“Maybe I’ll get the truth from Vince at lunch.”
Julie held up her hands. “Just leave me out of it. I need a social director more than you do.”
18
MIDMORNING, MYRA DEAN CAME INTO THE LIBRARY AND summoned Julie to a meeting with a prospective client in the main conference room.
“Bring a blank legal pad and a pen,” Myra said. “You won’t say anything. Mr. Carpenter wants you to take notes while he conducts the interview. It’s a new client who is the money guy behind a huge real-estate deal that is heading toward litigation. He’s checking us out, and Mr. Carpenter will be putting on a full-court press to get the business. Rich clients like to know they have a bigger army of lawyers and staff than the people on the other side.”
“Will I be the only person taking notes?” Julie asked. “Vince is so quick on the computer. I might miss something important.”
“No,” Myra replied. “I’ll be there too. You’re my backup.”
After they left the library I stood up to stretch and take a break. Julie’s tough exterior was showing cracks. While in college, I’d led several girls to faith in Christ. Some of them came from religious backgrounds. Others were crying out for help from a pit of sinful despair. But I’d never had the chance to pray with a Jewish person. There was a buzz on the phone extension located in the library and a female voice spoke into the room.
“Tami Taylor, please pick up on line 127.”
I pushed the three buttons. “Hello,” I said.
“It’s Zach. Can you take a break?”
“That’s what I’m doing right now.”
“Good. Come to my office.”
The phone clicked off without giving me a chance to reply. Zach was definitely more abrupt in his conversations at the office during the week than on Saturday at the beach.
Upstairs, people were walking back and forth carrying papers, folders, and documents. Everyone was busy and no one paid any attention to me. I walked down the hallway to Zach’s door and knocked.
“Come in,” he called out.
I opened the door and peeked in. Zach was on the phone with his hand over the mouthpiece. He motioned for me to sit down.
“I understand,” he said, removing his hand, “but I haven’t had a chance to talk to our client. The judge isn’t going to make me go to trial a couple of weeks after he assigned the case to our firm.”
Zach listened for a moment. “Just because the jail log shows that Tami was there early last week doesn’t constitute effective assistance of counsel. We haven’t filed the standard pretrial motions or learned the names and addresses of any of your witnesses.”
There was another pause.
“Yes, it will help if you open your file and allow us to review everything you have, but that’s just the beginning. We’ll need to do our own investigation.” Zach turned toward his computer. “Yes, I’m available tomorrow afternoon, but I need to check with Tami to confirm her schedule. The main reason Judge Cannon assigned the case to our office is so she could gain courtroom experience, even if it’s limited to preliminary matters.”
Zach pushed a button and changed the computer screen from a calendar to his mailbox.
“Right,” he said. “I appreciate the pressure you’re under. We’ll consider the offer and discuss it with Mr. Jones.”
Zach hung up the phone. “Good morning,” he said.
“I’m not sure,” I replied. “That conversation didn’t sound like a good way to start the day or the week.”
“Don’t worry; we’ll sort through it in a minute. Did you talk to your parents?”
“Uh, just my mother.” I tried to put a hopeful look on my face. “I told her how nice you’ve been to me and that we had a lot in common. I mentioned your homeschool background and that you’re well respected in the firm.” I stopped. “It’s very awkward repeating this to you.”
“I’m not trying to embarrass you. I respect you.”
“I told her that too.” I sighed. “She’s going to talk to my father, but she thinks we shouldn’t take any steps toward a personal relationship until they have a chance to meet you.”
“Did you make it sound more serious than I intended?”
I stared at Zach for a second, not sure whether to cry or run out of the room. My face must have revealed my feelings.
“No, that was wrong,” he added. “Can you forget that last sentence and back up to the part about me respecting you?”
“I’ll try.”
“Thanks. Would it be okay for me to talk to them?”
“I wondered about that,” I admitted. “But not until I hear from my father. I don’t want to manipulate them.”
“Of course, they taught you to appeal to authority, not rebel against it.”
“Exactly,” I replied in surprise.
“It’s good training for becoming a lawyer. Including the case of State v. Moses Jones,” Zach replied, tapping a folder on his desk. “That was Ms. Smith, the assistant DA. Her call was routed to me instead of you. The bottom line is that she wants to fast-track State v. Jones and bump it up the trial calendar. Several of the complaining homeowners are going to leave town for the summer and don’t want to be held hostage as witnesses for a trial. I guess they have homes in the mountains so they can escape the malaria on the coast.”
“Malaria? Are you serious?”
“A hundred years ago, it was a big problem.”
“Whether a few people are here or not shouldn’t matter,” I said. “There are twenty-four counts. It would still be a minority.”
Zach flipped open the folder on his desk. “How closely did you read the charges?”
“What did I miss?”
Zach ran his finger down the sheets of paper in front of him while I fidgeted.
“There are twenty-four counts but only five different physical locations,” he said after a minute. “Think about it. Jones was looking for a convenient hookup for his boat, not a change in scenery. He wouldn’t have sought out a different dock every night.”
“I missed that.”
“And I’m no criminal law expert, but the first rule of an admiralty case is to carefully read the documents. It’s the same for any area of the law. Check out the paperwork.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Just learn the lesson.”
“What did Ms. Smith say about a plea bargain?”
“I’m getting to that. A few of the rich folks on the river want Jones removed from polite society. Each count carries a sentence of up to twelve months plus a one-thousand-dollar fine. If you laid those end to end, Moses Jones could be in jail the rest of his life.”
My jaw dropped.
“But no judge would lock him up and throw away the key,” Zach added. “The DA’s initial offer is six months in jail followed by three years on probation with no monetary fine.”
I thought about Moses sitting in the interview room breathing through his few remaining teeth. In spite of my mother’s fears, he didn’t seem to be a huge threat to society.
“That sounds harsh. I mean, he didn’t steal or damage anything.”
“And that’s her first offer. You can make a counterproposal.”
“Me?”
“Remember, it’s your case. I’ll help, just like I promised. However, we need to meet with him as soon as possible. The case is set for Judge Cannon’s arraignment calendar tomorrow afternoon. If we work out a deal, it could all be taken care of at that time.”
I took a deep breath. “That sounds great.”
Zach glanced at a clock on the corner of his desk. “We can run over to the jail, discuss options with the client, and grab a late lunch on the way back. All in the context of business.”
“Could we go to the jail later today? I promised Vince that I’d have lunch with him. We tried to get together several times last week, and it kept getting pushed back. I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Hurt his feelings? What kind of lunch is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did you talk to your mother about Vince Colbert?” Zach asked.
I felt my face flush. “No. He didn’t ask me to.”
Zach looked up at the ceiling for a few seconds before lowering his eyes and meeting my gaze. “For a laid-back California guy, I’m not doing very well,” he said. “Have a good lunch with Vince; then check with me. I’ll carve out at least two hours for a trip to the jail to meet Mr. Jones.”
In the hall outside Zach’s office I ran into Gerry Patrick.
“Hope your first week wasn’t too dull,” she said cheerily. “We have some events planned that will liven things up.”
“No ma’am. It’s been very stimulating,” I replied. “Much more than I’d guessed.”
“Good. I’m here if you have any questions.”
I returned downstairs to finish a memo for Bob Kettleson. In double-checking my research, I discovered that one of the cases I relied on had been seriously criticized in a recent appellate court opinion. After offering a quick prayer of thanks, I pointed out the potential pitfall in an extra two paragraphs of the memo before sending it to the senior associate. No one came into the library until Vince, the ubiquitous notebook computer in his hand, arrived at precisely 11:50 a.m.
“Are you still available?” he asked.
“Yes.”
I noted my time on a log and closed the folders.
“Julie is in a big meeting with several of the partners and associates,” Vince said as we checked out at the reception desk.
“I was there when Myra Dean asked her to come.”
We walked outside into the hot sun. The slight coolness I enjoyed during my early morning runs didn’t last past the point most people in the city were sipping their first cup of coffee.
“How does Savannah compare to Charleston?” I asked.
“Same and different.”
We walked in silence. A lunch with Vince might be similar to my morning quiet time. He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for me. Before he reached the driver’s side, the car’s engine started and the air conditioner started blowing warm air.
“I’ve never been to Charleston,” I said. “Does your family live near the Battery?”
Vince smiled. It was a nice smile without a hint of mockery.
“No. I have a great-aunt that lives south of Broad Street, but I grew up in a newer area. My father is a chemistry professor at the College of Charleston. He also holds several patents in the plastics industry.”
I thought about my daddy working at the chicken plant in Powell Station. He was more into biology than chemistry.
“Would you like to go to a café I found before you and Julie arrived?” Vince asked.
“Sure.”
Without Julie around to interrupt, I found Vince capable of holding up his end of a conversation. During the drive, I learned that he had two older sisters: the one who was married in Savannah and another who lived in Boston.
“Did you think about going to Harvard?” I asked, expecting him to say that he’d not been accepted for admission at the older institution.
“Yes, it was a tough choice,” he replied. “Both Yale and Harvard are good schools.”
I stifled a laugh. He glanced over at me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, you know, the dilemma of having to pick between two of the finest law schools in the country. At least you didn’t have to worry about Virginia, Michigan, and Stanford.”
“Virginia and Michigan accepted me, but I didn’t apply to Stanford. I didn’t want to be on the West Coast.”
I looked out the car window. Vince parked on the street.
“The café is a block north,” he said. “I hope you’ll like it.”
The restaurant was in the downstairs of an older home near Greene Square. A hostess wearing a black skirt and white blouse placed us at a table for two where we could look through a window into a garden much more elaborate than the one at Mrs. Fairmont’s house. Everything about the place, from wall decorations to furniture, had a French flavor.
“This is really nice,” I said after I’d had a chance to look around.
“The food is good too.”
I opened the menu and didn’t recognize a single entrée by name. Only when I read the ingredients could I partially decipher what was offered.
“It really is a French place, isn’t it?” I said.
“The chef is from Marseille.”
“How do you know?”
Before he answered, a short waiter wearing rimless glasses came to our table. Vince spoke to him in French, and the man left.
“Is he from Marseille too?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“No, he’s from a little town in Provence. He’ll send out the chef so we can find out what he recommends.”
“You speak French?”
“Enough to get by.”
I took a sip of water. The more I learned about Vince, the less confident I felt in his presence. The waiter returned accompanied by a rotund man wearing an apron and a tall white chef ’s hat. Vince continued to speak exclusively in French. The chef bowed toward me. Vince held out the menu while the three men had a rapid-fire conversation. Most of the other patrons in the restaurant turned to watch. I pressed tightly into my seat, not even trying to pretend I could understand. The chef and waiter left.
“How did it go?” I asked.
“He’s going to put together something special that isn’t on the menu.”
“The menu didn’t have any good options?”
“Yes, but he wants to make the lunch memorable.”
“It’s already that. I’ve never been in the middle of a French conversation before.”
“What foreign language did you take in college?”
“Spanish, but I’ve only used it in public with a few of the workers at the chicken plant.”
As soon as I mentioned the chicken plant, I wanted to cram my napkin in my mouth. This was not the time or place for another discussion about my previous experience as an eviscerator. Vince looked across the room.
“Do you see that painting?” he asked, nodding toward the far wall. “The one above the fireplace.”
I turned my head and saw a pastoral scene with vibrant colors. “Yes.”
“It’s an original. Twentieth-century but in an earlier style. What do you think?”
“I like it.”
When I looked back, Vince was staring at me.
“Tell me more about you,” he said. “Where you’re from, something about your family, your travels.”
“Well, I’ve lived my whole life in rural north Georgia with my parents, two brothers, and twin sisters. I didn’t apply to any law schools except Georgia because I can’t afford out-of-state tuition. Yesterday, I saw the ocean for the second time in my life. My conversational Spanish doesn’t function past basic communication. I can’t compete with you in any area of life or experience.”
“Life isn’t primarily about competition, is it?”
“No, it’s about glorifying God,” I said.
Vince nodded. “Gerry Patrick told me you were a serious Christian. Your faith made an impression on her, and I wanted to find out why.”
“I’m not sure it was a good impression.”
“She seemed positive, but the Bible says we shouldn’t be surprised by persecution and misunderstanding.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Are you persecuted?”
Vince shrugged. “Imagine how people at the law school react when they find out I believe the Bible is true and Jesus Christ is the only way of salvation. The only acceptable belief is no belief, and the greatest foolishness is commitment to truth.”
“How did you come to believe?” I asked.
Vince rubbed the back of his scarred right hand. “In high school I suffered a serious chemical burn to my right hand and arm when a lab partner caused a minor explosion during an experiment. The corrosive activity of the chemicals didn’t stop unt
il they took me into surgery.”
I winced.
“I spent almost a week in the hospital and have had multiple skin grafts. I usually don’t tell people this, but as I suffered, I thought about hell, where the fire never stops and the pain never ceases.”
The waiter brought two cups of chilled soup.
“This is an asparagus-based soup,” he said. “It sounds weird, but give it a try.”
I touched a tiny spoonful to my lips. It was a puree with a much lighter flavor than I expected. I ate a larger spoonful.
“It’s good,” I said.
Vince ate several bites without speaking. I waited for him to continue. He kept eating, occasionally glancing around the restaurant.
“Are you going to leave me wondering why you decided not to go to hell?” I asked. “That would be stranger than this soup. Which is delicious,” I quickly added.
Vince put down his spoon. “Sorry, I have a tendency to focus on one thing at a time. I’m not the best multitasker.”
“Then eat your soup before you tell me more.”
Vince efficiently reached the bottom of the cup.
“I’m listening,” I said when I saw he’d finished. “Why did you think about hell at all? Not many preachers ever mention it.”
“In a literature class I’d read Dante’s Inferno and Jonathan Edwards’ ‘Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.’ I had a cultural knowledge of the Bible and was familiar with the concept of eternal punishment. But until the accident, everything was theoretical. Afterward pain dominated my life. In between morphine injections I suffered horribly. The pain would ease, but I knew it would return and my mind couldn’t escape the thought of suffering at an even more extreme level—forever.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Do you want to change the subject?”
“No, no. Our church believes in hell, but I don’t like to think about it. I’m more interested in learning how to obey the Lord in my day-to-day life.”
The waiter brought our meal. The food looked like a picture from one of the magazines at Mrs. Fairmont’s house.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Blanquette de veau. It’s a veal dish.”
I took a bite. There were unusual flavors with a hint of onion.
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