“Wait here,” she said.
She went to the kitchen, got a black plastic bag, and returned to the porch.
“Don’t come back until this is full,” she said to Sonny. “And while you’re picking up trash, think about asking the Lord to put your sins in a dark bag where no one can see them and throw them away.”
Sonny took the bag. “And what can I be thinking about to eat?”
“I’ll fry an extra pork chop.”
Sonny turned around and took off for the church at a slow trot.
“Don’t just look for something big to put in that bag,” Sister Dabney called after him. “The Lord hates little sins as much as big ones.”
WEDNESDAY MORNING I couldn’t get the Dabney deposition out of my mind during my morning run. Over the past two days I’d considered countless scenarios—everything from Sister Dabney rebuking Mr. Carpenter like an Old Testament prophet to the woman preacher leaving the room in triumph after the senior partner sheepishly agreed to drop the case. In my most realistic version, Sister Dabney stared at me without saying a word until I broke down in tears, vowed never to practice law, and quit my job. Of course, there was also a good chance Mr. Carpenter would do nothing more than make Sister Dabney look like a bigoted idiot.
All my clothes were conservative and modest, but I selected a dress I knew Mama liked and left off the faint swipe of lipstick and hint of makeup I’d started using since working at the law firm. I wrapped my hair in a bun and checked my appearance from several angles. Then I debated: I’d never worn my hair in a bun to work, but it would send a strong signal of respect to Sister Dabney and might divert her wrath into another direction. The hairdo would be lost on Mr. Carpenter. Julie, on the other hand, would attack me mercilessly. I opened my fingers and let my hair fall past my shoulders. Wearing my hair in a bun today would be an act of cowardice, not conviction. I brushed it out.
When I walked into the library, Julie was staring at a computer screen.
“What are you doing here so early?” I asked in surprise.
“Trying to do my job.”
“You usually begin that later in the day.”
Julie pushed her chair away from the computer.
“I had trouble sleeping last night and decided I may as well do something productive besides tossing and turning in bed.”
“Is there a problem with Joel?”
“No, he wasn’t there.”
I felt my face flush. “That’s not what—”
“Actually, my mind was spinning in circles about your preacher woman’s deposition. Have you thought how she might react to being questioned? Mr. Carpenter will be aggressive.”
“I know.”
“What if she stands up and starts screaming at the top of her lungs or goes postal and pulls out a gun?”
“She might yell, but I don’t think she’s violent.”
“How do you know? Haven’t you ever taken a religious history course? People do more crazy, violent things in the name of religion than anything else. And most of them believed they were obeying God the whole time.”
“No.” I shook my head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Are you going to guarantee the safety of everyone in the room?”
Julie persisted.
“You sound hysterical.”
Julie looked at me, her eyes wide. “I’ve had premonitions like this before and they’ve been pretty accurate. I’m warning you to be on the lookout for anything threatening. Dabney might be willing to hurt herself if she can get vengeance against her enemies. Is Mr. Paulding going to be here?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Good.”
Muttering, Julie turned back to the computer terminal. I opened the file and stared unseeing at the deposition questions. The minutes dragged by. Julie left for a meeting with one of the other lawyers. At ten o’clock the intercom buzzed. I jumped. It was Mr. Carpenter’s secretary.
“This is Tami,” I said, pressing the button.
“Come into the main conference room. Mr. Carpenter wants to meet with you and the client. Bring your investigation files.”
As I walked down the hall, all I could think about was why Jason Paulding had decided to attend the deposition. I knocked softly on the door to the conference room and entered.
“Tami, you remember Jason Paulding from our initial interview.
While we wait to see if Dabney shows up, I thought it would be helpful for Jason to hear what you’ve uncovered in your investigation.”
“What part?”
Mr. Carpenter gave me a forced smile. “The relevant parts would be a good starting place.”
I sat at the table and read excerpts from the witness statements in a monotone voice. Mr. Carpenter interjected comments about the connection between the information and the legal requirements for libel and slander.
“As you can see, we have her both ways,” the senior partner said at one point.
There was a knock on the door. Mr. Carpenter’s secretary came in.
“Ramona Dabney and the court reporter are in the reception area.”
“Thanks, Sharon.”
The secretary left. Mr. Carpenter turned to Paulding.
“I owe you that bottle of wine,” the lawyer said with a smile, then turned toward me. “I’d bet Jason a liter of good cabernet that the defendant wouldn’t show up.”
“She’s never backed down in any of my attempts to deal with her,” Paulding answered with a shrug. “I didn’t think she’d start now.”
“Are you staying?” I asked, trying to hide my apprehension.
“Of course not,” Mr. Carpenter answered. “Jason, I’ll give you a call when we finish and give you my initial take on what we get from the witness. Don’t expect to hear from me for several hours.”
“I just wanted to claim that bottle of wine,” the developer replied. “Spending five seconds in the same room with Dabney would spoil it.”
“I’m glad he won’t be here,” I said as soon as the door closed behind him. “I think his presence would have needlessly antagonized the witness.”
“You’re right,” Mr. Carpenter answered grimly. “That’s my job.”
He pressed the button on the phone for the intercom. “Send in the court reporter, wait two minutes, and send in Ms. Dabney.”
The court reporter, an efficient-looking middle-aged woman, arrived and set up her machine at one end of the table. I sat with my sweaty hands resting on the conference table. I could see that Mr. Carpenter had marked up the questions Julie and I had prepared.
“You should be taking this deposition,” Mr. Carpenter said.
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want to. It’d make you a stronger lawyer. But don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to push your limits. Believe it or not, it still happens to me every now and then. There was a case in federal court in Jacksonville six months ago—”
The conference room door opened, and Sister Dabney came into the room. She was wearing a light blue dress that looked like it had come from a thrift store. Her hair was in a tight gray bun; however, a few strands had escaped and were plastered to her forehead. It must be a hot day outside. The wrinkles in her face were more pronounced up close. Like me, she’d not put on any makeup. Her eyes went to mine and stopped.
“This is Ms. Taylor, one of our summer law clerks,” Mr. Carpenter said affably. “And I’m Joe Carpenter, the attorney representing Jason Paulding in this case. Please sit beside our court reporter so she can do her job more efficiently.”
Sister Dabney paid no attention to Mr. Carpenter. She kept her gaze fixed on me. I felt myself slipping into one of my imaginary scenarios. But no tears came to my eyes.
They came to hers.
Mr. Carpenter cleared his throat. “Would you like a glass of water or a cup of coffee?”
Two tears raced down the woman’s wrinkled face. The one on her left cheek beat the one on the right and fell from her face onto
the shiny table. Barely breathing, I looked into the old woman’s eyes and saw deep pain entombed in an indomitable will. Anxiety about a job, my future as a lawyer, or what others might think about me shriveled to microscopic insignificance. I was in the room and not in the room; the veil between heaven and earth thinned. Mr. Carpenter became as irrelevant as a poorly worded question. All that mattered was Rachel Ramona Dabney, a person in need, a woman for whom God’s com-passion had not yet found its limit. But I didn’t know what to do or say.
“You need to speak it,” the old woman said in a creaky voice.
And in that instant I knew the meaning of the moment.
“‘Lazarus, come forth,’” I said in a calm voice.
Sister Dabney lifted her hands and let out a shriek that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
“Ma’am, if you’re not feeling well, we can reschedule the deposition for another day,” Mr. Carpenter said in alarm.
I continued, “‘And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave clothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, “Loose him, and let him go.”’”
Sister Dabney cried out again, bent over, and began to sob. Her body shook violently. Mr. Carpenter looked at me.
“I don’t know what’s going on here, but you need to put a stop to it!”
“I can’t.”
He redirected his attention to the witness. “Ms. Dabney, it won’t be possible to go forward with your deposition if you aren’t able to control yourself.”
Sister Dabney shook her head from side to side and continued to wail. Mr. Carpenter turned to me in dismay.
“Should we call an ambulance?”
“No, sir,” I replied with surprising calm. “I think we should wait a few minutes and see how she feels. Could we let her sit in here by herself for a while?”
“No,” the senior partner replied.
“Then I’ll stay,” I volunteered. “You and the court reporter could take a break. I’ll find out if we can go forward with the deposition or not and let you know.”
Mr. Carpenter stared at me for a second, then looked at his watch. “I’ll wait ten minutes. If she’s emotionally unable to answer questions, we’ll reschedule the deposition.”
Sister Dabney let out a loud sob. Mr. Carpenter spoke to her.
“Madam, this outburst won’t change anything that we’re going to do to represent our client’s interests.” As he left the room, he said to me in a low voice, “Remember why we’re here.”
“Yes, sir.”
The court reporter followed him from the conference room.
Sister Dabney, her head bowed, continued to sob. She neither paid attention to Mr. Carpenter’s departure nor seemed to care that I remained. I sat quietly and waited. Sobs turned to softer crying that dissolved into a few sniffles. I slid a box of tissues across the table. She grabbed a handful but didn’t look at me. I checked my watch. Five minutes passed before the crying subsided. Sister Dabney raised her head. Her eyes and nose were red, which made her appear more bizarre than ever.
“I didn’t see this coming until I stepped into this room. It’s the last place I would have expected to find the word of life. But that’s what a tomb is all about. No one expects life to come forth out of a grave.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m the young woman who knows Oscar Callahan.”
“You’ve visited the church a couple of times. And I was led into prayer for you one day at my house.” Her face clouded over. “You were spying on me?”
“Yes, ma’am. But the first time I came to the church, I felt like I’d come home.”
Sister Dabney glanced around the conference room as if seeing it for the first time.
“There is much wickedness in this place. Overweening pride lives here. What fellowship does light have with darkness?”
“None, but I think I was supposed to be here for you this morning.”
“Yes, you were.” She nodded, then stared at me for a couple of seconds. “Do you want me to tell you what I see?”
“Only if you’re supposed to.”
Sister Dabney grunted. “Not many people give me that answer. I’ll hold on to the message and ask the Lord to make it grow.”
“I’m young and want to—” I stopped.
“You don’t know what you want,” she said brusquely. “But you’ve been obedient today. That’s the place to start. I heard the sound of resurrection in your voice calling me out of the cave of despair. I’ve been laboring for others without hope for myself. A few strips of my grave clothes are gone, and now I have faith more will fall.”
“Yes, ma’am. God’s Word never loses its power.”
Sister Dabney cried out again. I jumped. It wasn’t a shriek or a wail; it was a shout that sounded vaguely familiar, like the occasional cries from older members of my church when they felt moved by the Spirit. Sister Dabney clapped her hands together.
“This has been a good meeting,” she said, her face cracking into a smile that made her wrinkles run uphill. “It’s about time for your boss to return.”
As if on cue, the door opened and Mr. Carpenter stuck his head in the door.
“Is she ready to proceed?” he asked me.
I turned to Sister Dabney and raised my eyebrows.
“Let’s get to it,” she said, turning in her chair so she could face Mr. Carpenter. “It doesn’t matter what you ask, all you’ll get from me is the truth.”
29
MR. CARPENTER CLEARED HIS THROAT. “TAMI, PLEASE GET THE court reporter. She’s in the reception area.”
I left the conference room and found the court reporter reading a women’s magazine and sipping a cup of coffee.
“We’re ready,” I said.
“Could I borrow this for a couple of days?” she asked, holding up the magazine. “I’d like to finish this article about the best beaches on the East Coast. I can bring it back when I’m here on Friday for a deposition with one of the other lawyers.”
I nodded, not sure if I had the authority to authorize removal of magazines from the office, but feeling bold enough to risk it. The court reporter gathered up her equipment.
“That was a different way to start a deposition,” I said.
“I do a lot of domestic cases. Hysterical women aren’t all that uncommon.”
We returned to the conference room. Sister Dabney, her eyes closed, was sitting in a chair with a bottle of water in front of her.
Mr. Carpenter had his head down, reviewing his notes. The court reporter took her place.
“Ready,” she announced.
“This will be the deposition of Rachel Ramona Dabney taken pursuant to notice for purposes of discovery under the provisions of the Georgia Civil Practice Act . . .”
I listened to Mr. Carpenter recite the lawyer’s litany before the start of a deposition. I’d read several depositions, and he tracked the customary language without a slip. It was like watching an experienced driver buckle a seat belt, turn on a car’s engine, and scan the gauges to make sure nothing appeared amiss. He finished and turned to the court reporter.
“Will you swear in the witness?”
I watched as Sister Dabney raised her right hand and said, “I do.”
“Please state your name,” Mr. Carpenter said.
“Rachel Ramona Dabney.”
“Have you ever gone by any other names?”
“I was a Miller before I married.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Forty-one years.”
Sister Dabney’s voice was level. Except for redness around her eyes, she showed no signs of the emotion that had racked her body a few minutes earlier. I knew Mr. Carpenter would ask a lot of background questions without any direct relevancy to the case. A discovery deposition is an unrestricted opportunity to find out as much as possible about a person. Few objections are allowed, and since no lawyer was representing Sister Dabne
y, the only limit to Mr. Carpenter’s questions would be the witness’s willingness to answer. Soon it was apparent that Sister Dabney didn’t intend to frustrate the process. She came across as very open and forthright. Her grammar was good, and it didn’t surprise me to learn that she’d finished college at a small school in central Alabama. When the questions started exploring her life in ministry, the answers grew longer. I listened with interest as she described the places she’d been and what she and her husband did. She rarely glanced in my direction. After an hour, she asked if we could take a bathroom break.
“I’ll show her where it is,” the court reporter volunteered.
The two women left Mr. Carpenter and me in the conference room.
“Whatever you did worked,” the senior partner said when the door closed. “This is going much more smoothly than I’d hoped. I thought she would be refusing to respond or try to ask me questions.
Was that a Bible verse you cited?”
“Yes, sir. It’s from John chapter eleven.”
“The code these fanatics use is beyond me. Not that I’m lumping you into the same pot as Dabney,” he added quickly, “but you under-stand religious lingo, which is like a foreign language to me.”
“Sister Dabney and I may not be in the same pot, but we’re cooking on the same stove.”
Mr. Carpenter gave me a puzzled look. “I won’t unpack that with you now, but at some point I need to know how that might affect your ability to function in this law firm.” He paused. “So long as we don’t violate any of the antidiscrimination laws, of course. I trust you’re interested in a job when you get out of law school, not a law-suit because you don’t get an offer.”
His concern almost made me smile.
“Mr. Carpenter, I can assure you I’m not posturing for a discrimination suit. I appreciate the opportunity to work here. It’s been hard, but as you told me the other day, that’s how I can grow.”
“Good,” Mr. Carpenter grunted. “You’re honest, more blunt than I’m used to from a summer clerk who is so polite most of the time, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”
Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope Page 33