The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(12)
As his food was being nuked in the microwave, the phone rang.
Tom tensed, looking down at the tile floor. He wasn’t in the mood for another talk with the Dean. He walked over to the phone, but the caller ID showed a number he didn’t recognize, so he picked it up.
“Hello?” Tom asked.
“Hello, uh, Tom?” A female voice that sounded oddly familiar.
“Yes.”
“Tom, I probably shouldn’t be calling you at home, but, well, it’s important and I didn’t know who else to call and–”
“Ma’am, what’s your name?” Tom interrupted. The voice on the other end of the line sounded frustrated and now distinctly familiar.
“Tom, this is Ruth Ann.”
10
They decided to meet for lunch. Tom’s office was tough to find in the maze of the law school, and besides, you gotta eat, right? Tom had actually used those words. “You gotta eat, right?” He shook his head, cringing at how awkward he must have sounded as he went over the previous night’s phone call in his mind.
Ruth Ann Mitchell, now Wilcox, needed some legal advice. She hated to bother him at home, but it was important that she speak to him. Could they meet tomorrow? That was it. No small talk. No “how you doing?”, “what’s been going on?” or “what’s up?” She was either nervous and forgot about such pleasantries, or was on a mission of some kind that would not allow for such distractions. In any event, Tom recovered from the shock of the call to mention lunch at 15th Street Diner, so here he was.
As he sipped from a glass of sweet tea, Tom guessed he had always been curious as to how Ruth Ann had turned out. They had dated for three years in college, and back then Tom thought he would marry Ruth Ann. But, after his senior year, he took a graduate assistant job at Vanderbilt without discussing it with her first, and she broke things off. She said she couldn’t do a long-distance relationship and couldn’t trust a man who would make such a big decision without consulting her. Probably my fault, Tom had always thought. But he had no regrets. If they hadn’t broken things off, he would never have met Julie.
Tom heard a jingle at the front door, announcing the next customer, and he noticed her right off. Same green eyes, long legs and narrow waist, although her strawberry blonde hair had now turned a shade of gray. Tom, who was seated in a booth along the far wall of the restaurant, waved his hand and Ruth Ann smiled, walking over.
“Hey, there,” she said. Tom had stood to greet her – not sure if he should hug her, kiss her on the cheek, or what. Ruth Ann extended her hand and Tom shook it gently. Still a beautiful woman, he thought, as she sat down.
“You look great,” Tom said.
“Well, aren’t you nice to say so,” Ruth Ann replied, smiling, but the smile quickly faded and she looked down at the table. “I wish I felt great,” she said, without looking up to meet his gaze, which had never left her face. “Tom, I...”
“There’s nothing wrong, I mean, with you... I mean, you’re not sick, are you? I...” Tom stopped, realizing he’d interrupted her. “I’m sorry, go ahead.”
Ruth Ann laughed nervously, placing her hand on his. “It’s OK, Tom. No, I’m not sick. I... I have a problem. A legal problem.” She paused. “A few months ago, my daughter and her husband were in a car accident out Highway 82 around Henshaw. You know, just before you get to the road that takes you to Faunsdale?” Tom nodded. He and Julie had gone to the Crawfish Festival a couple of times in Faunsdale. He remembered seeing signs for the small town of Henshaw. But there was something else about hearing the name of this town. Henshaw. A memory that he couldn’t quite place.
“Well, anyway, they hit a tractor-trailer truck head-on there at the light and...” She paused to take a sip of tea, some of which spilled down her chin. She grabbed her napkin and the silverware jangled as it fell out. “Damnit, I’m sorry.” She looked at him. “Still all thumbs, huh,” she said, forcing a smile as a couple of tears began to fall down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking. Tom didn’t know what to say so he didn’t say anything.
“My granddaughter... Nicole... she...” Ruth Ann looked down and Tom could tell by the red color of her hands that she was squeezing them tight. “She was in the car too... She died. They all died. Even the trucker. Everyone dead.” She put her head in her hands and began sobbing. Tom remembered reading about the wreck in the paper, but had not made the connection.
“Ruth Ann, I’m so sorry. That’s terrible. I...” But he stopped. He knew he should just shut up and let her continue when she was ready.
After about thirty seconds, Ruth Ann looked up and smiled through her tears.
“I’m sorry, Tom. I...” She took a deep breath. “Anyway, after the funerals, I ordered a copy of the police report.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a packet of four or five pages. She scooted the report across the table.
Tom picked up the pages, the first of which had the words “Henshaw County Accident Report” at the top of the page. He glanced briefly at the report as Ruth Ann continued.
“The police report has the driver of the truck going 80 in a 65. It also lists his employer, which is a trucking company here in Tuscaloosa. Willistone. I think it’s over on McFarland. Anyway, there’s also a statement in the report from a gas station clerk, who saw the accident and said that my son-in-law turned in front of the rig.” She paused, sighing. “But that just can’t be right. Bob would not have just turned in front of an eighteen -wheeler. I just think this guy – Newton or whatever – was running late and was speeding to catch up, and Bob didn’t see him before starting to turn. And the whole thing just... it pisses me off.” She said this last bit through clinched teeth and Tom saw the fire in her eyes, a fire that he had seen before – both in anger and in passion – many moons ago.