The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(74)

Tom smiled at the jury. “But that’s not the only way you know him, is it?”

“I... I don’t understand.”

“Ms Newton, when you’re not waiting tables at the Sands, you have another job, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice clipped.

“Where?”

Wilma sighed, looking down. “The Sundowners Club. Right outside of Pulaski.”

“I see,” Tom said, now pacing down the jury rail so the jury could see Wilma better. “Is that a restaurant too?”

“No.” She was going to make him pull it out of her and Tom could’ve kissed her for it.

“A bar?”

Now her look was angry. “There is a bar in the club, yes.”

When he reached the end of the rail, he said, softly, “What kind of club is it, Ms Newton?”

“A dance club,” she said. Tom leaned forward a little and raised his eyebrows. I’m gonna keep going, he tried to convey with his eyes. “An exotic dance club...” she continued, pausing before adding, “... I’m a dancer there.”

“And as a ‘dancer,’–” Tom made the quotation symbol with the index and middle fingers of both hands “–you take your clothes off and ‘dance’ for customers of the club, correct?”

“Your honor, I object,” Tyler said. “This questioning is clearly meant to harass and embarrass this witness.”

“On the contrary, Judge,” Tom said, looking at the jury. “This questioning goes straight to the heart of this witness’ bias.”

“Overruled,” Cutler said. “Let’s get to the bias part, Professor.”

Tom paused, continuing to look at the jury. They were awake and alert. Listening.

“Ms Newton, Jack Willistone is one of your customers, isn’t he?”

Wilma froze, her face turning white. “I don’t... I... wouldn’t say that.”

“You wouldn’t?” Tom pressed.

“No.”

“OK,” Tom said, rubbing his chin for effect. “Well, let’s go at it a little differently. Ms Newton, who drove you to court today?”

Wilma’s eyes widened. “Wha-what?”

“Objection, your honor.” Tyler was off his feet, his face red. “What possible relevance could Ms Newton’s ride to trial have on this case?”

Tom never took his eyes off Wilma Newton as he responded. “Again, your honor, this questioning goes straight to this witness’ bias.” Out of the corner of his eye, Tom caught movement in the galley, and he knew instinctively what was happening. A quick glance confirmed his instincts.

“Overruled,” Judge Cutler said. “Get to it quick, Mr McMurtrie. Everyone here is pretty tired.”

“Ms Newton, the man standing up and trying to get out of here, the one standing right behind Jack Willistone...” Tom paused. “Did he drive you to court today?” Tom pointed to a man about six foot four with stubble on his face, wearing a golf shirt and khakis. Wilma nodded, looking scared to death.

“You have to answer out loud, Ms Newton,” Tom said. Glancing, he noticed that the stubbly-faced man had returned to his seat.

“Yes.”

“Does that man work for Jack Willistone?” Tom asked, looking at the jury first, then at the stubbly-faced man, and then fixing his eyes on Jack Willistone.

“I... I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you spend several hours in the VIP room at the Sundowners Club two weeks ago with Jack Willistone and the man sitting behind him in the courtroom?”

Wilma Newton’s face had turned chalky white. “I... I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?” Tom almost laughed, loving the evasive response. “Do you know Peter Burns, Ms Newton?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.

“He’s the bartender at the Sundowners, right?”

Wilma nodded.

“Would it surprise you to know that Peter remembers you going up to the VIP room two weeks ago for several hours with Mr Willistone and the man who drove you to court today?”

Wilma looked down at her clasped palms.

“Has your memory returned yet, Ms Newton?” Taking a step closer, Tom glanced at the jury. Every juror’s eyes were open and alert. “You spent three hours in the VIP room two weeks ago with Jack Willistone and the man who drove you to court today, didn’t you?”

Wilma finally looked up. “Yes, sir, I did.”

Tom caught several of the female jurors moving their hands to their lips in surprise, and one male juror crossed his arms, his expression one of disgust.

“I’m a dancer, OK?” Wilma croaked. “I... I knew Mr Willistone from when Dewey worked there. I was just doing my job.”

“For three hours,” Tom reiterated. “Two weeks before trial.”

“Yes,” Wilma said.

“That must have been quite a financial windfall. Though I don’t know from experience... I hear those VIP dances are pretty pricey.” Tom paused. “How much did Jack Willistone pay you?”

Wilma shrugged, again looking down. “I don’t remember.”

“Another memory loss. Well, Ms Newton, I’m sure he paid you something for a three-hour dance, didn’t he?”