The Professor by Robert Bailey Page A

growing that happens between years two and three.”
    Tom nodded, knowing Jameson was right. Rick Drake had proven that last year. A bull in a china shop his second year, Drake had blossomed into a real force as a third-year.
    And then the bull came back for nationals . . .
    “Had anything with Jerry lately?” Tom whispered back, trying not to think about Drake. Since talking with Ruth Ann, he had been racking his brain, thinking of attorneys he could refer her to, but he kept coming back to Rick Drake. Henshaw was a small town, and small-town juries liked hometown lawyers. The bottom line was that Drake was the only trial lawyer Tom knew with Henshaw ties that was worth a shit. Aside from the obvious problem that Drake was just eight months out of law school, Tom also didn’t have a clue where he was living or what he was doing.
    And there’s that little incident where he tried to take your head off last year.
    Jameson smiled. “Three last year.” He paused. “All defense verdicts.”
    Tom also smiled, shaking his head. Jameson was a senior partner with Jones & Butler, the largest law firm in the state. His specialty was defending large personal injury cases, many of which were filed by his former trial team partner, Jerry Snider. Jameson and Jerry had won Tom’s first national championship in 1979. After graduation they had gone in opposite directions, Jerry forging a career as a plaintiff’s attorney and Jameson as a defense lawyer. Both were considered at the top of their fields.
    But as good as Jerry Snider had turned out to be—many thought he was the best plaintiff’s attorney in the state—he was no match for Jameson if the facts were anywhere close to even. Jameson regularly handed Jerry’s ass to him, just like he did everyone else.
    “Still dating that court reporter?” Tom asked.
    Jameson’s smile widened. “Actually, I’m dating two court reporters,” he whispered. “Rival services.”
    “Competitors?” Tom asked.
    Jameson shrugged. “What can I say? They each try to outperform the other.” He raised his eyebrows, and Tom laughed.
    “You are such a bastard, Jamo,” Tom said, slapping Jameson on the back.
    Jameson grinned. “Don’t I know it.”
    A few minutes later the trial concluded and the teams shook hands. Tom turned the floor over to Judge Hancock and Jameson, who both offered constructive criticism and encouragement to each of the participants, keeping all of their comments positive. After the team was gone, Tom approached the bench, smiling at the judge.
    “Judge, as always we appreciate your patience. I’d love to hear your thoughts on what you observed.”
    “Sure, Tom. Hey, you still keep a fifth of Jack Black in your office?”
    Tom smiled. He had forgotten about the Cock’s love of sour mash whiskey. “I do indeed. Shall we reconvene upstairs?”

    Five minutes later the three of them were in Tom’s office, each drinking Jack Daniel’s on ice out of plastic cups.
    “Boys, I’m too old for this shit, you know it?” Judge Hancock said, laughing to himself and sitting on the edge of Tom’s desk. “Godamighty, I love it, though. I think my heart would up and die if I had to go longer than two weeks without a trial.” He took a sip of whiskey, coughed, and continued. “How you been, Tom?”
    “Not bad, Judge,” Tom lied, glancing down at the apology on his desk. The board meeting was tomorrow. “So what did you think of the team?”
    “Oh, you know, Tom. You can tell they’re well coached,” the judge started. “They speak well, kept their questions on cross short and sweet, and used effective visual aids in opening and closing. But I wasn’t wowed like I was last year. Now that team . . . shit fire and save the matches. That team got me excited.”
    “Drake and Conrad,” Tom said, nodding and glancing at Jameson, who was standing by the window. “You know that team should’ve won the title. I . . . I mismanaged the Drake kid a little