Deeper Water

by Robert Whitlow

  "That's the reason for the referral to mental health."

  "He said he talked to you about the faces in the water for a long time."

  The detective didn't respond.

  "Is that right?" I asked.

  The detective closed his file. "Any conversation with Mr. Jones is difficult. Your client has a tendency to talk about what he wants to."

  "Thanks for taking time to meet with me. I'm just learning what to do and really appreciate it."

  "I'll walk you out. Give my regards to Mr. Carpenter."

  When we reached the entrance area, I remembered the woman with the two children.

  "Oh, a woman in handcuffs was brought in a few minutes ago," I said to the detective. "She had two little girls with her. Can you tell me what she did wrong?"

  "Running a meth lab in her kitchen. One of the other detectives is talking to her now."

  "What will happen to the children?"

  "Probably stay with a family member if someone is suitable. Otherwise, they'll be placed in foster care."

  "It's a sad situation."

  "Would you like to represent her too?"

  "No," I said quickly. "I don't think I'm going to be a criminal defense lawyer."

  DURING THE RETURN TRIP to the office, my mind went back and forth between Moses Jones and the woman with the little girls. My first encounters with people in jail had left me thinking more about their tragic circumstances than the punishment they deserved.

  Back at the office I returned the keys to the receptionist.

  "Did you fill it up with gas?" she asked.

  "I didn't think about it. Should I-"

  "I'm kidding," she interrupted. "Did you have trouble finding the jail?"

  "No ma'am."

  I went to the library. It was empty, and everything looked the same as when I'd left for the jail. I worked alone on the Folsom case for over an hour before taking a break. It was quiet in the library, which helped me concentrate, but I had to admit that I missed Julie. The door opened, and I looked up, expecting to see her. Instead, it was Zach Mays. He'd changed clothes and shaved.

  "Gerry told me you were working in here," he said. "Can I interrupt?"

  "Sure."

  He sat across the table from me. "I feel better after sleeping for a few hours. Do you ever stay up all night studying?"

  "Never, I always plan ahead. Not that I'm saying you don't organize your time," I added quickly. "In law school there aren't negotiations with businessmen in Norway. All our classes are on eastern standard time."

  Zach's long hair still looked slightly damp.

  "I shouldn't have told you that I was too busy to help you," he said. "I was tired."

  "That's okay. I understand."

  "And I want to apologize."

  My attitude toward the young lawyer rotated 180 degrees. Confession was one of the most trustworthy signs of genuine faith.

  "Thank you," I said as sincerely as I could.

  Zach smiled. "And to prove my repentance, I'll take you to the jail so we can talk to our mutual client. What's his name? Mr. James?"

  "Moses Jones, and it's too late. I've already interviewed him, along with the detective who questioned him about the charges."

  Zach sat up straighter in his chair. "What did you find out?"

  I gave him a detailed account of my initial investigation. He listened without comment until I finished.

  "I'll do a conflict of interest check on the homeowners association," he said. "We may represent it. Ned Danforth does a lot of that type of work for Mr. Braddock's clients."

  "Would that disqualify us from the case?"

  "No, but it might give us an advantage in talking to the homeowners. What about Jones' prior criminal record? If he's had multiple convictions, it would impact a plea agreement."

  "I didn't ask."

  "And the detective didn't mention it?"

  "No."

  "Search the state and county websites."

  "Do you know the links?"

  "No, you track them down. Also, contact the administrator at the district attorney's office and find out the prosecutor assigned to the case. We can meet with that person together." Zach pointed to my folder. "Make a copy of everything in the file for me."

  "Okay."

  "Jones sounds like an alcoholic who's pickled his brain and sees dead people floating around in the jar with him. Did you ask him if he recognized the faces in the water?"

  "No, it was weird, something that should be explored by a mental health worker, not me."

  Zach rubbed his chin. "You're probably right, but I'm curious. Next time, I'll ask him."

  After Zach left, I went to the downstairs copy room, and after one false start, navigated my way through the codes and buttons to make the copies. I organized Zach's folder exactly the same as my own and took it to his office. He wasn't there so I left it on his desk. On the corner near the photograph of his parents was a light blue envelope with Zach's first name written in a woman's hand across the front.

  I used one of the computer terminals in the library to research Moses' background. There were countless defendants named Jones, but only one with the first name Moses. I found a felony conviction for illegal transport of moonshine whiskey that corroborated Zach's suspicion that Moses' brain had been damaged by alcohol. I didn't know much about bootleg liquor, but I'd read that a bad batch could cause blindness, brain damage, or death. The county database didn't reveal any other convictions or subsequent arrests.

  It was close to 5:00 p.m. when I called the district attorney's office. After waiting on hold for several minutes, the woman who answered the phone told me the case had been assigned to an assistant DA named Margaret Smith.

  "May I speak to her?" I asked.

  After another long wait a female voice came on the line. "This is Maggie Smith."

  I identified myself and the purpose for my call.

  "My first taste of the criminal justice system came when I was a summer clerk for the Braddock firm," she said. "I'll never forget it. My client was charged with simple battery of his fifteen-year-old stepson. I wanted to see my client behind bars, not set free. That case, and the fact that Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter has never hired a female attorney, are two big reasons why I decided to be a prosecutor."

  "How many other female summer clerks have worked at the firm?"

  "Several, but no women have ever made it onto the letterhead. Don't get me wrong, it's a nice place to spend the summer and looks decent on your resume, but unless things have changed, there won't be an opportunity for employment after law school. The history of male bias at the firm is conclusive, and everyone in town knows it." Smith paused. "Hold on while I pull the Jones file. I don't recall seeing it come across my desk."

  While I waited, I wondered why God would miraculously open a door of opportunity with a brick wall behind it.

  "I have it," the assistant district attorney said.

  "When did you work here?" I asked, still thinking about her comments.

  "Five years ago. Try to forget what I said. I guess I'm still bitter at the double standard. You might be the one to break the gender barrier."

  "There's another girl at the firm this summer."

  "Really? I was the only female clerk my year."

  "Did they hire an associate?"

  "Yeah, Ned Danforth, but he never clerked. Let's see now, twentyfour counts of simple trespass. Can't your client read a No Trespassing sign?"

  "Actually, I'm not sure he can read. Were there signs posted on the docks?"

  "I don't know. It's not a legal requirement to post private property. Look, I know Joe Carpenter wants you to gain experience by making my life miserable with motions and frivolous hearings, but I don't have time to play games. There are a lot of serious cases on my docket. Do your investigation; talk to everyone who lives on the Little Ogeechee River if you like; then make me a plea offer. If it's reasonable, I'll recommend it. On a case like this, I doubt Judge Cannon wi
ll give us a problem, and your client can get on with his life."

  "Okay."

  I wondered if I would sound as confident and forceful as Maggie Smith after I'd been practicing law for five years.

  "And best of luck to you and the other girl working at the firm. There's always a first time for everything. If you get a job offer, I'll buy you a double of your drink of preference."

  "That would be sweet tea for me."

  "Whatever. Get back to me with your proposal."

  A few minutes after I hung up the phone, Julie returned, looking frazzled.

  "Do you like dogs?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Then I wish Mr. Carpenter had given you my case. Ned and I got a list of the State's witnesses to interview. We drove through several run-down neighborhoods trying to track down people and ask them what they'd seen. I've never run into so many dogs in my life. Ned is allergic to dogs so he sent me to knock on doors." Julie pointed to her right leg. "Can you see the dog slobber on my pants?"

  I leaned forward. There was a distinct shiny streak from midthigh to below her knee.

  "I got that from the biggest, hairiest dog I've ever seen. A dog like that has no business living in Savannah. He should be in the northern tip of Maine."

  "At least he didn't bite."

  "I was afraid it was a preliminary lick before he chomped down. I ran out of there as fast as I could go."

  "Were these nice neighborhoods?"

  "No, the owners spend all their money on dog food. There was one house with two pit bulls. I refused to go inside the gate. A man heard the dogs snarling and came to the door. I yelled questions to him across the yard."

  "What did you find out?"

  "We didn't talk to everyone, but a few people remembered Ferguson because he wandered around after pretending to look at the water meter. I think I've figured out what he was doing."

  "You've given up on the Halloween costume defense?"

  "Yeah," Julie answered. "I'm serious. I think Mr. Ferguson was scoping out houses to rob."

  "But you said the neighborhoods weren't upper class."

  "Exactly. Poor people prey on other poor people. There were houses with burglar bars on the windows that I wouldn't want to go inside if the door was left wide open."

  "And dogs in the yards."

  "Yeah, the people bought those brutes as an alternative to a sophisticated security system."

  "Is your client linked to any of the robberies?"

  "I hope not, but if he's charged with burglary, it would be a felony and take the case out of my basket."

  "When are you going to the jail to talk to him?"

  "He's not in jail. He's out on bond working his real job."

  "What does he do for a living?"

  "Get this. He works for the city's animal control department. That's probably how he got access to a meter reader's uniform."

  "And explains why he isn't afraid of dogs."

  Julie rubbed her arm across her forehead. "Are you ready to leave? I haven't needed a shower so badly since I played soccer on a muddy field in middle school."

  "I'm not trying to make you stay."

  "Let's go together. I'm giving you a ride home. I want every detail about your lunch date with Vinny. Did he ask you out to dinner? Did he talk about his last girlfriend and why they broke up?"

  "I didn't go to lunch with Vince. He had to meet with Mr. Appleby and a client."

  "What did you do?"

  "I went to the jail and interviewed my client."

  "Then tell me about that. At least you didn't have to worry about getting mauled by a pack of dogs."

  AFTER MEETING WITH TAMI, Moses finished his first trash run of the day. Then the deputy in charge of the dining hall ordered him to clean the tables. Each stainless-steel table was surrounded by four metal stools bolted onto strips of metal that extended like spokes from a central post. Fights during mealtime were rare at the jail, but if an inmate did lose his temper, a chair couldn't be used as a large blunt object.

  Moses carried a plastic bucket of water in each hand. One bucket contained warm, soapy water; the other, clean rinse water. After wiping off each table and chair, he dipped a rag in the rinse water and removed the soapy residue. Moses didn't just clean the surface of the tables; he also scrubbed under the rims. The deputy gave him a screwdriver to dislodge fossilized pieces of chewing gum. Moses worked slowly. Getting done in a hurry wouldn't earn him any reward except an earlier return to his cell where he had nothing to do but lie on his bed.

  The tall girl who talked to him said she wasn't a lawyer but then acted like one. It didn't make sense. She reminded Moses of the young woman with blonde hair who'd met with him a few days earlier. She said she wasn't a doctor but then acted like one. The blondehaired woman asked questions about his health, wrote notes on paper, listened to everything he told her, and told the jail nurse to give him a green pill every morning. Moses dutifully swallowed the pill, but he knew getting back to his life along the river was the only medicine he really needed.

  As he cleaned the tables he thought about the tall, dark-haired girl who wasn't a real lawyer. She looked familiar. That's why he asked if she lived in Savannah. Moses knew a lot of people by face if not by name. He'd met hundreds of people when he worked for Tommy Lee Barnes as a bolita runner and could remember faces for years and years.

  A bolita runner collected money from the players of the simple betting game and handed out slips of paper that served as proof of the numbers chosen. Beginning early in the morning, Moses went all over the city calling on regular players and trying to attract new ones. At precisely 6:00 p.m., five winning numbers between 1 and 100 were announced by randomly selecting five numbered Ping-Pong balls from a large bag. Prior to the drawing, Moses and one of the other runners tabulated the most popular numbers of the day, and Tommy Lee would remove those numbers from the sack to avoid a big loss.

  Tommy Lee made the daily drawing exciting. He had a preacher's voice and always asked a pretty girl to stick her hand in the bag and draw out the Ping-Pong balls. Runners notified winners the following day and delivered their winnings. Moses liked counting out the greasy dollar bills to a winner. Even with payouts, Tommy Lee would make a couple of hundred dollars a day. Each Friday, Moses would take envelopes of cash to the police officers who let the game operate. Mr. Floyd, Tommy Lee's boss, paid the mayor's office directly.

  The tall girl who wasn't a real lawyer reminded Moses of a girl he'd known during the time he worked for Tommy Lee Barnes. She didn't play bolita, but the old woman who owned the big house where the girl lived guessed ten numbers every Wednesday. When the girl saw Moses on the sidewalk outside the house, she would tell him to go away. Moses would nod respectfully and sneak around the corner where he would wait for the old woman to come out to meet him. If she had a winning number, Moses would pick up the ticket and redeem it for her.

  Moses wasn't sure what had happened to the girl. She would be an old woman herself by now. Once or twice, he thought he'd seen her face in the water, but it didn't make sense that she would be there.

  16

  BY THE END OF THE FIRST WEEK, I HAD BEGUN TO DOUBT MS. Patrick's promise that a summer clerk job at Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter would be more fun than toil. Mr. Carpenter added two more projects to my workload and three more to Julie's stack. She and I worked together on the Folsom case, and I revised her memo on the secured transaction issue, but we had to go our separate ways on the new projects. She worked directly with Mr. Carpenter. I found myself reporting more and more to Robert Kettleson, a senior associate who confidently informed me that he was next in line for partner.

  Kettleson, a tall, skinny man, communicated with me via e-mails that he typed at all hours of the day and night. He wanted my responses in writing so there would be no doubt about my opinion. The process bothered me, but I had to admit it forced me to be very careful in my research.

  I had no time to work on the Jones case. When I asked Zach ab
out it, he pointed to the files on the corner of his desk and told me justice for indigent defendants like Moses Jones would have to wait another week. At least the old man had food to eat and a roof over his head.

  Late Friday afternoon, Julie returned to the library and plopped down on the other side of the table.

  "Are you coming to work tomorrow?" she asked. "Please say no because I don't want to be the only clerk who abandons the office to spend a few hours at Tybee Island beach. Why don't you come with me? We're both pale as white bread, but we could lather up with sunscreen and pretend we're from Nova Scotia."

  "Nova Scotia?"

  "If that's not exotic enough, you can be Norwegian and I'll be Lebanese."

  "I don't own a swimsuit."

  "You're kidding."

  Apparently my face told her the truth.

  "Don't worry about it," she continued. "I'll buy one for you and put it on my credit card. You can pay me back when we get our paychecks next week."

  "Do your orthodox cousins in New York go to the beach?" I asked.

  "Yeah, there are places where they can go and be among the faithful on certain days of the week, but they don't wear-" Julie stopped. "Rabbi, are you that conservative?"

  "Yes."

  "Wow. You are hard-core."

  Her words stung, but I stayed calm. "I have strong convictions about modesty," I replied quietly.

  "Okay. Suit yourself, or rather don't if it offends your morals. My parents want me to walk on eggshells around my cousins, which is one reason I don't like to visit them. But I still want to know if you're going to spend the day at the office. If you do, it will make me and Vinny look bad."

  "You already talked to Vince?"

  "He agreed to take the day off. I didn't say anything to him about the beach, but if it was okay with you, I wanted to invite him to join us. Two girls and one guy would be irresistible odds."

  "The two of you can go."

  "And steal him from you? He's not my type."

  "I'm not sure he's my type."

  "What is your type?"

  "I'm not sure. I haven't met him."

  "Don't be so dense," Julie snapped. "You have to meet men to find out who you're compatible with. I'm trying to help you, but you're not making it easy. You'll never find out the truth about other people or yourself with your nose stuck in a Bible or a prayer book."