The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(59)

“I’m getting to that. Now, the English bulldog wasn’t meant to be a damn lapdog. The English bulldog descended from the bull mastiff, a fighting dog. A war dog. Back in the day, the bulldogs were used by the police to catch wild bulls that had gotten loose. Wild bulls. They’d grab the bull by its nose, close their eyes, and hold on until the officer could corral the bull. That’s what Musso is. At his core, that’s what he is. And, let me tell you, it’s a shame you’ll never see it. Musso is about gone and hasn’t ever been challenged. But, you can bet your ass, Professor, that, even now, even as old as Methuselah in dog years, if Musso was ever threatened, he would not walk away and lay in the grass and die.” Bo paused. “Mark my words, as Jesus Christ is my witness and Bocephus Haynes is my name, that dog would fight.”

For a long time, Tom gazed at Bocephus, as a gentle breeze filtered through the pine trees. Finally, he couldn’t help but smile.

“Where’d you learn so much about bulldogs?”

“Jazz loves the history channel,” Bo said, smirking. “Shit’s on all the time.”

Tom laughed and his groin flared in pain. He squinted at Bo. “So you’re telling me I’m a bulldog?”

Bo smiled, but his eyes remained intense and he took a step closer. “What I’m trying to say is you’ve been challenged by the law school and Jameson Tyler, and you’re going against who you are by not coming back at them. It doesn’t matter that you’re sick or old. You are who you are. Just like I am.” He paused. “Just like Musso is.”

Bo reached forward and grabbed Tom around the back, squeezing him tight. “That’s my closing argument, dog.”

Bo started to walk away, but then stopped, keeping his back to Tom. “Professor, I’m sorry about the last sentence of today’s article. I just thought you might need a push in the right direction.”

Tom wrinkled his eyebrows and pulled out the article. He had stopped reading it after the part about Dawn. He skimmed down to the last sentence. Tom felt his blood pressure go through the roof as he read the words aloud.

“Believed to be sick and possibly near death, the Professor has retired to his family farm in Hazel Green, Alabama.”

“They didn’t get the ‘sick and near death’ part from me, but I think it’s a nice touch,” Bo said, beginning to walk away.

“Goddamnit,” Tom said. “They’ll descend like vultures on this place. What the hell were you thinking, Bo?” Tom was exasperated. “Bo!”

As Bo reached the edge of the clearing, he turned and smiled. “You can’t hide out here forever, dog.”





45


As the sun began to rise over the corn field, Rick gazed at the brick farmhouse. Stop procrastinating, he told himself. Just do what you came to do.

He took a sip of coffee from a Styrofoam Hardees cup, but still he didn’t move. He glanced down at the passenger seat, where he’d put the article that ran in yesterday’s paper. Powell had brought the article by last night with an address. “Go see him, Rick,” Powell had urged. “Go get it from the horse’s mouth. He is the Professor, for God’s sake. He will help you.”

Rick wasn’t so sure. The Professor hadn’t been very helpful in the last year. He’d cost Rick a job with the best law firm in the state. He’d referred him a case that was going down the tubes. And, despite Rick’s request not to interfere with the case, the Professor had hired him a law clerk who was now long gone. His “whore”, Rick thought, remembering Jameson Tyler’s words.

Rick took another sip of coffee, knowing that none of that mattered anymore. He was three days from trial, and he was at the end of his rope. The Faunsdale Police Department had determined that Mule Morris’ pickup had flipped down the embankment of Highway 25 and exploded upon impact with a tree. The preliminary conclusion was that Mule’s brakes had gone out, causing him to lose control of the vehicle.

But Doolittle Morris wasn’t buying it. “Mule was a certified by God mechanic, and that truck might have been old, but it ran like a top. No way the brakes would just go out.” Doo, who was distraught over his cousin’s death, had no qualms over who was to blame when Rick and Powell caught up with him the day after the accident. Doo had shook his fist at them both and had to be restrained by several friends, his eyes burning with rage. “I wish I’d have never seen either of you turds. My cousin is dead because of you.”

And, deep down, Rick knew that Doo was right. Mule died three hours after he spoke with me and Dawn, he thought. He kept his truck in mint condition and had no known enemies. There was only one logical conclusion in Rick’s mind. Jack Willistone had hired someone to follow him, and that person had taken out Mule. Murder, Rick thought, trying not to be paranoid, but knowing he was right. Just thinking about it left his body covered in goose flesh, and Rick now drove with one eye permanently fixed on the rear-view mirror.

Finally, there was the Wilma Newton dilemma. Tyler still hadn’t deposed her, and Rick knew that Jameson Tyler wouldn’t just overlook a witness with damaging evidence against his client. Tyler is the best, Rick thought. If he doesn’t take her deposition, there’s got to be a reason. Rick felt a gnawing in the pit of his stomach. He’d sent Wilma an affidavit weeks ago, setting out exactly what she’d told him and Dawn at the Sands, but Wilma had yet to send it back. She had also gotten spotty about answering phone calls. Rick had called three times last week with no answer. I need that affidavit signed before I put her on the stand, Rick thought.