Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  “What did it say?”

  “Both Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Braddock are very familiar with the Prescott case. Mr. Carpenter attached copies of your memos about Moses Jones and mentioned that it was time ‘for us to find a way to finish what our fathers started.’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not sure, and I don’t know how or why, but Mr. Braddock is also involved. Both of them are very interested in Moses.”

  “Why?”

  “Think about it. For some reason, Moses is a threat that could damage the reputation of their families in Savannah. Can you imagine the impact on the law firm and its business? A lot of money flows through this office. If they think the threat is real, their goal may be to silence him. You could be hurt too.”

  My stomach turned over. “I can’t believe that.”

  “I don’t think they would physically harm you, but there are ways to destroy your future or credibility. I hope I’m wrong, but there’s no need to take any chances. Maybe you should put a halt to this.”

  “How? I don’t have enough information to go to Maggie Smith at the DA’s office and implicate Floyd Carpenter and Mr. Braddock’s father in an unsolved murder.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Maybe you should ask to be taken off the case. You could claim your religious beliefs prohibit representation of someone who is factually guilty.”

  It was a plausible argument—one that my mother would agree with. But at that moment, a different kind of religious conviction rose up within me. My faith was a foundation, not a crutch. I’d spent my whole life fighting pressure to compromise my convictions, and in every serious situation I’d passed the test. This was a different type of challenge, but I felt the same resolve and didn’t want to yield to what my conscience told me was evil pressure.

  “I don’t know,” I answered slowly. “That’s not necessarily true. I’ll have to think about it.” I paused. “And hear what God says.”

  24

  I CLOSED THE COVER ON THE CELL PHONE AND WAITED FOR A still, small voice to tell me what to do, but nothing came. I stared out the window. No angel with a drawn sword appeared in the sky over Savannah and called me to battle.

  I returned the phone to the young man.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Are you finished?”

  “No,” I answered slowly. “I’m just getting started.”

  I returned to the archive room and began checking the actual records. There were many files involving Floyd Carpenter and the Braddock law firm. The professional relationship between Lawrence Braddock and Floyd Carpenter spanned many years. As I worked my way through the files, a familiarity appeared in the correspondence that revealed a growing friendship.

  One thing became quickly apparent. Floyd Carpenter had considerable problems with the Internal Revenue Service. His written comments to Lawrence Braddock about the federal revenue agents sounded like field reports of a Confederate officer. At one point, massive tax liens were filed against Floyd.

  My heart beat faster and my mouth got dry as I scrolled to the next file. The title of the file grabbed my attention: “Floyd Carpenter re Lisa Prescott.” I clicked to the next screen that contained a single typed entry: “The contents of this file were not archived.”

  I stared at the screen for several seconds. I pushed the button to advance the page, which revealed an intake sheet for a divorce case between a couple named William and Lynn Mitchell. I checked the index and found the next folder listing Floyd Carpenter in the subject matter.

  It was dated a year after Lisa Prescott’s disappearance and confirmed payment of several hundred thousand dollars to satisfy the federal tax liens filed against Floyd Carpenter and several businesses apparently controlled by him. The Braddock firm was paid over fifty thousand dollars for legal services. The next file involved formation of a real estate investment trust four years after Lisa’s disappearance. As I moved through the years, my hope of finding anything relevant faded. One routine business transaction followed another. The last file was the probate of Floyd’s will. Joe Carpenter served as executor.

  With a sigh, I leaned back in the chair. I’d stared at the screen so intently that I’d gotten a headache. I looked at my watch. It was midafternoon. I suddenly realized that I’d gone way over the time period allotted for my use of the firm car. I turned off the reader and hurriedly returned all the cassettes to their proper places. Locking the door, I walked rapidly toward the exit. The young man was sitting at the entrance.

  “I skipped my lunch break so we could talk,” he said.

  “Sorry, but I’m late getting back to the office,” I replied. “Call me at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”

  “And your name?”

  “Tami Taylor. It’s on the sheet I signed when I checked in.”

  “Right.”

  I almost never exceeded the speed limit, but during the drive to the office I kept pace with the fastest traffic on the road without looking at the car’s speedometer. I parked next to Zach’s red motorcycle.

  “Did I mess up someone’s schedule?” I asked when I returned the keys to the afternoon receptionist.

  “Mr. Kettleson’s car is in for service. I think he ended up borrowing a car from one of the other lawyers.”

  “Was he upset?”

  The woman leaned forward. “I’ve been working here for five years, and I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him smile.”

  I laid the keys on the counter. It was another nail in the coffin of my legal career. However, if I didn’t get a job offer or even a good recommendation from Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. A legal career in Savannah wasn’t the dream job of a lifetime. I could always return to Powell Station and beg Oscar Callahan to hire me.

  Julie wasn’t in the library. Trying to ignore my headache, I began working on the eminent domain memo. Delivering an opinion as soon as possible might soften Bob Kettleson’s reaction to my tardiness in returning the car. The library door opened. It was Zach. He quickly glanced around the room.

  “I’m alone,” I said.

  “Did you check out the old files?”

  I handed him the key. “Would you return this to Ms. Patrick? I have a headache and a complicated memo to research for Bob Kettleson.”

  Zach ignored my problems. “Any smoking guns?”

  “Smoke but no gun.”

  He sat down across the table from me, and I told him about the empty folder, leaving out what I’d learned from Vince about the memo from Mr. Carpenter to Mr. Braddock and his advice that I consider quitting the case. Zach seemed to relax as I talked.

  “Do you feel you’ve reached the end?” he asked.

  “Not really.”

  “What else can you do except show Moses the newspaper articles and ask him if they help him remember anything? If he says some- thing about Floyd Carpenter, what does that prove? Without corroboration, any information from Moses is unreliable because of his mental status.”

  “What about your mental status?”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed.

  “I’m sorry,” I continued. “It’s just that all you seem to care about is getting me to drop the whole thing. It’s frustrating knowing that something is there but not being able to figure it out.”

  “Welcome to the practice of law. I had no idea Floyd Carpenter was a shady character, but that shouldn’t cast a shadow on his son. My big concern is that you’re going to hurt people who don’t deserve it and put a client at risk in violation of your ethical duty to him. You’re a disciplined person; transfer that to your professional life and focus on what you’re supposed to be doing.”

  “Don’t you get tired of preaching the same message?”

  Zach stood up. “Not if I believe it’s the truth. You’d do the same thing.”

  After Zach left, I pressed my fingers against my temples. The pressure felt good as long as I didn’t move my hands. After a minute, I released them and continued working on the em
inent domain project. I made slow progress but hadn’t started to type anything when Julie returned at 5:00 p.m.

  “I have a headache,” she said. “Are you ready to leave?”

  “I have the same problem. What caused yours?”

  “Ned and I met with the client in my criminal case and then went round and round about the best way to handle it. Ned is pressuring me to take it to trial in front of a six-person jury for the experience. I think the best thing is to work out a plea agreement that will get my client out of jail and on with his life. Don’t you think I should put the client’s interests first, not what might be more beneficial or interesting to me?”

  “I’m ready to leave,” I answered.

  THAT EVENING, Mrs. Fairmont was in a mild fog. She didn’t speak much during supper except to ask me three times if I’d turned off the television before we sat down to eat. My headache eased as we ate, and I realized it was probably caused by lack of food combined with eyestrain.

  “Is there anything you would like to do this evening?” I asked as we finished supper.

  Mrs. Fairmont blinked her eyes a few times and stared past my left shoulder. “I miss my friends,” she said sadly. “So many of them are gone.”

  I reached across the edge of the table and put my hand on hers. “I’m sure you had many good friends.”

  Mrs. Fairmont’s eyes brightened. “Would you like to look at my picture albums?”

  “You have albums?”

  “Yes. They’re in the small dresser in my show closet. Would you bring one or two to the green parlor?”

  I remembered seeing the small white piece of furniture. “Yes ma’am. Are there any particular ones you want to see?”

  “No, surprise me.”

  I cleaned up the supper dishes while Mrs. Fairmont went into the parlor. Upstairs, I discovered that every drawer in the dresser contained photo albums. I grabbed one from each drawer and returned downstairs. We sat beside each other on a firm sofa. I placed an album in her lap, and she opened it.

  It was from Christine’s early years.

  “What was Mrs. Bartlett like at this age?” I asked, pointing at a photo of the family and several other young girls at the beach in front of a huge sand castle.

  “Christine has always been social. She recruited those other girls and got them to haul buckets and buckets of sand to build that castle while she bossed them around.” Mrs. Fairmont stared at the picture. “I knew she would have to marry someone with plenty of money because she wouldn’t lift a finger to do any work herself. What do you think made her that way?”

  I didn’t try to answer. Mrs. Fairmont turned the page. The faded images seemed to bring a spark of life back to her. We finished one album. I handed her another.

  “Aren’t you bored?” she asked.

  “No ma’am.”

  I’d picked an album of pictures from before Christine was born. It was filled with black-and-white photos of Mr. and Mrs. Fairmont. Mrs. Fairmont spent time inspecting each picture, especially the ones with her friends. She couldn’t remember every name, but when she identified one, it was like discovering the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle. One picture was a group scene from a fancy outdoor party in the spring. I could see the flowers but not the colors in the black-and-white photo. Mrs. Fairmont touched it with her slightly gnarled index finger.

  “That was a big soiree. A lot of our social set was there.”

  The women were wearing fancy dresses and the men stood around in suits and ties. Several servants could be seen in the photo.

  “There’s Ellen Prescott,” Mrs. Fairmont said, pointing to a statuesque woman beside a tall man. “Of course, this was a long time before Lisa was born.”

  “Is that her husband?” I asked.

  “No, it’s her older brother Floyd. The party was at his home.”

  “Her brother was named Floyd?”

  “Yes, Ellen was a Carpenter before she married. Their father worked as a clerk in a shoe store. Ellen was so sweet and married Webster Prescott, who had inherited a lot of railroad stock. Floyd was the black sheep of the family, but he made a lot of money and that has a way of making people forget the past.”

  My eyes opened wider as I stared at the photo. “Why was he a black sheep?”

  “Oh, I never heard anything but rumors.”

  Mrs. Fairmont reached out to turn the page, but I held it firm.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I’m still looking at that picture. What did Floyd Carpenter think about Lisa?”

  Mrs. Fairmont gave me a strange look. “I don’t know, but I’m sure everyone considered Lisa the little princess. Her blonde curls stood out in any crowd. Christine claims Lisa misbehaved, but I think Christine was probably looking at herself in the mirror.”

  While Mrs. Fairmont talked, I tried to come up with an innocent way to frame my next question. “Did Floyd’s name come up in conversations after Lisa disappeared?” I asked nonchalantly.

  Mrs. Fairmont’s eyebrows arched downward. “What an odd question. I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I’m just curious about Floyd and Lisa and their families.”

  “Floyd had a son named Joe, who is a lawyer.”

  “He’s my boss.”

  “Of course, he works with Sam Braddock. Joe and Lisa were the only children in the two families. After Lisa was murdered, the Prescott line ended when Webster and Ellen died.”

  “But no one is sure Lisa was murdered.”

  Mrs. Fairmont pushed my hand away from its grip on the page. “If Lisa had gotten lost, someone would have found her. She was either kidnapped or killed. I’m sure there are other interesting photographs in this album.”

  Mrs. Fairmont turned the page and continued reminiscing about old friends. I barely paid attention and hoped a polite “Yes ma’am” and “No ma’am” would give the impression of interest. There weren’t any other pictures of Floyd, and the album ended before Lisa’s birth. Mrs. Fairmont’s enjoyment returned. I took the book from her hands.

  “There’s nothing like family and close friends,” I said.

  “This has been like therapy for me. Would you like to do it again?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Flip opened his tiny jaws in an amazingly expansive yawn.

  “My baby is ready for a nap and so am I,” Mrs. Fairmont said.

  “I’ll carry the albums upstairs,” I said.

  I led the way and returned the books to their respective drawers across from the shoe racks. I wanted to take out the other albums and discover if one of them held clues, but without Mrs. Fairmont as a guide, the photos wouldn’t have any more significance than a magazine spread.

  “I’d like to call my parents before it gets too late,” I said as I leaned over to give Flip one last scratch in his favorite place.

  “Of course,” Mrs. Fairmont replied. “Seeing those pictures probably made you homesick.”

  I returned to the kitchen. I didn’t feel homesick. I was frustrated at my inability to penetrate the deepening mist surrounding Floyd Carpenter and Lisa Prescott.

  DADDY ANSWERED THE PHONE. I could almost hear his smile when he realized it was me. I touched the top of my head where he liked to kiss me. We talked for a few minutes about the weather and the garden.

  “Are you changing, Tammy Lynn?” he asked.

  I pondered his words a moment. “That’s a good question. I’ve been too busy to take inventory.”

  “Being too busy can happen to anyone. It doesn’t matter whether you’re working in a chicken plant or a law firm. Ask the Lord to search your heart and give you a readout.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “That’s what Oscar Callahan has been doing,” Daddy continued. “Did your mama tell you about his heart attack?”

  “No sir.”

  “It happened a few days after you left for Savannah. We didn’t get much information about it at first because they transported him to the intensive-care unit at a hospital in Atl
anta. Pastor Vick and one of the elders drove down to pray for him. He let them anoint him with oil and pray the prayer of faith.”

  “Is he going to be okay?”

  “We’re praying. The whole church came together at the end of the service last week and spent time at the altar.”

  “That’s good.”

  “He’s been home for a week or so. I spent some time with him yesterday because Kyle is taking care of his cattle. I think he’s going to give Kyle a fine-looking calf as payment.”

  “Good.”

  “And he felt well enough to tell me a few stories from the old days and asked me to pray for him. He’s tender toward the Lord. Talking to him gave me a lot of hope that he’ll get right before his time comes. ”

  “What about his clients?”

  “He’s already brought in an experienced lawyer from Dalton who does the same kind of work. I can’t place his name, but he’s going to take over the practice. I think he brought along an associate too.”

  In a split second my safety net had evaporated.

  “And he asked about you, of course,” Daddy continued. “I told him you were getting along fine.”

  “Yes sir,” I managed. “I guess he had to find someone to help his clients immediately.”

  Daddy didn’t notice the strained tone in my voice.

  “I suppose you mainly called to talk about the young man you want to bring home for a visit.”

  “Which one?” I blurted out, then coughed into the receiver as a diversion. “Excuse me,” I said after clearing my throat. “I’d like to put that topic on hold for a while. I need to concentrate on my work without being distracted.”

  “Good girl,” Daddy replied. “That sounds like a wise decision.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Continue to seek his will, and he’ll take care of helping you find your life partner. Do you want to talk to Mama? She’s upstairs with the twins. They had a spat this afternoon and need to do some repenting.”

  “No sir. Tell her I love her.”

  That night I lay in bed and tried to come to terms with what had happened to Oscar Callahan. I felt guilty about dwelling on the effect his heart attack had on my future and tried to force myself to pray for the lawyer’s recovery. I could concentrate for several minutes before my thoughts drifted back to the air-conditioned white office on the corner now occupied by lawyers who wouldn’t need an inexperienced female associate to drive up overhead costs. After tossing and turning for an hour, I turned on the light and wrote a long prayer for Mr. Callahan in my journal. The discipline of writing helped me focus. I wrote “Amen,” then started another prayer for the Moses Jones case. It was good seeing the names of the people involved in the sentences requesting God’s help. It put them, and the situation, in a better perspective. When I turned out the lights the second time, I quickly fell asleep.