The Last Trial Page 5

  Poe turned his head to Jameson. “Response?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Jameson said, again flashing his patented toothy grin. “Any issues that Tom has with Dr. Brooks’s qualifications and opinions should go to the weight of the testimony, not its admissibility. Further, I agree with Your Honor that this issue would be better reserved for the pretrial hearing after discovery has been completed.”

  “Anything else?” Poe asked, looking back at Tom.

  “No, Your Honor.”

  “Good. Then I’m going to deny the motion at this time.” He paused and looked at a laptop computer to his left. “My first available civil trial docket is January 28, 2013, so I’ll set this case for trial then. The pretrial hearing will be January 21, and mediation is to be attempted on or before December 31, 2012.” He paused and looked at Tom. “If you want to refile your motion prior to the pretrial, I’ll be glad to reconsider it, but I doubt my ruling will be any different.” Looking down at his docket sheet, he added, “You should find an order in your email inbox this afternoon setting out these rulings, Counselors. I would urge both parties to try to settle this matter at mediation. A case like this should be resolved without wasting the court’s resources.”

  Poe leaned toward the microphone. “Grissom v. Savona.”

  From behind him, Tom heard a woman’s voice say, “Pass, Judge.” He glared at Poe, trying to comprehend what the man, a former student of Tom’s, had just said. Finally, he asked him. “Judge Poe, did you just say you didn’t want to waste the court’s resources by trying a case?”

  Braxton Poe returned Tom’s glare with one of his own. He placed both hands on the bench and leaned over it. “That’s exactly what I just said.”

  “I thought so,” Tom said, holding the man’s gaze until Poe finally broke away. Tom gathered up his briefcase and walked slowly down the middle of the courtroom. Behind him, Poe’s voice rang out even louder and raspier. “Helstowski v. Birmingham Steel.”

  “Pass, Judge,” Tom whispered the refrain he knew was coming as he stepped through the double doors.

  7

  As Tom came off the elevator on the lobby level of the courthouse, he found an unwelcome visitor waiting for him. “Stick around to rub it in,” Tom said, walking past Jameson toward the exit sign.

  Without missing a beat, Jameson caught up and walked in stride with Tom out of the courthouse and into the midmorning sun. “Win some, lose some, Professor. You know that.” He chuckled. “I do seem to be winning more of these skirmishes in front of Poe than in other courtrooms.”

  At the bottom of the steps, Tom stopped. He was tired from the two-and-a-half-hour drive that morning and his back still ached from Jameson’s pat in the courtroom. He turned to face his former student. “Is there something on your mind?”

  Jameson Tyler had been one of his favorite pupils, and for many years Tom considered him to be a good friend. But that all changed two years ago when Jameson became chief counsel to the university and assisted the law school in removing Tom as professor. Though Tom was eventually offered his job back and Jameson apologized for his role in the coup, the sting of the betrayal remained. Subconsciously, Tom knew it was one of the reasons why he had rejected the school’s offer to return. That and his desire to try cases again.

  “Did you hear about Jack Willistone?”

  Tom blinked as he remembered the text he received from Powell the night before at the ball game. He still owed the district attorney a call. “Yeah, I did hear. Are you speaking at the funeral?” Jameson had represented Jack Willistone in Tom’s first trial back as an attorney two years earlier.

  Jameson laughed. “Not hardly, Professor. That old cowboy deserved whatever came to him. If he hadn’t tampered with the witnesses in Henshaw and just let me do my thing, we would have won.”

  Tom smiled. “You keep thinking that, Jameson.”

  As he started to walk away, he heard Jameson’s voice behind him. “Poe’s ruling on the marijuana changes things, Professor, and you know it. I have authority of a hundred fifty thousand dollars to settle the case today and we can avoid mediation and trial. What do you say?”

  Tom looked over his shoulder but didn’t stop walking. “We’ll take the policy limits or let a jury decide. We both know I’ll get any adverse verdict overturned on appeal if the marijuana comes in.”

  “Rolling the dice on appeal is a fool’s errand, Professor.”

  Tom stopped and placed his hands on his hips. He gazed back at Jameson and shook his head, pointing an index finger at the courthouse. “Maybe so. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that SOB dictate how I litigate a case. Regardless of the poison that spews out of Braxton’s mouth, the purpose of the courtroom is to try cases, not to force settlements. What’s the matter with you, Jameson? I thought you liked to tee it up.”

  Before the other lawyer could respond, a baby-blue convertible BMW pulled to the curb beside him. Coulter jumped out of the back seat and grabbed Jameson’s briefcase. Behind the wheel, Annie gave Tom a tentative wave. He nodded at her but was perturbed by the scene. Three lawyers attending a status conference, and some crazy insurance company was paying for it. Jameson walked around the rear of the BMW and gave the license tag a love tap with the palm of his hand. Tom glanced down and saw the personalized inscription “BIG CAT.”

  “I didn’t get that nickname settling cases, Professor,” Jameson said, chuckling. “I love to tee it up, but I’m not a dinosaur. The courthouses in this state are overflowing, and judges are pushing lawyers to settle.” He shrugged. “Clients are too. I’ll deny this if you repeat it, but my company would be just as happy to settle for one-fifty now as they would to pay me and my team the same or more to get a defense verdict in a few months. What does Coach Saban say? It is what it is.”

  Tom gritted his teeth as another stab of pain went down his back. “Maybe so, but unless your client pays the limits, we’re going to verdict on this one.”

  Jameson flashed his teeth one last time with a grin that had seduced over a hundred juries. “I’ll look forward to it.” He opened the door, but before climbing in, the grin faded and he gazed at Tom with what appeared to be sincerity. “If you’re gonna keep doing this, Professor, you have to roll with the times. You remember what happened to the dinosaurs, don’t you?”

  Before Tom could say anything in response, Jameson slid into the car, and the convertible slithered forward. For a few seconds, Tom watched it, wondering if his evidence courses and trial team instruction had been worth anything to a generation of lawyers that would hardly, if ever, see a jury foreman stand up to render a verdict. Had he accomplished anything in all those years?

  As he trudged toward his Explorer, he had the awful feeling that Jameson might be right. Maybe the profession had passed him by, and before long he, too, would be extinct. He flung his briefcase in the back seat and thought about the mountain of paper that awaited him at the office and the phone call he owed Powell.

  Thomas Jackson McMurtrie yawned as he turned the key and the vehicle roared to life. Closing his eyes, he gripped the wheel and resolved that the office and telephone would have to wait. This dinosaur needs a nap . . .

  8

  Tom awoke to hot, foul breath on his face and a damp coarseness on his cheek. Opening his eyes, he gazed into the wrinkled face and flat nose of his only housemate.

  Lee Roy Jordan McMurtrie was a two-year-old white-and-brown English bulldog that weighed close to sixty pounds. Tom tried to push him away, to no avail. The dog was too heavy and persistent. Lee Roy leaned in, sniffing Tom’s face, neck, and arms before planting his tongue against Tom’s cheek for another kiss.

  Tom looked at the clock on the bedside table. 8:17 p.m. He had slept a full eight hours when he had only intended to have a catnap. He sighed and propped himself on his elbows, trying to wake up. As the last vestiges of a dreamless sleep left him, he rolled to one side and swung his legs to the floor. When he did, Lee Roy put both paws in his lap and licked his face again.
Tom grabbed the dog around the neck and gave a squeeze. “Alright, you win. I’m up.”

  While Lee Roy waited impatiently by the bed, Tom used the bathroom and washed his hands and face. As he grabbed a towel to dry off, he gazed at the mirror above the sink and ran his index finger along a faint quarter-inch scar on his right cheek—the last remnant from the attack in Pulaski. Though he was able to shave now, which was a relief, as he never liked wearing a beard, the scar still occasionally stung if the wind hit it just right or if he began to sweat on a hot day or during a workout. Could’ve been worse, he knew, squinting at the mark on his face as his mind drifted back to Pulaski. Much worse . . .

  Tom took a step back from the mirror and straightened his pants and shirt, which he’d been too tired to take off when he’d gotten home. Then, knowing that more sleep would be impossible after such a long nap, he walked back into the bedroom and grabbed his keys off the top of the dresser. As he strode down the hallway with Lee Roy tight on his heels, he looked down at the dog and smiled. “You want to take a ride, boy?”

  The law firm was located on a side street off of Greensboro Avenue, a couple blocks from the Tuscaloosa County Courthouse. Tom parked the Explorer in the lot in front of the office and grabbed a sack of food he’d picked up at a drive-through. Keeping Lee Roy away from the grub had been a chore for the remainder of the trip, but it was worth the fight. Tom was famished and looked forward to getting his fix when he got inside. He stepped out of the vehicle and waited as Lee Roy scurried from the passenger’s side over the driver’s seat and down to the ground. Per his routine when Tom took him to the office, the dog peed on the fire hydrant adjacent to the lone light pole. Tom couldn’t help but chuckle as he followed behind. Piss on this, Tom often thought to himself. Then he imagined Lee Roy relieving himself on the Honorable Braxton Poe’s leg, and his chuckle turned to a full-fledged laugh.

  Tom stopped before entering the breezeway and gazed up at the black letters that adorned the second floor of the two-story brick building: “McMurtrie & Drake, LLC.”

  The office wasn’t flashy by any stretch. In fact, some clients had a hard time finding it. But Tom thought the obscure location added to the office’s charm and, despite the success the firm had achieved in the last twenty-four months, Tom did not want to move. He enjoyed thinking of his partnership with Rick Drake as a hidden treasure similar to Archibald’s Barbecue, in Northport, which Tom still had a difficult time finding even though he’d been there hundreds of times. If you wanted the best pork sandwich in town, you were willing to dig around for it. Tom hoped the same held true for legal advice.

  The ground floor of the building was occupied by Larry and Barry’s Interior Design, a successful company formed by two gay lovers from Missouri, Larry Horowitz and Barry Bostheimer. When Rick had initially leased the space, which was before forming the partnership with Tom, he had gotten his first few referrals from Larry and Barry, who had both been very supportive and continued to be so.

  At this time of night, Larry and Barry had long since closed shop, and Tom knew his secretary and receptionist, Frankie Callahan, would be gone too. The space should be quiet, which was exactly what he wanted.

  When he reached the stairwell—there was still no elevator, but the owner would be installing one soon—he flipped on the light and began to trudge up the steps. As he felt the first twinge of pain in his back since waking up, his thoughts returned to the status conference that morning. The sting of losing the motion and Judge Poe’s indignance toward him was still fresh, and sleep had done nothing to ease his worry that maybe Jameson was right. Maybe the legal profession was starting to pass him by.

  Tom’s thoughts were mercifully interrupted when he almost tripped over Lee Roy, who had stopped dead still halfway up the stairs. Catching his balance, Tom groaned as another pang knifed into his right side. He started to scold the dog, but Lee Roy’s growl drowned him out.

  “Aren’t there leash laws in this town?”

  Tom’s eyes darted up the stairs toward the voice as Lee Roy again growled below him. A girl was sitting on the top step. She wore a houndstooth cap with a red A, so it was hard to see her face.

  “Yes, I suppose there are. But at this time of night I didn’t expect to have any visitors, and it is hard walking up these stairs with Lee Roy here.” He paused and took another step up so that he was even with his dog. “What I can do for you, young lady?”

  “Where have you been all day? I waited inside for three hours, and your secretary said she expected you in this afternoon.”

  “I was unavoidably detained,” Tom said, smiling and continuing up the steps, with Lee Roy walking in tow. The dog wasn’t growling anymore, but his body shook with adrenaline. As he approached, the girl stood and crossed her arms over her chest. When she did, Tom noticed that she was carrying a backpack over her shoulders. Teenager, he thought.

  “Does he bite?” the girl asked, glancing down at Lee Roy.

  Tom chortled and dug his keys out of his pocket. He petted Lee Roy behind the ears and looked up at her. “He shouldn’t, but . . . all the same, I’d probably leave him alone if I were you, and I would advise against any quick, jerky motions.”

  She smiled and Tom could tell that, under the cap, there was an attractive young lady. “You never answered my question,” Tom said, putting the key in the lock and turning. “What can I do for you?”

  As the door swung open, the girl took her hat off, and her dirty-blond hair fell over her shoulders. She looked at him with brown eyes that had squinted into slits.

  Sixteen, Tom guessed. Maybe younger.

  “My momma needs a lawyer, and I want you to represent her.”

  Now it was Tom’s eyes that wrinkled as he stood in the doorway. “Pardon me for asking, but how old are you, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Newton,” the girl said. “My name is Laurie Ann Newton, and I’m fourteen years old. It is nice to finally meet you, Professor McMurtrie.” She extended her hand.

  Tom felt a tickle run down the hair of his arms as he shook the girl’s hand and considered her brown eyes. Newton . . .

  “Are you—?”

  “I’m Dewey Newton’s daughter.” A trace of defiance had snuck into her tone. “The truck driver that was killed in the wreck in Henshaw three years ago. You and your partner were the lawyers for the family that was killed. You sued Daddy’s company, Willistone Trucking, and got ninety million dollars. It was all over the internet and TV.” Her voice had turned bitter. “Big hero. The Professor rides into court again and saves the day.”

  Tom blinked down at the girl. “Then that makes your mother . . . Wilma Newton.” Tom would never forget that name.

  “Yes, sir, it does. I bet you remember her well.”

  Tom nodded.

  “I’ve read the transcript of the whole trial. Your cross-examination of Momma was the first time you’d said anything in the case. The transcript doesn’t mention why you were late getting there.”

  “It’s a long story,” Tom said.

  “Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Anyway, you tore Momma a new one. Exposed her as Willistone’s whore, which turned the tide of the case. Am I right? Have I gotten anything wrong yet, Professor?”

  Tom blinked his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. He had forgotten about the sack of food he held in his left hand. Glancing down, he saw that Lee Roy was looking at him, as if he, too, were waiting on Tom’s response.

  “I don’t remember anything about your mother being a . . .” He paused, trying to think of a kinder word. “Prostitute.”

  “Oh come off it, old man. I’ve read the transcript. Hell, I’ve memorized the damn thing.” She placed her hands on her hips and looked at the side wall of the stairwell. “‘Ms. Newton, 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?’” She turned her eyes back to Tom. “Remember asking Momma that question? Did I get that about right?”


  She had, Tom knew. The impression was spot-on. Then he wondered how a fourteen-year-old girl had managed to obtain the transcript to a two-year-old trial. Of course, the better question was why.

  “I was only trying to insinuate to the jury that your mother had been given a financial benefit to change her story. She had originally told my partner that your father’s driving schedules were crazy and forced him to speed. Then, at trial, she changed her tune. I was showing her potential bias.”