The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(56)
“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Rick said, walking towards the door and catching the knob before it closed shut. “And tell the Professor that I don’t need his help or his hand-me-downs. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him soon. Tell him!”
Rick watched her as she slowly descended the steps, his blood boiling with anger and bitterness. Part of him wanted to stop her, but he was just too angry. He started to slam the door, but Dawn’s voice stopped him.
“You know what, Rick.” Her voice cracked with emotion, and, when she turned around, tears streamed down her face. “The Professor was right about one thing. You are a hothead. And a liability. Maybe not in the courtroom, but you’re a liability to your self. If you would just have calmed down and let me explain...” She chuckled bitterly and wiped her eyes. “But it doesn’t matter now. All that matters is you’re still hung up on what happened between you and the Professor.”
42
Jameson Tyler woke up at 5am and, before getting ready for work, checked the computer in his office. He clicked on the website for the Tuscaloosa News, waiting impatiently the two seconds it took for the site to open.
When he saw the front page headline, he laughed out loud. “Student Believed to Be in Inappropriate Relationship with Professor Revealed.”
When he leaked the details yesterday, he knew the News would be all over it. But the front page? Even better than I could have hoped. The photograph was perfect too. Nothing too salacious. Just Ms Murphy’s picture from the law school directory.
Jameson laughed. The case might not be perfect, but it was starting to come together. Rose Batson’s testimony had allowed him to retain an accident reconstructionist, which Drake didn’t have. Plus, according to Jack Willistone, Wilma Newton was “handled” and there was no need to depose her. Though Jameson was uncomfortable letting a client “handle” anything, his adjuster, Bobby Hawkins, had instructed him to leave Willistone alone – that Willistone’s “cowboy shit” always had a way of working out. So Jameson would follow his marching orders, which was a lot easier to do with Batson deposed and an expert on board.
And now there should be considerable tension in the Wilcox camp, Jameson thought, laughing all the way down the hall.
“Everyone’s right about you, Jamo,” he said out loud, as he climbed into the shower. “You are such a bastard.”
43
Rick drove for hours. Up and down McFarland. Back and forth down University and over to Paul Bryant Drive. He cranked the radio loud and he just drove. After trying to think, his mind hit overload, and he tried not to think. All he wanted was for the conversation with Dawn to have not happened. Why had he gotten so mad?
Are you gonna let your temper blow things with Dawn like it ruined Nationals?
At 7.30am, he stopped at McDonalds for two sausage biscuits and a couple of coffees. He figured Powell would probably be hung over from the night before and craving some grease.
As he walked back to his car, he almost spilled one of the coffees when he glanced at the newsstand and saw the front-page headline of the Tuscaloosa News. Rick quickly put the food in his car and fiddled in his pocket for change. He walked back to the stand, bought a paper, and skimmed the contents of the article as fast as he could.
As he read, anger and adrenaline again broke through his fatigue. The News wouldn’t run this story unless they had it on good authority. He shook his head as he trudged back to the Saturn, trying to calm down. It says “believed to be”, he thought. Not “is” or “was”. They qualified it. He sighed. She could still be telling the truth. Rick looked at the photograph on the front page, and, for a second, pictured Dawn’s horror when she saw it. He closed his eyes and beat his head softly on the steering wheel. This is so f*cked up.
Rick drove over to Powell’s apartment in a confused haze. He knew he needed to get some rest. But he couldn’t sleep. Not with all the crazy thoughts swirling around in his head.
Seeing Powell’s place brought on a deep sadness, and he felt numb as he walked up the steps. Everything had been so right when he and Dawn had dropped Powell off last night. Now, everything was so incredibly wrong.
When he reached the door, he extended his hand to knock, but the door swung open. Powell, wide-eyed and alert, stared at Rick.
“Dude, where you been?” Powell’s voice was frantic, and he ushered Rick inside. “I was about to drive over to your place.”
“Just, uh, out and about,” Rick said. “I brought you some–”
“I been trying to call you since 3 this morning,” Powell interrupted. His face was red, and he looked more agitated than Rick had ever seen him.
“I left my cell phone at the office. Powell, what’s–”
“That’s when Doolittle Morris called me,” Powell continued as if Rick hadn’t said anything.
Rick felt his whole body tense. Doo? Mule’s cousin. “OK, what...”
“Dude,” Powell interrupted again, running his hand through his sandy hair and sighing. “Mule is dead.”
PART FIVE
44
Tom cast his line out over the creek and slowly reeled the hook back in, grateful for the change of season. Tom had always been a hot-weather person, and the first week of June had brought temperatures into the nineties. For some reason, the heat seemed to relax his aching bones. It also seemed to make “the torture” – Tom’s phrase for his chemo treatments – more bearable.