MOSES JONES LAY ON HIS BACK ON THE BOTTOM BUNK AND stared at the cheap mattress overhead. The man who’d slept above him since Moses was arrested had gone to trial and not come back. Moses didn’t know if that meant his bunkmate had been released to go home or convicted and sent directly to the state penitentiary. He’d heard both stories from his cellmates. Rumors in the cell block were as plentiful as mosquitoes on the marshes of the Ogeechee in July.
Jail had changed a lot since Moses spent six months behind bars for hauling moonshine when he was in his early twenties. The old Chatham County jail had been torn down, replaced by a new one with air-conditioning, an indoor exercise facility, and completely integrated cell blocks. The deputies who arrested Moses drove him past the spot where blood once stained the curb. Moses turned his head and stared for a few seconds at the place that still refused to give up its secret.
In the new jail, prisoners with white, black, or brown skin lived close together. English and Spanish profanity shared equal airtime. There was tension between the three groups, but nothing as bad as the racial hatred Moses experienced in his younger years.
Moses’ boss, Tommy Lee Barnes, couldn’t have run his bolita racket without black runners, but they had to dodge beer bottles, curse words, and racist remarks to collect their fees. Eventually, Barnes was arrested for aggravated assault and spent two years at the Reidsville penitentiary in a ten-by-ten cell filled with men of different races. Moses heard that confinement with a black man caused the heart attack that ultimately killed the gambling kingpin.
Now, men of all races in the cell block shared one common physical characteristic—body art. The quality of images varied. A prisoner might have a flower worthy of Monet on his forearm and a tiger that resembled an anemic house cat on his shoulder. One man in the next bunk had a grim Reaper on his back that he’d asked a local tattoo artist to transform into a motorcycle rider. The result was a wreck that left no survivors. Moses was the only one in his cell block without adornment. The only marks on his wrinkled black skin were from long-forgotten fights and scrapes in the woods. Because of Moses’ age, no one bothered him.
Soon after he arrived, Moses was given the task of emptying all the trash cans in the building. It took two hours, twice a day, to complete his rounds pushing a gray plastic buggy through the cell blocks, bathrooms, offices, and food service areas. He often hummed softly to himself while he worked. All the wasted food bothered him. When he cooked at his shack by the river, he never had any leftovers except skin and bones.
Moses dumped the trash into a large container behind the dining hall. When he went outside, he always peeked through the fence at his boat. It was in exactly the same place, chained to a light pole. The chain comforted him. It was a shiny new one, much stronger than the one he owned, and it would be hard for anyone to steal the boat. Some of the cars in the lot only stayed a night. Others had been there since the first time Moses peered through the fence.
Two days after his arrest, Moses talked to a young black detective for a long time. He told him about the faces in the water. The detective listened and wrote things down on a sheet of paper. He refused to tell Moses when he might be released to go home. Weeks passed. The old man felt as if he’d been dropped into a hole in the bank of the river and forgotten. His soul needed to sing, but there wasn’t a solitary place to do it.
At least he had plenty to eat. The meat dishes weren’t as tasty as fresh fish dipped in cornmeal and fried in a skillet over a kerosene fire, but institutional food kept away hunger. Dessert was the best part of the meals. Moses only had a few teeth left in his mouth, but he joked that all of them were sweet.
I WOKE UP EARLY and quietly left the house for a morning run. Included in my loop was a jog past Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. I slowed my pace as I passed the office. It was barely light outside, and there weren’t any cars in the parking lot. I remembered my prayer a few weeks earlier in Powell Station.
“Make this a place of praise,” I said.
I enjoyed a burst of energy as I ran around Forsyth Park and back to Mrs. Fairmont’s house. There was no sign of Mrs. Fairmont. I drank two glasses of water and took a banana downstairs. I sat at the wrought-iron table outside my bedroom, ate the banana, and prayed.
After I showered, I put on my blue suit. The first day of work was a time to look my best. With my hair spilling past my shoulders, the only thing out of ordinary about my appearance was the absence of makeup. I applied just enough lipstick to slightly enhance the color of my lips.
When I went upstairs Mrs. Fairmont wasn’t in the den or the kitchen. I approached the bottom of the stairs and looked up. It didn’t feel right leaving the house for the day without telling her good-bye. I put my foot on the first step and debated whether to go upstairs. I didn’t want to invade Mrs. Fairmont’s privacy. Flip appeared at the top of the stairs and looked down at me.
“Is she awake?” I whispered.
I heard a door close.
“Mrs. Fairmont,” I called out. “Good morning. It’s Tami.”
The elderly woman appeared, wearing an elegant green robe and slippers. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed. She blinked her eyes and peered down the stairs.
“Where’s Gracie?” she asked. “Are you her helper?”
“No ma’am. I’m Tami Taylor. You’re letting me live in the basement apartment this summer while I work for Mr. Braddock’s law firm.”
Mrs. Fairmont rubbed the side of her face. “My mind is foggy this morning.”
“I’m leaving for work in a few minutes. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Did you make the coffee?”
“No ma’am. Would you like some?”
“That would be nice. Cream and sugar.”
Mrs. Fairmont shuffled away from the top of the stairs. Flip followed her. I went into the kitchen and started the coffeemaker. I checked the clock. I wanted to get to the office promptly at 8:00 a.m. and wasn’t sure exactly how long it would take to get there on foot. I didn’t want to be late, but I was living in the house to serve Mrs. Fairmont’s needs. I watched the coffee begin to drip into the bottom of the pot. While I waited, I wrote a note that I left on the kitchen counter, thanking Gracie for renovating the downstairs apartment and telling her how much I looked forward to meeting her.
As soon as enough coffee dripped down, I poured a cup and added cream and sugar. I held the cup carefully while climbing the stairs. Halfway up, I thought about the spilled coffee incident in the blue parlor and had to fight off a giggle that threatened to cause the brown drink to slosh over the edge of the cup. I made it to the top of the stairs and knocked on the door frame of a room with the door cracked open. A bark from Flip confirmed that I’d found Mrs. Fairmont’s bedroom. I slowly entered.
“It’s Tami. I’ve brought your coffee,” I announced. “With cream and sugar.”
Mrs. Fairmont was sitting up in bed with pillows behind her. Like the rest of the house, the bedroom was filled with beautiful furniture. The bed had four massive posters and an ornate headboard. A tall bookcase filled with books stood against one wall. Against another wall was a long dresser with a large mirror above it. The top of the dresser was covered with family pictures. On the corner of the dresser was an old black-and-white photograph of a bride in a long elaborate gown and a groom wearing a tuxedo.
“Sorry, child. I was confused a minute ago,” Mrs. Fairmont said. “I wasn’t really awake. You’re the young woman with twin sisters who have blue eyes.”
“Yes ma’am,” I replied, surprised at her recall of such a small detail. “Where should I put the coffee?”
“On the nightstand.”
I set the cup in front of a picture of two girls in old-fashioned dresses.
“Who is that?” I asked.
Mrs. Fairmont turned her head. “That’s Ellen Prescott and I at Forsyth Park. She came from a poor family but received a scholarship to my school. It was Ellen’s little daughter who was murdered. She had blue eyes, just like your sisters. They never found the body.”
I involuntarily shuddered. “How old was she when she died?”
“About ten or eleven. Ellen married late in life to a man with a lot of money and never had another child. She and her husband died in a car wreck a few years later.”
Mrs. Fairmont reached over and raised the cup to her lips. Her right hand shook slightly, but she didn’t spill a drop.
“That’s good coffee for decaf,” she sighed. “Thank you.”
I moved away from the bed. “I’m leaving for my first day of work at Mr. Braddock’s law firm. I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Run along. With Flip’s help, I’ll try to hold on to my sanity.”
I STOPPED FOR A LAST GLANCE at myself in the mirror in the green parlor. I looked appropriately professional and resolute. I practiced a quick smile that left me unsatisfied. People complimented me on my smile, even though the right corner of my lip curled up slightly higher than the left. I turned away from the mirror before a vain thought lodged in my brain.
The early morning sun served notice that it would be warm by the end of the day. I walked briskly down the steps and turned in the direction of the law office. My shoes didn’t have high heels, but it was different from navigating the uneven sidewalks in running shoes. My feet crushed acorns left from the previous year’s crop. I noticed details that had escaped me during my morning run. All of the houses were old, but there was remarkable variety in the use of brick or wood, the shape and placement of windows, the design of the front doors, and countless other nuances. I didn’t try to take it all in at once. I knew that by the end of the summer, the walk to work would be as familiar to me as the woods on the west side of our house in Powell Station.
I passed a man walking his dog and two joggers running in the opposite direction. I crossed several intersections and reached Montgomery Street. The law office was several blocks from the Chatham County Courthouse, a modern structure uninfluenced by the beautiful area nearby. Traffic was busier on Montgomery Street, and when I reached Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter, my heart began to pound in my chest. A few cars were in the parking lot.
“Make this a place of praise,” I began to repeat under my breath.
I knew the prayer was right, but it didn’t send peace to my heart. I’d felt less nervous trying to make a crucial free throw at the end of a conference tournament basketball game. I took a deep breath when I reached the front door and opened it.
The receptionist sat to the right of the sweeping staircase. My low heels clicked on the wooden floor.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I’m Tami Taylor, one of the summer clerks,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t shake. “I’m here to see Ms. Patrick.”
The receptionist spoke to someone on the phone.
“Have a seat,” she said to me. “She’ll be down in a few minutes.”
I sat in a wooden chair with curved arms and legs. The front door of the office opened, and a young woman entered. It was Julie Feldman, also dressed in a dark suit and white blouse. Without noticing me, she approached the receptionist. Julie was shorter than I’d imagined from the pictures sent via the Internet and a lot cuter. Her black hair was cut short. The receptionist pointed in my direction. Julie’s eyes met mine, and she smiled. She sat down on a leather couch beside my chair and introduced herself.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Me too. I’ve talked to two of my friends who have been working for a week at big law firms in Atlanta. They told me not to treat it like summer camp. Their firms don’t want them to get bored, and the partner in charge of summer clerks has a bunch of activities planned to keep them entertained. I told them Atlanta may be different from Savannah.”
Julie spoke rapidly, her dark eyes alert.
“All I know is that we’re going to a luncheon today with the lawyers,” I replied. “Ms. Patrick says it may be the only time all the partners are with us.”
Julie nodded. “I’ve talked to her a bunch. Mr. Carpenter told me to meet with her this morning.”
I wondered why I’d not received personal contact from the senior partner. Perhaps it was because I was a fill-in.
“What’s he like?”
“Okay, I guess. He came to the law school for an interview day. I didn’t think he liked me, but then I got the job offer. Did you find a place to live?”
I told her about Mrs. Fairmont’s house.
“You’re not far from my place near Greene Square. We’ll have to go out together some at night.”
My defenses flew up. “It depends on Mrs. Fairmont’s condition.
Staying at her house is actually a second job.”
“What do you mean?”
“She has health issues,” I replied, not wanting to give details that Mrs. Bartlett might want to remain private.
Julie lowered her voice. “Maybe you can sneak out after hours.
I’ve already been to River Street twice. It’s a lot of fun.”
A middle-aged woman with dark hair and reading glasses on a chain around her neck came down the stairs and introduced herself.
It was Gerry Patrick. Ms. Patrick was the same height as Julie. She gave Julie a quick hug and shook my hand.
“Did you move in yesterday?” she asked me crisply.
“Yes ma’am. Mrs. Fairmont completely renovated the downstairs apartment.”
“That’s good to hear. Let’s go to a conference room. Vince Colbert is already here this morning. He’s working on a project for Mr. Braddock.”
When Ms. Patrick turned away, Julie leaned over and whispered, “Vince must be a gunner.”
We went into one of the plush downstairs conference rooms Zach had shown me during my first visit. Ms. Patrick sat at the end of the table and offered us coffee or water. She then pushed the intercom button on the phone.
“Deborah, send Vince into conference room two.”
I crossed my ankles under the shiny table. Opposite me was a massive oil painting of a harbor scene from the early nineteenth century. I could see bales of cotton piled on a wharf in front of a row of sailing ships. Scores of people filled the scene. The detail in the painting would have taken a long time to create.
“Is that Savannah?” I asked.
“Yes,” Ms. Patrick said. “Mr. Braddock lets the art museum keep it for a year then brings it back to the office for twelve months.”
The door to the conference room opened and a tall, lanky young man with wavy brown hair and dark eyes came into the room. He was wearing a dark blue sport coat, gray slacks, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He was carrying a very thin laptop computer in his right hand.
“Vince, meet Julie Feldman and Tami Taylor,” Ms. Patrick said.
When I shook the male clerk’s hand, I noticed a large, rectangular-shaped scar on it. The skin was oddly wrinkled and lacked pigment. I quickly glanced up. His eyes were on my face. He released his grip and sat on the opposite side of the table with his right hand out of sight.
“Vince already knows what I’m going to tell you,” Ms. Patrick began. “But Mr. Carpenter wanted the three of you to have a sense of starting together.”
She distributed cards that would give us access to the building twenty-four hours a day and rapidly outlined a lot of details about office procedures: names of support staff and their job duties, locations of copy machines and the codes to input when using them, Internet research policies, areas of specialty for each of the lawyers, and office schedules. Vince’s fingers flew across the keyboard. Neither Julie nor I had anything to write on. Ms. Patrick didn’t seem to notice.
“Will all this be included in an information packet or should I take notes?” I asked when she paused.
“You can copy my notes,” Vince replied.
He slid the computer across the table. Julie and I leaned in and looked at the screen. He’d typed in almost every word on a template that made it look like a corporate flow chart.
“That works for me,” Julie said.
“I don’t own a laptop computer,” I said, trying not to sound whiny. “Does the firm supply one?”
“Not for summer clerks,” Ms. Patrick replied. “The younger lawyers bring one to meetings, but most partners don’t. It’s a generational difference.”
I concentrated hard through the rest of the meeting. At least my memory, forged in the front room of the house in Powell Station, went with me everywhere. And it never needed rebooting.
“That’s it,” Ms. Patrick said in conclusion. “Any questions?”
I didn’t know what to ask and kept my mouth shut. Julie spoke.
“How will we circulate through the different sections of the firm?”
It was a good question, and I wished I’d thought to ask it.
“You’ll find out at the luncheon. There isn’t time during the summer for you to spend a lot of time with each partner. Anything else?”
“Is there a dress code?” I asked.
“This is a traditional firm with clients who expect a professional appearance at all times. We don’t wear blue jeans on Friday.”
“That’s fine. I don’t own a pair of jeans.”
The other three people stared at me. I’d needlessly blurted out controversial information. I wanted to crawl under the table.
“Any other questions?” Ms. Patrick asked after an awkward pause.
I pressed my lips tightly together. The progress I’d made with Ms.
Patrick after meeting with Christine Bartlett had been nullified by the events of the past few days.
“Very well,” the office manager said. “Vince, you can return to your project with Mr. Braddock. Julie, Mr. Carpenter wants to meet with you in his office. Tami, wait here.”
Left alone in the conference room, I had nothing to do but stare at the painting. Many of the figures on the wharf were slaves, toiling without pay in the burning heat as they loaded the heavy cotton bales onto the ships. I suspected the painter intended to portray normal life. However, normal in one era can be barbarian to the next. The slaves, a people oppressed for no reason except the color of their skin, illustrated that truth with a massive exclamation point. The painting was an indefensible snapshot of injustice. I sighed. Oppression took many forms, and often, the society of the day didn’t recognize it.
Ms. Patrick returned to the conference room. I started to offer an apology but before I could start, she spoke.
“Come with me,” she said from the doorway. “You’re going to assist one of the paralegals this morning.”
There was no denying my relegation to the bottom rank of the summer clerks. I recognized the large open work areas that were filling with people. We walked down a hall to an open door.
“Myra,” Ms. Patrick began, “this is Tami Taylor.”
The paralegal glanced up from a stack of papers on her desk. “Welcome, nice to see you again.”
Ms. Patrick looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“Zach Mays introduced us when I came by the office on a Saturday a few weeks ago,” I said.
Ms. Patrick waved her hand to the paralegal. “She’s all yours until 11:30.”
“Thank you,” I said to Ms. Patrick’s departing back.
Myra reached forward and picked up a thick envelope. “I’m in the middle of a project that has to be finished before the end of the day. Do you know where the county courthouse is located?”
“Yes ma’am.”
The paralegal pulled back the envelope. “Unless you think I’m old, call me Myra.”
“Okay.”
She handed me the heavy envelope. “This is a response to a motion for preliminary injunction that needs to be filed this morning. Mr.
Carpenter has a hearing in this case tomorrow, and the other side needs twenty-four hours’ notice. We have electronic filing in federal court but not in the state courts. There are two copies. Have both of them stamped at the clerk’s office, then take one to Judge Cannon’s office. Bring the other back here, and I’ll have a courier take it to the opposing counsel’s office.”
“I could take it,” I offered.
“It’s in Brunswick. It would be cutting it close for you to drive down and back before lunch.”
“Oh, I don’t have a car.”
Myra stopped and stared at me. Stares had always been part of my life, but a new environment inevitably provoked a rash of them.
Without further comment the paralegal turned her attention to the documents on her desk, and I backed out of the room.
My earlier confidence was gone. As I walked down Montgomery Street, the hopelessness of my situation washed over me. I had no business working in Savannah. My success was as unlikely as one of the slaves in the painting making the transition from dock laborer to cotton merchant.
I reached the courthouse and climbed the steps. After passing through security, I found the clerk’s office where a helpful middle-aged woman date-stamped the response to the motion. But when I tried to pick up both copies, she held on to one of them
“One of these needs to go in the file. You can serve the other,” she said.
“No, I need to take it to Judge Cannon’s office. There’s a hearing tomorrow afternoon.”
The clerk pointed to a copy machine. “Then make another copy.”
I panicked. “I didn’t bring my purse and don’t have any money.”
An image of myself hot and sweaty, running back to the office, flashed through my mind.
“Which law firm do you work for?” the woman asked.
“Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter.”
“Use their copy code.”
“I’m a summer clerk. It’s my first day, and I don’t have it with me.”
The woman made a face that showed me I’d reached the end of her patience.
“Call and get it,” she said.
“I don’t have a cell phone.”
The woman rubbed her hand across her forehead and through her hair. Without saying anything else, she reached under the counter and retrieved a black notebook. She flipped open the book and turned it so I could see the firm name with a number beside it.
“Thank you,” I replied gratefully.
I made two copies in case I hit another unforeseen roadblock. I left the clerk’s office and found Judge Cannon’s chambers on the directory beside the elevator. It must have been a day for criminal court, because several of the people who joined me on the elevator looked like criminals. No one spoke, but two of the men stole sideways glances at me. I quickly stepped out when the door opened.
The judge’s office had an anteroom where an older woman sat behind a scarred wooden desk. Public administration of justice didn’t pay as well as the private practice of law. I identified myself and handed the envelope to the woman.
“The judge has something for you to deliver to Mr. Carpenter,” the woman said in a raspy voice. “I was going to mail it, but you can deliver it in person.”
“Yes ma’am. I’ll be glad to.”
She gave me a sealed envelope. Holding it tightly in my hand along with the service copies of the response to the motion, I retraced my steps to the law firm. It was hot, and I was doubly glad I’d not had to make an extra trip. By the time I reached the foyer of the law office, the cool air felt good on my hot face. I climbed the stairs to Myra’s office. Her door was closed. I knocked.
“Come in,” she said.
“Here it is,” I announced. I laid the stamped copies on her desk. I held up the other envelope. “The judge’s secretary gave me this to deliver to Mr. Carpenter.”
“Take it downstairs to his office,” she said without thanking me and resumed her work.
I didn’t know where to go so I wandered the hallway looking for clues. I opened one door. An older man with a bald head and wearing glasses glanced up in obvious irritation.
“Sorry,” I mumbled and quickly closed the door.
At that moment, Julie Feldman entered the hall.
“Where’s Mr. Carpenter’s office?” I asked in relief. “I have something to give him from a judge.”
“He’s on a conference call with a client, but his secretary is in there,” she replied, pointing to a door next to the one I’d opened.
“What does he look like?” I asked in an anxious voice.
“Uh, he’s tall with gray hair and a goatee. He reminds me of an actor whose name I can’t remember. Some guy who used to be in old movies.”
“Good,” I said with relief. “What are you doing for him?”
Julie held up a thick file in her hand. “He gave me a research project, something about competing security interests in forklifts and other equipment at a big factory that’s about to go into bankruptcy. There are claims by two banks and three companies that sold the equipment. I’m supposed to read all the documents and prepare a chart telling him which companies are secured as to each piece of property and for how much.”
“That sounds interesting,” I replied.
Julie gave me a strange look. “Are you kidding?” she asked.
“No.”
Julie shook her head. “I’ll see you at lunch. Until then, I’ll have my head stuck in article nine of the uniform commercial code.”
I entered the office, which was as fancy as the office at the courthouse had been plain. I introduced myself to a woman in her thirties and gave her the envelope from Judge Cannon.
“Have a seat,” she said, motioning to one of two chairs in front of her desk. “Mr. Carpenter will want to meet you as soon as he finishes his conference call.”
I sat down and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. The secretary ignored me. Both Julie and Vince Colbert were already busy on projects. I knew it was only the first day, but I already felt behind. Another fifteen minutes passed. In between phone calls, which she seemed to be able to handle without consulting Mr. Carpenter, the secretary’s fingers flew across the keyboard. I wanted to be productive. But there was nothing to do except become intimately familiar with every detail of the room. More time passed. Finally, the secretary seemed to notice my existence again. She picked up the phone and told Mr. Carpenter that I was waiting to see him. The office door behind her opened, and a man matching Julie’s description entered the room.
Mr. Carpenter had a slender build and extended his hand in a way that struck me as slightly effeminate. However, when I shook his hand, the grip was firm.
“Ms. Saylor,” he said in a smooth voice.
“It’s Taylor,” I corrected, perhaps too abruptly.
“Sorry,” he said. “Tami, right?”
“Yes sir.”
We entered his office. It was about the same size as Mr. Callahan’s office. Apparently, Mr. Carpenter liked boats, because the walls were covered with pictures of yachts.
“I’ve been on the phone with so many people this morning the names are running together.”
He sat behind a large desk with a leather inlaid top and stared at me for several seconds without speaking. I shifted in my seat.
“You have a lovely office,” I said.
His phone buzzed and he picked it up. “Put him through,” he said after listening for a moment.
I started to get up, but he motioned for me to remain. The call involved a domestic relations case. Mr. Carpenter represented the husband who had filed for the divorce. I picked up that the man on the other end of the line was the lawyer for the wife. The main issue had to do with division of property.
“Our answers to your discovery set valuation of the marital estate at twenty-two million and change,” Mr. Carpenter said. “I think we should be able to arrive at an amicable resolution. My letter of the fifteenth is a starting point, but there is room for discussion on several items.”
Mr. Carpenter listened for a long time. I watched his jaw tighten and his lips turn downward.
“Bob, I don’t think you want to go there,” he said. “We can divide the pie, but if you try to throw it in my face, this will get messy.”
It seemed like a silly comment, but the way Mr. Carpenter said it sounded ominous. He listened again, then spoke in a steely voice.
“If that’s the way you want it, we’ll litigate into the next decade. Have your paralegal call Myra Dean to set up the depositions.” He paused. “And tell Mrs. Folsom my previous proposal is off the table. Our next offer will be less—a lot less.”
He hung up the phone and looked at me.
“Welcome to Savannah,” he said cheerily.
I gave him a startled look at his easy transition from threatening to friendly. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity.”
“Gerry tells me you’re living with Margaret Fairmont. She’s a gracious lady. Her husband was a great friend of Sam Braddock.”
“Yes sir.”
“And I have your résumé somewhere in here.”
The lawyer leafed through a short stack of papers on the corner of his desk.
“Have you met Vince and Julie?” he asked as he continued to search.
“Yes sir.”
“And you already know Zach Mays?”
“Not really. I met him a few weeks ago when I stopped by the office on a Saturday. He’s been very helpful in helping me acclimate to the firm.”
“Good, good. Zach is an earnest young man who isn’t afraid to ask hard questions. Here it is,” Mr. Carpenter announced, holding up a sheet of paper.
I watched while he skimmed the one-page summary of my life.
“That’s right. You worked for Oscar Callahan. It’s the reason I pulled your résumé out in the first place. Oscar gave you a glowing recommendation. If he’d stopped representing mill workers for petty injuries and crawled out of the mountains, he could have been one of the best litigators in the state.”
“Yes sir,” I said, not sure if agreeing with Mr. Carpenter would dishonor Mr. Callahan.
“His grandfather was a preacher, wasn’t he?”
“Yes sir.”
“If I recall, he was the leader of some kind of obscure religious sect that wanted to turn back the clock to the Dark Ages.”
I swallowed, not sure if this was a time to defend the faith or accumulate more information.
“Is that what Mr. Callahan told you?”
“How else would I have picked up that bit of trivia?” Mr. Carpenter slapped his hands together. “Enough of that. Let’s get down to business. Your summer at the firm will be a good mix of work and pleasure. I hope your experience will be intellectually stimulating. Law school prepares you to take tests, not practice law. We’ll have plenty of projects that will involve research within your comfort zone, but there will also be practical opportunities to broaden your experience.”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m glad you had a chance to hear my side of the opening salvo in the Folsom divorce case. I don’t handle many divorce cases, but our firm is deeply involved in J.K. Folsom’s corporate dealings, and he doesn’t want another law firm to know his business. J.K. pays our top hourly rate for representation. Using you to assist with research and deposition preparation, I can keep his bills lower.”
My stomach went into a knot. I’d wanted to avoid domestic practice. Mr. Carpenter continued. “Have you taken a domestic relations course in law school?”
“No sir.”
“That’s not a problem. We’ll see how fast you can get up to speed in an unfamiliar area. We have a couple of treatises in the law library. Read them to get a foundation and dive into the fray. Divorce work is exciting because the emotions of the parties run wild. It’s key for the lawyer to keep her cool when others around her are losing theirs.”
Even when talking to a summer associate, I could tell Mr. Carpenter utilized dramatic pauses.
“Sounds like Kipling,” I managed, remembering a poem I’d memorized in homeschool.
Mr. Carpenter nodded approvingly. “Yes, it does.”
He buzzed his secretary and gave her instructions about giving me access to the file. He stood up, signaling an end to our meeting.
“I’ll see you at the luncheon. Until then, the library is your home.”
The secretary spoke as I passed her desk. “I’ll have a packet on the Folsom case ready for you by early afternoon,” she said. “In the meantime, the case number is 207642.”
“Thank you,” I replied without much feeling. “Where is the firm library?”
“On this floor at the west end of the building.”
Not being able to see the sun in the hallway, I wasn’t sure which way to turn, but I guessed the opposite end from Mr. Braddock’s office. I didn’t want to walk unannounced into another lawyer’s office. When I cracked open a wooden door and peeked inside I saw bookshelves. Sitting at a table with papers spread out before her was Julie Feldman.
“Are you alone?” I whispered.
“Not now.”
I sat down on the opposite side of the table. Even with the advent of computer research, the firm still maintained an extensive library of books. Several computer terminals for online use were in a row along one wall.
“How’s it going?”
“I’m shuffling papers and trying to understand what they say.” She looked up. “I haven’t taken a course in secured transactions. I know a few terms but none of the principles. I’m completely lost.”
“I loved my secured transactions course. It was taught by one of the best professors at the law school, and I enjoyed figuring out the different rules. But Mr. Carpenter has assigned me to a big divorce case. I’ve not taken a domestic relations course, and the only thing I know about divorce is that God doesn’t like it.”
Julie’s eyes opened wide. “That’s unreal. I spent last semester doing research for one of the best divorce lawyers in Atlanta. She handles a lot of high-profile breakups and knows all the tricks of the trade. Reading her files was more interesting than most of the novels my mother keeps on the nightstand in her bedroom.”
The irony of our predicament made me smile.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Julie asked.
“What? That we’re both being pushed out of our comfort zones?”
“No. We should switch projects.”
I shook my head. “Mr. Carpenter knows I haven’t studied domestic relations. He wants to see how quickly I can learn a new area. It’s part of the summer experience.”
“But we could help each other.”
Julie’s suggestion surprised me. Law school was competitive, and a summer clerk opportunity raised the competition to a higher level because a job, not just a grade, was at stake. Even if we didn’t talk about it, I’d expected jockeying for a permanent job to affect all my interaction with Julie Feldman and Vince Colbert.
“How would we do that?”
“Talk about stuff. You can help me with these documents, and I can give you pointers about the divorce case. Where is your file?”
“I won’t have it until this afternoon. I’m supposed to be reading a treatise on divorce law in Georgia, but I’m not sure how many there are or which one is the best.”
Julie looked at her watch. “Here’s what we’ll do. It will be just like my study group at school. Help me figure out what I’m supposed to do for an hour and a half. Then, I’ll take you through a domestic relations treatise for an hour. I know which one to use. After lunch, we’ll spend time identifying your specific issues. And we’ll end the day in the guts of article nine of the uniform commercial code.”
I felt a weight lift from my shoulders.
“Okay.”
I took my chair around to Julie’s side of the table. The next hour and a half flew by as I organized the documents, located the key language in each one, and showed Julie the important dates.
“Which company are we representing?” I asked when we took a break. “I’ve been treating this like an exam question to unravel, not a case to win.”
“This one.” Julie pointed to a stack of documents. “I didn’t want to influence your opinion by letting you know in advance. Later, we can try to figure out how to make our case stronger.”
“You’re going to be a great lawyer. You have something law school can’t teach.”
“What’s that?”
“Wisdom.”
Julie rolled her eyes. “Whatever. I’ll get the divorce book. Do we represent the husband or the wife?”
“Does it matter?”
“Not as much as it used to. Unless there are little kids, it’s all about the money.”
Julie went to the shelves and returned with a dark green volume. “You remind me of a rabbi,” she said as she sat down.
“Why?”
“You think about stuff that rabbis care about. Clothes, what God thinks about divorce, wisdom, ethics.”
“What do you care about?”
Julie looked at me and laughed. “See what I mean? That’s a rabbi question if I ever heard one. You can’t turn it off, can you?”
“No,” I admitted with a small smile.
“That’s okay. You’re not going to offend me. My cousins in New York are ultraorthodox. They’re always telling me what to do and think.” Julie opened the treatise. “Do you know the divorce rate among Christians?”
“A few years ago, it was about thirty percent, the same as everyone else. But that doesn’t mean all—”
“I think it’s higher, now,” Julie interrupted. “Closer to forty percent. Guess what the divorce rate is for ultraorthodox Jews?”
“I don’t know.”
“About three percent. Tell me, whose belief system is working? Of course, I’m not orthodox and don’t want to be, so I won’t have the benefit of those statistics.” She opened the book and flipped over a few pages. “Let’s see. Here’s where we should start.”
Julie launched into an efficient explanation of the divorce laws in Georgia. I didn’t like the subject matter, but it was much easier receiving it spoon-fed by a friendly face than groping along under the sharp questioning of a polemic professor. An hour later, the door opened. It was Vince Colbert, his laptop in his hand.
“Mr. Braddock sent me. It’s time for the luncheon.”