McMurtrie and Drake: Between Black and White Part 3

Thomas Jackson McMurtrie winced as the cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He had silenced the phone at the beginning of the mediation but had forgotten that the d.a.m.n thing would start vibrating if a call came through. His bladder had been scoped yesterday afternoon, and though the news was good-he was clean as a whistle-the procedure was still uncomfortable and made him stiff and sore. Being seventy years old probably didn't help much either, a fact his urologist and longtime friend, Bill Davis, teased him with every time Tom complained. "Cancer-free for a year, old man," Bill had said, slapping Tom on the back at the end of yesterday's appointment. "That peace of mind is worth a little 'torture,' isn't it?" "Torture" was Tom's word for the scope, the chemo washes, and pretty much everything Bill had done to treat the ma.s.ses that had popped up in Tom's bladder last year. But his friend was right. A clean scope was worth a little pain.

Tom tried to remind himself of this fact as the vibration from the phone caused his stomach and pelvis to tighten, which sent a shot of pain through his groin. His right foot had also fallen asleep, and he wiggled his toes in his loafers to increase the circulation.

Tom was curious about the call-few people had his cell number-but he could not answer it. The mediator was making his final plea.

"Tom, I think everyone agrees that the driver of the rig was negligent when he pulled out in front of Mr. London. Jameson just believes you guys should come off the policy limits to account for your client's"-he paused-"possible contributory negligence in not being able to stop or avoid the collision."

Before responding, Tom glanced to his right. Next to him, his partner, Rick Drake, leaned forward in his seat, elbows on the table, looking ready to pounce. Their eyes met, and Tom nodded at him to take the lead, stifling a smile. That boy is always itching for a fight, he thought.

"Jerome London was a sixty-two-year-old grandfather of three who was on his way to pick up his granddaughter from preschool at the time of this accident," Rick said, his voice sharp and edgy. "Mr. London had a perfect driving record-no tickets and only one accident in his whole life-and his pickup truck was in mint condition, having been serviced just one week earlier. The two eyewitnesses at the Waffle House on McFarland, who were sitting in booths with an un.o.bstructed view out their window when the collision occurred, both say that Mr. London hit the brakes immediately once the 18-wheeler pulled onto the road. The only person in the world who says different is Jameson's accident reconstructionist, Eugene Marsh, who has never given an opinion that a commercial truck driver was negligent. We took Jameson to verdict last year in the Willistone case in Henshaw County, and the jury came back with a verdict of ninety million dollars. I'm sure Jameson remembers that case very well. Marsh was Jameson's expert in Willistone, and the jury's verdict shows just how impressed they were." Rick paused, licking his lips and placing his hands palms down on the table. "George, Mr. London lost his life in this accident. The policy limits here are one million, and if you ask us the defendant is getting a bargain. Mr. London's son, Maurice, wants this to be over, so he has agreed to accept the limits today at this mediation, but there is no way on G.o.d's green earth that we are going to let him take less." Eyes burning with intensity, Rick held up his index finger. "One last thing, and it has to be said. This case is pending here . . . in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. You know, George, the home of the Crimson Tide. My partner was a member of Bear Bryant's 1961 national champions, and a video clip of him sacking the quarterback in the Sugar Bowl is shown every fall Sat.u.r.day on the Jumbotron at Bryant-Denny Stadium as a hundred thousand fans go crazy. He was a law professor for forty years at the University of Alabama, and every judge and lawyer in this state, including you, George, has a copy of his Evidence hornbook in their office."

Rick snorted and stood from his chair. "The bottom line is that we have the facts, and no jury in Tuscaloosa, Alabama is going to find against us. Jameson would have better luck getting a jury of elves to convict Santa Claus at the North Pole."

Rick began to pack up his briefcase, his face red and his hands trembling slightly. Tom also stood, placing his hands in his pockets and eyeing the mediator.

George McDuff Jr. rubbed his neck and smiled. "Rick, I know all about the Willistone case in Henshaw County. I think every lawyer in the state of Alabama has heard about that verdict. And you don't have to tell me about the Professor's accomplishments. I think I was ten when Tom left my dad's practice to be a law professor." He looked at Tom, his eyes turning sad. "I think it was one of Dad's biggest regrets that he couldn't get you to stay."

Tom nodded, looking past George out the window of the conference room. In the distance he could see the lights to Bryant-Denny Stadium. "I believe your father knew that I had to come to the university," Tom finally said, meeting George's eye. "That I . . . was made an offer I just couldn't refuse."

"He said Coach Bryant asked you to come."

Tom nodded.

"Well . . ." George clasped his hands together and looked from Tom to Rick. "I can't say I blame y'all for not backing down from the policy limits. I'll pa.s.s the word on to Jameson. Did you want to stick around to see-?"

"No," Rick interrupted, shutting the briefcase. "Jameson knows where to find us."

They walked down the stairs in silence. George McDuff's law office was a two-story stand-alone building on University Drive, eight blocks from Tom and Rick's own office off of Greensboro. As they stepped outside into the sunlight, Rick finally spoke. "You think I came off too strong in there?" His tone was defensive, and Tom glanced at him, smiling.

"Oh, no, you were very subtle." He paused. "The Santa Claus thing might have been a bit over the top . . ."

Now it was Rick who smiled. "I guess I got a little carried away."

They reached Rick's car, a thirteen-year-old Saturn the color of rusted gold, and Rick slipped his briefcase in the back, and they both took off their jackets.

"You ever gonna trade in this ball and chain?" Tom joked, tapping the top of the Saturn with his palm. "I think you can probably afford an upgrade." Though Tom and Rick were not able to collect anywhere close to the full ninety million awarded in the Willistone case-Jack Willistone was sent to prison, and he and his company had declared bankruptcy-they had received the three million in policy limits, resulting in a legal fee of one million dollars. And in the twelve months since the verdict, the firm of McMurtrie & Drake had obtained seven-figure settlements in three other cases. They were on a roll, but you sure wouldn't be able to guess it by looking at Rick's car.

"You sound like Dawn," Rick said, climbing in the driver's side of the Saturn and leaning over to manually unlock Tom's door.

"You should listen to her sometimes," Tom said, getting in. "She's probably the smartest member of the firm."

"True enough," Rick said, putting the car in gear and backing out of the parking s.p.a.ce. As he straightened the car to exit the lot, a figure was blocking their way, palms out to stop them.

"Should I hit him?" Rick asked, his voice giving away only the slightest hint of humor.

"Nah," Tom said. "I think your little stunt back there may have just paid off."

Rick left the car running, and he and Tom got out of the Saturn. The man blocking their exit walked briskly toward them, a toothy grin playing on his face.

"Gentlemen, aren't we being a little rash? The mediation hasn't even been going an hour."

"Jameson, you knew our position before we ever got here," Rick said. "You knew we wouldn't settle for less than the limits. This was a dog and pony show for your client so a mediator could tell them to pay out. You know what's going to happen at trial. It will be Willistone all over again."

Jameson Tyler, managing partner of Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in the state of Alabama, crossed his arms, his smile fading away. "Big talk for a boy who didn't have much to do with that verdict. As I recollect it, the Professor here saved your a.s.s in Willistone while your case was dying on the vine." Jameson took a step closer. "Must be nice riding Tom's coattails, Rick."

Rick's face flushed red, and he started to step forward, but Tom moved in front of him. "That's enough, Jameson. Rick is right. We told you beforehand that we wouldn't budge from the limits."

Jameson sighed in exasperation. "Tom, practicing law is as much a business as it is a profession. My clients are businesspeople. They deal in dollars and cents."

Tom squinted at Jameson and stepped toward him, invading his s.p.a.ce so that the other lawyer had to take a step backward. "You continually disappoint me, Jameson. Exactly when did you sell out, son? When did the billable hour become your moral compa.s.s in life?"

Jameson didn't flinch or blink. "You're one to talk, Professor. You're nothing more than an ambulance chaser now, collecting settlement checks like the rest of them. Have you tried a case since Willistone?" He paused, leaning forward. "Willistone was a fluke, Tom, and we both know it. But you and your minion here have used it to scare a few insurance companies into sh.e.l.ling out big money to settle instead of dealing with the circus of trying a case against you in Alabama. Here's a news flash for you, Tom. We're all sellouts, and you're no different than anyone else."

Tom felt his cell phone vibrate again in his pocket, but he didn't move to answer it. He was shaken by Jameson's words. Like his former student, though, he didn't flinch. His expression and demeanor remained exactly the same. "See you in court, Jameson."

Tom turned to go, motioning for Rick to do the same. When his hand touched the door handle, Jameson's voice stopped him.

"No, you won't."

Tom glanced at Rick, who was unable to suppress a smile. Then he peered back at Jameson. "Excuse me?"

"My client doesn't want to go to the circus either. They'll pay the limits."

Twenty minutes later the mediation settlement agreement was signed, and Rick and Tom were back in the Saturn, heading toward the office. Rick had just called Maurice London with the good news and, after clicking the "End" b.u.t.ton, plopped his cell phone in the drink holder.

"How was he?" Tom asked.

"Ecstatic," Rick said. "He just kept thanking me over and over again."

Rick smiled, but it was obvious to Tom that the boy was still perturbed by Jameson's comments in the parking lot. His young partner seemed to carry a perpetual chip on his shoulder, never appearing to be satisfied with the success the firm achieved. It was like Jameson Tyler's voice was always ringing in the boy's head, telling him that he wasn't good enough.

Rick had been given an offer to work for Jones & Butler when he was in law school, but the offer was withdrawn by Jameson when Rick got into an altercation with Tom after a law school trial compet.i.tion. Though Tom and Rick had reconciled and had eventually teamed up for the huge verdict in the Willistone case last summer, Rick still carried the scar of his rejection with him like a badge. Tom wondered if that was why Rick clung to the old Saturn, not able to allow himself any enjoyment of their success until . . .

. . . until what?

As Rick pulled to a stop in front of the McMurtrie & Drake, LLC sign, Tom was about to compliment his young partner's handling of the London case but winced as his cell phone vibrated again. He had forgotten to turn the sound back on.

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit," Tom said, twisting in the seat to get his phone out of his pocket. He looked at the face, and the caller ID showed a 931 area code.

Tennessee? Tom thought. There were several people in Tennessee that had his cell phone number, including his son, Tommy, who lived in Nashville, but all of those folks had numbers Tom would recognize. This number was unfamiliar.

"h.e.l.lo."

"Professor, where have you been?"

Tom instantly recognized the voice. "Bo?"

"Yeah, dog. Listen . . ." There was a pause on the other end of the line, and Tom thought he heard someone shouting in the background. Then Bo's voice again, strained, a harsh whisper. "I need your help."

PART TWO.

9.

On Monday morning, three days after the murder of Andy Walton, Tom rose early and decided to walk the half mile into downtown Pulaski. He had stayed the night at Ms. Butler's Bed & Breakfast, a charming white-frame house on Jefferson Street three blocks from the Giles County Courthouse. After a hearty breakfast and two cups of black coffee, Tom grabbed his briefcase and began the trek down Jefferson. By the time he reached the town square, he had to wipe the sweat off his forehead.

Built in 1909 after a fire destroyed the old building, the Giles County Courthouse was an architectural marvel. Eight columns lined the east and west entrances, and a dome and clock surmounted the entire structure. As he climbed the grand staircase to the second floor, Tom couldn't help but gaze up at the top of the rotunda, noticing that the centerpiece of the dome contained the Tennessee state seal, the scales of justice, and a sheathed sword, all on a shield background. Stained-gla.s.s windows adorned the north and south walls. To Tom, the building felt more like a cathedral than a courthouse.

At the second-floor landing, Tom turned to his left toward a closed door with a sign above it that said "District Attorney General." Tom was about to knock when a voice rang out from down the hall.

"She's not in there."

Tom turned and saw a plump middle-aged woman wearing horn-rimmed gla.s.ses heading his way. "Where . . . ?" he started, but the woman walked past him and pointed toward a set of double doors. Adjacent to the doors was a sign that read "Circuit Court." The woman cracked open the door and peeked inside. Then she waved toward Tom. "She's in the courtroom," the woman said, pointing through the doors. "Do you have business with the General?"

"Yes, ma'am," Tom said, slightly jolted by the woman's use of the military t.i.tle. He was going to have to get used to hearing the word "General" in reference to the head prosecutor, which was a practice peculiar to the state of Tennessee.

"OK," the woman said, opening the door wider and motioning with her head for Tom to enter. "In the jury," she whispered as Tom stepped through the opening. Before he could say thank you, the door closed behind him.

For a few seconds Tom took in the scene. He had been in a lot of courtrooms in his lifetime, but he had never had his breath taken away until now. The first thing that stood out was the balcony. Eerily reminiscent of the courtroom in the movie version of To Kill a Mockingbird, there was a balcony where spectators could sit if the main area was full. Of course, in To Kill a Mockingbird, which took place in rural south Alabama, the black spectators sat in the balcony and the whites sat on the main floor. Tom figured that the original intent of this balcony was also segregation. He doubted many cases these days required upstairs seating.

But this one might, he thought. When Bocephus Haynes was tried for the capital murder of Andy Walton, former Imperial Wizard of the Tennessee Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, Tom figured every seat might indeed be taken.

Tom lowered his gaze to the gallery on the main floor, where he saw four separate seating areas with five or six rows of built-in wooden chairs that folded up like theater seats. The gallery converged on a railing, which separated spectators from the lawyers and the judge. Just beyond this railing were two tables, one of which Tom knew would be the prosecution's table, and the other the defense table. Between the two tables was a built-in box with a high-backed chair inside. Is that the witness stand? Tom wondered, squinting at the box and walking toward it. He ran his hand over the wood and then swept his eyes around the courtroom again. Has to be, he thought, noticing that this box faced two rows of six built-in high-backed swivel chairs. The jury, Tom thought, seeing that just beyond the jury chairs was the judge's bench, which rose twice as high as the witness box.

"Interesting setup, huh?" A sharp female voice cut through the air, and Tom felt his entire body tense. He moved his eyes to the jury chairs and at first didn't see her. Then a hand shot up from the back row.

Tom took a couple more steps and finally saw General Helen Lewis slumped in a jury chair with a file jacket in her lap. She wore a black suit, and her lips were painted bright red with lipstick. Scratching one stockinged calf with the toe of her other foot-her heels were lying in a pile underneath her chair-Helen smiled at him. "Tom McMurtrie."

"Helen," Tom said. "Been a long time."

Over the years Tom had run into Helen Lewis at various seminars put on by the American Bar a.s.sociation, where they both had been speakers. Though not friends, they had developed a mutual respect for the other's abilities and reputation. He extended his hand, and she stood to shake it, looking him directly in the eye. Her handshake was firm, and her eyes were the greenish-blue color of the Gulf.

"Are you lost, Tom?" she asked, her bright-red lips curving into a grin. "You are a long way from Tuscaloosa."

Tom chuckled and then turned away from her. "This setup is interesting," he said, pointing at the witness box. "I haven't seen anything like it. In every courtroom I've ever been in, the witness stand has been adjacent to the judge's bench. Here, it's-"

"Right in the center of the room," Helen finished his thought, and walked toward the witness chair.

Tom noticed that she made no move to put her heels on. Her comfort level made him a bit uneasy. It was as if she were walking around in her own home. She stopped when she reached the witness box and turned to him.

"Front and center, facing the jury and the judge." She paused, smiling. "I think it's the way a courtroom should be. Everything that's important happens right here," she said, patting the back of the chair. "All testimony. All evidence." She paused. "Everything else is just for show." She stepped toward Tom, the smile gone from her face. "You're here because of Bo Haynes, right?"

Tom nodded.

"You taught him in law school, didn't you? He was on one of your trial teams."

Again, Tom nodded. "You seem to know a lot about me."

"Not really," Helen said. "I just know a lot about Bo Haynes. He's the only black trial lawyer in town, and he's very good. He used to do a lot of criminal defense back in the late '80s and early '90s, and we had dozens of cases against each other." She paused. "I always do a study of my opponents when I face them in court."

"And what did you learn about Bo?" Tom asked, smiling at her. But the gesture wasn't returned. Helen's emerald eyes blazed with intensity.

"Having grown up in Giles County myself, I knew a lot already. I was just starting in the DA's office here when Bo was an all-state football player at Giles County High. I remember when Bear Bryant came to Pulaski to watch him play. You woulda thought the president was in town. Police escort to the stadium with sirens blaring. State troopers everywhere. It was the d.a.m.nedest thing I'd ever seen."

Tom smiled, thinking of a similar scene from his own past. "The Man knew how to make an entrance."

"The Man," Helen mocked. "I think I've heard Bo call him that too. The Man. Is that an inside thing?"

Tom shrugged. "I guess. If you played for Coach Bryant or spent any time around him, he was . . . the Man. It's a hard thing to describe."

"Whatever," Helen said, waving a hand in the air. She returned to her seat in the back row of the jury and crossed her legs. Again, Tom was taken back by the familiarity with which she treated the courtroom. "Anyway, everyone in Pulaski followed Bo's college career. It was hard not to. The local newspaper always mentioned how many tackles he had made in a game, stuff like that. The articles stopped after he blew his knee out." She paused, squinting up at him. "The rest I learned from doing a little digging. Law School at Alabama, where he was on your national championship trial team. Clerked a summer at Jones & Butler, the law factory in Birmingham. Then back here after law school. Hung a shingle on First Street a block north of First National Bank, and he's been in that same office for the past twenty-five years." She paused, chuckling with what sounded to Tom like admiration. "Starting out as a black lawyer in this town in the mid-'80s was not much different than being a female prosecutor. Not many of us around. In Bo's case, none. He cut his teeth on criminal defense and workers' comp cases and then started attracting the lucrative personal injury plaintiff cases by the mid-'90s."

"I always thought it was strange that he came back here," Tom said, purposely testing Helen's knowledge, as he had learned the answer to that riddle himself last year.

"Not to me," Helen said. "Or to anyone else in Pulaski." She c.o.c.ked her head at Tom. "And I think you might be playing possum with me, Tom. I think you know the reason too."

Tom kept a poker face, giving away nothing. Helen Lewis was a different animal. Unlike almost every other lawyer he'd been around for the past several decades, male and female alike, Helen paid Tom no deference for being a longtime law professor. She didn't address him as Professor, as so many of his colleagues did, and she didn't seem awed in the least by his a.s.sociation with Coach Bryant.

"Why don't you remind me?" Tom asked.

Keeping her head c.o.c.ked to the side, Helen glared up at Tom. "Because ever since he was five years old, Bocephus Haynes has claimed that Andy Walton and twenty members of the Ku Klux Klan murdered his father. Bo came back to Pulaski for revenge." She paused, crossing her arms across her chest. "And early last Friday morning he got it."

"Sounds like an opening statement," Tom said, forcing a smile. Tom knew he had just heard the theme of the state's case against Bocephus Haynes.

This time Helen returned the smile. "I thought you were a law professor, Tom."

"I was. For forty years. But now I'm practicing again."

"And you and your partner hit Willistone Trucking Company last year for ninety million dollars in Henshaw County, Alabama."

Tom was impressed. He figured most lawyers in Alabama had heard of the verdict, but Helen was a Tennessee prosecutor. "How did you hear about that?"

"Because it was in the G.o.dd.a.m.n USA Today. Legendary law professor hits big verdict in Alabama. Yada, yada, yada. Aren't they making a movie about it?"

Tom shrugged, his face turning red. "I hadn't heard anything about that."

"Well, they should." She chuckled. "The best part of that verdict is that you beat that arrogant, overrated p.r.i.c.k Jameson Tyler."

Now Tom laughed. "You know Jameson?" Tom asked.

"Unfortunately, I've met him at several ABA meetings. You taught him too, right?"

Tom nodded.