Deeper Water

by Robert Whitlow

  "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 EC."

  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.

  The provisions of the will didn't require an accounting to the probate court identifying the total value of the estate, but I found a handwritten memo from Mr. Braddock to Floyd Carpenter listing a summary of all tangible and intangible assets-the Prescotts left their child's killer slightly under two million dollars, a huge sum at the time, and more than enough to satisfy Floyd Carpenter's tax liens.

  I printed out the entire probate file. While I waited for the pages to inch from the printer, I prayed for God's guidance. But I was numb with shock. I returned all the film cassettes to their proper places and put the documents in a file folder. This time, I wouldn't leave the information lying around where Julie could find it. Zach and Vince's claim that no secrets existed among employees of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter didn't apply to what I'd uncovered. After forty years, it still bore the stink of death.

  "Find everything okay?" Eddie Anderson asked as I wrote down the time on the entry and exit log.

  I looked up at him, not sure how to answer. He quickly glanced away.

  I drove back to the office and pulled into the parking lot but didn't get out. I didn't know what to do next. I couldn't talk to my parents. Oscar Callahan was at home recovering from a heart attack and, although a lawyer, had no more right to privileged information than the courier I watched walk up the sidewalk to the front door of the office. My confidence in Zach and Vince as reliable counselors had been seriously weakened. And if Mr. Carpenter summoned me into his office again, I wouldn't be able to look him in the eyes and find a way to dodge his probing questions. For the second time, I considered fleeing Savannah like the Confederate army that faced Sherman. I closed my eyes and let the coolness from the air-conditioning vent blow over my face. A knock on the car window made me jump. It was Zach. I pushed the button to lower the window.

  "This isn't the place to take a nap," he said.

  "I'm not in a joking mood."

  "What did you find in the microfilm records?"

  "I'm not ready to talk about it."

  "Why not?"

  I shook my head. "Don't pressure me."

  Zach leaned closer to the open widow. "Tami, when a lawyer isolates herself on a case, there's a much greater chance of a mistake."

  "I'm not a lawyer yet, as you so gently reminded me the other day. And I'm debating whether I ever want to be!"

  I opened the door and pushed Zach out of the way. He backed up as I marched past him and met the courier leaving the firm. I returned the car keys to the receptionist.

  "Did you see Mr. Mays?" she asked. "He was looking for you."

  "Yes."

  It was close to lunchtime, and I desperately hoped Julie wouldn't be in the library. I opened the door and peeked inside. The table where we usually sat was empty. On one of the bookshelves I found a set of out-of-date tax treatises no one would likely use and hid the folder behind them. As I repositioned the books, the library door opened. It was Vince. He looked around the room.

  "Are you alone?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "I owe you an apology," he said. "Can we talk?"

  Given how vulnerable I felt, I didn't want to be around anyone.

  "I accept your apology, but let's not talk," I answered.

  "I'm sorry, but it can't wait."

  Vince shifted on his feet. He was unbelievably persistent about spending time with me.

  "All right," I sighed. "But I'm only going to listen. Don't expect me to respond."
/>   26

  "IS THE SANDWICH SHOP NEAR THE RIVER OKAY?" VINCE ASKED as we passed through the reception area.

  "I don't care. I'm not hungry."

  We rode in silence. Vince had to park a block away from the deli. As we walked on the uneven cobblestones, the sights and sounds of the people along the waterfront seemed out of touch with reality. The deli was crowded. Vince ordered a ham sandwich. I picked up a bottle of water.

  "Thanks for coming," Vince said as we sat down. "Where did you go after we talked this morning?"

  "That's a question, not an apology."

  "I'll get right to it. You were right that your investigation into Lisa Prescott's disappearance shouldn't be common knowledge at the firm."

  Vince paused as a waitress brought his sandwich. I took a sip of water.

  "At ten thirty I was supposed to go over a research memo with Mr. Braddock in the conference room. He wasn't there so I went to his office but had to wait because he was in a meeting with Mr. Carpenter. The office door was cracked open. I couldn't hear Mr. Braddock's voice because he's so soft-spoken, but I caught some of Mr. Carpenter's side of the conversation. He told Mr. Braddock that you had sent him a memo on Tuesday to update him on the Jones matter and he should be hearing from you again soon. Then he said `stronger pressure should have been applied to Moses Jones a long time ago."'

  "What does that mean?" I asked.

  "I don't know exactly, but it doesn't sound good. Mr. Braddock must have talked for a while; then Mr. Carpenter said, As soon as Ms. Taylor is out of the picture, we'll get to him before it's too late.' It was quiet while Mr. Braddock talked, and then Mr. Carpenter came barreling out of the office. I almost fell out of the chair."

  "Did he realize you were eavesdropping?"

  "I hope not. He was in such a hurry to leave the office that I don't think he paid any attention to me."

  Vince took a bite from his sandwich. I glanced past his shoulder at the people lined up at the counter. Two women were pointing at items in the display case as they discussed what to eat. My decision was much more serious-how much to tell Vince about my morning discovery.

  "Your intuition or discernment or whatever you want to call it was correct," Vince said between bites. "I thought about going back to Julie and warning her to keep her mouth shut, but that would probably make her more likely to talk."

  "Yes."

  Vince pushed his plate away from him and covered his sandwich with a paper napkin.

  "I'm not hungry either," he said. "It was so bizarre hearing two respected attorneys talk like gangsters that I didn't know what to think."

  Vince's dilemma mirrored my own. "I completely understand," I said slowly. "Only this morning I was reading about a forty-yearold conversation between two different men named Carpenter and Braddock."

  Vince listened to my story, then spoke. "If I hadn't read the memo and overheard today's conversation, I wouldn't think that the current Mr. Carpenter and Mr. Braddock had done anything wrong," he said. "Now, I don't know. Mr. Braddock was just beginning to practice law with his father when all this happened, and Joe Carpenter was in high school or about to enter college. Maybe they were pulled in somehow."

  "I'm not sure I want to know. The immediate crisis is what to do about Moses Jones. Even if he did something wrong a long time ago, he should only be punished by the proper authorities. Do I have a greater obligation to protect him from `stronger pressure,' or should I just keep quiet and represent him in the trespassing case? Would it be unethical to tell the assistant district attorney that he needs to be kept in jail for his own safety?" My voice trembled slightly. "What if he gets out of jail and something bad happens to him?"

  "What does Zach think? Have you talked to him?"

  "No! From the beginning, he's been reluctant to help and argues with me about everything. I think it's time to draw a circle around us and agree that we're the only ones who need to know what's going on.,,

  Vince leaned back in his chair. "Okay. But while you're thinking about Zach and Mr. Jones, you need to decide what you're going to tell Mr. Carpenter. He's expecting to hear from you."

  "I know, but I think it all leads to the same place. First, I have to talk to Moses. This is his case, his life."

  We returned to the office. The firm car was checked out and would be gone for the rest of the afternoon. I was stranded.

  "You can borrow mine," Vince offered.

  "Are you sure?"

  He handed me the keys. "Of course. You're only driving across town."

  "Thanks." I walked rapidly to the library. I didn't want to run into Zach or Mr. Carpenter. All I needed was the folder containing copies of the newspaper clippings. It was time to find out whether Moses' memory, like Mrs. Fairmont's, could be unlocked by a picture. I opened the library door. Julie was sitting at the table.

  "Any success?" she asked.

  "Not yet," I answered quickly. "I'm going to the jail to talk to Moses Jones. The date of trial hasn't been set, but I've got to start getting ready."

  "Are you going to ask more questions about the Prescott girl?"

  "Maybe."

  Julie placed a book on top of the papers stacked in front of her.

  "I'm going with you. You'll need a witness of what he tells you."

  "That's unnecessary," I answered, trying to stay calm. "You should be working on your own cases."

  "Not if I need to help you. Besides, we can take my car."

  "Vince is loaning me his car."

  Julie's eyes widened. "When are you going to move into his apartment?"

  I felt a flash of heat across my entire body and an overwhelming urge to yell at her. I closed my eyes to fight it off.

  "Okay, I'm sorry," Julie said. "I keep forgetting that you don't share my sense of humor."

  "And I don't need your help."

  Julie held up her hands. "Don't be so touchy. But you can't trust your judgment when you're so upset about everything."

  "I'm not upset about everything. Just your crude comment."

  "You're wrong about that." Julie held up her right hand and pointed at her fingers. "You're upset with Mr. Carpenter because his questions scare you, mad at Zach because he doesn't agree with you all the time, and tired of me teasing you. I don't know for sure, but I also suspect Gerry Patrick and Bob Kettleson have gotten under your skin. To top it all off, you're frustrated by everything that's been happening in the Jones case. Judge Cannon and the assistant DA are blocking you at every turn, and you don't see a way out. If it weren't for your iron will, you'd be close to cracking."

  Julie sat back in her chair with a self-satisfied look on her face. My mother couldn't have done a better job of dissecting my struggles.

  "Maybe you should have gotten a PhD in psychology," I replied as evenly as I could, "but I still don't want you to go to the jail with me."

  "Suit yourself. But I'm here if you need me."

  I picked up my folder and left. The midday heat had driven out the effects of the air-conditioning left from our drive to lunch. I turned the fan motor on high. Backing out of the parking space, I heard the sound of a horn and slammed on the brakes. Turning my head, I saw Mr. Braddock behind me in his silver Mercedes. He shook his head and smiled. I said a quick prayer of thanks that I'd not hit his car, but all the way to the jail couldn't get the look on his face out of my mind. How could a man with such deep-seated evil living within his soul smile and wave? The Old Testament prophet was right when he wrote that the heart of man was deceitfully wicked above all else, who can fathom it?

  Arriving at the jail, I identified myself to the female deputy on duty and asked to see Moses. I waited in the open area outside the interview rooms until he appeared, escorted by a corrections officer who looked as young as my brother Kyle. We went into an interview room.

  "Hello, Mr. Jones," I said as the door closed with a low thud.

  "Yes, missy," he replied as we sat down across from each other. "I be worrying that you forgot about Moses and go
ing to leave him in this place to die."

  "No sir, I've been working hard. Your case will be coming up for trial sometime in the next few weeks. I don't know the exact date, but as soon as I do, I'll be here to let you know. There's a chance we will have a different judge."

  "That may be help." The old black man nodded. "But I not know what I'm going to say."

  "We'll practice going over your testimony until you know everything I'm going to ask you," I replied with more confidence than I felt. "You can't deny tying up your boat at private docks for the night, but we'll let the jury know that you didn't realize it was private property."

  "That river, it belong to God who made it."

  "Yes, I understand and agree, but that's not our best argument. An innocent mistake on your part will be easier to explain, and we'll also be sure to produce evidence that you didn't damage anyone's property or scare the landowners. Ignorance of the law isn't usually a legal excuse, but the jury can find you not guilty if they think you had an honest misunderstanding. Does that make sense?"

  Moses shook his head. "No, missy. You be talking and talking."

  "That's okay for now. We'll go over everything and break it down so you can follow."

  I laid the folder with the newspaper clippings on the table. When I did, I felt my heart beat a little faster. I cleared my throat. Moses ran his tongue across the most prominent tooth in the front of his mouth.

  "Moses, I have something else to show you." I opened the folder and took out the initial article about Lisa Prescott's disappearance. It contained the largest version of the photograph that ran in all the subsequent articles. I slid the sheet across the table and turned it so Moses could see it.

  "Do you recognize this girl?" I asked.

  He lowered his head closer to the table and tilted it to the side. "She be dead," he said in a soft voice after a few moments. "Where you get this?"

  "It's a copy of an old newspaper article. Is this the girl whose face you see in the water?"

  Still staring down, he nodded. I leaned forward. "Why do you see her face in the water?" I asked.