The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(24)

“Do you have any staff, Rick? Associate, secretary, clerk, paralegal?” Tom knew Rick was about to blow a gasket, but this question was important.

“I have a secretary.” Rick spoke through gritted teeth. “Now, get the hell–”

“I’m going to refer you a case,” Tom said, rising from the couch. “It’s a wrongful death trucking case. A good friend of mine’s whole family – daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter – all died. The accident happened at that Texaco, Ms Batson is the eyewitness and the trucker was estimated to be going 80 miles per hour just before the accident by an Officer–” Tom took out the crumpled accident report from his pocket “–Ballard.”

“Jimmy Ballard,” Rick said, his voice barely audible. “Sheriff Jimmy Ballard.”

“I wanted to refer her to someone from Henshaw who might know the people involved,” Tom said, shrugging. “You passed the test.” Tom paused and narrowed his gaze. “Do you want the case?”



Rick’s heart pounded in his chest. He had read about this accident in the paper the day after it happened, and he had known there would be a lawsuit. He had even called Ms Rose and Sheriff Ballard himself to inquire about it. Alas, despite his connections in Henshaw, the family that was killed was from Huntsville and he had no way of getting his name in front of them. The Rules of Ethics forbid a lawyer to directly solicit a case from a potential client. He had chalked the case up as a pipedream and figured one of the big dogs would get it. Now, here was the Professor. In his office, and offering to refer the case to him.

Is this really happening? Rick blinked his eyes several times as he gazed back at a man he had hated for over a year. During the intervening months since the incident at Nationals, Rick had often daydreamed about chance confrontations with the Professor. At the grocery store. At the mall. At an Alabama football game. In his daydreams, he always told the bastard off. Now, he could barely speak.

“You... you have a lot of nerve,” he managed. “Coming here after what you did to me.”

“As I recollect it, you hit me in the face,” Tom said. “I think I got the worse end of it.”

“I had a job, you know. Not just any job either. Jones & Butler. A hundred K a year. Working for Jameson Tyler. They fired me after the incident at Nationals before I had even worked a day. Said they couldn’t have a ‘hothead’ working for them.”

“I know,” Tom said.

“Of course you know,” Rick said, feeling anger burn through his chest. “You and Tyler are all chummy. He probably called you right after he told me, and y’all probably had drinks to celebrate. Well, f*ck him.” Rick took a step forward. “And f*ck you too. I’d never take a referral from you. I don’t care how great the case is.”

Tom walked to the door, moving slowly and deliberately. When he reached the knob, he turned around. “I’m sorry, Rick. I didn’t realize the incident had affected you so badly. That’s, in part, why I’m here. I was hoping this case might, in some way, make up for how I’ve hurt your career.”

Rick glared back, unable to form coherent thoughts. “Just get out,” he said. Without waiting for any further response, Rick turned and walked to his private office, slamming the door behind him. Listening, he heard a sigh and then the front door squeaked open and shut.

Jesus Christ, he thought, pacing the floor of his office, looking up at the Regional championship photograph and cursing the gray eyes in the picture. Where does he get off? Trouncing in here and giving me a pop quiz before he refers me a case. Well, f*ck him. I don’t need him. I don’t need his help.

Rick took a deep breath, and glanced at his desk. Leaning up against it were his four thin file jackets. Three workers’ comp cases and a car wreck. Four measly files and you’re turning down a multi-million-dollar death case in your hometown with Ms Rose and Sheriff Ballard as witnesses? Are you out of your mind?

Rick glanced around his office, knowing that he’d never get a job in this state working for a firm like Jones & Butler again. The incident would always keep him down. His only chance was to be a plaintiff’s lawyer and have a million-dollar case walk in the door.

Rick felt panic from his head to his shoes as he realized what he had done. My million-dollar case just walked out the door.

Rick ran. Through the reception area. Out the door. And down the stairs. Don’t be gone. Please... don’t be gone. He barreled outside and almost fell on the sidewalk. Looking in all directions, he didn’t see anyone.

“Having second thoughts?” a gravelly voice asked from behind him. Rick turned, and saw the Professor leaning up against the brick outer wall of Larry and Barry’s.

“I’m... sorry. I... you just caught me off guard,” Rick stammered, leaning forward and grabbing his knees to catch his breath.

“Don’t worry about it. Do you want the case?”

Rick looked up, and slowly nodded. “I do, but... I’ve got one condition. You have to stay away. You can’t be hanging around, second-guessing every decision I make. You can’t–”

“Don’t worry about that,” Tom interrupted. “Like I said, I’m going away for a while. You won’t be hearing from me again about this or anything else.” Tom took several folded pieces of paper out of his front pocket, and gave them to Rick. “This is the accident report and my notes on the case. It’s all I have right now. There’s a sticky note on top with the client’s name and phone number.” He paused. “Her name is Ruth Ann Wilcox, and... she means a great deal to me. My only condition is that you call her when you get upstairs. Don’t wait until Monday. I want you to tell her that I had to go away, and that you have a note from me.” He stopped and pulled out an envelope from inside his jacket. “When you meet her for the first time, I want you to give her this envelope. I’ll trust you not to open it before you see her.” Tom handed Rick the envelope and grabbed his arm. “Promise me you’ll give her the note.”