Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “Let me see the file,” he said.

  I handed it to him. He read the charges.

  “Moses Jones,” he said. “Drawn out of the water by the local police and thrown in the pharaoh’s prison. How many counts of trespassing?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  Zach handed the file back to me.

  “Should I file a motion for bond?” I asked.

  “No, go to the jail and talk to Mr. Jones. They usually set bond in cases like this when the person is arrested. Advise him not to give a statement to the police.” Zach yawned. “I could give more help if he’d been abducted from a Portuguese freighter in the Malaysian Straits. We have a firm that knows the exact amount of ransom to offer. I just don’t have time to do much with you until I catch a break in my caseload. Until then, you’re on your own.”

  I left Zach’s office hurt and confused. When I returned to the library, Vince was giving Julie her copy of the materials he’d prepared for me. Julie was wearing black slacks and a tight-fitting top. She smiled when I entered.

  “You should have gone with me last night,” she said. “There was a great blues band at one of the clubs along the river.”

  She turned to Vince. “Vinny, does blues music make you happy or sad? I think it can go either way. For me, hearing about someone else’s problems puts my own in perspective. But it makes one of my friends sadder.”

  Vince glanced down at his laptop and didn’t answer.

  “Isn’t it the same with Southern gospel music?” Julie asked me. “You know, lyrics describing life as a peach pit until Jesus spits it out so that it can grow into a tree that reaches to heaven.”

  I wanted to tell Julie to shut up, but before I spoke, I saw a spark in her eyes that let me know she was baiting me.

  “That’s the worst idea for a song I’ve ever heard,” I responded. “And you’re confusing the Gospel of Matthew with ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’ I’m not a big fan of Southern gospel music, but it’s nothing like the blues. In Southern gospel, hardships are real, but sorrow is not the final destination.”

  “That’s poetic,” Vince said.

  “I need to get to work,” Julie said, rolling her eyes. “You can continue the music theory discussion without me.”

  “I’ll check with you about eleven thirty,” Vince said, moving toward the door.

  After he left, Julie turned to me. “Sounds like a lunch date. Did he call you last night and ask you to go out with him today?”

  “No, first thing this morning.”

  “I may be wrong about gospel music, but I know men. All the world’s greatest matchmakers are Jewish.”

  “That’s why I’m praying to Jesus and asking him to find the right husband for me. You know Jesus is Jewish, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, a lot of Jews have a touch of the messiah complex in them,” she replied. “Let’s work on Folsom v. Folsom. A dose of divorce will keep you balanced as you go forward with Vinny.”

  We spent most of the morning sorting through financial documents and memos to and from Mr. Carpenter and J. K. Folsom. The business dealings were as confusing as a shell game at the county fair, but one thing became clear—Mr. Folsom didn’t want his estranged wife looking in every place he’d hidden money. Julie contacted the law firm she’d worked for in Atlanta, and a paralegal e-mailed research and pleadings Julie had prepared in two other cases.

  “Are you sure this is okay?” I asked. “The agreement I signed with the firm said it owned my work product.”

  “I didn’t sign anything in Atlanta.” Julie shrugged. “Beth is a friend who wouldn’t do anything wrong. It’s mainly research and sample questions, not facts about an identified client.”

  I had to admit that the information was very helpful. Julie had done a good job.

  “Did you make up all these interrogatory and deposition questions?” I asked.

  “No. Most of them were pulled from other files and transcripts. I organized them and made them fit our case, just like you’ll do for Folsom.”

  “I wish I had something like this for my criminal case,” I said. “I talked to Zach Mays for a few minutes early this morning, but he stayed up all night working for Mr. Appleby and doesn’t have time to help.”

  Julie looked at her watch. “Uh-oh, that reminds me. I’m late for a meeting with Ned about our bogus water-meter reader.”

  She grabbed her file, a legal pad, and rushed to the door. “Have a good lunch with Vinny,” she said. “Maybe you can hold hands under the table.”

  After she left, I worked steadily on a long list of questions for Mr. Carpenter to ask Marie Folsom during her deposition and didn’t check my watch until the library door opened. It was Vince.

  “Sorry,” he said with a sad face. “Mr. Appleby asked me to have lunch with him. I’m in the middle of a big project, and the general counsel for our client is coming into town from Birmingham. It may be the only face-to-face contact I have with the client all summer, so I can’t miss it.”

  “Sure,” I replied. “We’ll do it some other time.”

  “How about tomorrow?”

  “Maybe,” I replied noncommittally.

  Vince left. I stood and stretched. I’d reached a good stopping place in my work and wasn’t sure what to do next. I picked up the thin folder labeled State v. Jones. There was no use delaying. One lesson I’d learned from Mama was that if I didn’t begin a project, it wouldn’t get done. I went to the reception area.

  “Where is the jail?” I asked an older woman on duty after I introduced myself. “Is it near the courthouse?”

  “Used to be, but they moved it to the new complex with the sheriff ’s department.” She gave me an address and told me it was several miles away.

  “Does the bus line run there?” I asked.

  She gave me an odd look. “Why would you want to take a bus?”

  “I don’t own a car.”

  “Is your visit to the jail personal or business?”

  “Business.”

  “Then ask Gerry to let you use the firm car.”

  “The law firm has a car?”

  “Of course. The runners use it, and it’s available to the lawyers if one of them needs a vehicle.” She smiled. “I understand the air conditioner works. That and a motor is all you’ll need in Savannah.”

  I went upstairs to Ms. Patrick’s office. She was eating a salad at her desk.

  “May I use the firm car so I can visit a client at the jail?” I asked somewhat breathlessly.

  “Probably, unless it’s checked out.”

  “Who keeps that record?”

  “The receptionist on duty.”

  I returned downstairs. The woman saw me coming and spoke before I asked a question.

  “Yes, it’s here, and no one has reserved it until later this afternoon. I should have told you.”

  I turned around and climbed the stairs. Ms. Patrick made a photocopy of my driver’s license, and I signed several sheets of paper without reading them.

  “The receptionist can give you directions and the keys.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then stopped. “Oh, and I had a wonderful evening with Mrs. Fairmont last night. She’s a very gracious lady. We talked a long time at dinner and spent a time together in the parlor. She was completely lucid. I appreciate you putting me in touch with her daughter.”

  “I hope things continue to go well,” Ms. Patrick said, returning to her salad.

  I stepped outside into the heat, which made me doubly thankful I wouldn’t have to stand on a street corner, waiting for a bus or ride in a smelly cab. I found the car. It had just been returned, and the air conditioner began to cool the interior by the time I left the parking lot. Several minutes later I parked in front of the Chatham County Correctional Center. The size of the sheriff ’s department complex surprised me. It was larger than I suspected.

  I didn’t feel very confident. I’d gritted my teeth all the way through criminal law and procedure, and the law school course traine
d us to argue a case before the Supreme Court, not figure out the best way to dispose of a petty criminal offense. I wasn’t even sure how to conduct an effective interview.

  I presented the order from Judge Cannon to a female deputy in the lobby area of the jail. She left with the order. Beyond the lobby was a large open room with chairs and phones on either side of clear glass. It wasn’t visiting hours, and the room was empty. To my surprise, the jail smelled as clean as a hospital. The woman returned and handed the order to me.

  “Wait here until someone brings the prisoner from lockup,” she said. “Jones is a trusty so they may have to track him down.”

  I didn’t know what “trusty” meant, but it made me feel better about meeting a man who lived behind bars. A door behind the woman opened and a male deputy appeared.

  “Tami Taylor?” he asked.

  “Yes sir,” I answered before realizing it probably wasn’t necessary to be so formal.

  The deputy grinned. “Follow me.”

  The door clicked shut with a thud behind me. We walked down a short hallway to another door that opened when the deputy pushed a series of buttons. I could see surveillance cameras mounted on the wall. If the twins had been with me they would probably have waved to the cameras.

  We entered another room with several numbered doors around an open space. None of the doors had windows in them. A deputy sat behind a desk at one end of the room.

  “He’s in room 5,” the deputy said.

  “Do I go in alone?” I asked.

  “I don’t think Jones is a security risk,” the deputy answered. “If you have a concern, you can leave the door open. Deputy Jenkins and I will be on the other side of the room.”

  “All right.” I nodded grimly.

  I approached the door and pushed it open. It contained a small table and four plastic chairs. Standing by the table was an old black man with graying hair.

  “I’m Tami Taylor,” I said. “Are you Mr. Jones?”

  “Yes, missy. But you can call me Moses.”

  The man extended his hand. It felt like old leather. His fingernails were cracked and yellowed with age. I let the door close. The deputy was right. Moses didn’t look like a serious threat to my personal safety.

  “You be my lawyer?”

  “Sort of,” I said, then quickly added, “I’m a law student working for a law firm in Savannah this summer. One of the firm’s lawyers will be supervising what I do for you.”

  I put a blank legal pad on the table. We both sat down. I clicked open my pen. I wanted to be professional and efficient.

  “First, I need some background information. Your full name, Social Security number, and date of birth.”

  Moses turned his head to the side and made a sucking noise as he drew air into his mouth. I couldn’t see more than a couple of teeth.

  “Moses Jones is all I go by. My mama, she give me another name, Tobias, but I don’t never use it. I lost my Social Security card. The boss man, he pays me cash under the table. What else you want to know?”

  “Date of birth.”

  “I was born on June 5.”

  “What year?”

  “I’m seventy-one years old,” he said, “if that helps you figure it.”

  I wrote down the date and other information on the legal pad.

  “And your address?”

  “I ain’t got none.”

  “You’re homeless?”

  “No!” he said with more force than I expected. “I got me a place down on the river, but it ain’t on no road or nothing.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No, missy. I ain’t had a woman in my life for a long time.”

  “Any children?”

  “I had one, a boy, but he be dead.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Moses leaned forward and his eyes became more animated. “I never seen his face in the water. If ’n I did, I don’t think I could stand it.”

  “What water?” I asked.

  “The black water. In the night. That’s when the faces come up to look around. They don’t say nothing, but I can read their thoughts. They know that I know. They be calling out to me.”

  I wrote down his words. When I saw them on the legal pad, it made me feel creepy. I looked up. The old man was staring past my shoulder. I quickly turned around. All I saw was the blank concrete wall.

  “Do you see something in this room?” I asked hesitantly.

  “No, missy. But the faces ain’t never far from me. You from Savannah?”

  “No.”

  Moses Jones was obviously delusional and had mental problems much more serious than twenty-four counts of misdemeanor trespassing in his boat. He needed professional help. No one in our church ever admitted going to a psychologist or psychiatrist, but it made sense to me, at least until God came in to straighten out a person’s life.

  “Well, you may need to talk to someone about that later,” I said.

  “I told the detective all about it. He asked me a lot more questions than you.”

  “Which detective?”

  “I don’t know his name. He be young and black.”

  “Did he question you about tying your boat up to docks where you didn’t have permission?”

  Moses nodded his head. “Yeah, but I told him the river, it belong to God who made it. How can anyone own a river? It always be moving and changing. You can’t hold on to water like you can a piece of dirty ground.”

  I was startled by his logic. In a way, it made sense.

  “But when a person builds a dock on the river, that’s private property,” I answered. “That’s why you were arrested, because you tied up your boat where you didn’t have permission.”

  “Who’m I going to ask? Will a man be happy and hug my neck if ’n I come up on his house in the dark, beat on his door, and say, ‘I want to tie up for the rest of the night. I won’t hurt a thing. My rope, it don’t leave a mark. And I’ll be slipping away at dawn light?’”

  “The law says you have to get permission.”

  “You be the lawyer. Make the law right so I can leave this jailhouse with my boat.”

  “Where is your boat?”

  “In amongst the cars behind that tall fence. I can see it, but I can’t touch it. I don’t know if it be leaky or not.”

  “It’s here at the jail?”

  Moses nodded.

  “I’ll check into that for you. Have they set your bond?”

  “I reckon, but I ain’t got money for no bondsman. My boat ain’t worth nothing to nobody but me.”

  “Have you had a court hearing of any kind?”

  “I ain’t been before no judge, if ’n that’s what you mean.”

  “So they’ll leave you in here indefinitely for trespassing?” I asked, expressing my private thoughts.

  “That be your job, missy. Most of the time, the lawyer be the one to get a man out of this jail.”

  “Okay.”

  I opened the folder and looked again at the twenty-four counts. The scenario seemed clear. I spoke slowly.

  “You would fish at night and tie up at a private dock for a few hours of sleep until the sun came up.”

  “Yes, missy. That part be true. I never took nothing that weren’t mine.” He looked away. “Except for some other stuff.”

  “What other stuff?”

  “At the taverns where I cleaned up. I’d grab cooked food, a knife, a fork. Not every week, only when I was extra hungry or needed it.”

  All theft is wrong, but these newly admitted offenses weren’t part of the case I had to resolve, and I wasn’t a prosecutor. I sat back in my chair.

  “So what is our defense to the charges against you? They’ve listed twenty-four counts of trespassing when you tied up without permission at private docks. I agree with you that the river belongs to God, but the docks are private property.”

  Moses looked at me and blinked his dark eyes. “I want my boat back and to get out of this jailhouse so I can go to the river and ca
tch fish. I won’t bother nobody else. Never again.”

  “Will you stop tying up at private docks?”

  He rubbed his hand across the top of his head. “I been on that river before there be docks. I reckon I can say to myself they ain’t there no more.”

  “Does that mean you won’t tie up there?”

  “Yes, missy. That be exactly what that mean.”

  15

  I WATCHED DEPUTY JENKINS ESCORT MOSES OUT OF THE INTERVIEW area. I wasn’t sure I’d conducted an adequate first interview or not. I glanced down at my single page of notes. There didn’t seem to be any benefit in asking the old man about each count. I’m sure the story was the same. I considered my options.

  I could remind the judge that God, as the Creator of all things, owned all the rivers of the world and looked favorably on baby Moses when his basket trespassed onto waters reserved for Pharaoh’s daughter. Such an argument, while creative, wouldn’t make me look like a competent lawyer-in-training. I could follow Julie’s advice to subpoena the twenty-four dock owners to trial and hope none of them showed up. While trying the case would give me courtroom experience, it would also drag Zach Mays away from his more important work at the firm.

  The best course of action was obvious. Moses Jones ought to plead guilty to the charges with a promise not to trespass in the future. After receiving a stern lecture from the judge, he could be placed on a short period of probation. I reached the lobby.

  “Could I find out the name of the detective who interviewed my client, Moses Jones?” I asked the woman deputy on duty.

  “Give me the case number.”

  I handed her the file. She opened it and returned my notes.

  “You might want to keep this.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait here.”

  She left for several minutes. While I waited a deputy brought in a woman in handcuffs accompanied by two small girls. She stood forlornly with the little girls holding on to her legs while the officer spoke on a walkie-talkie to someone in another section of the jail. I stared, unable to pull my gaze away from the tragedy. The woman looked at me with eyes that pleaded for help. I took a step forward, then stopped. I had no right to intrude. The deputy took the woman by the arm and led her into the lockup area with the children trailing along behind.