Water's Edge

by Robert Whitlow

  “This diagram doesn’t show Harrelson’s car veering off the roadway.”

  “It wasn’t. After he hit me, he swerved back onto the road.”

  “Were there any skid marks?”

  “I didn’t see any.”

  “Was there a pothole?”

  “A little one, but I don’t think it would cause someone to lose control of his car. It’s been filled in since this happened, but you can go over there and see how small it was.”

  Tom shook his head. “Based on the police drawing, there’s no way to prove the defendant’s car actually left the road. You could have stepped in front of him.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Maybe. A guy in a pickup stopped to make sure I was okay. He was right behind the car that hit me.”

  Tom looked at the bottom of the accident report. It didn’t list any witnesses.

  “Did the driver of the truck stay and talk to the police?”

  “No, once he saw I wasn’t dead, I guess he kept on going to town.”

  “Do you know this man’s name?”

  “I think it was Junior.”

  Tom smiled. “Having a name like Junior won’t be much help in tracking him down. Any other information about him?”

  “He had an older model white truck, maybe a sixties Ford. It all happened so fast. I was kind of woozy.”

  “I understand.” Tom closed the file. “Well, I’m sorry my father wasn’t able to see the case through, but since he’s gone you’ll need to find another lawyer to represent you.”

  “You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you help me?”

  Tom shook his head. “I’m here to shut down my father’s practice, not keep it going. I live in Atlanta and need to wrap things up as soon as I can. There’s no problem with the statute of limitations, so you have plenty of time to find someone else to represent you. But hire someone soon. Witnesses tend to forget what they saw and heard.”

  “Okay.” Randall struggled to his feet and leaned on his crutches. “What do I owe you? My insurance at work paid part of the bill for my surgery, and things are going to be tight around my house for a while.”

  “You don’t owe me anything. My father took the case on a contingency basis and because he didn’t collect any money, there won’t be a fee. The medical records from the hospital only cost a few dollars. I’ll take care of that.”

  “That’s nice of you. If you change your mind, let me know. I won’t be running out to hire another lawyer until I start feeling better.”

  “Someone needs to track down those witnesses,” Tom reminded him.

  “I understand.”

  Randall slowly left the office. Tom stood in the doorway of his father’s office and watched him make his way down the sidewalk. He turned to Bernice.

  “Who should he hire to represent him?”

  “Reggie Mixon would take the case.”

  Tom grimaced. Mixon had a reputation for flamboyant incompetence.

  “That’s not good.”

  “It’s going to be hard to find a decent local attorney,” Bernice said. “Lamar Sponcler would do a good job, but he’s slowing down. The big firms are tied in with Pelham and would see the case as a conflict of interest.”

  Bethel’s definition of a big law firm started at three lawyers. Based on that criteria there were two large firms, one with five lawyers, another with three. The population of the county bar, including the attorneys in the district attorney’s office, was seventeen.

  For years the preeminent trial lawyers had been Lamar Sponcler on the plaintiff side and Carnell Waycaster on behalf of insurance companies. When they butted heads in court, a handful of spectators, mostly retired men with nothing better to do, might show up to watch the oratorical fireworks.

  Presiding over the local bar was superior court judge Nathan Caldwell. Appointed to the bench when he was barely thirty-two years old by a governor distantly related to his mother’s family, Judge Caldwell had been reelected without opposition nine times. Big-city lawyers who came to Bethel thinking they could dominate Judge Caldwell’s courtroom left with wounded pride, damaged egos, and a respect for the country jurist.

  Tom began reviewing the other files in the box that contained the Freiburger case. He found a hodgepodge of cases that ran counter to the modern view that an attorney must specialize to be competent. There were real estate files, contract disputes, probate matters, civil lawsuits, traffic ticket cases, and even a few misdemeanor criminal files. Tom set the criminal cases aside for closer scrutiny.

  The bell on the front door jangled, and Bernice called out a greeting. Tom didn’t have a clear line of sight and got up from his chair so he could see. A group of black men and women, all wearing nice clothes, had come into the office.

  “Tom, this is Reverend England,” Bernice said, introducing a large man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. “He’s the pastor of the Ebenezer Church on Highway 201.”

  The pastor shook Tom’s hand with a firm grip. “Please accept our deepest heartfelt condolences.”

  The other people with the minister nodded in agreement.

  “Thank you.”

  “Brother Crane helped us walk through a difficult situation a few years ago. Now something else has come up. It involves a brother and two sisters arguing over who should pay a bill for repairs to the family homeplace after the death of their parents. I’ve been told you’re a lawyer too.”

  “Yes, but I’m not accepting new probate cases.”

  “It’s not a lawsuit,” the minister replied. “They want to follow 1 Corinthians 6.”

  Tom stared blankly at the minister.

  “The siblings don’t want to sue one another,” one of the other men continued. “We’ve shown them what the Bible says about Christians taking their disputes in front of unbelievers, and they’ve agreed to obey the Scriptures.”

  Pastor England spoke: “Several years ago Brother Crane served as a peacemaker in another situation involving members of our church. It worked out so well that the folks were reconciled without anyone having the burden of an unresolved offense weighing down their souls.”

  Tom was mystified by the preacher’s request and the religious lingo wrapped around it. He turned to Bernice for help.

  “What are they talking about?”

  “Every so often your daddy would serve as a private mediator for Christians who got in a fuss. He’d schedule a couple of meetings to try to help people work through their differences.”

  “Mediation?”

  “Only different, because he tried to get the folks who were at odds to forgive one another first. Once that happened, settling the practical stuff almost always followed. I went with him a few times to take notes. It was all new to me.”

  “Confession of sin and seeking forgiveness are powerful weapons,” Pastor England said, nodding his head. “It’s one thing to talk about; another to practice when the old sinful nature cries out for its own way.”

  “Is there anyone else in Bethel who could help these folks?” Tom asked Bernice.

  “We came to you,” one of the women spoke up. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

  Tom shook his head. “You’re wrong about that. I’m not from the same orchard as my father and don’t share his beliefs.”

  The woman who mentioned the apple stared wide-eyed at Tom for a moment, then closed her eyes and raised her left hand high in the air.

  “Lord, we praise you for bringing us here today. We thank you for Brother John Crane and pray that every good thing stored up in heaven for his offspring will be revealed in due season. Speak tender words of love to this young man and lead him in the way everlasting.”

  Two more people took up the prayer, apparently following some kind of unwritten religious protocol. Tom had no choice but to listen.

  Finally Pastor England prayed, “Heavenly Father, we thank y
ou for this young man’s life and declare that the enemy of his soul will not be able to thwart the purposes of God. In answer to these prayers, deliver Mr. Tom Crane fully into the kingdom of your dear Son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  Everyone else said “Amen.” The woman who started the impromptu prayer meeting stepped forward and gave Tom a big hug.

  “We came here for one reason, but the Lord had something else in mind!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for letting us pray with you.”

  “I didn’t hear you ask his permission, Sister Tamara,” Brother England said drily. “Let me know if we can be of service to you.”

  “Uh, I’ll keep that in mind,” Tom replied. “And I hope you find someone to help with the family dispute.”

  Pastor England turned to the oldest man in the group.

  “Brother Stevens, maybe the Lord is telling us to take what we learned from Brother Crane and care for the sheep ourselves.”

  “I’ll speak to the family about it.”

  As soon as the group left and the door closed, Tom sat down in one of the reception room chairs.

  “That was different,” he said.

  “They turned the office into a church, didn’t they?” Bernice said.

  “Church? I thought it was rude.”

  Bernice cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses, and turned her attention back to her typewriter. The rest of the morning passed without interruption. Tom organized half the files in one box, dictated several letters to clients, and prepared three motions to withdraw in pending court cases. Bernice brought him a document to review and sign.

  “If I brought in my computer, I could type this stuff myself,” he said.

  “Are you saying you don’t need me?” Bernice asked, a wounded expression on her face.

  “No, no. You proved your worth today with Randall Freiburger and the Ebenezer Church crowd. If you’d not been here when the religious folks walked in, I’d still be trying to figure out what they wanted. Don’t take it wrong when I bring my laptop. I’ll mostly use it to organize the financial records.”

  “Oh.” Bernice winced. “That’s the area where your daddy and I struggled the most.”

  “Did you balance the checkbook?”

  “Most months,” Bernice said hopefully. “And the bookkeeper reconciled things the best she could when she prepared your father’s tax return.”

  “What about the trust account?”

  “Your daddy took care of that himself. It’s in the bottom right-hand drawer of the desk.”

  ______

  Shortly before noon, Bernice came to the door of the office. “If it’s okay, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Could you stay a few more minutes?” Tom asked. “I have something personal to tell you.”

  Bernice sat in one of the chairs in front of the desk and listened as Tom told her about losing his job. Partway through the story, she started to cry and grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on one of the bookshelves. She blew her nose. Tom paused. He’d not been trying to stir up emotion.

  “Do you want me to stop? I wasn’t trying to upset you.”

  “No, it just breaks my heart to think about you being treated so badly.”

  Bernice’s empathy was an ingrained characteristic. She always saw the people who walked through the front door of the office as hurting people first, clients in need of legal services second.

  “Once we’re finished shutting down the office, I’ll go back to Atlanta and start looking for a job. I have to pay the rent on my apartment, the lease for the BMW parked out front, and a couple of credit cards with balances that have crept up too high.”

  Bernice wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  “And after I’m gone, you should take a vacation,” Tom concluded.

  “I’ve already planned one to North Carolina. We’ve never been to Kitty Hawk.”

  “You’ll like it. The Outer Banks is a special place, and there’s decent surfing near the Hatteras Lighthouse.”

  “I don’t think Carl and I will do much surfing.” Bernice managed a smile.

  “Thanks for all your help,” Tom replied, standing up. “Not just to me but for all the years you served my father. He couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Bernice grabbed another tissue from the box on the desk and left.

  chapter

  SIX

  Tom walked up a slight incline to the tree-lined street that ran in front of the courthouse. Two blocks to the south he stopped in front of the Chickamauga Diner and looked inside a large plateglass window. The restaurant was filled with people sitting in metal chairs around square black-vinyl-topped tables.

  The Chickamauga Diner hadn’t been around as long as the Civil War battlefield that gave the restaurant its name, but it had occupied the same location for two generations. On weekdays most of the patrons were local businessmen. Today, families with children dominated the lunch crowd. The diner didn’t offer plastic toys in bags, but the fried chicken was great.

  “Hey, Tom!” called out Alex Giles, the current owner of the diner. “Have a seat at the counter or wait for a table?”

  “I’ll sit at the counter.”

  Tom perched on a shiny black stool atop a chrome pole. Waitresses scurried back and forth carrying plates of food and small baskets of corn bread and yeast rolls. Alex’s mother refilled glasses with sweet tea. Several people nodded in greeting to Tom when they saw him. A mechanic who’d worked on the Crane family cars for years invited Tom to join his group, but Tom shook his head.

  “What’ll it be?” asked the unshaven cook, wiping his hands on a white apron.

  “I need something to get the taste of cheap Atlanta sushi out of my mouth,” Tom replied.

  “How about a steak burger on the grill topped off with onions, mushrooms, and American cheese? That’s as far from sushi as you can get.”

  “Sounds good.”

  The best grills season over time, and the sizzling flattop at the Chickamauga Diner was in prime condition. Tom watched the cook prepare his food. The man placed chopped onion directly on the grill and let it cook for a couple of minutes before adding the mushrooms. Opening the door of a small built-in refrigerator, he took out a large metal bowl filled with bright-red ground round and scooped out a generous portion that he formed into a thick patty. The meat sputtered when he dropped it on the grill. He dusted the top of the meat with salt and pepper.

  After turning the burger once, the cook added the onions and mushrooms, topped it off with the cheese, and hid it under an aluminum dome. He dropped both halves of the bun facedown on the flattop. Unveiling the meat, he deposited it on the lower half of the bun. The melted cheese dripped down the side of the sandwich. Crisp lettuce, a thick slice of fresh tomato, and a fat pickle rested beside the burger on a plastic plate.

  “Is that American enough for you?” the cook asked.

  “More than apple pie.”

  Tom carefully lifted the assembled product and opened his mouth as wide as possible. The first bite didn’t disappoint. The melded flavors caused his taste buds to stand up and cheer.

  Halfway through the sandwich Tom felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around. It was Charlie Williams, the local district attorney. In his midfifties, the prosecutor boasted that a felony indictment in Etowah County was a prepaid ticket to the penitentiary. He slid onto a vacant stool beside Tom.

  “What brings you back to town?” Williams asked.

  Tom wiped his mouth with a thin paper napkin. “Shutting down my father’s practice and settling his estate.”

  Williams, a former college football player, put his beefy hands on the counter, glanced around, and leaned closer to Tom. “I know he was having financial trouble. Was there enough life insurance to take care of everything?”

  It was a blatantly inappropriate question.

  “I’m working through that,” Tom replied carefully.

  Williams nodded. “He talked to me about his situation with the IRS. I told him
Matt Franklin was the best young CPA in town and could probably cut a deal for him, maybe even get a reduction in the amount he owed. Did he ever contact Matt?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “You might want to check with him. He could help you too.”

  “Okay.”

  Williams slid his right hand across the counter, knocking a bread crumb to the floor. “Pressure from the IRS is tough to handle too. Was that the only problem he had hanging over him?”

  “As far as I know. Once he moved in with Elias, his life was simple.”

  “That’s good to hear. I know he liked to fish a lot.”

  Tom took another bite of his burger.

  “Do you know much about his relationship with Harold Addington?”

  “We never discussed it.”

  Williams tapped his finger against the counter. “Addington met Arthur Pelham in London about five years ago. Arthur hired him to develop the overseas market for Pelham’s investment products. About a year ago Addington was transferred to Bethel and moved here with his wife. That’s a long way from London, isn’t it?”

  “About six thousand miles, give or take a few.”

  Williams didn’t smile. “Did your father ever represent Addington?”

  “I’m not sure since I haven’t gone through all his files. Why do you want to know?”

  Williams turned his head so that his eyes met Tom’s. “Two men died in what everyone says was a tragic boating accident. It’s my job to make sure that’s all it was.”

  Tom’s mouth felt dry. “Do you have any reason to think differently?”

  “My job is to ask questions.”

  “Have you talked to Addington’s widow?”

  “Yes.” Williams nodded. “Did you know she has multiple sclerosis?”

  “No.”

  “She takes an injection every day that’s supposed to help, but the illness is starting to give her more problems, maybe in part due to all the stress she’s had.”

  “What did she tell you about the relationship between her husband and my father?”

  “They went fishing a lot. She said the first time a largemouth bass hit her husband’s lure he couldn’t get enough of it. Of course, your father knew all the fishing holes where big bass like to hang out.” Williams paused. “She also says your father represented her husband but she doesn’t know why, which seems strange to me. I was hoping you could help me with that.”