The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(27)

During Bo’s rehab, the Man had asked Tom to talk to Bo about his future. Bo had no clue what he wanted to do, still reeling from the reality that his knee would prevent him from playing in the NFL. For a semester, Tom asked Bo to follow him through trial team practices and got him a job as an intern in the Tuscaloosa DA’s office. Once he got a sniff of the law, Bo was hooked. Though his LSAT scores and grades weren’t great, they were solid. And with recommendations from the Professor and the Man, Bocephus Haynes was admitted to law school in 1982.

The rest, as they say, is history. Bo graduated in the top ten per cent of his law school class, and was the bell cow on Tom’s 1985 national championship trial team, making him the only student in Alabama history to have won national championships for both the Man and Tom. He had offers from every prestigious law firm in the state, and even clerked a summer for Jones & Butler, working for a hotshot young partner named Jameson Tyler.

But the lure of the big firms had no impact on Bo. There was only one place Bo wanted to practice law, and he returned to Pulaski and hung up a shingle three months after graduation. Tom had never gotten the full story of why Bo wanted so badly to return home. When he asked him once, Bo had just shrugged and said, “Unfinished business.”

Regardless of the reasons, twenty-four years later, Bocephus Haynes was the most feared plaintiff’s lawyer south of Nashville. But despite his amazing trial record – only one loss to go with countless victories – Bo had never forgotten where he came from. Or who made his success possible.

Over the years, Bo called Tom several times a year, and stayed at Tom’s house on football weekends. Tom had been to Bo’s wedding, and Bo had been a pall bearer at Julie’s funeral, the only former student Tom had asked. For years, Bo had always told Tom the same thing: “If things ever get bad for you, if you ever need anything, I want you to do something for me. After you’ve prayed to God and talked to Jesus, you come see Bocephus.”

Tom had laughed at the punchline, but now here he was. And Bo had done him one better.

Bocephus had come to see him.



It took the whole weekend to make the place livable. While Bo mowed the grass – he had to make two full turns around the massive yard to get it done – Tom cleaned out the house and contacted the utilities company to get the heat turned on. They also hiked out onto the farm a ways, and Bo cut down a tree for firewood. It had been years since Tom had walked the farm, and he was amazed at how grown up a lot of the brush had gotten. They had seen several deer and had also heard the unmistakable squeal of a bobcat, which caused even Bocephus to raise his eyebrows.

On Sunday night, Tom cooked steaks on the grill and the two men drank beer and told war stories on the deck attached to the back of the house. For February, the temperature was a pleasant sixty degrees and, for the first time in weeks, Tom laughed. After the meal was finished, and the sun had long since gone down, Bo passed Tom a cigar and lit one of his own. With Musso snoring below his feet, Bo blew a cloud of smoke in the air and eyed Tom.

“So, how’d the surgery go?”

Tom looked down at the table, feeling some of his good vibes begin to dissipate. “As well as can be expected, I guess. Bill said he thought he got it all, and the biopsy matched his initial thoughts. The mass was stage two, but superficial.”

“Meaning?”

“It’s treatable.”

“Well, that’s good, right?” Bo asked, seeming to sense Tom’s drop in mood.

“Better than the alternative.”

“Hell, yeah, it is,” Bo said, smiling. “So, what are you gonna do now?”

Lighting his cigar with the tip of Bo’s, Tom shrugged. “Don’t know. Gotta get through the damn cancer treatments first. This–” he gestured to the cigar “–probably ain’t helping.”

Bo laughed. “One won’t kill you. Now, how long will the treatments last?”

“The first one is next Friday. Bill referred me to Urology Associates in Huntsville, a Dr Kevin Banks. I tried to schedule the appointments for Fridays, so it wouldn’t hurt your work week too much.”

“Professor, I would’ve taken you first thing every Monday morning if you had asked.”

“I know you would have, Bo. Just trying to make it easier.”

“Anyway, so the first treatment is next Friday. Then what?”

“Got four total per session, so three more after that. Wait two months. Then four more. Wait two months. Four more. Then, they scope me and make sure none of it’s come back. If the scope is clean, I’m good to go. After that, they’ll just re-scope me every six months.”

“And you said some folks live more than thirty years doing this?”

Tom nodded. “That’s what Bill said.”

“And the treatment puts you down for about thirty-six hours?”

Tom blew a cloud of smoke to the side and took a sip of beer. “What is this? A cross examination?”

“Just trying to understand. Thirty-six hours, right?”

“Right.”

Bo set his cigar in an ashtray and leaned forward on his elbows. “Then I have to ask you. What are you doing here, Professor? You need to be in Tuscaloosa, fighting to get your job back. For three out of the next six months, you’re going to miss a day and a half per week due to the treatments. But the other five and a half days you’ll be fine. The other three months you’ll be fine. It’s not like you’ve been sentenced to bed rest. You worked as hard as I did for the past two days, and you’re a week removed from surgery and I’m twenty years younger.” Bo paused, leaning back again. “So, what are you doing, Professor? It’s not like you to quit.”