The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(67)
“Counselor?” Judge Cutler pressed, and Rick glanced up, realizing he’d let almost ten seconds lapse without a word. He glanced at the jury, and Judy Heacock had a worried look on her face. Pull it together, Drake, Rick told himself. Wilma’s not here and we can’t call Rose right now – not after what Specks said. We need a little gap before they hear “the gospel”.
Rick looked to his right, and Ruth Ann met his eye. “You ready?” Rick whispered.
Ruth Ann nodded, looking anxious but determined.
“Your honor,” Rick said, standing. “The plaintiff calls Ms Ruth Ann Wilcox.”
54
Thirty miles away and half cocked on Jack Daniels, Doolittle Morris pulled his pickup to a stop in the gravel driveway off Highway 25. Doo took a sip of the pint of black Jack he’d been holding between his legs and wiped his mouth, gazing at the clapboard house. The grass, which Mule had always kept like a golf green, had grown high, covering the front porch where Doo and Mule used to sit and pick guitars on Monday nights. Neither of them could play for shit, but they liked getting together and blowing off steam, drinking a little whiskey and playing the chords they knew. Doo sighed, stumbling out of the truck and slamming the door.
“Goddamnit, Mule,” Doo said out loud, kicking at an empty paint bucket that lay in the front yard. For over a month, Doo had been putting off this chore. After the visitation, the funeral and the investigation, Doo just didn’t have it in him to clean out Mule’s house. But the house couldn’t just sit out here for ever. It was Doo’s now – Mule had left everything he owned, which wasn’t much, to Doo – and Doo knew the longer the house sat the harder it would be to sell. All of Mule’s stuff had to be cleaned out, the yard had to be mowed and, judging by the different shades of paint and the empty paint bucket, he’d have to finish the paint job his cousin had started before his death.
“Goddamnit,” Doo repeated, his eyes stinging with tears as he climbed the steps of the porch and saw Mule’s guitar leaning against one of the rocking chairs. Maybe I can get it all done in a day or two, Doo thought, taking the key out of his pocket and opening the door. The stench of rotten food and a stale house hit him like a ton of bricks.
Maybe not.
55
Ruth Ann came off just as Rick expected. Poised. Polite. Graceful. And emotional at the right times, as when she teared up when describing how old Nicole was at the time of her death. Rick’s direct lasted until noon, and Cutler ordered a recess for lunch. At 1pm, the jury was back in the box and Cutler addressed Tyler. “Are you ready for cross examination, Counselor?”
Rick’s stomach tightened as he glanced at Tyler and then back at Ruth Ann. He knew he had prepared Ruth Ann well and that there were hardly any points Tyler could score with her. Regardless, he was terrified. As he’d heard Powell and the Professor say many times, there was nothing in a trial as scary as turning over your client or witness to the other side for questioning.
“Your honor,” Tyler said, standing and buttoning his coat. “We do not wish any more suffering on Ms Wilcox for this terrible accident. We have no questions.” Tyler bowed slightly, and Ruth Ann, the relief evident on her face, said, “Thank you.”
Rick couldn’t believe it. No questions. He glanced at the jury and saw several nods, including Judy Heacock. Bastard scored points and didn’t ask a single question.
“OK then,” Cutler said, also looking a bit surprised as his eyes shifted to Rick. “Call your next witness.”
Rick again glanced at his cell phone, which still showed nothing from Wilma or Powell. This time, though, it didn’t matter. He couldn’t finish his case in chief with Ms Rose, because he didn’t want to end on a downer. He had toyed with not calling Batson at all, but he knew Tyler would have a field day with that. “They didn’t want you to hear from the eyewitness,” Tyler would hammer in his closing. Better to bury her in the middle and end with a flourish with Wilma, Rick thought, praying that he’d hear from Wilma soon.
“Your honor,” Rick said, standing and sucking in a quick breath. This isn’t going to be fun, he knew. “The plaintiff calls Ms Rose Batson.”
Rick had resolved to handle Ms Rose like ripping off a Band-Aid. He didn’t pull any punches, having her describe everything she remembered. When he finished, he had basically brought out all of the points he knew Tyler would make, albeit not emphasizing them as he knew his adversary would. He can’t say I’m hiding anything, Rick thought, walking back to his table. Sitting down, he checked his cell phone and there were still no new texts or missed calls. He looked at his watch. 3pm. Tyler would finish around 3.30, which would leave time for one more witness.
And I only have one more witness, Rick thought, beginning to feel sweat beads on his forehead. If Wilma doesn’t show in thirty minutes, I’m toast.
56
Wilma Newton sat in the passenger-side seat of the El Camino. She wore a long black dress, appropriate for a funeral. “Handpicked by the boss,” JimBone had said this morning, as he watched her get dressed.
Wilma sighed, wishing she could wake up from this nightmare but knowing it was only starting. She had spent most of the last forty-eight hours in a Rufalin-filled haze. JimBone had started drugging her from the moment he picked her up, which had been Sunday morning, and every time she drifted back into lucidity, he force-fed another pill down her throat.