“Ms. Saylor,” he said in a smooth voice.
“It’s Taylor,” I corrected, perhaps too abruptly.
“Sorry,” he said. “Tami, right?”
“Yes sir.”
We entered his office. It was about the same size as Mr. Callahan’s office. Apparently, Mr. Carpenter liked boats, because the walls were covered with pictures of yachts.
“I’ve been on the phone with so many people this morning the names are running together.”
He sat behind a large desk with a leather inlaid top and stared at me for several seconds without speaking. I shifted in my seat.
“You have a lovely office,” I said.
His phone buzzed and he picked it up. “Put him through,” he said after listening for a moment.
I started to get up, but he motioned for me to remain. The call involved a domestic relations case. Mr. Carpenter represented the husband who had filed for the divorce. I picked up that the man on the other end of the line was the lawyer for the wife. The main issue had to do with division of property.
“Our answers to your discovery set valuation of the marital estate at twenty-two million and change,” Mr. Carpenter said. “I think we should be able to arrive at an amicable resolution. My letter of the fifteenth is a starting point, but there is room for discussion on several items.”
Mr. Carpenter listened for a long time. I watched his jaw tighten and his lips turn downward.
“Bob, I don’t think you want to go there,” he said. “We can divide the pie, but if you try to throw it in my face, this will get messy.”
It seemed like a silly comment, but the way Mr. Carpenter said it sounded ominous. He listened again, then spoke in a steely voice.
“If that’s the way you want it, we’ll litigate into the next decade. Have your paralegal call Myra Dean to set up the depositions.” He paused. “And tell Mrs. Folsom my previous proposal is off the table. Our next offer will be less—a lot less.”
He hung up the phone and looked at me.
“Welcome to Savannah,” he said cheerily.
I gave him a startled look at his easy transition from threatening to friendly. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity.”
“Gerry tells me you’re living with Margaret Fairmont. She’s a gracious lady. Her husband was a great friend of Sam Braddock.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I have your résumé somewhere in here.”
The lawyer leafed through a short stack of papers on the corner of his desk.
“Have you met Vince and Julie?” he asked as he continued to search.
“Yes sir.”
“And you already know Zach Mays?”
“Not really. I met him a few weeks ago when I stopped by the office on a Saturday. He’s been very helpful in helping me acclimate to the firm.”
“Good, good. Zach is an earnest young man who isn’t afraid to ask hard questions. Here it is,” Mr. Carpenter announced, holding up a sheet of paper.
I watched while he skimmed the one-page summary of my life.
“That’s right. You worked for Oscar Callahan. It’s the reason I pulled your résumé out in the first place. Oscar gave you a glowing recommendation. If he’d stopped representing mill workers for petty injuries and crawled out of the mountains, he could have been one of the best litigators in the state.”
“Yes sir,” I said, not sure if agreeing with Mr. Carpenter would dishonor Mr. Callahan.
“His grandfather was a preacher, wasn’t he?”
“Yes sir.”
“If I recall, he was the leader of some kind of obscure religious sect that wanted to turn back the clock to the Dark Ages.”
I swallowed, not sure if this was a time to defend the faith or accumulate more information.
“Is that what Mr. Callahan told you?”
“How else would I have picked up that bit of trivia?” Mr. Carpenter slapped his hands together. “Enough of that. Let’s get down to business. Your summer at the firm will be a good mix of work and pleasure. I hope your experience will be intellectually stimulating. Law school prepares you to take tests, not practice law. We’ll have plenty of projects that will involve research within your comfort zone, but there will also be practical opportunities to broaden your experience.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m glad you had a chance to hear my side of the opening salvo in the Folsom divorce case. I don’t handle many divorce cases, but our firm is deeply involved in J.K. Folsom’s corporate dealings, and he doesn’t want another law firm to know his business. J.K. pays our top hourly rate for representation. Using you to assist with research and deposition preparation, I can keep his bills lower.”
My stomach went into a knot. I’d wanted to avoid domestic practice. Mr. Carpenter continued. “Have you taken a domestic relations course in law school?”
“No sir.”
“That’s not a problem. We’ll see how fast you can get up to speed in an unfamiliar area. We have a couple of treatises in the law library. Read them to get a foundation and dive into the fray. Divorce work is exciting because the emotions of the parties run wild. It’s key for the lawyer to keep her cool when others around her are losing theirs.”
Even when talking to a summer associate, I could tell Mr. Carpenter utilized dramatic pauses.
“Sounds like Kipling,” I managed, remembering a poem I’d memorized in homeschool.
Mr. Carpenter nodded approvingly. “Yes, it does.”
He buzzed his secretary and gave her instructions about giving me access to the file. He stood up, signaling an end to our meeting.
“I’ll see you at the luncheon. Until then, the library is your home.”
The secretary spoke as I passed her desk. “I’ll have a packet on the Folsom case ready for you by early afternoon,” she said. “In the meantime, the case number is 207642.”
“Thank you,” I replied without much feeling. “Where is the firm library?”
“On this floor at the west end of the building.”
Not being able to see the sun in the hallway, I wasn’t sure which way to turn, but I guessed the opposite end from Mr. Braddock’s office. I didn’t want to walk unannounced into another lawyer’s office. When I cracked open a wooden door and peeked inside I saw bookshelves. Sitting at a table with papers spread out before her was Julie Feldman.
“Are you alone?” I whispered.
“Not now.”
I sat down on the opposite side of the table. Even with the advent of computer research, the firm still maintained an extensive library of books. Several computer terminals for online use were in a row along one wall.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m shuffling papers and trying to understand what they say.” She looked up. “I haven’t taken a course in secured transactions. I know a few terms but none of the principles. I’m completely lost.”
“I loved my secured transactions course. It was taught by one of the best professors at the law school, and I enjoyed figuring out the different rules. But Mr. Carpenter has assigned me to a big divorce case. I’ve not taken a domestic relations course, and the only thing I know about divorce is that God doesn’t like it.”
Julie’s eyes opened wide. “That’s unreal. I spent last semester doing research for one of the best divorce lawyers in Atlanta. She handles a lot of high-profile breakups and knows all the tricks of the trade. Reading her files was more interesting than most of the novels my mother keeps on the nightstand in her bedroom.”
The irony of our predicament made me smile.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Julie asked.
“What? That we’re both being pushed out of our comfort zones?”
“No. We should switch projects.”
I shook my head. “Mr. Carpenter knows I haven’t studied domestic relations. He wants to see how quickly I can learn a new area. It’s part of the summer experience.”
“But we could help each other.”
&nb
sp; Julie’s suggestion surprised me. Law school was competitive, and a summer clerk opportunity raised the competition to a higher level because a job, not just a grade, was at stake. Even if we didn’t talk about it, I’d expected jockeying for a permanent job to affect all my interaction with Julie Feldman and Vince Colbert.
“How would we do that?”
“Talk about stuff. You can help me with these documents, and I can give you pointers about the divorce case. Where is your file?”
“I won’t have it until this afternoon. I’m supposed to be reading a treatise on divorce law in Georgia, but I’m not sure how many there are or which one is the best.”
Julie looked at her watch. “Here’s what we’ll do. It will be just like my study group at school. Help me figure out what I’m supposed to do for an hour and a half. Then, I’ll take you through a domestic relations treatise for an hour. I know which one to use. After lunch, we’ll spend time identifying your specific issues. And we’ll end the day in the guts of article nine of the uniform commercial code.”
I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.
“Okay.”
I took my chair around to Julie’s side of the table. The next hour and a half flew by as I organized the documents, located the key language in each one, and showed Julie the important dates.
“Which company are we representing?” I asked when we took a break. “I’ve been treating this like an exam question to unravel, not a case to win.”
“This one.” Julie pointed to a stack of documents. “I didn’t want to influence your opinion by letting you know in advance. Later, we can try to figure out how to make our case stronger.”
“You’re going to be a great lawyer. You have something law school can’t teach.”
“What’s that?”
“Wisdom.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’ll get the divorce book. Do we represent the husband or the wife?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not as much as it used to. Unless there are little kids, it’s all about the money.”
Julie went to the shelves and returned with a dark green volume. “You remind me of a rabbi,” she said as she sat down.
“Why?”
“You think about stuff that rabbis care about. Clothes, what God thinks about divorce, wisdom, ethics.”
“What do you care about?”
Julie looked at me and laughed. “See what I mean? That’s a rabbi question if I ever heard one. You can’t turn it off, can you?”
“No,” I admitted with a small smile.
“That’s okay. You’re not going to offend me. My cousins in New York are ultraorthodox. They’re always telling me what to do and think.” Julie opened the treatise. “Do you know the divorce rate among Christians?”
“A few years ago, it was about thirty percent, the same as everyone else. But that doesn’t mean all—”
“I think it’s higher, now,” Julie interrupted. “Closer to forty percent. Guess what the divorce rate is for ultraorthodox Jews?”
“I don’t know.”
“About three percent. Tell me, whose belief system is working? Of course, I’m not orthodox and don’t want to be, so I won’t have the benefit of those statistics.” She opened the book and flipped over a few pages. “Let’s see. Here’s where we should start.”
Julie launched into an efficient explanation of the divorce laws in Georgia. I didn’t like the subject matter, but it was much easier receiving it spoon-fed by a friendly face than groping along under the sharp questioning of a polemic professor. An hour later, the door opened. It was Vince Colbert, his laptop in his hand.
“Mr. Braddock sent me. It’s time for the luncheon.”
12
JULIE CHATTED WITH VINCE WHILE WE WALKED DOWN THE hall. I lagged behind. Her lack of antagonism to my beliefs was nice, but her casual attitude threw me off balance, as if she could trivialize the truth by rejecting it in a friendly way.
“Vince is our designated driver,” she called over her shoulder. “He knows where to go.”
Several lawyers were leaving the building at the same time. Introductions were made as we passed through the reception area and out to the parking lot. The bald lawyer I’d disturbed when I opened his door grunted when I offered an apology and returned to a conversation with one of his colleagues. Joe Carpenter wasn’t in the initial group. Zach Mays was also missing. We reached Vince’s car, a new BMW.
“Sit up front,” Julie told me. “Your legs are longer than mine.”
Vince looked at me as if evaluating the length of my legs. I blushed before opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat.
“Did you play sports in high school or college?” Julie asked me as soon as we were settled.
“Basketball in high school. Intramurals since.”
“I played soccer in high school,” she replied. “My father claims I’d have gone to Harvard or Yale if I’d not headed so many balls. What’s Yale like?”
Vince backed out of the parking lot. “It’s a law school. There are a lot of smart people.”
Vince rested his hand on top of the steering wheel. The scar on the back of his hand was very visible. It made me wonder what would happen if it was unprotected against the sun.
“Did you play sports in high school?” I asked him.
“No.”
“Are you going to take notes during lunch?” Julie asked.
“Yes.”
“I wish you would transfer to Emory and join my study group,” Julie said. “We need someone like you. But that would be a big comedown from Yale.”
If I hadn’t spent the morning with Julie, I would have considered it a sarcastic comment.
“She’s serious,” I added. “Julie would love having you in her study group. We accomplished a lot more this morning by working together.”
“I’m not in a study group,” Vince replied. He glanced at me. “Are you in a study group?”
“No, I’m a loner.”
“Me too,” he said.
I turned and saw Julie roll her eyes. The look caught me off guard and made me giggle. I put my hand over my mouth to suppress an outburst. Vince glanced sideways at me. The car swerved slightly.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Julie is trying to make me laugh.”
“There are rabbis who laugh,” she responded. “It’s kosher.”
Vince didn’t say anything and stared straight ahead. I suspected he wanted to get out of the car and away from two crazy, immature women as soon as possible.
We turned into the parking lot of a plain-looking building on the outskirts of the historic district. A small sign beside the door identified it as “The Smith House—Private Parties Only.” Gerry Patrick was standing beside the door.
“Have you been here before?” Julie asked Vince.
“For the rehearsal dinner before my sister’s wedding,” he said. “She was married in Savannah.”
We got out of the car. One of the lawyers came over to Vince, and the two left us. Julie put her hand on my arm and stopped me.
“You’d better keep that laugh under control and out of sight,” she said in a soft voice. “It may be kosher, but it’s also unprofessional. I thought Vince might drive onto the curb and mess up the alignment on his car.”
“It’s your fault. Making fun of me because I’m a loner.”
“Don’t you think I know what it’s like to be alone? I went to a college that didn’t have enough Jewish students to fill a table for eight. I almost assimilated.”
“What’s that?”
Julie started walking toward the door. “Lost my distinctiveness in an effort to blend in.”
“That’s one type of pressure I understand.”
Ms. Patrick greeted us. “How was your morning?”
Julie briefly told about our working together. I could tell Ms. Patrick was surprised.
“That’s good,” she said, looking at me. “Being part of a team is a good i
dea, especially on big projects. Go inside. Your places at the table are marked.”
The inside of the building was dark, and it took my eyes a second to adjust to the change in light. The interior had the look and smell of tradition. The walls were paneled in dark wood and decorated with old English hunting scenes. There was a coat and hat room to the right of the front door and a bar area to the left. An older lawyer with an ample waistline, wispy white hair, and blue eyes was talking to Vince, but when we entered, he came up to us.
“Sam Braddock,” he said, extending his hand.
Mr. Braddock began asking questions that made it clear he’d never seen our résumés. While Julie was summarizing her educational background, the door opened and Zach Mays came in, accompanied by a tall man who looked about the same age as Mr. Braddock but with ramrod-straight posture and assertive eyes. It was Nelson Appleby, the admiralty lawyer. When he shook my hand, I was surprised to notice that the veins on his stood out like those of a patient in a nursing home. His voice, however, was steady.
“Ms. Taylor, I think we’re sitting next to each other at lunch,” he said.
We moved into a large room with a table set up in the shape of a T. At the end of each table was a place for one of the named partners. Everyone stood around and talked for a few minutes until Mr. Carpenter arrived. A younger associate who looked frazzled came in with him.
My seat was to the left of Mr. Appleby with Zach Mays across the table from me. To my left was Barry Conrad, the lawyer I’d met when I first visited the firm. I started to ask him about his golf game, but he immediately began talking to the lawyer on his left. I heard the sound of a glass being tapped with a spoon and turned in my chair. It was Mr. Carpenter.
“Welcome to the firm luncheon in honor of our summer law clerks, Vince Colbert, Julie Feldman, and Tami Taylor. Before we begin the meal, I’d like each of them to tell us why they decided to spend the summer at our firm and an interesting or unusual fact about themselves. Tami, please go first.”
I’d not known an introductory speech was part of the program. Going first made it worse. My stomach suddenly felt queasy and my mouth went dry. I took a quick sip of water and stood up. Everyone was looking at me. I licked my lips. Julie, who was sitting beside Mr. Carpenter, gave the same eye roll she’d delivered in the car.
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