Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope

by Robert Whitlow

  I DIDN’T TELL JULIE what had happened to Mrs. Fairmont. She couldn’t have shaken my faith, but she might have tried to under-mine my joy. God’s ability to reach Mrs. Fairmont, after a lifetime of her indifference, gave me hope that the same could happen to Julie. Vince was right. More prayer was needed.

  With the complaint in Paulding v. Dabney on its way to the court-house, Julie and I scrambled to complete other projects that had been pushed aside. Late in the morning I quietly hummed as I scrolled through a court of appeals decision to determine if I should print out a hard copy of the opinion for a research memo.

  “I can’t name that tune,” Julie cut in.

  “You don’t know it. It’s a Christian praise chorus.”

  “Is God in a good mood today?”

  “Probably. I know I am.”

  “What happened? Did you figure out which bachelor is going to receive a rose?”

  “What?”

  Julie rolled her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. “It’s from a TV show. I’m sure you’ve never watched it.”

  “I don’t own a TV.”

  Julie held up her hand. “Okay, don’t start in on the evils of TV. I know there’s a lot of trashy stuff, but there are shows that help numb my brain cells worn out from staring at case law all day.”

  Julie glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’m going to have lunch with Maggie Smith. Do you want to join us?”

  I’d met Maggie when I worked on the Moses Jones case. Several years before she’d been a summer clerk at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter but hadn’t received a permanent job offer. Now she was one of the chief assistants in the Chatham County District Attorney’s Office.

  “Why are you having lunch with her? You’re not working on any criminal cases.”

  “Girls have to stick together. We’ve met for drinks a couple of times. It’s been helpful hearing her perspectives on life and the law.”

  “You’re not going to drink at lunch, are you?”

  “No,” Julie sighed. “Unless you can get a buzz from water with a twist of lemon. This isn’t an invitation to debate. I’m just offering you a chance to spend an hour with a woman who’s been practicing law for five years. In case you haven’t noticed, there aren’t any female attorneys at this firm. The last time I saw Maggie, she asked me about you.”

  “I only saw her when we appeared in front of Judge Cannon. I’m surprised she remembers me.”

  “Who knows, you might be under criminal investigation, and it’s a way for her to check you out before serving you with a grand jury subpoena.”

  I smiled. “Okay, at least I’ll have my lawyer with me.”

  “It would be fun representing you. Then you’d have to take my advice.”

  Julie drove to a small restaurant that catered to a female lunch crowd. The only men in the place were with women who’d probably dragged them along. The decor was feminine, with lacy tablecloths, small chairs, and real china with a flowery design around the edges. Maggie Smith arrived a minute behind us. The assistant DA was about Julie’s height with short brown hair and dark eyes. Smith had the confident demeanor of a lawyer who spent a lot of time in the courtroom. I remembered she’d not tried to hide her interest in Zach when the three of us talked for a few minutes before the judge called the Jones case.

  “How’s your boat man doing?” Maggie asked in a soft Southern drawl after we exchanged greetings.

  “I haven’t heard from him, so I hope he’s only tying up at Mr. Fussleman’s dock.”

  “Probably, or a new case would have come across my desk. You did a good job representing him.”

  We sat at a table near a window. A few rays of sun penetrated the leaves of a large birch tree next to the building. I felt very grown-up. In another era we might have been three young women discussing what dresses to wear at the summer ball. In the twenty-first century, we were professionals crafting a career.

  “I recommend the quiche of the day,” Maggie said. “It’s the best in Savannah.”

  “Tami loves anything to do with chickens,” Julie said, “especially fried chicken livers.”

  “I haven’t had any good chicken livers since I left Montgomery,” Maggie answered with a grin. “My great-aunt knows how to fry them crisp and light. There’s nothing like a fresh chicken liver with a touch of hot sauce on it.”

  Julie’s mouth dropped open.

  “I’ve handled a few hundred thousand livers,” I said.

  Maggie shot me a curious look. The waitress came. We all ordered quiche with fresh fruit on the side. I described my summers working at the chicken plant with my father. I left out the more graphic anatomical details of how a chicken is processed for the human food chain.

  “My daddy worked as a plant manager in a sock factory,” Maggie said when I reached a stopping point. “He was there almost forty years. He started out as a sorter and worked his way up.”

  “My father is an ophthalmologist,” Julie said. “He wears socks except when he’s at the beach, and he eats chicken at least twice a week.”

  “Everyone has their role to fill in society,” Maggie answered with a sweet laugh, then looked at me. “Tell me about your summer at the firm.”

  So much had happened. I was momentarily stymied.

  “It’s been a growing experience, both legally and personally,” I answered slowly.

  “Sounds like something you’d put on an evaluation form,” Maggie replied. “What have you learned about yourself?”

  Something in the lawyer’s face told me she really wanted to know the answer to her question. I glanced at Julie.

  “If you don’t tell her, I will. I’ve psychoanalyzed you enough I could recognize your brain if someone put it in a jar.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen the evidence in some of the cases I’ve worked on,” Maggie said. “I’ve had to put pictures of body parts into evidence that looked a lot worse than a plate of chicken livers.”

  “I’ve gained a lot of confidence that I can really be a lawyer.”

  The words popped out of my mouth, but as soon as I spoke, I knew it was the truth. I quickly searched my heart for the dark glint of pride.

  “That’s good,” Maggie answered. “A summer job at a firm like Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter will either overwhelm you with what you don’t know or remove any doubt that you’ve chosen the right profession.”

  “How was it for you?” I asked.

  “Probably not much different than for you. I tell people I’m from Montgomery, but my hometown is really a slow spot in the road about twenty miles from the city. I came to Savannah wondering if I could survive in such a different social and professional strata. Not only did I survive, I thrived.”

  “But you didn’t get a job offer from Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”

  “No, but neither did the other clerk. That’s the year they hired Ned Danforth. He’d spent the summer with a firm in Richmond.”

  “Giving Ned a job was a huge mistake,” Julie added.

  “You shouldn’t say that in public,” I said. “It might get back—”

  “Don’t worry. Maggie knows all about Ned.”

  “And I’m not here to bash him or the firm. Even though I didn’t receive a job offer, I made the contacts at the DA’s office that led to my present position. Like you, I received special permission to work on an indigent defense case. The district attorney saw me in court a couple of times and told me to call him if I had an interest in becoming a prosecutor. That side of things suited me a lot better than defending the guilty. When I didn’t get an offer from the firm, I contacted him. He offered me a position over the phone, and I took it.”

  “Maggie has tried over seventy-five felony cases,” Julie said.

  “And a lot more misdemeanors. This job is a great teacher because there’s nothing like actual trial experience to hone your skills.”

  I suddenly realized the assistant DA was getting ready to ask me if I had an interest in becoming a prosecu
tor.

  “Where do you think you want to work after you graduate?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just trying to do a good job this summer.” Then, wanting to divert attention from myself, I turned to Julie. “Are you thinking about becoming a prosecutor?”

  Julie laughed. “No way. I don’t have enough self-righteous chromosomes to do a good job.”

  “It doesn’t take that,” Maggie replied. “But you have to be tough enough to deal with difficult people and unpleasant issues.”

  “Then spending the summer with Tami qualifies me,” Julie said. “And we’re working on a case against a woman who is as crazy as some of the psychopaths you put behind bars.”

  “Who is that?” Maggie asked.

  “No,” I said to Julie. “It’s pending litigation.”

  “There’s no harm. The complaint will be public record within a couple of days, and didn’t you tell me it lays out all the facts of the case? Maggie can hear it from me or read it at the clerk’s office.”

  The waitress brought our food. Between bites, Julie plowed ahead with a summary of Paulding v. Dabney. The whole conversation made me uncomfortable. I made a mental note to ask Zach about the ethical propriety of discussing the facts of a case with a lawyer not involved in the litigation. Maggie listened closely and laughed at Julie’s description of Sonny Miller and the gang of derelict street preachers.

  “I think I’ve seen that guy. Nothing serious, but he gets in trouble enough to appear in court. He’s a nonstop talker who refuses to let the judge appoint a lawyer to represent him.”

  “That sounds right,” Julie said.

  I was tempted to add that Julie kept the windows of the car so tightly shut, she never actually talked to Miller.

  “Paulding’s company was one of the developers for the townhome community where I live,” Maggie continued. “Other than being aggravated by Reverend Dabney, why would Paulding go to all the trouble and expense to sue this woman? I know what Joe Carpenter charges per hour.”

  “That part isn’t in the complaint,” I cut in before Julie could answer.

  “No problem,” Maggie said, giving me a knowing look. “I see so many real crooks, I forget a respectable person could get really upset about being called one, even if it comes from a nut like Reverend Dabney.”

  When the waitress brought the check, Maggie grabbed it as soon as it touched the table.

  “We can pay our way,” Julie said.

  “I know, but you’ve entertained me enough to earn a free lunch.”

  After the waitress left with Maggie’s credit card, the lawyer turned to me.

  “What’s Zach Mays up to? He never handles any criminal cases, so it was a treat to see him in court helping you with the Jones case.”

  “He’s busy,” I said, glancing at Julie and pleading with my eyes not to make a snide comment.

  “He’s overseeing our work in the case I just told you about,” Julie said.

  “Really? I wouldn’t think that was his area of expertise either.”

  “He’s broadened his interests a lot,” Julie said with a teasing glance toward me. “There’s more to Zach than that ponytail. But wouldn’t you love to grab it and give it a tug? I know Tami and I would.”

  “Don’t let Mr. Carpenter see you do it,” Maggie replied. “I dated one of the young lawyers a few times when I was a clerk. It was a mess.”

  “Which one?” Julie asked.

  “He’s no longer there. They really frown on romance within the firm, especially involving summer clerks. Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter is a mix of old and new. Sometimes it’s hard to know where you stand.”

  “They fired him?” I managed, struggling to absorb all the information.

  “Before the summer was over. I wasn’t in the partner meeting, of course, and the guy wouldn’t talk to me about it because he signed a confidentiality agreement as part of his severance package. I think he’s with a firm in Dallas. We never stayed in touch.”

  “Why would they make such a big deal about it?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t think that was the only thing he’d done wrong, but it played a big part. To survive and get ahead, you have to know every law firm’s culture.”

  “What advice would you give us?” Julie asked.

  Maggie looked at both of us before responding.

  “I’ll use an old chicken cliché—don’t put all your eggs in one basket.”

  JULIE AND I WERE SILENT in the car as we returned to the office. She pulled into a parking space but didn’t turn off the engine.

  “What do you think?” she asked me.

  “About Zach?”

  “No, that’s your deal. I’m thinking about us at the firm and put-ting all our eggs in one basket. I’ve never been in a henhouse.”

  “When you visit me in Powell Station, I can correct that flaw in your life experience. We use a blue metal bucket and put all the eggs in it each morning.”

  Julie ran her hands around the steering wheel. “Be careful with Zach and Vince,” she said in a conspiratorial voice. “I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t want any of you to end up like the lawyer who was fired.”

  VINCE CAME BY THE LIBRARY toward the end of the day. We made arrangements to visit Mrs. Fairmont in the hospital. When we arrived, Mrs. Fairmont was asleep, looking like she’d aged five years in five days. I left Vince in the room and checked with one of the nurses on duty.

  “Would it be okay to wake her?” I asked.

  “She’s tired. Her daughter was here late this afternoon along with the family lawyer. They had a long discussion, and I think it wore her out. Are you the young woman who lives with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “She showed me the picture of her dog and told me how much the dog loves you, too. I’ve owned a couple of Chihuahuas. It made me want to get another puppy.”

  “Did you meet the lawyer?” I asked closely. “I work for the firm that represents Mrs. Fairmont. I didn’t know someone was coming to see her.”

  “He mentioned his name, but I don’t remember. I left the room to give them privacy.”

  “Was he an older gentleman in his sixties with thinning white hair and blue eyes?” I asked, describing Mr. Braddock.

  “No, he was in his mid-forties.”

  I pressed my lips together in concern. “Okay, I’ll sit with her for a few minutes and see if she wakes up.”

  I pulled Vince into the hall and told him about the visit from the lawyer.

  “It definitely wasn’t Mr. Braddock,” I said. “Doesn’t he do all Mrs. Fairmont’s legal work?”

  “You’d know more about that than I do. I can check her name through his billing records and see if there’s been any recent activity.”

  “No, I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “It’s not against the rules. He sees my time sheets and gave me access to his information so we can coordinate our billing reports to keep them consistent. What’s the problem?”

  I thought about Maggie Smith’s trouble dating a lawyer at the firm but mentioned Mrs. Fairmont.

  “Mrs. Fairmont’s daughter is pressuring her into decisions. It’s none of my business, but I can’t help being concerned.”

  “Then let me check it out. I can ask Mr. Braddock first if you want me to.”

  We returned to the room and sat quietly for almost thirty minutes. Mrs. Fairmont didn’t twitch. She was resting so peacefully, I didn’t have the heart to wake her. On the way out of the hospital I turned to Vince.

  “Don’t bother Mr. Braddock. I can talk to him myself if I have a question.”

  “Okay, but let me know if I can help.”

  We reached Vince’s car. I told him about Maggie Smith and the associate attorney who was fired.

  “I thought we should be careful,” I said.

  “Why? If the firm gets upset because we visited Mrs. Fairmont together in the hospital, I wouldn’t want to work there anyway. And who knows what really went on with
Maggie Smith and the lawyer? Ask Zach. He might know the whole story.”

  I did a quick calculation in my head.

  “She was a summer clerk six years ago. Zach’s only been an associate for two years.”

  “Check with him anyway.”

  “I will.”

  Vince stopped in front of Mrs. Fairmont’s house.

  “Thanks again,” I said as I opened the door to get out.

  “You’re welcome. Let me know if you ever need me.”

  Vince drove away. For such a smart guy, he was simple and uncomplicated. I felt so relaxed and secure with him. Before entering the house, I looked up at the stars, not for guidance, but assurance that the God who created them and held their light, and my life, in his hands would direct my steps according to his will.

  22

  FRIDAY NIGHTS WERE SPECIAL FOR SISTER DABNEY. WHILE MOST of the world looked forward to celebrating the weekend, Sister Dabney closed the blinds and kept her eye on the kitchen clock with the newspaper opened to the page that gave the time for sunset. As the sun went down, she lit a single candle and placed it on the scuffed-up coffee table in the living room. Sitting in the red rocker, she opened her Bible to a book she reserved for herself.

  And read about the bride and the bridegroom.

  The ritual had started years before when she was a young woman. She and Russell were holding tent meetings in southern Illinois. People started coming to the services, and the Dabneys checked out of a cheap motel to move into a duplex owned by a Jewish woman. The woman, a widow, lived in the other half of the house and believed Jesus was her Messiah. As part of the rent she allowed Sister Dabney to wash and dry clothes in her unit. The woman listened to Sister Dabney but politely refused an invitation to attend the meetings.

  One Friday evening Sister Dabney went next door and found the woman dressed in nice clothes, lighting candles, and singing in a language Sister Dabney didn’t recognize.

  “What are you singing about?” she asked.

  “It’s a song my mother sang when I was a girl. I’m welcoming the Sabbath. Shabbat Shalom.”

  “You don’t have to do that anymore.”

  “I know; I get to. It means so much more to me now than before.”