I’d really like a Henshaw connection, and I think Jerry would be the first one to recommend that approach. He may live in Montgomery, but he’s made his fortune in Greene County, where he was born and raised and where his momma still teaches Sunday School.”

  Jameson nodded. “I can’t argue with that. In fact, I only know of one lawyer who’s beaten Jerry in Greene County.” Jameson smiled, and Tom smirked back at him.

  “How do you fit that ego in the room, Jamo?”

  “It gets harder and harder, Professor. But I can’t help it.” He sighed and drained the rest of his whiskey. “I just keep winning.” He set the cup down on Tom’s desk and extended his hand. “Good luck with finding her someone. I’ll pray that whoever it is doesn’t have to face me.”

  Tom laughed and shook Jameson’s hand, holding it for a second. “Thanks for coming down, Jamo. It means a lot that you keep doing this.”

  “No problem. Actually, now that I’m representing the University, I had to be here anyway for meetings today and tomorrow.”

  “You must be joking,” Tom said, smirking. “You are the attorney for this fine institution?”

  Jameson held out his arms in mock protest. “What did Coach Bryant always say about coming here to coach? Momma called.”

  “Momma, my ass,” Tom said, shaking his head. “So this is a billable trip?”

  Jameson shrugged. “A man’s got to make a living,” he said, winking at Tom and shaking Judge Hancock’s hand. “Judge, always a pleasure.” The Cock raised a toast with his plastic glass and Jameson walked out the door.

  “So how are things really going?” Judge Hancock asked, once Jameson had shut the door behind him.

  Tom squinted at him. “What do you mean?”

  “What the hell is this?” the Judge asked, picking up the apology from the desk and shaking it.

  Tom shrugged, wishing he’d put the damn thing in a drawer. “I don’t know. Apparently, the YouTube video you saw has raised some eyebrows.”

  “This is bullshit,” Hancock said, reading through the apology. “Total bullshit.”

  “I know. I wish that was all of it. I’m meeting tomorrow with the Board. They want me to make McMurtrie’s Evidence more user-friendly and the Dean said I can’t kick anybody else out of class, even if they’re not prepared.”

  “Jesus, Tom. You think the Drake deal is really pushing all that?”

  “I don’t know. Lambert’s been on my ass ever since he was hired. I think he wants new blood and he’s trying to use the Drake incident as leverage to force me out.” Tom sighed, rubbing his eyes. He was tired. Thinking about Ruth Ann’s case and the Board meeting had kept him up last night.

  “So you gonna sign this crap?” Judge Hancock asked, throwing the apology down on the desk. He fixed himself another drink and took a seat in the chair across from Tom.

  “I don’t know, Judge.”

  “You wanna know what the Cock would do?”

  Tom smiled. “OK, your honor, what would you do?”

  “If it were me, I’d take that apology to the Board meeting tomorrow. I’d set it down real careful like on the table in front of them. Then, after I had their full and undivided attention, I’d unzip my pants and piss on the damn thing. When I was finished, I’d fold my dick back up and walk my ass outta there.”

  Tom laughed. “So you have to fold yours too?”

  The Judge took a long sip of whiskey. “The Cock is hung like Secretariat,” he said, letting out a belch and stretching his legs. “But seriously, Tom, I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. The unappreciative, ungrateful sons of bitches. You’ve given your life to this school.” He took another sip and grimaced. “And let me tell you something. It’s not like you had to come back here to teach.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Judge Hancock leaned forward, setting his cup on the edge of Tom’s desk, looking very serious. “Tom, in fifty years, I’ve seen every great trial lawyer in this state. Every damn one of them. Jameson Tyler is the second best I’ve ever seen.” He paused, grinning. “You were the best.”

  “What?”

  “I mean it, buck. You were the real deal.”

  Tom felt his face flush red. It had been a long time since he had thought of those days.

  “You hear George McDuff died?” the Judge asked.

  “Heart attack, right?”

  The Judge nodded, and Tom felt a twinge of guilt. He had lost touch with his old boss over the years. George had never gotten over Tom’s decision to teach law at Alabama. “You won’t make any money, it’s a dead end, Tom,” he had said, but Tom had gone nonetheless. He had to. The Man had called.

  “You ever think about what would have happened if you hadn’t gone back to Tuscaloosa?” A slight grin arose on the Judge’s face, as if he had been reading Tom’s mind.

  “More now than I used to.”

  “It’s not too late, you know. You’re not that old, what, sixty, sixty-five?”

  Tom squinted at the Judge. “I’m sixty-eight. What are you talking about, Judge?”

  Judge Hancock placed both his hands on the desk for leverage and slowly rose to his feet.

  “Tom, I’ve already said it once, but I’ll say it again. Son, you were the best goddamn trial lawyer I ever saw. It’s not too late. Why not give it another go? You’ve done your part for the school. If they don’t appreciate it, then fuck ’em.” He paused, pointing his finger at the only picture that adorned Tom’s wall other than the national championship plaques. It was of the Man, wearing the houndstooth hat and leaning against
the goalpost. “Tom, Coach Bryant would not tolerate this bullshit. I knew the Man. If the Man heard how they were treating you, he would shove his boot so far up Lambert’s ass that he’d be tasting the shoe strings. You know he would. I can just see him now.” Judge Hancock put his hands on his hips and gave a mock scowl. “You turds. You goddamn turds. I’ll give the ultimatums around here. Don’t tell my boy to apologize. Build him a goddamn statue and stay the hell out of his way.”

  It was a pretty good impression, and Tom laughed.

  The Judge walked around the desk and put his arm on Tom’s shoulder.

  “Tom, I’m seventy-seven years old. I’ve gotten too old to give a shit about anything but the things that really matter.” He paused. “I’m gonna tell you something, and I want you to listen. I understand why you came here to teach, but I also understand that it would’ve been a shame if Picasso had never painted. Or if Elvis Presley had never recorded a song.” He paused. “Or if the Man had never coached. You have a gift for trying cases, and you’re not too old. I think it would be great if the Professor made a comeback.”

  Tom scoffed. “A comeback. At sixty-eight years old? Are you out of your mind?”

  “What does Augustus keep saying in Lonesome Dove? ‘The older the violin the sweeter the music.’” He patted Tom’s shoulder and winked at him. “Think about it, Tom. It’d probably make some folks in this state piss in their pants.” Judge Hancock laughed and walked to the door. Before leaving, he turned around. “I wouldn’t refer out that Henshaw case too soon.” Again, he winked. “Sounds like the perfect case for a guy I used to know.”