The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(17)
“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 f*ck ’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.”
13
Tom locked the door and took the stairs to the second floor. He was about to walk out the glass double doors that led to the faculty parking lot, when he remembered that he had parked in the student lot adjacent to Coleman Coliseum. There was a basketball game tonight, and he had thought he might go to the game. He and Julie had gone to basketball games on a routine basis. Since her death, he had planned to go several times, but he had never followed through.
And I won’t tonight, Tom knew, feeling depressed as he walked slowly down the second-floor hallway that led to the next staircase. As he walked, it was hard not to gaze at the composites that hung on the walls. Class of 1969. 1972. 1977. He still could remember a lot of the faces. When he reached the first floor, there were more recent classes. 1997. 1999. 2004. 2009. In the 2009 composite, he searched out the face of Rick Drake, finding it in the third row. Rick was smiling, and Tom again felt a sense of guilt.
I can help him, Tom knew. Rick was from Henshaw, and Ruth Ann’s case could jumpstart his career. The Cock has lost his mind. I’m way too old and out of practice to take on Ruth Ann’s case. Shouldn’t I just refer the case to Rick and try to work things out with the school? Do I really want to let Lambert run me off? Tom closed his eyes. But what if the boy’s temper gets the best of him again? This isn’t a trial competition, this is real.
Tom opened his eyes and shook his head, frustrated by his indecision. He walked away from the composites towards the door that led to the student lot. At the door, a security guard sat with his legs propped up on a desk. When he saw Tom, he instantly shot to his feet.
“Hello, Professor. Do you need an umbrella or anything?”
Tom blinked, looking first at the guard – a first-year student named Jeffrey working his way through school by doing security at night – and then out the glass door, where he saw rain pelting the sidewalk and heard a clap of thunder.