Deeper Water (13 page)

"This is where a lot of work takes place," Zach said. "Except for the partners' executive assistants, all the clerical, word processing, and bookkeeping is performed here." He pointed to an enclosed office. "That's where the office manager works."

"Ms. Patrick?"

"Right."

We came to a row of small, separate offices, each with its own window. Several of the doors were closed.

"These are for the associates and top paralegals. The closed doors mean someone is pretending to work on a Saturday."

"Why do you say pretending?"

Zach stopped, knocked on a closed door, and opened it before any one inside could respond. A young woman dressed in casual clothes was sitting behind her desk with papers spread out in front of her and a dictation unit in her hand.

"This is Myra Dean, a paralegal in the litigation department," Zach said. "She is working, not pretending."

He introduced me.

"Sorry to interrupt," I said.

"No problem," she replied in a voice with a Midwestern accent. "Zach should have known I wouldn't be sitting here reading the sports page."

"Except in the fall when Ohio State is playing football."

The woman smiled. "On my own time."

Zach closed the door and continued down the hall.

"Myra was a bad choice to catch goofing off. She's in Joe Carpenter's group. If she wasn't a hard worker, she wouldn't have lasted a week."

He stopped at another closed door. "This is a sure bet."

He knocked and opened. A balding man was sitting with his feet propped up on his desk and holding a book about golf

"Zach, knock and wait for an answer before barging in here!" he snapped before he saw me. "Oh, who's your lady friend?"

"Tami Taylor, one of our summer clerks. Just giving her a tour. This is Barry Conrad. He works in the transactions area."

Conrad held up the book. "And on my slice. Are you a golfer, Ms. Taylor? It's a great way to develop client relations."

"No, I play basketball."

Conrad looked at Zach. "Do we have any clients who play basketball?"

"I don't know. Who's paying for your golf study?"

"The firm. I'm billing it to professional development. Mr. Braddock wants me on the course at four o'clock this afternoon with the management team for Forester Shipping Lines. If I don't do something about my driver and hold up my end of our foursome, it could cost us thousands."

"Keep your shoulders square to the ball and don't rotate your hips too soon," Zach said, adopting a pretend golf stance.

"Get out of here."

We left the office, and Zach shut the door.

"Is Mr. Conrad a partner?"

"No, he's a permanent associate. He swallowed his pride when he wasn't asked to join the firm. It's not a bad life. The pay is good by Savannah standards, and there's no management responsibility."

"How long has he been here?"

"Maybe fifteen years." Zach added, "That's fifteen years averaging fifty to sixty hours a week working plus time spent in his office reading a golf manual or following his fantasy football team."

We stopped before an open door.

"This is my space," he said. "Come in and have a seat."

I hesitated. "I really need to be on my way."

Zach held up his right index finger and shook it. "What is lesson number one?"

"Open up and tell about myself when asked a question by one of the lawyers."

"Good. Rule number two. Don't miss an opportunity to talk to one of the lawyers when given the chance to do so. We're all busy and won't ask you to spend a few minutes with us unless we intend to use it efficiently."

"Yes sir."

"Don't call me sir or mister. My name is Zach."

"Okay."

"Come in."

He led the way into a small office. Directly in front of me was a window that overlooked the parking lot. I could see my car with Zach's motorcycle beside it. Two miniature motorcycles rested on the front of the lawyer's desk. In neat rows on the wall were framed diplomas and other certificates.

On the corner of his desk facing me was a picture of a very attractive young woman with a white flower in her blonde hair. Next to that picture was a photograph of an older couple I guessed to be his parents. The man in the picture had long hair that was gray around the edges, and the woman was wearing a dress that would have looked in style in the late 1970s. Zach picked up a legal pad and took a pen from the top drawer of his desk.

"Tell me about your spiritual journey," he said.

"My spiritual journey?" I asked in surprise.

"Yes, it's an allowable question under the antidiscrimination guidelines."

"Why do you think I have a spiritual journey?"

Zach held up three fingers. "Rule three about being a successful summer clerk. Never answer a question in a way that makes you seem evasive. It's easy to spot a phony. Better to be forthright and honest than beat around the bush and give what you think is a politically correct answer that will help you land a job upon graduation."

"I'd never do that."

"Good. Start by giving me a straight answer."

I sat up in my chair. A head-on challenge required fearlessness in the face of attack. Zach Mays probably didn't have the power to revoke the summer job offer, but even if he did, I wouldn't compromise.

"I've been a Christian since I prayed with my mother at the altar of our church when I was a little girl."

"Did your spiritual journey stop there?"

"No, it's a lifetime relationship with Jesus Christ that affects every aspect of life. I'm always trying to learn and grow."

"Do you believe there are other ways for sincere people to find God?"

"No, there is only one way."

"It's your way or the highway?"

I didn't like to be mocked, but it was part of the persecution of the righteous. At least I knew where I stood when an assault came.

"My beliefs aren't based on my opinions. The Bible says that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life. No one can come to the Father except through him."

"Doesn't that sound narrow-minded?"

"It is narrow-minded. But truth doesn't depend on popular consensus or opinion polls. The Bible also says the road that leads to eternal life is narrow, and only a few find it. Pretending that someone who tries to live a good life or believes in the god of another religion will make it into heaven is a cruel deception."

"And you're convinced about your religious perspective?"

"Enough to tell you what I believe without beating around the bush." I looked directly into his eyes and took a deep breath. "If you had a wreck on your motorcycle later today and died on the side of the road, would you go to heaven?"

The corner of the lawyer's lips curled up. Whether in a smile or a sneer, I couldn't tell. He pointed to the picture of the beautiful woman on his desk.

"Who do you think that is?"

"I don't know."

"That's my older sister. She's a nurse at a clinic in Zambia."

I wasn't going to be easily deterred. "My question deserves an answer."

Zach ignored me. "She's a missionary in Africa."

"A Christian missionary?"

"Yes."

"Has she talked to you the same way I am?"

The lawyer shook his head. "No, actually, I'm the one who led her to faith in Jesus Christ. It happened at a summer camp for home schoolers we attended in Oregon. One year she realized the faith of our parents had to become real for her."

I sat back in the chair. "You were homeschooled?"

"Since kindergarten. The first time I entered a public school classroom was to take a course at a local community college when I was sixteen. My high school graduation was sponsored by a homeschool association in Southern California."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I pointed to the picture of the older couple. "Your parents?"

"Yes. They were part of the Jesus movement and lived in a Christian commune for a number of years."

"A Christian commune?"

"Yep. Remember how the early believers in the book of Acts didn't claim any private property but held everything in common for the good of all?"

"Yes."

"That's what my parents and some of their friends did. Does your church believe that part of the Bible?"

"We believe every word of the Bible."

"Do you follow the part about sharing everything with other Christians?"

"Not exactly the same way, but we give to people in need. Members of the church have helped me financially even though they didn't have to."

"That's good, but it's not having all things in common. My parents held on to the ideal for years but gave up on group Christianity when I was about ten years old. After that, we lived in the same area as people in our fellowship, but every family had its own checkbook. It takes a zealous group of believers to be biblical in every aspect of their lifestyle."

I'd always considered myself and those like me the epitome of zeal, not in a prideful way, but in humble recognition of our respon sibility to walk in the light given us. Suddenly, new biblical revelation I'd not considered loomed before me like a fog bank.

"What are you thinking?" the lawyer asked, interrupting my thoughts.

"Do I have to reveal my secret thoughts as part of the interview process?"

"No."

"And you haven't been taking notes."

The lawyer laughed. It was a pleasant sound.

"I won't be preparing a memo to Mr. Carpenter about the details of this conversation. It would require too much background information that he wouldn't understand."

"So why did you ask your spiritual journey question?"

Zach smiled. "I could tell that your beliefs dictated the way you dress. But your preferences could have been caused by a lot of things."

"It's not a preference; it's a conviction," I responded firmly. "We believe in modesty for women and that there should be a difference between the sexes in clothing. Women should wear skirts or dresses."

"You've never worn blue jeans?"

"Not one day in my life."

The lawyer started to speak, then closed his mouth. "I'll have time this summer to learn more about you," he said.

His comment made me feel like an insect under a microscope. I looked for an air of judgment or condemnation on his face but didn't detect it. As we walked out of the building, I told him we shared the common bond of a homeschool education.

"Until I attended the local high school," I said.

"And played basketball?"

"Yes. I'm on an intramural team now."

Outside, it was a pleasant day with a breeze blowing. The humidity of the previous afternoon had been swept away. Zach opened the car door for me. I hesitated.

"What brought you to Savannah?" I asked. "It's a long way from Southern California."

"We'll save that for later."

"But that violates rule number one."

Zach smiled. "Rules don't apply to me."

MOSES JONES AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS ON THE dock. He opened his eyes and peered through the mosquito netting. It was early morning with a heavy fog rising from the surface of the river. The fog covered the dock and kept him from seeing in the dim light. A different fear crawled over the gunwale of the boat.

"Who be there?" he called out, his voice trembling slightly. "That you, Mr. Floyd? I done told you, she ain't here!"

"Chatham County Sheriff's Department. What's your name?"

Moses sat up in the boat and pulled back the netting. Two sets of dark brown pants, khaki shirts, and shiny black shoes came into view. When he could make out faces, he saw two young deputiesone white, the other black. He took a deep breath and relaxed. These were flesh-and-blood men.

"Moses Jones, boss man."

The black deputy spoke. "Who gave you permission to tie up at this dock?"

Moses looked at the rope looped over the wooden piling. He couldn't deny his boat was connected to the dock. He quickly appealed to a broader reality.

"The river. It don't belong to nobody," he said.

"The river belongs to the State of Georgia," the same deputy responded. "And this dock belongs to the folks who live in that house over there."

Moses peered through the mist but couldn't see a house.

"Don't strain your eyes," the white deputy said. "There is a house there, and the people who live there built this dock, which is private property. You're trespassing."

"No sir. I didn't set one foot on this here dock. I've just been asleeping in my boat, not bothering nobody but myself."

"Do you have any identification?" the black deputy asked.

"I ain't got no driver's license. I don't own a car."

The deputy pointed to the white bucket in the front of the boat. "What's in that bucket?"

"Two little of fish that I'll cook for my dinner," Moses replied, then had an idea. "Would you gents like 'em? They're nice-size croakers, plenty of meat and plenty of bones."

"Are you trying to bribe us?" the white deputy asked.

"Uh, no sir, boss man. I'm just sharing my catch."

"We don't want your fish," the black deputy said. "Do you have a fishing license?"

"Yes sir. I sure do. I be totally legal."