Judge Cannon twisted his mouth. I couldn’t tell if it was a smile or a sneer.
“That’s right. She claimed representation by the Almighty. It worked out well for her if Joe Carpenter dismissed the motion. You can’t argue with results.”
“No, sir.”
The judge tapped the file with his hand. “Here’s the status of the Whitewater case. At an arraignment calendar this morning, Dabney demanded I appoint you to represent this girl. I don’t like being told what to do, but someone has to represent the defendant and you’re on the list. Whitewater has been charged as an adult based on what she told the detective investigating the case, but if she’s a minor this case should end up in juvenile court. Either way, you’re going to represent her.”
“Yes, sir.” I paused. “How do you suggest I find out how old she is?”
“Not by sitting here in my office.” The judge pointed toward the door. “There’s an order on Ms. Fletchall’s desk appointing you to the case. Pick it up on your way out.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“No thanks necessary.”
Apparently, sometimes the wheels of justice in Chatham County could spin at racecar speed.
“Here’s the order appointing you to the case,” the judge’s secretary said as soon as I reached the edge of her desk. “File your bill with me. The judge reviews them before submitting to the county for payment. Don’t be shocked if he cuts it.”
“I’m going to get paid?”
“Yes, there’s a fee schedule for appointed criminal cases.”
She opened a drawer of her desk and handed me a sheet of paper with numbers on it. All the rates were less than the hourly rate Maggie charged for my time, but the fee for handling a felony in superior court was almost twice what was paid for a juvenile court case. I furrowed my brow.
“If there’s a possibility a case could stay in superior court instead of juvenile court it creates a conflict of interest for a lawyer—”
“Do you want me to interrupt the judge and tell him you have a question about the fee schedule?”
“No, ma’am.”
ON MY WAY BACK TO THE OFFICE, I HOPED MAGGIE WOULD BE there to point me in the right direction. When her car wasn’t there, I debated my next move. I could go to the jail and interview my new client or I could try to track down Sister Dabney and find out what she knew. I decided it was better to begin with the person I knew, not the one I didn’t. I left the parking lot and turned in the direction of Gillespie Street.
12
I PARKED MRS. FAIRMONT’S BIG CAR IN THE GRAVEL DRIVEWAY OF Sister Dabney’s house. When I got out, I instantly regretted that I’d worn shoes with heels. After climbing the steps, I went to the front door and knocked. There was no answer. I knocked again and waited. I glanced toward the street and saw a disheveled man pushing a shopping cart filled with his earthly possessions on the sidewalk. He stopped when he saw me look in his direction. I quickly gauged the distance to the car, trying to calculate whether I could kick off my shoes and outrun him barefoot to the driver’s-side door.
“You looking for the preacher woman?” he called out.
The fact that he knew Sister Dabney calmed my rapidly beating heart.
“Yes.”
“Me, too. Have you done checked the church?”
“No.”
“She don’t leave it locked. Ain’t nobody gonna take nothing ’cause it would be cursed if ’n they did.”
I could see the front door of the church from the porch, but the thought of entering the building to look for Sister Dabney while the homeless man was around wasn’t an option.
“I’ll go and have me a look-see and let you know,” he called out when I hesitated. “You wait yonder.”
I wasn’t sure exactly where “yonder” might be to the man but decided it should be beside the door of the car. As I stepped off the porch, the man stuck a rock beneath one of the back wheels of his cart.
“Watch my stuff,” he said as he started up the slight incline toward the church. “There are thieves and criminals all over this place.”
Committed to guard duty, I stayed by the car and watched as the man entered the long, narrow building. When he didn’t immediately come out, I assumed he’d found Sister Dabney inside. As the minutes passed, I checked my watch. The man was probably so focused on his own problems that he forgot to tell Sister Dabney I needed to talk to her, too. I knew I should probably go over to the church, but lingering apprehension about the homeless man, coupled with my responsibility to guard his shopping cart, kept me beside the car. Ten minutes passed, then fifteen minutes.
No one who walked by on the sidewalk showed any interest in stealing the homeless man’s shopping cart. Sure that the man must have finished talking to Sister Dabney, I abandoned my post.
The front door of the church was cracked open. I put my ear next to the opening to listen for a conversation inside. I heard nothing. With one last glance at the shopping cart, I cautiously opened the door and went inside. The purple rocker was motionless on the platform. The old piano rested against the far wall. There was no sign of the homeless man or Sister Dabney. Fear welled up inside me that the man might have done something to her. At that moment I heard a muffled noise coming from one of the pews and cried out in alarm.
“Huh-uh,” a man’s voice said.
Before I could run, the homeless man raised his head above the back of one of the rear pews. He looked at me with blurry eyes.
“Sister ain’t here so I lay down for a little rest. Did anybody mess with my stuff?”
“No,” I answered in exasperation. “But I’ve got to go.”
“It’ll be all right,” the man said with a wave of his hand as his head sank below the back of the pew. “I ain’t got nothing worth toting off.”
I BACKED SO FAST DOWN SISTER DABNEY’S DRIVEWAY THAT I CAME close to hitting the shopping cart. It was past noon, but I wasn’t hungry so I turned in the direction of the jail.
The lobby of the Chatham County Correctional Center smelled as clean as a hospital. I gave the order from Judge Cannon appointing me to represent Jessie Whitewater to a female deputy in the lobby area of the jail. The deputy typed in the name and watched her monitor for a couple of seconds.
“I’ll have someone bring her up to the interview rooms.”
“Where do I go?”
The deputy examined me more closely. “Can I see some identification?”
“I’m a new lawyer,” I explained as I fumbled through my purse for my driver’s license. “I’ve only handled one other criminal case, and my client was a man. I’ve never been to the female side of the jail.”
“It’s much nicer.”
I looked up to see if the deputy was joking but couldn’t tell. I handed her my driver’s license, which she inspected closely and then copied. My picture would now be part of the jail archives.
“Go through that door.” The deputy pointed. “A guard will meet you on the other side.”
I opened the heavy door. At the far end of the hallway a large black woman motioned for me to come forward.
“This way,” the correctional officer said.
I followed her into a shorter hallway with two doors on either side. Each door had a number. The officer opened door number two.
“May I see your purse?” the deputy asked.
“The deputy already copied my driver’s license.”
“I have to check for anything that attorneys aren’t allowed to have in the presence of a prisoner,” the woman replied patiently.
I sheepishly handed my purse to her. She placed it on a small metal table and proceeded to take out my cell phone, a pen, and a metal nail file.
“I’ll have to hang on to this until you leave,” she said, holding up the nail file.
“Of course. I wasn’t planning on coming to the jail.”
The officer gave me an odd look. I blushed.
“Don’t let the prisoner use your cell phone.”
“Okay.”
“Wait here while I get her.”
I sat down and fidgeted. I had a pen but no legal pad. All I had in my folder was the order from Judge Cannon and the attorney fee schedule. I’d never considered myself claustrophobic, but sitting in the windowless interview room, I understood why someone could become anxious when confined in a tight space like this. The door to the interview room opened.
“Here she is. I had to pull her out of the mess hall.”
In the instant I saw Jessie Whitewater, I knew the answer to Judge Cannon’s question about her age. The slightly built young woman with short brown hair, brown eyes, and deeply tanned skin wasn’t eighteen years old. She wasn’t even as tall as the twins, but there was a hard maturity about her face that made me believe she was slightly older, maybe fifteen or sixteen.
“I’m Tami Taylor, the lawyer appointed to represent you by Judge Cannon. Are you Jessie Whitewater?”
“Yeah.”
“Have a seat.”
The young woman looked over her shoulder at the door before she sat down.
“Is it locked?” she asked.
“No.”
“I don’t like being in closed-up places,” she said, running her hand through her hair. “It makes me jumpy on the inside.”
“I’m sure I’d feel the same way.”
Jessie’s eyes narrowed as she seemed to inspect me for the first time.
“Are you here to get me out?”
“Not today, but maybe soon. I was appointed to represent you by Judge Cannon about an hour ago, so I haven’t had time to do anything yet. I’ll look into filing a motion for bond as soon as possible.”
“They usually set the amount of a bond for a person getting arrested in cases like this within twenty-four hours.”
“How do you know that?” I asked in surprise.
“A woman in my cell block told me, so I asked one of the guards. She looked it up and said my bond was ten thousand dollars.” Jessie’s eyes narrowed again. “Are you sure you’re a lawyer?”
“Yes, but I don’t have much experience in criminal cases. I’m here because Sister Dabney knows me and asked the judge to assign the case to me.”
Jessie rolled her eyes.
“How do you know Sister Dabney?” I asked.
“I eat over at her house sometimes. I don’t want to hear about God and the devil from you. I get enough of that from Sister Dabney.”
“Do you go to the church?”
“Yeah, it’s part of the deal if I want Sunday dinner. What does that have to do with getting me out of here?”
“Nothing, I’m asking background questions. When’s your birthday?”
“December 22.”
“What year?”
Jessie hesitated before giving me a year.
“That would make you seventeen,” I said, quickly doing the math. “You won’t be eighteen until your next birthday.”
“No, it was a year before that.”
“Why do you want to be eighteen?”
“Because that’s how old I am.”
“How long have you lived in Savannah?”
“I’m visiting my aunt. I got here a few weeks ago.”
“What’s your aunt’s name and where does she live?”
“Sue Ellen. I can’t remember the name of the street. It’s not far from the church.”
“What’s her last name?”
“Whitewater. Same as me.”
“If I look her up in the phone book will her number be listed?”
“No, all she has is a cell phone.”
“What’s her cell number?”
“I don’t think she’s been paying the bill. She gets letters from them all the time. It’s disconnected.”
So far, I doubted the truth of everything the young woman had said.
“If you get me out of here, I can take you to her house,” Jessie continued.
“What’s her address?”
“You already asked me that. It’s not far from the church.”
“Does your aunt know you’re in jail?”
“No, she’s been in Jacksonville for a few days. I also need to get out so I can feed her cat. He’s going to starve or tear up the house. There will be a mess to clean up.”
“Where are your parents?”
“My father is dead. I don’t know where my mother is. She left when I was a baby.” Jessie raised her voice. “Why are you asking me a bunch of stuff that doesn’t have anything to do with getting me out of here?”
“If I’m going to represent you, I need background information. The social worker who talked to you believes you’re a runaway. Why would she say that to the judge?”
“Because she’s crazy, just like you and Sister Dabney. I’m ready to go back to my cell. You made me miss dessert.”
“How far did you go in school?” I asked, ignoring her outburst. “Can you read and write?”
“Yes, I can read and write. I’ve read lots of books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Anything I think is interesting.”
“Do you ever read stories about lawyers, their clients, cases, things like that?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember the names of books very well.”
“In the books you read about lawyers and their clients, did you learn about the confidentiality rules for communication between an attorney and a client? Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, you can’t repeat what I tell without my permission.”
“Exactly, which means you can tell me the truth without worrying about the consequences.”
Jessie didn’t respond. I pointed at the folder on the table.
“Right now, you’re being charged as an adult with burglary. If you’re found guilty you could go to prison. If you’re not really eighteen, then your case would likely be sent to juvenile court where the punishment would be a lot less severe.”
Jessie shrugged. “There’s a girl in the next cell block who’s only seventeen. She’s not going to juvenile court.”
“What did she do?”
“Nothing. She’s not guilty.”
“What’s the charge against her?”
“That she stabbed another girl in the leg with a knife. But she says it was her boyfriend who did it. He convinced her to tell the police that she did it because she would be charged as a kid, but they’re going to make her go to adult court anyway.”
“Aggravated assault is a violent crime against a person. The police claim you broke a window and stole a bag of donuts. I don’t think the district attorney’s office would try to keep your case in superior court if it turns out you’re a minor.”
Jessie studied me for a moment. “I thought you didn’t know much about criminal law.”
“This is basic stuff every lawyer knows. Did you break into the store and take the donuts?”
“Yeah, but they weren’t very good. The policeman who took them from me said the expiration date had passed. That ought to be a crime.”
“How did the police catch you?”
“Someone saw me inside the store and called them. I shouldn’t have turned on the lights. I was in the woods behind the store when the police got there. I tried to run, but there was another car waiting for me when I came out of the woods.”
“Did you admit you’d broken into the store?”
“Yeah, I couldn’t lie about it because I cut my arm on the glass when I broke the window.”
Jessie held up her right arm that had the remains of an ugly gash near her elbow.
“Was that the first time you’d stolen something?”
“No, just the first time I’d been caught.”
Surprised, I paused.
“But you can’t tell the police that, can you?” she continued. “It’s confidential.”
“Right,” I said, regaining my focus. “How many other thefts or breakins have you committed?”
Jessie shook her head. “Maybe ten or twelve. I didn’t coun
t. It depended on whether I had anything to eat or not.”
“Didn’t your aunt give you food?”
Jessie narrowed her eyes. “You don’t know what it’s like to be poor, do you?”
“No, and I’m sorry you didn’t have enough to eat. Did these other breakins take place since you came to Savannah?”
“Yeah, but I’d never broken a window or anything like that. Mostly, I took something that was out in the open.”
“Always food?”
Jessie thought for a moment. “I grabbed some clothes that were on the sidewalk in front of a store.”
“That’s shoplifting. Did you ever go inside someone’s house and take something?”
“Yeah, if the door was unlocked.”
I winced. Each incident of illegal entry into a home would be a felony burglary.
“Did anyone ever see you?”
“I don’t think so. I mean, I never saw anyone when I was inside a house.”
“What would you steal?”
“Food, food, food!” Jessie’s voice got progressively louder. “I’d grab what I could and run out! Is this some lawyer trick? Asking me the same thing over and over, hoping I’ll give a different answer?”
“I’m just trying to see what you’re up against. Right now, there’s only one burglary charge against you. If more charges are filed that means your bond could go higher, the punishment more severe.” I glanced down at the order from Judge Cannon. “Did the officer who arrested you read your Miranda rights before he questioned you?”
“Yeah, just like they do on TV.”
“Did the police ask you about other breakins or thefts?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t tell them anything except admit to the donut deal. I figured if they solved that crime they might not try to connect me with anything else.”
It wasn’t a bad strategy, but the possibility of multiple felonies raised the stakes considerably. Jessie studied me for a moment.
“How would you prove how old I am?” she asked. “I’ve already told everyone I’m eighteen.”
“You have a birth certificate. Where were you born?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I’m not even sure what state it was. It might have been Alabama. My daddy used to say he found me under a rock.”
Tides of Truth [03] Greater Love Page 17
