The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(13)
“Ruth Ann, I...”
“Tom, I’ve never filed a lawsuit against anyone in my life. But...” She paused and looked briefly out the window before turning back to Tom. “I just didn’t know who else to call. I’d like your opinion on what I should do.”
“Well, you know, Ruth Ann, I haven’t tried a case in many years. You ought to take this to someone who’s in active practice. I–”
“Oh, stop it, Professor,” Ruth Ann said, smirking and then turning it into a smile. “I’ve heard about you and how they treat you down at the law school. Calling you ‘the Professor’, as if you’re the only one. Treating you like you’re the Coach Bryant of the law school. I read the newspaper too. You know, the good old Tuscaloosa News, with its articles about your trial teams winning championships. So don’t give me any mess about not knowing what you’re doing.”
Tom laughed, thinking that Ruth Ann had to be the most direct woman he had ever known. He started to say something, but stopped when Ruth Ann grabbed his hand.
“Please Tom. Just look at it. I trust your opinion. If you think there’s something there, then maybe you can tell me what to do or who I should go to. I feel like I have to do something. I have to know why this happened to my family.” Her eyes, always beautiful and active, were pleading with him. She looked like she might cry again.
“OK,” Tom said. “I’ll take a look. But as I tried to say earlier, I’m not a practicing–”
“Thank you, Tom, oh, thank you so much.” She was out of her side of the booth, placing her arms around his neck and a kiss on his check. “Thank you,” she said, this time whispering, her breath the pleasant smell of sweet tea and lemon.
When she returned to her side of the booth, the talk turned to old friends. But Tom wasn’t paying attention. A sense of excitement and guilt gripped him. He had felt something when Ruth Ann had hugged him, something absent in his life for a long time. The tingle. That tingle a man feels deep in his loins when he is attracted to a woman. He was excited to feel the tingle again, but as his eyes shifted to the ring on his left finger, guilt stabbed at him like a knife. What the hell is wrong with you?
But that wasn’t the only thing that drowned out Ruth Ann’s words. Tom had remembered something. That thing that he couldn’t quite place about Henshaw.
Rick Drake was from Henshaw.
11
Richard Drake, Esq., he of the law firm of Richard Drake, Esq., sat in the back of the Waysider restaurant in Tuscaloosa, drinking coffee and thinking about how to increase his case load. Richard, Rick to his family and friends, had, by his count, eaten at the Waysider at least once a week since hanging up his shingle. He had also eaten once a week at the City Café in Northport. Getting out and about and being noticed. Keeping his ear to the ground in the hopes of landing the home-run case. That was the name of the game. The life of the plaintiff’s lawyer.
The Waysider had been an institution in Tuscaloosa since opening its doors in 1951. An old clapboard house that was converted to a restaurant, it was a regular hangout for the locals. Back in the day, people said that Bear Bryant himself drank coffee and read the paper at 5.30 every morning at the Waysider. And, like all places in Tuscaloosa, the Waysider had plenty of pictures of Coach Bryant and those that played for him adorning its walls, even in the bathroom.
The jingle of the front door announced another customer, and Rick looked up from his paper to see Ambrose Powell Conrad, the youngest assistant DA in the Tuscaloosa County District Attorney’s office, heading his way.
“What’s going on?” Powell asked, grabbing a seat and placing both elbows on the table. Powell was about six feet tall, stocky, with thin dirty blonde hair. He was no doubt the loudest person Rick had ever met and his entry into the Waysider had, as usual, caused everyone in the place to look up from their breakfast.
“Oh, not a whole lot, just trying to decide which ambulance to chase today and waiting to get my breakfast fix,” Rick said. “How about yourself?”
“Going over to that neighborhood behind Dreamland Ribs today. Guy selling crack out there got capped by a guy who wasn’t pleased with his purchase. When I talked to the defendant’s wife, who just happened to be screwing the dead drug dealer, two names popped up. Hopefully, one of them saw the shooting. Anyway, it gives me a good excuse to eat a slab for lunch.” Powell put on his best shit-eating grin. “God, I love my job.”
And Rick knew, despite the grin, that Powell was not exaggerating. The man was born to be a prosecutor. He thrived in the courtroom where most young lawyers cowered. Rick and Powell had been partners on the trial team at Alabama together. Powell was the star and Rick more of a late bloomer. Hell, if it weren’t for Powell coaching Rick before the final tryout, Rick knew he probably wouldn’t have made the team at all. The man was a natural. And his best friend.
“So how’s the case load?” Powell asked, his expression one of genuine interest – another reason Rick loved Powell. Rick’s parents couldn’t hide their disappointment when they asked how he was doing, but Powell, who knew the deal – hell, he’d had a front-row seat for Rick’s journey from the penthouse to the outhouse – was always supportive and encouraging.
“Thin,” Rick said. “As it was last week and the week after that. Three workers’ comp files. But, hey, I got a walkthrough today. If the Judge approves, I’ll get two thousand dollars in fees. Just enough to make overhead and buy groceries next month.” Rick smiled. “So I got that going for me...”