Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  I didn’t answer. Refusing his offer of a hand to steady me, I got into the sidecar as gracefully as I could. Zach turned on the motor and backed up. As he did, a car passed behind us as it entered the lot. I turned my head and saw Julie, her mouth gaping open, staring at me from the passenger seat.

  “Do you want to know what the homeowner told me?” Zach asked.

  “Tell me after we get there.”

  The pleasure I’d felt toward the end of the motorcycle ride on Saturday didn’t return during the short, bumpy trip to the courthouse. I clutched the Jones file in my lap and looked straight ahead. I didn’t have to wonder if every pedestrian or the people in other vehicles were staring at me. Zach turned into the courthouse parking lot and stopped next to a green motorcycle.

  “That’s a nice bike, made in Italy,” he said as we took off the helmets.

  I pushed myself up with my hands and got out of the sidecar. “I’m not wearing motorcycle clothes. Did your father take your mother to church in a motorcycle sidecar?”

  “Sometimes. But you have to remember, my parents were living near L.A.”

  Zach locked up the helmets.

  “Which courtroom?” he asked as we climbed the steps.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Follow me.”

  I held back for a second, but it looked silly for me to walk two steps behind him. We entered the building together.

  “What about the homeowner?” I asked.

  “After I told Mr. Fussleman about Moses’ life on the river, he said it reminded him of Huck and Jim. He’s willing to ask the judge for a lenient sentence.”

  “What about the other dock owners?”

  “I hope they won’t be here. Moses used Mr. Fussleman’s dock more than any of the others, so you can argue he’s the party who suffered the most damage.” Zach glanced sideways at me as we waited for an elevator. “Have you written out your argument for the judge?”

  “No.”

  “You’ll have a few minutes after we talk to Mr. Fussleman, and maybe our case won’t be the first one called.”

  “Vince has a case—” I stopped. I could have ridden with Vince and avoided the sidecar.

  We got off the elevator and turned left down a broad hallway. A cluster of people were milling around.

  “I hope all these people aren’t on our calendar,” Zach said.

  He opened the door to the courtroom. It was a large room with bench seating. At least a hundred people were already present. The thought of making my unprepared argument to Judge Cannon in front of a big crowd made my hands sweat. Zach walked to the front of the courtroom. I followed. He turned around and spoke in a loud voice.

  “Is Mr. Fussleman here?”

  All the conversations ceased, and everyone looked around to see if Mr. Fussleman identified himself. No one raised his hand or came forward. There was a row of chairs in front of a railing that separated the crowd from the area in front of the bench and the jury box on the right-hand side of the room. Zach sat down and motioned for me to join him.

  “What is Mr. Fussleman going to say?” I asked.

  “Fussleman grew up here and knows men like Moses who roam up and down the river. I want him to meet Moses before the calendar call. Once Fussleman sees how harmless he is, he may ask the judge to let Moses go free without any more jailtime and even allow Moses to use his dock as long as he doesn’t do anything except tie up for the night. That would take care of two problems at once.”

  It was a much better plan of action than the nonexistent one I’d come up with.

  “That’s great,” I said.

  Zach glanced sideways at me. “I promised to help.”

  I felt ashamed. I’d been petty and prideful. I pressed my lips together and silently asked God to forgive me. Zach stood up again. An apology to him would have to wait.

  “Is Mr. Fussleman here?” he called out again.

  An older man with gray hair and wearing a business suit raised his hand in the air.

  “Come on,” Zach said to me.

  We walked to the rear of the courtroom. Zach extended his hand and introduced himself. “Thanks so much for coming,” he said. “I know it’s inconvenient.”

  Zach introduced me to Mr. Fussleman, who smiled.

  “Mr. Mays told me this was your first case,” he said. “One of my daughters is a young lawyer in Washington, D.C. When I thought about her, I had to see what I could do to help you sort this out.”

  “Thank you,” I said gratefully.

  “Let’s step into the hallway,” Zach suggested.

  More people were entering the courtroom. We found a quiet spot. Mr. Fussleman looked at me expectantly. I knew my job—to tell him Moses Jones was a harmless old man who wouldn’t hurt anything except the fish he caught for supper. I did my best, but I kept thinking about the newspaper photograph of Lisa Prescott and her face that continued to accuse Moses from a watery grave. Mr. Fussleman listened thoughtfully. The few times I glanced at Zach, I couldn’t decipher his expression. Vince walked past us and into the courtroom.

  “What do you want me to do?” Mr. Fussleman asked when I finished.

  “Tell Judge Cannon that as one of the dock owners, you support releasing Mr. Jones for time already served in jail, and in the future would allow him to tie up for the night at your dock so long as he didn’t interfere with your use of the facilities or cause any damage to your property.”

  “I want to meet Mr. Jones before I agree to anything, but I don’t think I have any objection to releasing him from jail.” He hesitated a moment before continuing, “But I can’t agree to let him use my dock.”

  My face fell.

  “Unless he checks with me first,” he finished.

  “It may be late at night,” I replied.

  “I’m usually up past eleven. If it’s later than that, he will have to pole his boat back down the river.”

  His proposal was more than fair.

  “Can we meet with Moses?” I asked Zach.

  “Let’s try.”

  We returned to the courtroom.

  “There’s Maggie Smith,” Zach said.

  There were three female members of the district attorney’s staff stacking up files at one of the tables used by the lawyers.

  “Which one?”

  “The shorter one with brown hair.”

  Zach ushered Mr. Fussleman to a seat directly behind the railing. We approached Ms. Smith. Zach extended his hand.

  “We met at a young lawyers section meeting last year,” he said. “You may not remember me—”

  “It’s hard not to notice a male lawyer in Savannah with long hair who rides a motorcycle.”

  I glanced down. Ms. Smith wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.

  “One of the dock owners, a Mr. Fussleman, is here,” Zach said. “He’d like to meet our client.”

  “Why?”

  Zach turned to me, and I explained our purpose. Smith shrugged.

  “Okay. If none of the other dock owners show up, I won’t oppose a guilty plea for time served as long as there is a period of probation. I don’t want Jones claiming ownership of a dock by adverse possession.”

  “Will you support the plea?” Zach asked.

  Smith looked at Zach and smiled. “No, but I’ll be very clear that I don’t oppose it.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  We returned to the area where the lawyers were sitting. Vince and Russell Hopkins, his supervising attorney, were at the opposite end of our row. A side door opened, and a long line of prisoners wearing jail uniforms entered. Toward the end of the line I saw Moses. None of the men in his group were shackled. A smaller group in leg irons and handcuffs followed.

  “Why are some of them wearing handcuffs?” I asked Zach.

  “Probably felony cases. Moses and the others are the misdemeanor, nonviolent cases.”

  Moses saw me and smiled. It made me feel creepy.

  “Let’s talk to the deputy,” Zach said.

&nb
sp; Zach went up to one of the deputies I recognized from my visits to the jail and told him about Mr. Fussleman. The deputy motioned to Moses.

  “You can talk to him at the end of the row,” the deputy said. “But you’d better make it quick. The judge will be here in a minute, and he’ll want everyone in their places.”

  “Get Fussleman,” Zach told me. “I’ll tell Moses what we’re trying to do.”

  I brought Mr. Fussleman over. Zach was whispering into Moses’ ear.

  “What dock be yours?” Moses asked Fussleman.

  “The one with the blue and white boat.”

  Moses nodded. “Yes sir. That’s a mighty nice piece of boat.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Moses, are you sorry that you used Mr. Fussleman’s dock without permission?” Zach asked the old man.

  Moses looked at Zach then Mr. Fussleman. “I didn’t use nobody’s dock except as a place to put a piece of cotton rope. I’m sorry that the policemans put me in jail and lock me and my boat up. That’s what makes my heart cry in the night.”

  “Moses doesn’t believe the river belongs to anyone,” I said, “but he’s agreed not to tie up at private docks without permission in the future, right?”

  I held my breath for a second, hoping Moses wouldn’t back down on his promise.

  “That be right, missy.”

  “And Mr. Fussleman might be willing to let you tie up if you ask his permission in advance before eleven o’clock at night,” I added.

  Moses looked at Mr. Fussleman. “That’s mighty nice of you, boss man. You let Moses know, and I’ll clean that blue and white boat for free and scrub your dock. And you know that yellow line at the edge, the one that be going away fast? I paint it for you.”

  Mr. Fussleman shook Moses’ hand. “Come by when you get out of jail, and we’ll talk about it.” The dock owner turned to me. “This man doesn’t need to be locked up. I’ll testify if you need me.”

  “All rise!” announced one of the bailiffs on duty. “The Superior Court of Chatham County is now in session, the Honorable Clifton Cannon presiding.”

  The judge, an older, white-haired man, sat down without looking in the direction of the lawyers.

  “Be seated!” the bailiff called out.

  The judge turned toward the DA’s table. “Ms. Smith, are you ready?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Let’s hear pleas first, reserving the motion to suppress in State v. Robinson to the end of the calendar.”

  “Yes sir, we have twenty-six cases here for arraignment. Based on the discussions with counsel, several of those intend to plead guilty.”

  I licked my lips. There was less than a five percent chance that Moses’ case would be the first one called. I desperately wanted to watch a few experienced lawyers navigate the waters before I was thrown in. I leaned close to Zach.

  “What if we’re first?”

  “Then I’ll be back to the office in time to get some work done.”

  It was an unsympathetic answer. Ms. Smith picked up a file from her stack.

  “State v. Jones,” she called out.

  Zach stood up. I was so shocked that I didn’t move.

  “Come on,” Zach said.

  I got to my feet and stepped into the open area in front of the judge. A deputy culled Moses from the rest of the prisoners and brought him to stand beside me.

  “Your Honor, I’m Zach Mays, and this is Ms. Tami Taylor, a summer clerk with our firm,” Zach said. “You appointed Ms. Taylor to represent Mr. Jones, and the firm asked me to supervise her work on the case.”

  Judge Cannon had bushy white eyebrows. He brought them together and glared at me. Ms. Smith spoke.

  “Mr. Jones is charged with twenty-five counts of trespassing by tying up his boat at private docks on the Little Ogeechee River.”

  “I believe it’s twenty-four counts,” I corrected.

  “A difference without a distinction,” the judge grunted. “How does he plead?”

  I looked at Zach.

  “Mr. Mays is not your client,” the judge barked at me.

  “Uh, Your Honor, Mr. Jones has been in jail for over two months, and we would like to enter a guilty plea as long as he is released for time served followed by a one-year period of supervised probation.”

  Moses’ voice startled me. “My boat, missy. Don’t be forgetting.”

  “Yes sir. His boat was seized, and he would like it back.”

  “Ms. Taylor, you do not enter into plea negotiations with me while I’m sitting on the bench trying to work my way through a crowded calendar.”

  “Yes sir. We talked to Ms. Smith,” I responded quickly. “She has no objection to my proposal.”

  “Is that right?” the judge asked the assistant DA.

  “We will leave the sentence to Your Honor’s discretion but do not oppose defense counsel’s suggestion.”

  “Was there any physical damage to property warranting restitution?” the judge asked.

  “No sir,” I replied. “And one of the dock owners, Mr. William Fussleman, is present and willing to testify in favor of the proposed plea.”

  I pointed in the direction of Mr. Fussleman, who stood up.

  “That won’t be necessary,” the judge said. “Mr. Jones?”

  Moses looked up.

  “Are you Moses Jones?” the judge repeated.

  “That be me.”

  “Are you aware of the charges against you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The judge looked down at the papers before him. “Did you illegally tie up your boat at these docks without permission of the owners?”

  “I just be stopping by for a while to get some sleep. I don’t hurt no one or nothing.”

  “Counsel, will you agree your client’s statement is the equivalent of an affirmative answer?” the judge asked me.

  “Yes sir.”

  “Mr. Jones, do you realize that I do not have to accept your lawyer’s suggestion about releasing you from jail and could sentence you to twenty-four one-year sentences to run consecutively, said sentences to be served in the Georgia State Penitentiary?”

  Moses stared at the judge without a hint of understanding in his eyes.

  “Your Honor,” I began. “I explained—”

  “I wish I had more time for you to practice being a lawyer, Ms. Taylor, but I don’t. I’m not going to accept your recommendation for sentence. Mr. Jones has demonstrated a repeated and callous disregard for the property of others, and I have no confidence he will modify his conduct in the future. If he wants to plead guilty, I will refer him for a presentence investigation, then sentence him in a way I deem appropriate. If that is acceptable we’ll proceed. Otherwise, you may withdraw your offer of a guilty plea.”

  I turned to Zach in panic and whispered, “What do I do?”

  Zach spoke. “Your Honor, we withdraw the plea.”

  “Very well. Have him enter his not-guilty plea on the accusation.”

  Ms. Smith pushed a piece of paper in front of me and pointed to a place beneath the words “Not Guilty.” Moses scrawled his name in the space provided. It was the same signature I’d seen at the bottom of the confession. The deputy led Moses back to the group of prisoners. When I turned away, Vince, a look of genuine sympathy on his face, caught my eye.

  “State v. Brown,” Ms. Smith called out.

  Vince and Russell stood. Zach and I passed them as we walked down the aisle. Mr. Fussleman joined us. The three of us returned to the hallway.

  “Was that a surprise?” Fussleman asked.

  “Yes,” Zach answered. “There is no guaranteed result in front of a judge, but they often look to the prosecutor for recommendations on sentencing. Otherwise, the system totally bogs down.”

  “We’re bogged down,” I said. “What do we do next?”

  “Get ready to try the case,” Zach said, his jaw firm.

  MOSES WATCHED THE TALL GIRL who wasn’t a real lawyer and the young lawyer helping her leav
e the courtroom. The man sitting next to him nudged his arm.

  “They gave you a couple of practice lawyers?” the man asked in a low voice.

  Moses grunted.

  “Judge Cannon,” the man continued. “They named him right. He’ll blow you up into a million pieces. I saw what he did to you. One of my cousins pleaded guilty to writing a few bad checks and got sent to a work camp for a year and a half.”

  “I couldn’t handle no work camp,” Moses said.

  “Oh, they wouldn’t do that to you,” the man reassured him. “At your age you’ve got nothing to worry about. They have a special prison over in Telfair County that’s like a nursing home. They bring three meals a day on a tray to your room and change your bedsheets three times a week.”

  Moses glanced sideways at the man to see if he was telling the truth. A faint smile at the corners of the man’s mouth betrayed the lie. Another prisoner was called forward. Moses watched and listened. The man was charged with destroying the front of a convenience store by ramming it with his truck when the clerk inside wouldn’t sell him any beer. The man’s lawyer wore a fancy suit and smiled when he spoke to the judge. The prisoner received probation and was ordered to pay for the damage. He returned to the group with a grin on his face. Moses heard him speak to the deputy.

  “General, once I get my civilian clothes, you won’t be seeing me anymore.”

  “You’ll be back as soon as you get your hands on a fifth,” the deputy replied impassively. “We’ll save a spot for you.”

  Moses rubbed his head. He hadn’t put a scratch on anyone’s dock. Why couldn’t he be set free? The next defendant was represented by a different lawyer. He also received probation. The man sitting next to Moses was called forward. He had a long history of drunk driving. The lawyer with the fancy suit represented him too. Moses expected the judge to give the man probation, but instead he sentenced him to three years in prison. When the man returned to the other prisoners, the smile at the corners of his mouth was gone.

  As the afternoon dragged on, a deep ache was churned in Moses’ gut. He would be returning to the jail and didn’t know how long he’d be there. Locked behind the thick walls with the high, narrow windows was little better than living in a casket. He closed his eyes and found himself in the dark on the river. The pain in his stomach was joined by a black sadness in his mind. Hope hadn’t been in the vocabulary of his heart for many years, but at least he’d been a survivor. Now, he wasn’t sure he wanted to live. The ache in the darkness increased. He saw the little girl’s face. Her golden hair, like wispy cords of death, reached out for him.