Savannah Law

by William Eleazer

  “Sure, six,” said Scott, and he hurried down the corridor and took the elevator to Grady’s office.

  CHAPTER 13

  Jennifer was already at the Library when Scott arrived. She was examining the books on the shelves that surrounded the large room. The shelves were organized by law subject area in alphabetical order, clockwise around the room: Administrative Law, Advocacy, Appellate Practice, Bankruptcy, Business Law—dozens of different subject areas. The vast majority of the books were donated by students—many from graduating students who never wanted to see a law school book again. Professors donated their extra copies, and sales representatives from law book publishers frequently stopped by with recent editions when visiting the school. Jaak always treated the bearer to some special hospitality at the bar.

  “I see you’re admiring Jaak’s law book collection,” Scott said.

  “Yes, I’ve seen these shelves every time I’ve been here but never looked to see just what was on them. This is impressive. Most of the books recommended by my professors are right here. Who maintains the Library’s library?”

  “Willard Gentry. He runs the acquisition section of the school’s library. This is his hobby—I guess it’s his only outside activity. He has a severe speech impediment and some other physical problems, but he’s one super librarian. See that small desk over by the bar? That’s his catalog desk.”

  “You mean all these books are cataloged?”

  “Every one.”

  Scott saw Juri across the room, standing behind the bar waving at Scott to come over. “I see Juri is calling, and I could use a beer. How about you, what will you have?”

  “I’ll have a glass of iced tea.” They walked over to the bar and arrived just as Juri pushed a mug of beer toward Scott.

  “On the house?” joked Scott.

  “No, on Scott. But I put sixteen ounces in that twelve-ounce mug because you’re special. And because you always bring beautiful girls to brighten this place up. Jennifer, you’re Scott’s third this week, but by far the best looking. Right, Scott?”

  “Juri, that’s a loaded, unfair question, and you know it. But, if an answer is required, the answer is ‘yes.’”

  “Right answer,” said Juri. “Now, you two sit down; I’ve got a good one.”

  “Do we have a choice?” Scott asked. He motioned for Jennifer to take a seat at one of the bar stools.

  “This lady enters the drug store,” Juri began. “Steps up to the pharmacy counter and rings the bell. Pharmacist comes out and asks, ‘What can I do for you?’ Lady says, ‘I want some arsenic. I’m going to poison my husband.’” Juri took a quick step backward and brought a frown to his face. His jokes were always animated.

  “Pharmacist says, ‘Lady, I can’t help you with that, and you shouldn’t be talking like that.’ She says, ‘Well, I’ve got a photo of him in bed with your wife.’” And with that, Juri stepped forward with a smile on his face. “Pharmacist says, ‘You didn’t tell me you had a prescription.’”

  They all laughed, none heartier than Juri. Scott ordered iced tea for Jennifer. When the tea was delivered, they picked up their drinks and moved to a nearby table.

  Scott told Jennifer all about the problem with the indictment. “We’re going to take it to another grand jury later this week; maybe I can redeem myself for screwing up.”

  “You think it was your fault?”

  “Sure. I should have caught the error. But I was so wrapped up in the process of proving the case, I missed it. I guess the tree was hidden by the forest. It was my case to prosecute, so, yes, my responsibility. I’m just glad they’re going to give me another chance.”

  Scott and Jennifer sat and quietly talked. The album Blue Is Green was playing in the background. When the vocalist, Tierney Sutton, began to sing “Autumn Leaves,” they quit talking and just listened.

  “Juri has good taste in music. That’s one sensational voice,” Jennifer said when the song was over. She turned and surveyed the room. “I wonder where Jaak is; I haven’t seen him tonight.”

  “He has some civic club meeting on Wednesdays. Something going on about every night with Jaak,” said Scott.

  Jennifer looked at her watch; it was a little after seven. “Nicole’s bringing over some sandwiches at seven-thirty. I’ve got to run. Keep me posted on your trial.”

  Jennifer got into her car as the sun was beginning to set. The rain that had soaked Savannah for the past few days had departed. The air was still humid but felt fresh and clean. She rolled her windows down and enjoyed the cool breeze. She was home in about fifteen minutes. Most of the spaces on the street were filled; she felt lucky to find a parking space not far from her apartment.

  A car, two spaces down from where she was parked, caught Jennifer’s eye, perhaps because it was a Camry like hers, or because it was the only one that was occupied. There was a man inside, sitting in the driver’s seat, facing forward and away from her so that she could only see the back of his head. She grabbed her backpack and went inside. She looked out a window, and there was the man pulling out of his parking space. As he was driving off, he turned and briefly looked at her apartment. He looked familiar... she wondered if she had seen him before. And then she recalled: “I’ve got a Camry just like yours, except it’s black and two years older.” “Oh, no... no,” she said quietly to herself. Even the possibility that the man could have been Craig filled her with fear. Then she saw Nicole pulling into the space just vacated. The sight was a relief.

  Nicole brought in a covered plate of sandwiches, and Jennifer turned on the coffee maker. They sat down at the kitchen table and began comparing class notes and briefs. Jennifer did not mention to Nicole what she had just seen. It would be such a long and involved story, and they had a lot of studying planned for the evening. Besides, she thought, this was her problem, not Nicole’s. But the disturbing view of the black Camry remained in her mind.

  CHAPTER 14

  Thursday, August 24

  Professor Fred Leyton was seated in his office Thursday morning, going over some class assignments. Leyton had been at Savannah Law for four years and was head of the Trial Advocacy Department. It was an assignment for which he was well qualified. He had a law degree from the University of Florida, five years of experience in the litigation department of Holland and Knight, and a master’s degree in trial advocacy from Temple Law School.

  There was a knock on his door. He looked up and saw Denis Nolan entering.

  “Hi, Denis. Ready for the new semester?”

  “Not quite. Still grading last spring’s exams,” Denis said with a grin. “You know how Channing is—wants to get grades in before the students graduate. We need to straighten out her priorities.”

  “Drop those long essay questions, Denis. What you need is a good multiple-choice exam.”

  “Tried that. Takes too long to write the questions. I think this semester I’ll mark the steps out my back door with A through F, throw the papers, and see where they land. Law school teaching would be a great job if it weren’t for students and exams.” Both Denis and Fred laughed at his joke, and then Denis added, “But I didn’t come in to complain. I came in about your student trial competition program. I’m wondering if I can be of any assistance. I’m interested in what you’ve been doing. And I now have a special interest.”

  “Special interest?” asked Fred.

  “Yes, a very special interest. I want Savannah Law to have one of the premier trial advocacy programs in the country, and I want to be dean here when it happens. If you haven’t heard, I’m putting my name in for the deanship. I believe this school can vault into the national scene in trial advocacy under your leadership. And I’m hoping you agree.”

  Fred was taken by surprise and hesitated before replying. He had known Denis for four years and had never heard him express any interest in trial advocacy.

  “That’s my goal, too. And the only way that can really be done is by our students competing in—and winning—trial competitions. Tha
t’s how Stetson keeps its first-place position for trial advocacy in the U.S. News and World Report ratings year after year—they keep winning.”

  Fred paused. He realized Denis seemed to be more focused on two trophies in the bookcase than on what Fred was saying.

  “The trophy on the left is from the Southeast Regional last winter. We were in the finals,” said Fred. “The semi-finalist one on the right is from last fall’s William Daniel competition in Atlanta.”

  “That Daniel competition... it’s scheduled again in a couple of months, isn’t it?” asked Denis.

  “Yes, first weekend in November. Nate Grant from the U.S. Attorney’s Office will be coaching. He coached one of our teams last year, and he’s very good.”

  “Fred, I wonder if I could help with that competition. As I said, I’m going to make a serious run for the deanship here, and I want to get up to speed on all the activities at the school. I’m sure you already have the advocates picked for that competition, but maybe I could help with selecting some good witnesses. I know at least half the students here. Perhaps Grant could use some help in making sure that the witnesses are prepped and available for practice.”

  Fred remained puzzled at Denis’s new interest in the trial competition teams. He knew that Denis had many friends among the faculty, and he also knew of the family connection to the Board of Trustees. Although he had not given it much thought, perhaps Denis had a good shot at the deanship. It would be good to have his support. A large budget was required each year for competition travel. That was a good reason to take Denis up on his offer.

  “Of course, Denis. Any support you feel you can give. I’ll call Grant and tell him of your offer. I’m sure he will be pleased. But I must warn you—Nate Grant is driven. He will be on campus almost every night getting that team ready, and he will expect the witnesses to be ready and on time. It’s a big commitment of your time, Denis. Do you really want to get involved in this?”

  “I wouldn’t be here otherwise. I’m serious about the deanship, and I have high aspirations for Savannah Law. Fred, you can count on me backing your program. And I hope you will be backing me. Can I count on your support?”

  Fred was uncomfortable with this conversation. He had nothing against Denis; he considered him to be a friend. But law school “dean politics” was something new to him. Is this the way it works—faculty members lining up support and getting commitments from colleagues? Fred had no experience with this process. But something simply did not seem right. Denis’s eyes were now focused on Fred, and time was up. He needed to respond now.

  The phone rang. Fred reached for it. “Hello.” He was silent as he listened to the caller. “I’m in a conference with a colleague right now. Could I return your call in a few minutes?” Fred was silent again. Then he turned to Denis and put his hand over the phone. “It’s one of our student interns. She’s in trial downtown, and she has a problem. The judge has given her a ten-minute recess. She needs my advice. Denis, please excuse me, but I must take this call... in private. I’m sorry.”

  “I understand,” said Denis. As he walked to the door, he turned to Fred and said, “Please, let Grant know I’ll be there to help with the witnesses, and I’ll call him tomorrow. OK?”

  Fred lifted his left hand, which was covering the phone receiver and gave Denis a thumbs up as he walked away. Fred was relieved their conversation was over.

  CHAPTER 15

  Friday, August 25

  Scott arrived at Jennifer’s apartment Friday afternoon at six sharp. He pressed the door bell, and a few moments later, Jennifer was standing in the doorway wearing black spandex shorts and a black pullover top. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes sparkled as she welcomed Scott with a broad smile. Scott took a step back from the door.

  “Wow, you look great!” he said.

  Jennifer had a silk, yellow-gold jacket in her hand and began to put it on. As she did, Scott noticed an embroidered bee on the jacket. And just below the bee was the word, “Bees.”

  “Is that a team outfit?”

  “It was—volleyball, but it’s mine now. You did say there would be volleyball, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. You don’t have to play.” Then he stepped forward, put both hands on the sides of her shoulders and looked her up and down. “But you are obviously ready to play!”

  “I am. That’s my sport. I wasn’t a star, but I was pretty good. I made the varsity. This is our gear; they let us keep it.”

  “Varsity? They have varsity sports at SCAD?”

  Jennifer curled her lips, expressing mock hurt. “Of course. We’re in the Florida Sun Conference of the NAIA. No football, but we have baseball, basketball, cross-country, golf, soccer, tennis, swimming, and volleyball. And we have an equestrian team. Did your school—football-crazed Alabama—have an equestrian team?”

  Jennifer knew that Scott played baseball at Alabama. She knew he would take her jabbing remarks about his alma mater in jest, but at the same time, she was serious and perhaps a bit indignant. Savannah College of Art and Design had an excellent athletic program. Not big time nationally, but the Bees did well in the Florida Sun Conference.

  “Well, I guess you’re right—I don’t know much about SCAD athletics.” This evening was not getting off the way he had hoped. “We should be able to get in a couple volleyball games before dark. If you are ready, let’s go.”

  “Let me get my cap,” said Jennifer, as she left the doorway and went to a hat rack where several baseball caps were displayed. She picked one, purple with gold lettering.

  Scott read the lettering on the cap out loud. There were two embroidered lines. The top line read, “One half haughty.” The bottom line read, “One half naughty.” Then, sort of as an afterthought, Scott merely added, “Cute.” But he realized that he had just experienced the top half.

  They walked out to the street where Scott’s Camaro was parked. The sky was overcast, and a light mist had dampened his windshield. He hoped the rain held off. There were still a couple of hours left before sunset, and he wanted to see this haughty girl’s athletic skills.

  As Scott pulled away from the curb, he asked about her classes. He was especially interested in her Property class. The scene of their meeting Sunday with Professor Nolan was still floating around in his mind. He wondered if Professor Nolan was eyeing her in class as he did in Thomas Courthouse. He would not ask, but maybe Jennifer would give him a clue.

  “I like my classes. All except Research and Writing. No matter how hard we work, we can never complete all they put on us. I spend more time on R & W than any other class and for less credit hours. Explain that, Scott.”

  “Can’t. It was the same when I took it. I have a friend at Emory, and he says the same thing. It just goes with the course, apparently at every school.”

  They discussed a few of her courses, but Jennifer never mentioned Professor Nolan. Scott turned left on Whitaker Street and drove south. Whitaker would take them to Victory Drive, a split highway with a wide median embraced by a canopy of moss-draped oaks. It was not the shortest route but one Scott often took to Tybee Island. The median was lined with tall Sabal palms towering over eye-high azaleas. The beautiful old homes that graced both sides of the street were surrounded by colorful shrubs and flowers and perfectly manicured lawns. It was spectacular each March when the azaleas were in full bloom, but even on a misty afternoon in August, it presented a vista of unsurpassed natural beauty.

  Jennifer gazed out the window, fascinated by the sight of the oaks, palms, and azaleas that seemed to be sliding backwards as the Camaro continued east on Victory Drive. She turned to Scott and said, “Victory Drive is gorgeous, even in the fall. Lady Astor obviously never made this drive.”

  “Lady Astor? I’ve heard the name, but who was she?”

  “She was a woman from Virginia who became the first female member of the British Parliament.”

  “And you say she obviously never made this drive?”

  “Right. She
visited Savannah right after World War II and is remembered for remarking that ‘Savannah is a beautiful lady with a dirty face.’ If she had seen the beauty of Victory Drive, she would have overlooked the part about the dirty face.”

  “I expect that comment upset quite a few people.”

  “She was famous for upsetting people. She was quite a socialite in England but also quite a politician. She and Winston Churchill had a number of verbal battles. There’s a story that she once said to Churchill, ‘If you were my husband, I’d put arsenic in your coffee,’ to which Churchill responded, ‘And if I were your husband, I’d drink it!’”

  Scott laughed. “You know, I’ve heard that story somewhere but didn’t know it involved Lady Astor and Churchill. Both obviously had sharp wits. The British would like that, but I bet the people of Savannah didn’t appreciate her wit.”

  “They didn’t,” said Jennifer. “But some give her statement credit for starting serious thoughts about the city and its future. Some say it played an important role in the Savannah historic preservation movement. The movement got underway shortly after her visit, but it may be just speculation to say her comment played a part.”

  “Your school played a big role in the preservation movement, didn’t it?” asked Scott.

  “We’ve restored a lot of buildings downtown. They are scattered all over the Historic District, and many of them now serve as classrooms.”

  “And equestrian facilities... and volleyball courts. But I’d rather hear about you. Did you play in high school? Was volleyball a new sport for you?”

  They drove on toward the beach, through the town of Thunderbolt and over the bridge spanning the Wilmington River. Great expanses of saltwater marshes appeared on both sides of the highway. Scott listened attentively as Jennifer recounted some of her high school and college activities. Yes, she played high school volleyball, beginning in her sophomore year. Scott interrupted occasionally to get more details. He loved the sound of her voice, and the sparkle in her eyes, as she spoke. He had a difficult time keeping his eyes on the road. This was turning out to be a perfect evening.