25
AFTER THE MONOTONY OF DAYS, WEEKS, AND MONTHS OF unchanging jailhouse routine, the smells and sounds of waking up in his shack by the river began to fade from Moses’ memory. The air-conditioned environment of the jail didn’t vary more than a couple of degrees, but Moses would have traded confined comfort for the hottest heat of the summer or the coldest rain of the winter along the Little Ogeechee.
Each day, he wondered if the tall girl who wasn’t a real lawyer would visit and reveal his future. Twice a day, he pushed his gray buggy down the halls and collected trash. At the dump bin, he always spent a few seconds peering through the fence at his boat, which remained chained to a pole in the stolen-car impound. But as time passed, the boat looked more like a piece of dented aluminum waiting for the scrap heap than a river vessel that became a graceful extension of himself when floating on the water.
He passed from depression to despair. He’d rarely talked to the other prisoners before, but now he was sure some of the newcomers wondered if he could speak at all. The old man had become a familiar part of the jailhouse scene. Years, he’d waited for death. He’d always thought it would come suddenly when the pain that occasionally moved from his chest down his left arm would double back and explode his heart while he was leaning over the edge of his boat, trying to haul in a big fish. The thrill of the moment would trigger the end, and he would tumble easily into the water to join the mystery of the dark beyond.
He now feared that he would pick up a heavy bag of trash one afternoon, collapse in a heap on the concrete floor, and be hauled out by his replacement, in the gray buggy, to the dump bin.
WHEN I ARRIVED at the office in the morning, there was a note on the table in the library asking me to come to Mr. Carpenter’s office as soon as I arrived. I read the note twice, hoping it said something different the second time. I’d never been a quitter, but my resolve of the previous day had faded, and for a few seconds I entertained the notion of leaving the building, never to return. I had no idea what Mr. Carpenter had discovered about my activities, but it was naive to think he didn’t know what I was doing. I marched as resolutely as my legs allowed down the hallway.
“Mr. Carpenter is expecting you,” his secretary said. “Go on in.”
I tentatively opened the door. The managing partner was sitting at his desk with a stack of papers near his right hand. He looked up. “What have you been doing?” he asked.
“Mr. Carpenter,” I began in the most respectful voice I could muster.
“I thought you were going to have a memo about the status of the Gallagher Corporation holdings in the Folsom case ready for me before you left the office yesterday. I have a deposition scheduled in an hour and a half and want to be able to sort out how Mrs. Folsom finagled her way into a majority position.”
My mouth dropped open. “Uh, I left the memo on your secretary’s desk two days ago.”
Mr. Carpenter picked up the phone. “Sharon! Do you have a memo about Gallagher Corporation from Tami Taylor on your desk?”
The lawyer glared past me at the door, which opened in a few seconds. The secretary entered and walked gingerly past me. She handed Mr. Carpenter the memo without looking at me.
“Here it is. It was placed in another file by mistake.”
Mr. Carpenter didn’t say anything but grabbed it and began reading it. He grunted several times. I sat still.
“Where is the documentation supporting your opinion?” he asked.
“In the file in the library.”
“Get it,” he said.
I fled from the office and returned to the library. Julie was there.
“What’s going on?” she asked when she saw my face. “Is it Vinny or Zach?”
“Neither. Mr. Carpenter’s secretary misplaced that memo I wrote about Gallagher Corporation. She found it, but he wants the documents and research.” I riffled through the folders looking for the correct one. “Is being a lawyer worth the stress?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, I don’t have a clue myself, but if I believed differently, I would be on my way to the beach this morning.”
I grabbed the folder and returned to Mr. Carpenter’s office. Sharon didn’t look up as I passed her desk.
“Here it is,” I said, handing it to him. “I’m sorry for the mix-up.”
“It’s not your fault,” he said with a wave of his hand. “How are the documents organized in the file?”
“Reverse chronological. I flagged the ones that are particularly helpful with red tabs.”
Mr. Carpenter flipped through the file and grunted again. “Good work,” he said. “Next week I’ll have another case for you to work on. It has similar issues.”
“Yes sir.”
I left his office. It wasn’t even 8:30 a.m., yet I felt drained. When I returned to the library, Julie was talking to Vince.
“He wants to see you,” she said when I entered the room. “I’m doing the best I can to entertain him, but I can tell he’s getting bored.”
Vince looked at me. “Are you available for lunch today?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been putting out a fire with Mr. Carpenter.”
“What kind of fire?” Vince asked a bit too loudly.
“It’s not that,” I responded quickly. “It has to do with a divorce case.”
“What?” Julie interjected. “Are you working on something together?”
I looked at Vince and shook my head.
“Out with it,” Julie said, sitting up straighter in her chair. “We’re all equal here, except that you’re ten times smarter than the rabbi and me put together.”
“It’s controversial,” Vince replied.
I wanted to reach out and put my hand over Vince’s mouth.
“And unverified,” he added.
“Julie,” I said, “I’m not going to discuss this with you.” I looked at Vince. “And neither is he. End of the discussion.”
“Is it about Moses Jones and the Prescott girl who was murdered?” Julie asked.
I stared at her in shock.
“You left the folder in here a few days ago.” She shrugged. “I couldn’t help glancing through it, reading the newspaper articles, deciphering your notes.”
“That’s wrong! You had no business—”
“We’re in the same firm,” Julie said, shrugging again. “Secrets don’t exist.”
Before I could respond, the library door opened. It was Zach. Everyone turned and stared at him. He stopped in his tracks.
“What’s going on in here?” he asked.
“Tami and her investigation into Moses Jones’ involvement in the Prescott murder,” Julie said. “I busted her, and she’s acting immature about it. Did she try to hide it from you as her supervising attorney?”
Zach surveyed the room. “Tami and Vince, let me talk to Julie for a few minutes,” he said.
Vince and I stepped into the hallway.
“What’s he going to do?” I asked.
“Not much. She’s right.”
“What?” I blurted out. “How can you say that? I thought you were on my side.”
“I am, but client confidentiality doesn’t restrict the flow of communication among employees of the firm. There is no basis for hiding information from one another.”
I couldn’t believe Vince’s position.
“So, you think I should summon Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Braddock to the conference room and confront them with the facts I’ve uncovered?”
“No, but there’s no legal reason why they couldn’t order you to disclose your research. Everything you’ve done originated as work product for a client of the firm. When I came into work this morning, the sign in front of the building read ‘Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.’ This is their law firm, and in our employment contract we agreed that the work we performed this summer belonged to them. That’s one reason I urged you to reconsider the scope of your investigation.”
I stepped back against the wall. “I might as well quit and go back
to north Georgia for the rest of the summer. There’s no way I’m going to ever think like a lawyer.”
“I disagree,” Vince responded in a matter-of-fact voice. “You know how to focus on the most important aspect of any legal matter.”
“Which is?”
“The determination of the truth. If you try the Jones case in front of Judge Cannon, that’s one of the first instructions he’ll give the jury. It’s the practical effects of what you’re doing outside the scope of the case that are spinning out of control.”
“Thanks a lot . . .” I began.
Before I could continue, the library door opened, and Zach motioned for us to come inside. “I think we’re on the same page,” he said as soon as we returned.
I waited for a more complete explanation.
“You should have asked for my help,” Julie said. “We’ve worked well together on our other projects.”
Vince didn’t say anything. I looked at the other three people in the room. “Is that a solution?” I asked.
“Yes,” Zach replied. “You don’t have to ask Julie to help, but she’s available. As your supervising attorney, I’ll leave that decision up to you. Did you check the criminal court schedule for the rest of the summer?”
“No, but I’ll do it right now.”
“Let me know.”
Zach left with Vince right behind him. I sat down across from Julie.
“What did Zach say to you?” I asked.
“That it was unprofessional to snoop in your file. Why didn’t you tell me the connection between Moses Jones and the disappearance of the Prescott girl?”
“I didn’t want you to get all worked up about it.”
“And start running my mouth?”
“Yes.”
“I wouldn’t do anything to prejudice our client. The rules of ethics—”
“I know. Zach has given me more than one refresher course.”
“Okay, I won’t repeat it. What are you going to do now?”
“Call the courthouse.”
After several transfers from one clerk to another, I found out that there were three weeks of criminal court scheduled during the rest of the summer. Two of those weeks were assigned to Judge Cannon, and the judge for the third week was a woman named Linda Howell. I called Maggie Smith, and her assistant informed me the Jones case had not yet been placed on a specific calendar. I sent Zach an e-mail with the dates. He immediately responded with a request that I come to his office. I trudged up the winding staircase that no longer reminded me of a plantation mansion.
“Is there a problem with the dates?” I asked.
“One week in front of Judge Cannon is out because I’ll be on vacation in California. I’ll let the DA’s office know. The other two weeks will depend on my schedule, but I’ve already let Mr. Appleby know what’s going on.”
“Okay.” I moved away from the door.
“No, come in and sit down,” Zach said.
“I don’t need another lecture this morning,” I replied wearily. “The fruit of patience in my life may not be as mature as I’d hoped, and I don’t want to get upset.”
“We need to set a day and time to talk to Moses Jones and discuss trial strategy. It will also be a chance for you to show him the newspaper articles if you want to.”
“Okay.”
Zach studied me for a few seconds. “What else have you found out?”
“Do you care?”
“You can tell me now or later.”
I took a deep breath. “I’m not finished in the microfilm records. I want to uncover the connections between Floyd Carpenter and this firm.” I paused. “Especially regarding Floyd and his relationship with his sister and niece.”
“Who?”
“Ellen and Lisa Prescott. Mrs. Fairmont told me about the Prescott-Carpenter connection while we were looking at old photos last night.”
I could tell Zach was surprised by my latest information. He pulled twice on his ponytail. If the lawyer ever cut his hair, he would have to find something else to do with his hands during moments of intense mental activity.
“How does this fit?” he asked.
“I don’t know until I do more research. Should I ask Julie to do it?” I asked sarcastically then immediately felt guilty.
Zach ignored my dig. “No, you’re so far ahead of her that it would be inefficient. Wait here while I get the key from Gerry so you can finish your research. We can meet with Moses later today.”
While Zach talked to Ms. Patrick, I checked on the firm car. It was scheduled to return in a few minutes and I reserved it for a couple of hours. I went to Zach’s office where he handed me the key.
“Gerry started asking questions,” he said. “I simply thanked her and left.”
“But she’s an employee of the firm. According to your logic . . .” I began then stopped. “Will you pray that God will put a rein on my tongue? It’s been out of control since I got to the office this morning.”
“No man can tame the tongue,” Zach said. “Does that include women?”
“Yes.” I turned the key over in my hand. “And thanks for confronting me when you think I’m out of line. My mother does a good job of correcting me, but I thought I’d be without that kind of help this summer.”
“Sure, but I don’t want to be a surrogate mother or father. Did you find out a date and time when I can meet them?”
“Not yet. When will you be in California?”
Zach gave me the dates and eyed me closely. “Is there a reason why you wouldn’t want me to meet your parents?”
“Let’s not talk about it now. I have too much to think about.”
“If there is something—”
“We’ll talk soon,” I said. “I promise.”
I GOT OFF THE ELEVATOR and opened the door to the archive facility. Eddie, the young man who wanted to go to law school, looked up and smiled.
“Welcome back,” he said.
I signed in. Only two people had visited the facility since I’d been in the day before. Apparently, business was slow for dead records. I put down the pen, and Eddie started to walk toward the storage room.
“I know the way,” I said.
Eddie stopped. “Okay. Let me know if you need to use my phone.”
I turned on the microfilm reader and used the index to locate the earliest Prescott file. I found the proper cassette and inserted it into the reader. It was toward the end of the roll, and I scrolled through pages of documents typed with the font of an old typewriter. The letterhead for the Braddock Law Firm still listed the date of birth and death for Vernon Fletchall. When I reached the beginning page it contained records for the purchase of a house near Colonial Cemetery. Nothing relevant.
The next file was on a different cassette and related to a business deal. It contained several pages of handwritten notes by Lawrence Braddock. The lawyer wrote in a tall, yet tightly compacted script and fully utilized a sheet of paper. Once I got used to his style, it wasn’t hard to read. On a third cassette, I found a copy of a Last Will and Testament prepared for the Prescotts when Lisa was about three years old. It was a lengthy document. My hand stopped advancing the pages when I reached Item XXI, a catchall provision that designated the beneficiary of the will upon the deaths of Webster and Ellen if Lisa predeceased her parents and there were no other surviving children.
If that event occurred, the sole beneficiary of the will was Ellen’s “beloved brother,” Floyd Carpenter. I bit my lower lip in disbelief. I pressed the Print button.
I’d found the smoking gun. And it contained three bullets, not one.
The page inched out of the printer. I held it in my hand and read it again. In crafting a plan for wealthy individuals, estate lawyers have to consider remote possibilities that no one expects to happen. Unless, of course, human intervention makes the unlikely certain. Lisa’s disappearance and death, followed by the deaths of her parents, was a simple matter of economics and federal tax liens.
It was
hard to imagine the evil that could murder an entire family for money. I thought about the grainy picture of Lisa in the newspaper and the picture of Margaret Fairmont and Ellen Prescott as little girls standing on tiptoe to get a drink of water. Tears came to my eyes. I took a tissue from my purse.
After the tears passed, I returned without enthusiasm to the index. I found several more Prescott files. Righteous indignation rose up in me when I found notes from a consultation Webster and Ellen had with Lawrence Braddock a few days after Lisa’s disappearance. The Prescotts, upset over the lack of progress with the police investigation, met with the lawyer to discuss the case. In his notes, the lawyer promised to make “appropriate contacts” with state law enforcement officers in Atlanta who could assist in the investigation. However, the last line of Mr. Braddock’s notes was the most incriminating. “Call F.C.”
I printed the notes. The next file was the probate of the Prescotts’ will after the car wreck. Mrs. Fairmont was wrong. The couple lived only slightly over a year after Lisa’s death, just long enough to provide a buffer against any suspicion. The circumstances surrounding their car plunging into a tidewater canal weren’t mentioned—they were simply listed as the “decedents.”
The file contained pages of inventory about stocks, bonds, bank accounts, antiques, art objects, and real estate. I slowed when I came to a petition asking the court to judicially declare Lisa deceased even though no body had been found. Several law enforcement officials were listed as witnesses, and three weeks after the petition was filed, the probate judge signed an order granting Lawrence Braddock’s request.
Mountain Top Page 73