The Professor (McMurtrie and Drake Legal Thrillers #1)(8)
Always cover your ass. Watching as the smoke rose above McFarland Boulevard, Jack Willistone was confident he had done so.
No one will ever know.
PART TWO
8
As they filed in, he sat on the table in front of the whiteboard with his back to them. The first day of the second semester had arrived and many of these second-year students had never had him, only heard the rumors from those that had gone before them. As they tried to find a seat among the rows that sloped upwards until reaching the back of the room, some peered over the man’s shoulder and saw the words on the board. Those who knew smiled to themselves with quiet assurance. For most of those who didn’t know, the words had no effect. But there was a small contingent of the unknowing who felt as if they should know and already had doubts though the man had yet to utter a word. On the board were five words written side by side and capitalized – MATERIALITY, RELEVANCE, HEARSAY, AUTHENTICATION and PRIVILEGE. McMurtrie’s five columns to those who knew. Today was the first day of Evidence. And their teacher was Thomas Jackson McMurtrie. The Professor. He who wrote the book, literally, on evidence in Alabama.
As he turned to them, Tom smiled to himself as he saw the different looks he always saw when addressing such a large group of mostly young faces. Fear. Apprehension. Arrogance. And the one he hated – Apathy. Tom could put up with hard but scared workers. He could put up with *s that thought they knew more than him. But he could not – would not – stand for those who did not care. It was his mission to work those people until they quit. To rid the team of the turds, as the Man would have said.
“All right, my name is Tom McMurtrie and this is Evidence. My goal in this endeavor is simple and twofold. First, I want you people, each and every one of you, to walk out of this classroom in May as five-column lawyers. And second, for those that aren’t willing to work and pay the price to be a five-column lawyer, I want to make you quit before you quit on your client one day.” Tom paused to let the words sink in. He saw a pained expression on a young woman’s face in the front row. He looked down at his class directory or “face book” as the students called it, which contained a photograph of every student in the class. The young woman’s name was Dawn Murphy. Twenty-six years old. Elba, Alabama.
“Ms Murphy,” Tom bellowed, loud enough for the turds sitting in the top row to hear without leaning forward. The young woman, who was probably quite attractive when she didn’t have the fear of God plastered on her face, raised her hand off the yellow notebook she had been furiously writing on and extended it to about shoulder level.
With her hand in the air, she stammered, “Uhh. Yes, sir?”
“You are Ms Dawn Murphy?” Tom asked.
“Yes, sir,” Ms Murphy said, and Tom was convinced that other than her two colleagues on the front row, none of the other ninety-five students in the class had heard a word.
“Ms Murphy, you’re gonna have to speak up. Your esteemed colleagues who have chosen to make their first impression from a distance no doubt did not hear you.”
“Yes, sir.” A better effort that probably reached about halfway up.
“Ms Murphy, you are from Elba, are you not?” A few snickers in the crowd. Elba was one of the smaller towns in Alabama. For some reason, Tom always picked the small-town students. Elba. Opp. Hamilton. Maybe it was because he himself was from the small town of Hazel Green in North Alabama. Or maybe these people over the years just seemed to be more interesting.
“Yes, sir. Born and raised.”
Yes, just as Tom had thought. You were unlikely to get the “born and raised” part from the Birmingham folks or the Mobile bluebloods. But a sweet young thing from Elba. Born and raised, by God. Tom smiled at Ms Murphy, hoping to make this cross examination a little easier on a student that had already managed to impress him.
“Ms Murphy, when you walk out of this classroom in May, are you–” Tom paused for effect, scanning the other faces in the crowd “–gonna be a five-column lawyer?” Trick question, Tom knew. Answer yes and the rest of the class will wonder who this girl thinks she is. Answer no and show weakness in front of the enemy.
“Yes, sir, I hope to be. By the grace of God, I hope to be,” she said with a smile invoking nervous laughter around the classroom. That a girl, Tom thought. By the grace of God. Gotta love those small towns.
“Me too, Ms Murphy. Me too. It’s my job to make that happen. Now, let’s get started.” Tom scanned the faces in the back row looking for the example. The sacrificial lamb. On the top row, the second to last seat from the upstairs exit, Tom found his victim. Blonde shaggy hair. Three-day growth of beard. Nothing in front of him. No books. Haven’t had time to hit the bookstore yet, huh, champ? No notebook. Not even a damn pen. This was going to be fun. Scanning the face book, he found the name he was looking for. Jonathon Tinsel. Twenty-five years old. Birmingham, Alabama.
“Mr Tinsel,” Tom said, loud enough to shake the foundation of the building. “Where is Jonathon Tinsel from the magic city of Birmingham?”
The shaggy unshaven man on the back row raised his hand and, with a glazed look in his eyes, said, “Up here.”
“Up there. Why all the way up there, Mr Tinsel? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?” Without allowing an answer, Tom continued, “Mr Tinsel, in the case of Richardson v. Callahan, give me a brief description of the facts and the court’s holding.” Tom knew what the answer would be, but was looking forward to hearing this kid’s version of “I didn’t give a shit enough to get my books and schedule from the book store”.