Savannah Law

by William Eleazer

  “I’ll be there,” she said, as she began to adjust her seat belt.

  Scott stood with the umbrella over his head, protecting the open window. “Drive safely, Jen—as your mother would say. See you Sunday.”

  Jennifer smiled, looked ahead, and turned the key. Nothing. Not even a cough from the engine. She tried again with the same result.

  “Is it in park?” asked Scott.

  “Of course, it’s in park!” said Jennifer.

  “Put it in neutral.”

  She did and turned the key again. Only the sound from the click of the key was heard.

  “I’m going over to my car and get some jumper cables. It may be your battery.”

  Scott was pretty sure it was not a battery problem, because her headlights appeared strong. Still, it was a prudent next step. He quickly crossed the lot to his 1984 Chevrolet Camaro, a black, eight-cylinder Z28 that he had owned since his senior year in high school. It was his pride and joy. It was spotless, inside and out, and the engine was strong and always well maintained. Nevertheless, he kept a pair of jumper cables in his trunk, just in case they were ever needed. In a few minutes, he had returned in his Camaro, opened its hood, and attached the cables between the two cars.

  Jennifer turned her key again. Nothing. She moved the gear back into park and tried once more. Nothing. Scott left his motor running and went to Jennifer’s vehicle.

  “Did you hear any cranking noise?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “I’m no mechanic, but I believe it’s the starter. Could be the solenoid, could be a wire, could be most anything, but it’s not your battery. We’re going to have to call a tow.”

  “I have Triple A.” Jennifer looked in her wallet and found her card.

  “I’ll call from my cell phone. It’s in my car,” said Scott.

  He took her card, went to his car, and made the call. He was told he could expect a tow truck in about half an hour, but Scott knew that on rainy weekend nights, the wait could be an hour or more. He went back to Jennifer’s car. Both were wet and cold from the walk in the rain, so Scott invited her to join him in the Camaro where they could enjoy the warmth of his heater.

  “Wow, that feels good,” said Jennifer, as the warm air enveloped them.

  Scott looked over at Jennifer and said, “Earlier in the evening, you said something about an old courthouse leading you to Savannah Law. You said it was a bit involved and would take time. Looks like we have time now. Fill me in.”

  “Sure. And I’ll give you the long version. One of my instructors was especially interested in courthouses, their history and their architecture. He planned Saturday tours to the courthouses in Valdosta and Moultrie—they have two of the most historic and beautiful courthouses in Georgia.” Jennifer paused, and then added, “Did you know that Georgia has more courthouses than any other state, except Texas?”

  The question caught Scott by surprise. He wasn’t exactly listening to her every word. He was thinking, “Here I am, on a rainy night, alone with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever met. Car trouble, so I immediately call a tow truck to come get her and then ask her to fill me in on the details about some frickin’ old courthouse in Effingham County! What the hell’s wrong with me? Do I really care how she got to Savannah Law? She’s here with me, it’s nighttime, it’s raining, there’s no school in the morning and....”

  He saw Jennifer looking at him, apparently waiting for his response. Scott tried to regain his composure, smiled, and said, “Well, Jennifer, we have some pretty classy courthouses in Tennessee, too.” He wasn’t sure that was an appropriate response, but judging by her expression, it was in the ball park. And since her exact question was beyond his recall, he just waited.

  Jennifer seemed to accept the answer Scott had thrown out and continued. “When I told Jaak about the planned visits to those courthouses, he was surprised that Effingham County wasn’t on the list. He said its courthouse was historic also. He grew up there, knew the clerk of court, and would arrange a visit if our team wanted to go. Springfield is only about twenty-five miles from Savannah. Have you been there, Scott?”

  Scott’s mind had drifted again. He was listening but wasn’t hearing. Or perhaps he was hearing but not listening. In any case, his eyes were focused on Jennifer. She was leaning against the passenger door, facing Scott, silhouetted in the window by the single light in the distance. And she was alone with him, not in his arms, but only an arm’s length away. She smiled as she talked, and her eyes sparkled even in the dim light.

  Scott woke from his momentary reverie to the flashing light of a tow truck turning into the parking lot. He flashed his lights twice to signal the truck. The rain had stopped, and both Jennifer and Scott stepped outside. Scott pointed to Jennifer’s car, and the tow-truck driver stopped beside it. He was a muscular man, about six feet tall, dressed in dark Levi’s and a dark blue T-shirt. He was wearing a biker’s skull cap designed with bright stars and stripes. He looked to be in his early thirties. The biceps of both arms were encircled with one-inch armbands—a series of multicolored Xs tattooed into his skin.

  He introduced himself as “Craig” and was all business. He quickly checked the Triple A card for eligibility and asked for the specifics of the problem. Scott filled him in with what he had done, stating that he suspected it was more than battery trouble. He added that it might be best to check it again, as the tow truck would provide a stronger jump-start. Craig agreed; he hooked the cables and went through the procedure that had failed earlier. His efforts were no more successful than Scott’s.

  “Gotta be the starter,” said Craig. “I’ve got a Camry just like this one, except it’s black and two years older. I could fix that starter if I had the parts, a ramp, the right tools, and the time... and a good mechanic.” He paused and laughed at his joke. “But, sorry, I guess I’ll just have to tow it.”

  “I really need it fixed tomorrow,” Jennifer said. “Do you know a repair shop that could get it completed tomorrow?”

  “Sure. There are a lot of shops working on Saturday. Marvin’s Foreign Auto in Garden City could do it. I’ve often taken cars there for Saturday work. They are usually open until ten, often later on week nights. They let me work on my car there when they have an empty stall late at night. They may be open now, but I doubt they can get the parts until tomorrow.”

  Jennifer quickly agreed to have the car towed to Marvin’s, and Scott offered to drive her there to pick it up when the work was done. They watched as Craig hooked the Toyota behind the tow truck for its trip to the garage.

  When Craig was finished, he said, “Let me have your phone number and address for the garage. They will call you when they know something about your car.”

  When she gave a number on West Taylor as her address, Craig said, “I know where that is. That’s about a block or two from the Mercer House.”

  Scott was familiar with the location of the Mercer House, made famous by John Berendt’s book, Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. He had visited the gift shop that was located there. He walked over to his car to get a pen to write down the address and phone number before he forgot it.

  “That’s right on the way to the shop in Garden City. I’ll drop you off, right at your door. That’s no problem. Come on,” said Craig.

  Jennifer hesitated but then followed him around to the passenger side of the truck, and Craig opened the door.

  Scott had been gone less than a minute, but when he returned, he found Jennifer already settled in the truck. He walked to where he could speak to her through the window.

  She rolled the window down and smiled. “Craig’s going to drop me off on his way to the repair shop. Please call me about noon tomorrow. By then, I should have word about my car and, if you don’t mind, I hope you will drive me over to pick it up.”

  Scott was a bit perplexed. He had expected—and hoped—to drive Jennifer home. But there she was, already in the cab of the truck. “Sure. But let me make sure I have the right number.”
He glanced at his paper, repeated the number, and Jennifer verified that he had it right. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” said Scott.

  By this time Craig was behind the wheel, and the tow truck started slowly moving from the parking lot.

  The truck cab was dusty and grimy, and papers were scattered across the dash. But the thick, vinyl-covered seat was comfortable, and Jennifer rested against the back of the seat, looking at the road ahead. Craig was the first to speak.

  “You go to the law school?”

  “Just started this week.”

  “Where you from?”

  “I finished college right here—Savannah College of Art and Design.”

  “Yeah? I used to date a girl from there. Sarah Houston. Know her?”

  Jennifer did not. She merely answered, “No.” She did not feel like initiating any further conversation. Her mind was on Scott and her class assignments for the coming week. She had six books on her kitchen table waiting for a full day of study, beginning in the morning.

  They drove a couple of miles and turned onto Drayton Street, heading north. Traffic was light, and the tow truck, with the Toyota suspended behind it, was traveling only about twenty-five miles per hour. Jennifer wished he would go faster. She was already tired, and the cab was noisy and reeked of burnt motor oil.

  Craig broke the silence. “How about us stopping for a bite to eat. I’m hungry; how about you?”

  “No, I need to get home. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”

  “What kind of plans?”

  Immediately Jennifer wished she had merely said, “No,” rather than opening the discussion. She paused, wondering if she really needed to explain. She merely replied, “Studying for the first week of law school.”

  “Well, that’s great, but you need a little fun before that begins, don’t you think?”

  A bit troubled by the question and not wanting to continue the conversation, she remained quiet. The tow truck proceeded north on Drayton at about the same speed. Just a few more minutes, and she would be home.

  As the truck reached the south end of Forsyth Park, Craig turned to Jennifer and said, “You can open up with me. I’m a fun kind of guy. It’s dark, rainy, and, like that insurance company says, ‘You’re in good hands.’ It’s Friday night—early on Friday night— hell, ain’t even midnight, and like you say, you got all day tomorrow. I know a cool place just over Talmadge Bridge. It has a great band and food as good as the Pirate House. You can sleep at your place tomorrow and at my place tonight.” Craig was smiling and looking over at Jennifer.

  Jennifer saw where this was going and decided to quickly spike it. “You just pull this truck over. You can let me out on the next corner and continue your little joke with someone who might appreciate it.”

  “Hey, gal, I’m sorry your bad-starter problem caused you and your guy not to get it on. Not my fault. Calm down. I’m serious. We go across the bridge to this nightclub, we have a drink, if you’re unhappy, we leave and I take you home, no hurt feelings. That simple.” Craig grinned, and stared at Jennifer for an expected answer.

  “Stop this truck right now. I’m getting out.”

  “I can’t let you out here; it wouldn’t be safe. Company policy, you know. I’ll let you out at your house like I promised. But I know you were expecting something big tonight, and I can give it to you.”

  Jennifer drew herself upright, stared directly at him, and said through clenched teeth, “I beg your pardon. You are way out of bounds. Stop the truck now.”

  “You’ll be begging for something before this night’s over, but not my ‘pardon.’”

  By now, they were within two blocks of Taylor Street, where Jennifer lived. It was a one-way street and would be entered with a left-hand turn. But Craig was in the right lane.

  As they approached Taylor, Jennifer ignored Craig’s crude comment and commanded, “Get over; you need to turn left at the next street!”

  The truck merely increased its speed and continued north on Drayton. Jennifer now saw the situation for what it was, and she was terrified. She continued to shout for Craig to stop, to let her out. Talmadge Bridge, which crossed the Savannah River into South Carolina, was only a mile or so away.

  “What are you doing?! Where are you going?! Stop this truck! Let me out!” she screamed, but the truck rumbled on. She continued to shout at the driver, to no avail. Then with all the force she could muster, she hurled her right arm and closed fist across his chest.

  Her action caused a momentary loss of control, and the truck, with the Toyota elevated behind, swerved onto the sidewalk, crossed back into the left lane, and then into the right lane again.

  Craig looked angrily at Jennifer. He reached beneath his seat, took out a heavy metal rod, and shook it at her. She was too frightened to speak; her alarm and terror increased with each street they passed. The truck rumbled on across Liberty Street and Oglethorpe Avenue, at times catching green lights, and at times running reds. Where were the police? Surely, she thought, a truck towing a vehicle through several red lights would be seen. But no police vehicles had been visible anywhere along the route.

  Jennifer knew the area well. Bay Street, which paralleled the river, would be coming up, and Drayton Street would end. The truck would have to turn left or right on Bay Street, and from there she could only guess where they would go. Once they were out of the city, she knew there was little chance of a police vehicle seeing and stopping this runaway truck. She knew her chances of being rescued were dimming by the minute.

  Craig remained hunched over the wheel, ignoring her demands to stop. It was as if the two were in separate worlds. As the truck approached Broughton Street, the light was red, and there was traffic in both directions. It would not be possible to go through the light without a collision. The truck slowed, and it was obvious it would have to soon stop. As it slowed, Jennifer saw the chance she had been praying for. She found the door handle, and even before the truck had completely stopped, she leaped from it. As she did, a vehicle pulled ahead of it and then turned perpendicular across Drayton Street, completely blocking it. The driver of the vehicle got out and ran toward the truck.

  Jennifer landed on her feet and began to run. When she reached the corner, she recognized that it was Scott’s Camaro that was blocking the intersection. She rushed to it and got in. Scott was at the truck driver’s door when he turned and saw Jennifer as she was entering his Camaro. Even in the poorly lighted intersection, he could see the terror on her face, and he ran to her.

  “Take me home! Take me home! Scott... Scott, take me home!”

  “Jen, I’ll take you home as soon as I settle something with the guy in the truck.”

  As he turned to leave, Jennifer called out, “No, Scott! Please! Please, take me home now. Let’s go! Now! Please!”

  Scott heard the urgency of her voice; he put his car in gear and cleared the intersection. As he did so, he recalled the last words from Jaak: “You are responsible for getting Jennifer home safe and dry.” And he had done neither. Perhaps those words were why he had followed the tow truck.

  In minutes he found Jennifer’s house on West Taylor Street. Parking was quite limited on West Taylor, but he found a space in the same block. She was now breathing more easily, but her eyes still reflected her fear. Jennifer got out of the car, and Scott followed her to her front door. She found her keys and unlocked the door.

  Her apartment was on the street level in a three-story townhouse. As soon as they entered, Jennifer sat down on the sofa. Scott joined her with his arm around her shoulder, holding her close. He knew it was not a time to ask questions.

  In a few minutes, Jennifer looked at him with a forced smile. “I’m OK, but I’m so glad you were there. I was so afraid.”

  “I’m glad I was there, too, but I’m sorry I let you leave in that truck. And now, I’m going to call the police.” Scott looked around the room, searching for the phone.

  “Scott, no, I don’t want you to do that. I’m safe now. I wasn’t
physically hurt. I wasn’t even touched.”

  “Jennifer, that guy abducted you. Kidnapped you. He tricked you into his vehicle. He terrified you. We should call the police, now.”

  “He will deny it.”

  “But he took you—and kept you—in his truck, and I saw it. He should be put away!”

  “Scott, I know you are right, but I just don’t want the hassle now. I don’t want to be questioned by the police. I don’t want to get involved in a criminal prosecution. Suppose they don’t charge him? He will be angry at the accusation. He knows my address. He has my phone number. I don’t want to move, and I don’t want to live in fear. I want to put this behind me. It’s over. I’m OK now. Please understand.”

  Scott did understand. He had seen the hardship that victims of crimes endured in the criminal justice system. Even though the courts, and the victim-witness advocates, try to make the experience as easy as possible, the journey through the system for the victim is usually difficult. Lost time, multiple court appearances, stressful interrogations by attorneys—all with little compensation except the satisfaction of seeing the perpetrator punished. And that was not always a sure thing. Indeed, Scott did understand. Reporting this crime was the right thing to do, and he knew it. But Jennifer had the right to make this decision; she was the victim, not him.

  “OK, Jen. I’ll call Triple A and find out if and where your car was dropped off.”

  Scott found the phone and made the call. The operator checked and confirmed that the Toyota had been towed and left at Marvin’s Foreign Auto in Garden City. Scott told Jennifer he would call in the morning to make sure the shop was working on it so that they could pick it up Saturday afternoon. He moved toward the door.

  “Jen, before I leave, is there anything I can do for you now? Do you need anything?”