Mountain Top

by Robert Whitlow

  22

  NEITHER ZACH NOR I SPOKE INTO THE HELMET MICROPHONES during the return trip to the office. I was sorry that he would have to find time in his busy schedule to help me, and I felt bad that I would have to defend a man who was guilty of trespassing—and probably much worse. Zach parked the motorcycle. I climbed out, handed him the helmet, and tucked my folder under my arm.

  “The case will have to be placed on a trial calendar this summer,” Zach said as we walked up the sidewalk. “Otherwise, you’ll be in school.”

  “How soon?”

  “That’s up to the DA’s office. I don’t know much about the criminal court schedule. Call the court administrator and find out possible dates, then let me know so I can enter them on my calendar. You’ll need to get ready.”

  Zach held the door open for me. Usually, the cool interior of the office refreshed me. This afternoon, I didn’t notice. We stood in the reception area at the base of the staircase. I faced Zach.

  “How do I prepare to try a case for a man who signed a confession and whose only defense is based on an argument that God, who created the rivers and oceans, is the only one who can complain about trespassing on waterways in the state of Georgia?”

  “You said the confession doesn’t sound like Jones.”

  “I know, but would that be grounds to suppress it?”

  “No, but it can be argued to a jury.” Zach stopped at the bottom of the stairs. “Look, I’m not a criminal law expert. I’m doing the best I can.”

  “I’m not criticizing you,” I responded quickly. “It was a great idea to ask Mr. Fussleman to come to the hearing. I wouldn’t have had the courage to ask him for help.”

  “You saw how that worked out.”

  “Yes, but I owe you an apology. You took care of me when I wasn’t looking out for myself or the client. I’m learning as fast as I can.”

  Zach put his hand on the stair railing. “And you’re about to learn a lot more.”

  JULIE WAS IN THE LIBRARY when I opened the door. I placed the Moses Jones folder on the worktable and sighed. Julie put down her pen.

  “You look upset, but I’m not going to say anything stupid about Zach or Vinny,” she said. “Mr. Carpenter assured me that you didn’t try to get me in trouble, which I really, really appreciate. He told me to apologize, put the incident behind me, and be more professional.”

  I waited.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Is that your idea of an apology?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  It was such a lame effort that I had to smile.

  “Hey, great,” she said. “I heard you and Vinny got rid of your criminal cases today.”

  “Vince’s case may be over, but mine is getting more serious.”

  “What happened?”

  In telling Julie, the magnitude of the disaster grew.

  “Wow,” she said. “That stinks.”

  I touched one of the Folsom divorce files with my right hand.

  “Divorces and criminal law,” I said. “I think my mother knew this was going to happen and tried to warn me before I came here.”

  “How did she want you to spend your summer?”

  I thought about endless rows of dead chickens. Surely, that wasn’t Mama’s desire for my future.

  “She left it up to me,” I replied. “Now, as my father would say, I have a chance to grow in the midst of difficulty.”

  The family platitude sounded hollow in the moment. I sat down at one of the computer workstations and began typing a memo to Mr. Carpenter about the status of State v. Jones.

  By the end of the day, Julie had returned to her chipper self. We worked together on the Folsom case, but Moses and Lisa Prescott stayed at the edge of my mind. I expected Vince to stop by and offer his condolences on my courtroom fiasco, but he didn’t appear. Julie dropped me off at Mrs. Fairmont’s house.

  “Are you sure you don’t want a ride in the morning?” she asked.

  “No thanks. I enjoy the walk when it’s still cool.”

  “Okay, but remember to call me if it ever rains.”

  Mrs. Bartlett’s car was parked at the curb in front of her mother’s house. I could hear her voice as soon as I entered the foyer.

  “It’s Tami,” I called out.

  “We’re in the den,” Mrs. Bartlett responded.

  Mrs. Fairmont was in her favorite chair facing the television. Mrs. Bartlett was on a leather sofa to her right with a cup of coffee beside her. I sat in the remaining chair.

  “How are you feeling?” I asked Mrs. Fairmont.

  “Well enough to listen to Christine talk nonstop for an hour.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Bartlett replied. “You’ve held up your end of the conversation very well.”

  “Did you have a good day at work?” Mrs. Fairmont asked me.

  “It was difficult,” I replied.

  “Mother tells me you’re snooping around looking for information about the Lisa Prescott case.”

  “Yes ma’am.” I couldn’t blame Mrs. Fairmont for forgetting to keep our conversation secret.

  “If you solve the mystery, it would be a great story to tell on one of those television shows where they go back in time and figure out what really happened. Only, I’d prefer not to have a TV crew filming inside Mother’s house. With all the antiques and valuables around here, it makes no sense giving a thief an inventory of what he might find.”

  “I’ll remember that when the producer calls.”

  “Ellen Prescott was one of Mother’s dearest friends,” Mrs. Bartlett continued. “Lisa was a bit of a brat. I know it sounds harsh to say, but it’s true. I took care of her a few times when our parents went out for the evening. Lisa was sharp as a tack and had a mind of her own.” She turned to Mrs. Fairmont. “Do you remember the time she unlocked the front door of their house and ran out to the sidewalk to hitchhike a ride to the ice-cream shop? I don’t know where she got the idea that a young girl could ask a stranger for a ride. I ran out and grabbed her, of course. Later, when I heard that she didn’t come home one afternoon, the first thought in my mind was about her running to the sidewalk and sticking out her thumb like a homeless person.”

  “How long before she vanished did that happen?” I asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It couldn’t have been more than a year or so.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  “There were all kinds of wild rumors.”

  “What kind of rumors?” I asked.

  “Some I wouldn’t want to repeat, but we almost had a race riot when some vigilantes marched into the black district and started searching houses.”

  “Why did they do that?”

  “It was a sign of the times. Anytime a white girl disappeared, there were people who immediately blamed the black population. When the police didn’t come up with a suspect, low-class troublemakers would take to the streets and try to find a scapegoat.”

  “The Ku Klux Klan?”

  “No, they didn’t try to cover their faces. The KKK wasn’t around much when I was a child.”

  “Did they have a particular person in mind?”

  Mrs. Bartlett rolled her eyes. “Don’t expect me to remember details like that. It was a mob. My father locked the doors and turned out the lights when they came by our house. My bedroom was upstairs. I peeked outside and saw that some of the men were carrying guns. I’m surprised you didn’t see an article about it in the newspaper. Do you remember that night, Mother?”

  “Yes. It was scary.”

  “And there wasn’t a particular black man who was a suspect?” I asked.

  Mrs. Bartlett studied me for a moment. “Do you have a name? Mother and I have lived here all our lives. Between us, we’ve known a lot of people of every color under the sun.”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Attorney/client privilege?”

  “I can’t answer that either.”

  “Do you hear this, Mother?” Mrs. Bartlett
said. “Tami has found out something about Lisa Prescott after all these years. Does the newspaper know you’re conducting an investigation?”

  “No!” I said. “And please don’t mention this to anyone.”

  “I’m not subject to any rules of confidentiality.” Mrs. Bartlett sniffed. “This is hot news for anyone who has been in Savannah for a long time.”

  I gave Mrs. Fairmont an imploring look.

  “Don’t give the girl a heart attack,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “If you spread this around town, she could get in trouble.”

  “That’s right,” I added. “I could lose my job.”

  Mrs. Bartlett appeared skeptical. “Okay, but I have to mention it to Ken. I’m sure he remembers the Lisa Prescott mystery.”

  “Will you ask him not to say anything?” I asked.

  “Of course. Don’t panic. Anyway, hasn’t the statute of limitations run out on that case?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Well?” she repeated.

  I looked directly in her eyes. “There is no statute of limitations for murder.”

  MRS. BARTLETT DIDN’T STAY for supper. After she left, Mrs. Fairmont joined me in the kitchen while I warmed up leftovers from Gracie’s Sunday dinner.

  “Do you think Mrs. Bartlett will keep quiet about my interest in the Prescott case?” I asked as I stirred the black-eyed peas.

  “I never could bridle Christine’s tongue,” the older woman said. “I’d be surprised if you have any success either.”

  After we ate, Mrs. Fairmont returned to the den to read magazines. She would read the same ones over and over. She’d tell about articles that piqued her interest, not realizing that she’d mentioned the same piece a few days before. After listening for the third time in a week to new ideas for Savannah-area flower gardens, I excused myself to call home. Mama answered the phone.

  “It’s me,” I began.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked immediately.

  “How do you know something is wrong?” I asked.

  “I’m your mother. I could tell what was the matter by the way you cried as a baby.”

  The thought of cuddling up in Mama’s arms held a lot of appeal to me.

  “Mostly work matters that I can’t discuss. Is Daddy there?”

  “No, he and Kyle are out again checking on some cows. I think Kyle is going to make enough money to get a new truck by the end of the summer.”

  “Maybe his cattle business will get big enough that he’ll need a corporate attorney.”

  “I told Daddy about the young lawyer who wants to get to know you better.”

  “That’s not an—”

  Mama kept talking. “He agrees with me that you should keep your distance until we can meet him. However, we talked it over, and you can bring him home for the July Fourth holiday if he can give you a ride home.”

  The thought of a five-hour ride in the sidecar followed by the shock on my parents’ faces when Zach parked the motorcycle beneath the poplar tree in our front yard made me smile. Of course, Zach owned a car, but in my mind he was inextricably linked to the motorcycle.

  “That’s sweet of you, Mama, but I’m not sure I want to invite him.” I paused. “However, there is someone else, one of the summer clerks who’s a Christian and very nice. He lives in Charleston, so I don’t know what he’s doing for the holiday, and I may have to stay here to prepare a court case. If I can get away, and Vince wants to drive me home for a visit, would that be okay?”

  “Who is Vince?” Mama sounded slightly bewildered.

  I told her a little more about him. As I talked I realized that compared to Zach Mays, I had little to hide about the brilliant law student.

  “And he maintains his Christian witness at Yale?” Mama asked.

  “Yes ma’am. He’s had to face challenges and overcome them, just like me.”

  “I’ll mention it to your daddy.”

  “Thanks. Now, tell me about the twins, the garden, Bobby, church, the chickens, the dogs, anything about home.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT in my apartment, I read the old newspapers, seeking more information about the mob described by Mrs. Bartlett. Two-thirds of the way through the stack, I found a second-page article. Scant on details, it was obviously a major event that should have received front-page coverage. A group of fifty men invaded the black district in response to “unfounded rumors” related to Lisa Prescott’s disappearance. Rocks were thrown, windows broken, and a fire started in the front yard of one residence. The mob was confronted by a squad of police officers that included several on horseback. Five men were arrested for disorderly conduct, and the rest dispersed. The incident wasn’t mentioned again.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the receptionist stopped me when I arrived at the office.

  “Vince Colbert wants to see you,” she said. “He’s in the small conference room near Mr. Braddock’s office.”

  Puzzled, I went to the opposite end of the building from the library. The conference room door was shut. I knocked.

  “Come in,” Vince called out.

  Vince, his laptop open before him, was sitting at one end of the shiny table. He always wore a suit, tie, and starched shirt. This morning he’d taken off his jacket and hung it on the back of a chair.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Sorry about court yesterday.”

  “It was a blow. What happened in your case?”

  “No problems. My client will be on the road in his quieter car by the weekend. But I spent time last night doing some research that I wanted to tell you about.”

  “You came back to the office last night?”

  “Yes, there is a code needed after eleven o’clock. I can give it to you—”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “What were you looking into?”

  “Please shut the door and sit down.”

  I closed the conference room door and sat in a chair beside him.

  “Careful with the jacket,” he said. “I have a meeting in an hour with Mr. Braddock and one of his clients.”

  “Sorry.” I moved the jacket to the back of another chair.

  “I’ve been doing some research to update the firm website. This firm has been in existence since 1888,” Vince began. “The founding partners were Mr. Braddock’s great-grandfather and an attorney named Vernon Fletchall. After Mr. Fletchall died, the firm was simply known as the Braddock firm until Mr. Braddock brought in another partner in the early 1900s. Mr. Braddock’s son joined the firm, and about thirty years later his grandson, the current Mr. Braddock’s father, a man named Lawrence, who graduated from Vanderbilt after World War II, started practicing in Savannah. In the meantime, the founding Mr. Braddock died and not long after that, his son also died.”

  “I’m not taking notes. Is there going to be a test?”

  “No, but learning more about the history of the firm gave me an idea.”

  “Okay,” I answered, mystified.

  “Mr. Samuel Braddock and his father practiced law together for a long time. Lawrence died about ten years ago, although he’d been retired for many years. Mr. Appleby is originally from Norfolk and joined the firm when the father was still practicing.” Vince paused. “Mr. Carpenter did too. Mr. Carpenter’s family—”

  Realizing another long genealogical recitation was coming, I couldn’t stifle the giggle that bubbled up within me.

  “What did I say?” Vince asked.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know where you’re going with this, but your attention to detail is incredible. Are you the same way with your Bible study?”

  “I try to be.”

  “How many books of the Bible have you memorized?”

  Vince shook his head. “I’m not answering that. Are you going to let me finish? It’s going to be hard to find time later today.”

  “All right. You were starting Mr. Carpenter’s genealogy.”

  “Mr. Carpenter’s family is from Savannah too, but his family history isn’t documented except for the names of
his parents. When I saw his father’s name, I remembered our conversation the other day at the deli.”

  “Floyd Carpenter?” I asked in shock, putting my hand to my mouth.

  Vince nodded. “Yes.”

  “I never really thought—” I stopped.

  “Did you mention that to Mr. Carpenter?” Vince asked.

  “No. I thought it would sound foolish.”

  “That was probably very wise.” Vince moved the cursor on his laptop. “At that point, I stopped working on the website and started searching the closed file records.”

  “Looking for what?”

  “References to the significant names: Prescott and Carpenter as clients of the firm.”

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Not much. Floyd Carpenter died not long after Mr. Braddock’s father passed away.”

  My heart sank.

  “However, the old files haven’t been destroyed,” Vince continued. “The State Bar Rules would allow it, but the firm is proud of its history and put its records on microfilm in the 1980s. They’re stored off-site. I’m just not sure how to get access.”

  “Mr. Carpenter obviously isn’t an option.”

  “Why don’t you ask Zach?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not sure he’ll help. He thinks I need to concentrate totally on helping Moses with the trespassing case and forget about Lisa Prescott.”

  “You can do both.” Vince closed his laptop. “There may be nothing to it, but access to privileged information is a unique opportunity, something the police didn’t have when they were investigating Lisa’s disappearance.”

  Everything Vince said made sense.

  “How long did it take you to do this?”

  Vince smiled. “Less time than it took to memorize the first two chapters of Ephesians. I’ll check with you this afternoon.”

  I LEFT THE CONFERENCE ROOM. When I passed Mr. Carpenter’s office suite, his secretary stopped me.