The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(73)

“Yes, it is.”

“Your honor, we’d like Ms Murphy’s photograph admitted as Exhibit 1.”

Once admitted, Tom held the photograph up and showed it to the jury.

“Ms Newton, you talked with both Mr Drake and Ms Murphy here–” Tom gestured with his finger at the photograph “–about Dewey’s schedules, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And your testimony, today, is that you were crystal clear with both of them that Dewey’s schedules were normal?” Tom asked, resuming his position in front of Wilma.

“Yes.”

“Ms Newton, if Dawn Murphy takes this witness stand and testifies that you told her and Rick Drake that Dewey’s schedule at Willistone was ‘hectic’, ‘crazy’ and ‘hard for him to meet’, would she be a liar?”

Wilma shrugged. “I didn’t say those things. So... yes, she would be lying.”

“This girl right here,” Tom again held the photograph up for the jury to see. “If she tells this jury that you said Dewey was forced to speed to meet his schedule, would she be lying?”

“Yes.”

“And if she says that you told her and Mr Drake that you changed Dewey’s driver’s logs to make sure he met the ten-hour rule, would she be a liar?”

Wilma leaned forward in the stand. “Yes, sir.”

Tom walked to the end of the jury railing, watching the faces of the people inside the box. He could tell they were all locked in.

“Ms Newton, this meeting between you, Rick Drake and Dawn Murphy happened back in February, correct?”

Wilma shrugged, and Tom saw the fatigue in her eyes. “I think so. That was a long time ago.”

Another opening.

“Ms Newton, let’s go back just a couple of weeks. Isn’t it true that in the last two weeks, you have spoken with Rick Drake on the phone a couple of times?”

“Yes.”

“And, during these phone conversations, Rick told you he was going to call you as a witness in this case, didn’t he?”

“He might have, I don’t remember.”

“That was two weeks ago, ma’am. You sure you can’t remember him telling you he was going to call you as a witness today?”

“I think I already knew by then he was going to call me.”

Thank you, Wilma, Tom thought, walking to the counsel table. “Subpoena,” he whispered to Rick, who handed him a folder. Rick also handed Tom his cell phone with a text message pulled up on the screen. When Tom saw it, he smiled. “Nice.”

“That’s right, Ms Newton,” Tom said, returning to the witness chair and slipping Rick’s phone into his pocket. “By that time, Mr Drake had issued this subpoena, hadn’t he?” Tom handed the subpoena over to Wilma.

“Yes.”

“He had gone through the time, money and trouble of having a Tennessee subpoena issued, requiring that you be here today.”

“I guess.”

“Your agreement to show up wasn’t good enough. He thought you were such a good witness that he was going to ensure your attendance today, right?”

“I don’t know what he thought.”

“Your honor, we’d like to admit the Tennessee subpoena requiring Wilma Newton’s attendance here today as an exhibit.”

“Any objection?” Judge Cutler asked, looking at Tyler.

“No, your honor.” Tyler’s voice sounded tired.

“Counselor, it’s almost 5. Are you about to wrap up?”

“Just a few more questions,” Tom said. “Ms Newton, let’s go back to Sunday night. You sent Mr Drake a text message then, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember.”

Tom took the phone out of his pocket and held it over his head, looking at the jury and then back to Wilma. Then he handed the phone to Wilma. “Does this refresh your memory?”

Wilma looked at the phone but didn’t say anything.

“Ms Newton, why don’t you read what you wrote to Mr Drake two nights ago to the jury.”

“I can’t miss more than one day of work. What day do you want me to testify?” Wilma read, speaking in a flat voice.

Tom, watching the jury, saw an elderly woman on the front row and a black man on the back row glaring at Wilma. She’s losing credibility, Tom thought.

“That was your text message to Mr Drake two nights ago,” Tom asked, turning back to Wilma.

“Yes.” She tried to sound nonchalant, but her voice had a crack in it. Blood in the water, Tom thought. Time for the good stuff.

“Ms Newton, do you know Jack Willistone?”

Wilma’s eyes widened slightly. “Of course. My husband worked for his company.”

“That’s right,” Tom said, pointing to the defense table where Jack Willistone sat. During forty years of living in Tuscaloosa, Tom had met Jack Willistone several times, usually at fundraisers for politicians who both men supported. Jack had always struck Tom as disingenuous. A smart, analytical man playing the role of the loud-talking good-old-boy redneck. To his credit, Jack did not appear rattled by being called out.

“Mr Willistone is the owner of Willistone Trucking Company, correct?” Tom asked.

Wilma nodded. “Yes.”