Higher Hope

by Robert Whitlow

  “May I help you?” a female voice asked on the other end.

  “I’d like to see Margaret Fairmont,” I said.

  “Are you a relative?”

  “No, but I’ve been caring for her at her home. I was with her tonight when the ambulance came to get her.”

  “One of the doctors is examining her. Call back in about fifteen minutes.”

  I replaced the phone and told Vince. We sat down. I stared straight ahead without speaking. Vince cleared his throat a couple of times, then picked up a newspaper and began to read. Initially I closed my eyes and prayed silently. I heard Vince rustle the paper. He’d helped me see that I wasn’t responsible for Mrs. Fairmont’s emergency, but at the moment I needed Zach’s spiritual strength. After fifteen minutes passed, I phoned the ICU.

  “You can come back now,” the woman said.

  I motioned to Vince.

  “Me, too?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  We entered an ICU area that consisted of a row of rooms on either side of a central nursing station. Mrs. Fairmont was lying motionless on her back with an oxygen tube in her nose, a blood pressure cuff on her arm, and an IV bag on a rack beside her bed. I gently touched her hand that no longer glistened with the diamond rings she usually wore. She didn’t stir. Vince stood at my shoulder. Not trusting myself to say anything without bursting into tears, I glanced back at him.

  “Will you pray for her?”

  Vince nodded. I closed my eyes and waited. After a few moments of silence, Vince began quoting the Twenty-third Psalm. He had a deep, clear voice, and the words filled the room. When he finished, I opened my eyes. But before I could say anything he continued, this time quoting Psalm 91. When he reached the concluding verse about God’s promise of long life and salvation, chill bumps raced across my arms. I opened my eyes again, half hoping, half expecting to find Mrs. Fairmont alert and asking for something to eat. The elderly woman remained in dignified unconsciousness. I carefully searched her face for change but saw nothing.

  “That was beautiful,” I said to Vince, hiding my disappointment.

  “I hope God touched her.”

  “What did you say?” I asked sharply.

  “That I hope God touched her.”

  I glanced back at Mrs. Fairmont again. Unlike Oscar Callahan, she showed no signs of shouting hallelujah and clapping her hands.

  “We should probably leave,” I said.

  We didn’t encounter Mr. and Mrs. Bartlett on the way out of the hospital. I wasn’t surprised. I doubted she would spend the night in the ICU waiting area just so she could see her mother for a few minutes every hour. I stared out the window as Vince drove me home.

  “Thanks again,” I said as the car came to a stop in front of Mrs. Fairmont’s house. “It meant a lot for me to see her.”

  “I’m sorry for the way her daughter is acting. Maybe she’ll cool down in the morning and let you stay. I don’t think her husband agreed with her.”

  “Unfortunately he’s not the boss in the family, and when it comes to her mother, Mrs. Bartlett’s only competition comes from Mrs. Fairmont.”

  FLIP SLEPT IN BED with me. He whimpered and refused to settle down until I went upstairs and got one of Mrs. Fairmont’s sweaters. Then he nestled against the sweater and dozed off. Once in the night he barked. I sat bolt upright in bed but saw nothing through the faint light coming in from the garden. It was only a dog dream.

  I left a note in the morning for Gracie, letting her know what had happened to Mrs. Fairmont. Mrs. Bartlett would surely call her, but I didn’t want to take a chance. Gracie had worked for Mrs. Fairmont for over twenty years. The house would need cleaning and dusting, even if no one lived there.

  Flip was a more troubling dilemma. He could fend for himself if I left dry dog food in a dish and water in a bowl. But the idea that Mrs. Bartlett might take him away while I was at work was more than I could bear. Mrs. Fairmont would want me to stand up for the little dog. He had no other champion. I skipped my morning run and took Flip out for a walk instead. As we approached the house, I was startled by a car horn blaring beside me. It was Zach. He stopped and I got in.

  “Sorry about Mrs. Fairmont,” he said. “I tried to call, but I guess you were at the hospital.”

  “Yes, Vince took me.”

  “How is she?”

  “I don’t know. There’s no news since last night and I didn’t find out much then.”

  We stopped in front of the house. I explained what had happened with Mrs. Bartlett.

  “Do you have any plans?” he asked.

  “There may be a place to sublease in the complex where Vince lives, but I haven’t seen it and don’t know what to do about Flip.”

  “That dog means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but Mrs. Fairmont really loves him. He’s the one thing I can take care of that will honor her wishes. I’m worried Mrs. Bartlett will take him to the pound.”

  “He could move in with me,” Zach offered. “I’d have to install a doggie door for him to use during the day.”

  “You’d do that?” I asked, a wave of gratitude washing over me.

  “Yes, but I’m not going to let him sleep in bed with me. It will just be two boys hanging out together.”

  I had a sudden urge to lean over and kiss Zach on the cheek. I scratched Flip on the head instead.

  “But that doesn’t take care of you.”

  “I could rent a room by the week at a motel if I have to. There’s less than a month left before the job ends.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It’s not the primary thing,” I said, turning toward him. “I’m really worried about Mrs. Fairmont. I wish you could have been with me at the hospital last night. Vince and I were able to see her. He prayed a beautiful prayer quoting verses from the Psalms, but it wasn’t like Mr. Callahan’s kitchen. Nothing happened.”

  “And you think it would have been different with me?”

  “Maybe.”

  Zach shook his head. “Tami, I can be kind to a dog any day of the week, but I can’t promise an immediate answer to prayer every time I open my mouth.”

  “I know, but—” I stopped, not sure what to say.

  I opened the car door. Flip hopped out. I held the leash tight.

  “I’ll see you at work,” I said.

  “Don’t forget the meeting with Mr. McKenzie at ten thirty. And make sure you or Julie follows up with the reporter at the newspaper. It’s odd that Dabney contacted the Home and Garden editor. I doubt that’s a full-time job.”

  “It might be in a city like Savannah. There are a lot of homes and gardens to write about.”

  JULIE WASN’T IN THE LIBRARY. When she arrived at nine thirty, she immediately wanted to know about Mrs. Fairmont. For once, she remained serious.

  “I hope she’s going to be okay. And if you give me her daughter’s phone number I’ll straighten her out. How incredibly rude.”

  I wondered if Julie might invite me to stay with her at her apartment for a few days, but no offer came. We worked on separate projects until time to leave for our interview with Carl McKenzie.

  “Are you ready to talk to Mr. McKenzie?” Julie asked as I put the file in my briefcase.

  “I thought you would take the lead,” I answered in surprise.

  “We’ll let Zach decide.”

  IT WAS ONLY a five-minute drive to the electrical supply business. Julie and I rode with Zach. Julie insisted I sit in the front seat.

  “Your legs are so much longer than mine,” she said.

  Zach didn’t try to hide his smile.

  McKenzie Electrical Supply Company was in a modern building that stretched half a city block. We entered a showroom devoted to hundreds of different light fixtures, everything from ornate crystal chandeliers to burnished steel crafted to look like a piece of modern art. A salesman directed us to a nicely furnished office suite. We sat in burgundy leather chairs for a couple of minutes until a young
woman escorted us to a conference room. Oil portraits of three men hung on the wall.

  “The brothers McKenzie,” Julie observed when the woman left.

  “No, two generations,” a middle-aged man said from the door-way. “My grandfather, father, and uncle.”

  The family resemblance was obvious. All four men had the same broad face, slightly flat nose, and bushy eyebrows over dark eyes. The dark suits in the paintings were so similar that it was impossible to date the portraits.

  “When will yours be unveiled?” Julie asked, flashing a slightly embarrassed smile.

  “Not until I’m dead, and it will be up to my son and nephew to make that decision. They’ll probably want to put up a picture of the race car we sponsor. Have a seat.”

  Mr. McKenzie had a thin folder in his hand. He sat on one side of the table with Zach, and Julie and I sat on the other side. Zach introduced us.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with us,” he said.

  “Jason Paulding was a longtime customer,” McKenzie said. “This has been a very awkward situation.”

  “He’s no longer a customer?” Zach asked.

  “That’s under review.”

  “You’re not going to do business with him in the future?” Julie asked.

  “I’m not going to answer that question. As I said, it’s under review. I agreed to meet with you this morning in an effort to work this out amicably. If you want to cross-examine me, we’ll need to do that in my lawyer’s office.”

  Julie’s face fell. I could see red on the side of her neck.

  “Who’s your lawyer?” Zach asked.

  “Brad Mix.”

  “Does he know you’re talking to us this morning?”

  “Yes, and he supports what I’m trying to do. I met with him after receiving the call from the secretary at your office.”

  “That was me,” Julie said.

  “I’d like to ask a few questions. Just let me know if I get out of line. Could you start with your first contact with Ramona Dabney?”

  McKenzie opened the folder. I could see it contained loose pieces of paper with handwriting on them and computer printouts of numbers.

  “I received a phone call a couple of months ago from a woman claiming to have information about a commercial project north of the city. The developer was an outfit from Atlanta, and Jason’s com-pany won the bid to handle part of the construction. He was also in line to manage rental of the spaces after completion. We provided all the electrical materials at a significant discount in return for a small percentage of Jason’s cut of the rental revenue for a period of time after the project opened. Our discount was the main reason he was able to bid his part of the construction phase low enough to get the business. We saw the deal as an opportunity to make a significantly better profit if we were patient.”

  I was taking notes as fast as I could write.

  “So, you were a silent partner in the management of the development,” Zach said.

  “Yes, we look for opportunities outside our core business.”

  “What happened?”

  “I thought everything was fine. Construction progressed nicely, the spaces leased out within a couple of months, and Jason began sending us checks. The payments weren’t as much as we’d projected, but he told me competition in the market had increased and the developer in Atlanta lowered the rents in order to fill up the spaces quickly. Jason provided all the documentation our financial people requested. Then one morning I get a call from this Dabney woman claiming to have inside information about the project. I thought she was a nut until she told me how much we’d discounted our rate to get involved.”

  “A percentage or a dollar amount?” Zach asked.

  “Dollars.”

  “And she told you the exact amount?”

  “Close enough that it got my attention. Only a couple of people in our company would have access to that kind of data. She claimed Jason was cheating us. When I asked how, she went into a Bible story, then hung up.” McKenzie glanced down at a sheet of paper. “It’s Luke 16:1–10.”

  “The story of the unrighteous steward,” I said.

  “That’s right,” McKenzie replied, giving me a puzzled look. “I read the story, but it didn’t make sense because Jesus praised a man who cheated the guy he worked for. I called the minister at my church for an explanation. After he talked about Roman culture for a few minutes, I realized he didn’t know either.” He looked at me. “Maybe this young woman can shed some light on it.”

  “It’s a controversial passage,” I replied.

  “And we’re lawyers, not theologians,” Zach said.

  “Anyway, I called Jason and told him about the phone call from Ms. Dabney. He told me she was slandering him because he wanted to buy her property on Gillespie Street, and she didn’t want to sell. He mentioned what he’d offered and it sounded reasonable for a transitional neighborhood. Then I told him that even if Dabney was a nut, I’d like to audit our project and see if the numbers added up correctly. He agreed.”

  “Have you completed the audit?”

  “Yes.”McKenzie slid four sheets of paper across the table. “My accountants and attorney have reviewed this information. I’m providing it to you as Jason’s counsel. I’m willing to work this out with him.”

  I leaned over to get a closer look but couldn’t decipher the meaning of the figures. Zach scanned the sheets.

  “You’re claiming these administrative charges should have been included in Paulding Development’s revenue for purposes of calculating the money paid to your company?”

  “You don’t have to be a theologian to figure that out. The shortage is around two hundred thousand dollars.”

  “Our firm hasn’t been hired in this matter,” Zach replied, turning over the pages, “but I’ll make sure this information reaches Mr. Paulding. If he wants us to represent him, should we communicate with you or Brad Mix?”

  “Try me first. I’ve had enough experience with lawyers to know they have a place, but I don’t need someone to hold my hand. I hope this is an oversight that Jason will correct as soon as he’s presented with the facts. He knows how important our relationship is for his business.”

  “Okay. Anything else you can tell us about Reverend Dabney? Did she call again about Mr. Paulding or send anything to you in writing?”

  “No, that’s it. She left her number, but I didn’t keep it. She sounded like my mother when she wasn’t on her medicine, cranky and mad at the world. But I can’t argue with the accuracy of the financial information she gave me. How she guessed or found it out is a mystery.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “No.”

  WE DIDN’T SPEAK until we were out of the building.

  “What did you make of that?” Zach asked once we were seated in the car.

  I looked at Julie in the backseat.

  “Don’t look at me,” she said. “I was humiliated.”

  “That sort of thing happens,” Zach said. “Forget it.”

  “But will you forget it?”

  Zach looked in the rearview mirror. “If you’re asking me not to include it in my evaluation of you for the firm, the answer is yes. My only suggestion is that you practice keeping quiet when you don’t know who might be listening.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With that out of the way, what do you think about the case?” he asked us.

  “Which one?” Julie answered. “Paulding v. Dabney or McKenzie v. Paulding? Any evidence for a business tort against Dabney with Mr. McKenzie as our star witness was buried by the figures uncovered by his auditor. But the good news is there might be another case for our firm if Paulding hires Mr. C to represent him in the new dispute.”

  “Lawyers always float to the top,” Zach said.

  “What could you tell from the auditor’s summary?” I asked him.

  “That we’ll have to see the contract to sort it out. If McKenzie is right, Paulding will owe him a substantial sum of money.” He paus
ed. “And Reverend Dabney will have scored a direct hit with her prophetic gun.”

  “Huh?” Julie asked.

  19

  ZACH WENT UPSTAIRS TO HIS OFFICE TO PREPARE A MEMO ABOUT McKenzie’s claim against Jason Paulding. Julie tried unsuccessfully to reach Brenda Abernathy at the newspaper.

  “I wonder why Paulding listed her as a possible witness,” I said after she left another message. “He didn’t do a very thorough job investigating his witnesses or he would have found out there was a problem with McKenzie.”

  “All it says on the sheet is that McKenzie and Abernathy called him and told him they’d been contacted by Dabney. There may not be any slanderous allegations involved.”

  “That leaves Officer Samuels,” I said.

  “He’s your bookend to Sonny Miller,” Julie replied. “Why don’t you try to track him down while I start preparing the complaint? The police officer’s testimony would be valuable at trial, but it’s not necessary to initiate a lawsuit.”

  I phoned the police station. When the dispatcher on duty learned where I worked, she insisted on radioing Officer Samuels in his car. I put my hand over the phone and told Julie what the woman was doing.

  “She’s either a satisfied client of the firm, or she wants a better-paying job if one opens up.”

  The dispatcher came back on the line.

  “Samuels is coming off his break in about half an hour. He can meet you in the administrative offices at the jail.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  The law firm had a compact car used by runners and employees temporarily without transportation. I’d been nervous the first couple of times I drove it. But it was a lot easier to operate than Kyle’s truck with a cattle trailer hooked onto the hitch. Twenty-five minutes later, I parked in front of the Chatham County Correctional Center. I’d been there several times while representing Moses Jones.

  The lobby was a large open room. It wasn’t visiting hours, and it was empty. The modern facility smelled as clean as a hospital. A sign on the wall directed me toward the administrative wing. My shoes tapped against the shiny waxed floor. I felt much more confident than when I’d arrived for my initial interview with Moses. It was much less intimidating meeting a man who enforced the law than one accused of breaking it. I gave my name and reason for being there to a male officer on duty.