Deeper Water (35 page)

I turned to Zach in panic and whispered, "What do I do?"

Zach spoke. "Your Honor, we withdraw the plea."

"Very well. Have him enter his not-guilty plea on the accusation."

Ms. Smith pushed a piece of paper in front of me and pointed to a place beneath the words "Not Guilty." Moses scrawled his name in the space provided. It was the same signature I'd seen at the bottom of the confession. The deputy led Moses back to the group of prisoners. When I turned away, Vince, a look of genuine sympathy on his face, caught my eye.

"State v. Brown," Ms. Smith called out.

Vince and Russell stood. Zach and I passed them as we walked down the aisle. Mr. Fussleman joined us. The three of us returned to the hallway.

"Was that a surprise?" Fussleman asked.

"Yes," Zach answered. "There is no guaranteed result in front of a judge, but they often look to the prosecutor for recommendations on sentencing. Otherwise, the system totally bogs down."

"We're bogged down," I said. "What do we do next?"

"Get ready to try the case," Zach said, his jaw firm.

MOSES WATCHED THE TALL GIRL who wasn't a real lawyer and the young lawyer helping her leave the courtroom. The man sitting next to him nudged his arm.

"They gave you a couple of practice lawyers?" the man asked in a low voice.

Moses grunted.

"Judge Cannon," the man continued. "They named him right. He'll blow you up into a million pieces. I saw what he did to you. One of my cousins pleaded guilty to writing a few bad checks and got sent to a work camp for a year and a half."

"I couldn't handle no work camp," Moses said.

"Oh, they wouldn't do that to you," the man reassured him. "At your age you've got nothing to worry about. They have a special prison over in Telfair County that's like a nursing home. They bring three meals a day on a tray to your room and change your bedsheets three times a week."

Moses glanced sideways at the man to see if he was telling the truth. A faint smile at the corners of the man's mouth betrayed the lie. Another prisoner was called forward. Moses watched and listened. The man was charged with destroying the front of a convenience store by ramming it with his truck when the clerk inside wouldn't sell him any beer. The man's lawyer wore a fancy suit and smiled when he spoke to the judge. The prisoner received probation and was ordered to pay for the damage. He returned to the group with a grin on his face. Moses heard him speak to the deputy.

"General, once I get my civilian clothes, you won't be seeing me anymore."

"You'll be back as soon as you get your hands on a fifth," the deputy replied impassively. "We'll save a spot for you."

Moses rubbed his head. He hadn't put a scratch on anyone's dock. Why couldn't he be set free? The next defendant was represented by a different lawyer. He also received probation. The man sitting next to Moses was called forward. He had a long history of drunk driving. The lawyer with the fancy suit represented him too. Moses expected the judge to give the man probation, but instead he sentenced him to three years in prison. When the man returned to the other prisoners, the smile at the corners of his mouth was gone.

As the afternoon dragged on, a deep ache was churned in Moses' gut. He would be returning to the jail and didn't know how long he'd be there. Locked behind the thick walls with the high, narrow windows was little better than living in a casket. He closed his eyes and found himself in the dark on the river. The pain in his stomach was joined by a black sadness in his mind. Hope hadn't been in the vocabulary of his heart for many years, but at least he'd been a survivor. Now, he wasn't sure he wanted to live. The ache in the darkness increased. He saw the little girl's face. Her golden hair, like wispy cords of death, reached out for him.

NEITHER ZACH NOR I SPOKE INTO THE HELMET MICROPHONES during the return trip to the office. I was sorry that he would have to find time in his busy schedule to help me, and I felt bad that I would have to defend a man who was guilty of trespassing-and probably much worse. Zach parked the motorcycle. I climbed out, handed him the helmet, and tucked my folder under my arm.

"The case will have to be placed on a trial calendar this summer," Zach said as we walked up the sidewalk. "Otherwise, you'll be in school."

"How soon?"

"That's up to the DAs office. I don't know much about the criminal court schedule. Call the court administrator and find out possible dates, then let me know so I can enter them on my calendar. You'll need to get ready."

Zach held the door open for me. Usually, the cool interior of the office refreshed me. This afternoon, I didn't notice. We stood in the reception area at the base of the staircase. I faced Zach.

"How do I prepare to try a case for a man who signed a confession and whose only defense is based on an argument that God, who created the rivers and oceans, is the only one who can complain about trespassing on waterways in the state of Georgia?"

"You said the confession doesn't sound like Jones."

"I know, but would that be grounds to suppress it?"

"No, but it can be argued to a jury." Zach stopped at the bottom of the stairs. "Look, I'm not a criminal law expert. I'm doing the best I can."

"I'm not criticizing you," I responded quickly. "It was a great idea to ask Mr. Fussleman to come to the hearing. I wouldn't have had the courage to ask him for help."

"You saw how that worked out."

"Yes, but I owe you an apology. You took care of me when I wasn't looking out for myself or the client. I'm learning as fast as I can."

Zach put his hand on the stair railing. "And you're about to learn a lot more."

JULIE WAS IN THE LIBRARY when I opened the door. I placed the Moses Jones folder on the worktable and sighed. Julie put down her pen.

"You look upset, but I'm not going to say anything stupid about Zach or Vinny," she said. "Mr. Carpenter assured me that you didn't try to get me in trouble, which I really, really appreciate. He told me to apologize, put the incident behind me, and be more professional."

I waited.

"What?" she asked.

"Is that your idea of an apology?"

"Oh, I'm sorry."

It was such a lame effort that I had to smile.

"Hey, great," she said. "I heard you and Vinny got rid of your criminal cases today."

"Vince's case may be over, but mine is getting more serious."

"What happened?"

In telling Julie, the magnitude of the disaster grew.

"Wow," she said. "That stinks."

I touched one of the Folsom divorce files with my right hand.

"Divorces and criminal law," I said. "I think my mother knew this was going to happen and tried to warn me before I came here."

"How did she want you to spend your summer?"

I thought about endless rows of dead chickens. Surely, that wasn't Mamas desire for my future.

"She left it up to me," I replied. "Now, as my father would say, I have a chance to grow in the midst of difficulty."

The family platitude sounded hollow in the moment. I sat down at one of the computer workstations and began typing a memo to Mr. Carpenter about the status of State v. Jones.

By the end of the day, Julie had returned to her chipper self. We worked together on the Folsom case, but Moses and Lisa Prescott stayed at the edge of my mind. I expected Vince to stop by and offer his condolences on my courtroom fiasco, but he didn't appear. Julie dropped me off at Mrs. Fairmont's house.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride in the morning?" she asked.

"No thanks. I enjoy the walk when it's still cool."

"Okay, but remember to call me if it ever rains."

Mrs. Bartlett's car was parked at the curb in front of her mother's house. I could hear her voice as soon as I entered the foyer.

"It's Tami," I called out.

"We're in the den," Mrs. Bartlett responded.

Mrs. Fairmont was in her favorite chair facing the television. Mrs. Bartlett was on a leather sofa to her right with a cup of coffee beside her. I sat in the remaining chair.

"How are you feeling?" I asked Mrs. Fairmont.

"Well enough to listen to Christine talk nonstop for an hour."

"Don't be ridiculous," Mrs. Bartlett replied. "You've held up your end of the conversation very well."

"Did you have a good day at work?" Mrs. Fairmont asked me.

"It was difficult," I replied.

"Mother tells me you're snooping around looking for information about the Lisa Prescott case."

"Yes ma'am." I couldn't blame Mrs. Fairmont for forgetting to keep our conversation secret.

"If you solve the mystery, it would be a great story to tell on one of those television shows where they go back in time and figure out what really happened. Only, I'd prefer not to have a TV crew filming inside Mother's house. With all the antiques and valuables around here, it makes no sense giving a thief an inventory of what he might find."

"I'll remember that when the producer calls."

"Ellen Prescott was one of Mother's dearest friends," Mrs. Bartlett continued. "Lisa was a bit of a brat. I know it sounds harsh to say, but it's true. I took care of her a few times when our parents went out for the evening. Lisa was sharp as a tack and had a mind of her own." She turned to Mrs. Fairmont. "Do you remember the time she unlocked the front door of their house and ran out to the sidewalk to hitchhike a ride to the ice-cream shop? I don't know where she got the idea that a young girl could ask a stranger for a ride. I ran out and grabbed her, of course. Later, when I heard that she didn't come home one afternoon, the first thought in my mind was about her running to the sidewalk and sticking out her thumb like a homeless person."

"How long before she vanished did that happen?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't know. It couldn't have been more than a year or so."

"Do you remember anything else?"

"There were all kinds of wild rumors."

"What kind of rumors?" I asked.

"Some I wouldn't want to repeat, but we almost had a race riot when some vigilantes marched into the black district and started searching houses."

"Why did they do that?"

"It was a sign of the times. Anytime a white girl disappeared, there were people who immediately blamed the black population. When the police didn't come up with a suspect, low-class troublemakers would take to the streets and try to find a scapegoat."

"The Ku Klux Klan?"

"No, they didn't try to cover their faces. The KKK wasn't around much when I was a child."

"Did they have a particular person in mind?"

Mrs. Bartlett rolled her eyes. "Don't expect me to remember details like that. It was a mob. My father locked the doors and turned out the lights when they came by our house. My bedroom was upstairs. I peeked outside and saw that some of the men were carrying guns. I'm surprised you didn't see an article about it in the newspaper. Do you remember that night, Mother?"

"Yes. It was scary."

"And there wasn't a particular black man who was a suspect?" I asked.

Mrs. Bartlett studied me for a moment. "Do you have a name? Mother and I have lived here all our lives. Between us, we've known a lot of people of every color under the sun."

"I can't say."

Attorney/client privilege?"

"I can't answer that either."

"Do you hear this, Mother?" Mrs. Bartlett said. "Tami has found out something about Lisa Prescott after all these years. Does the newspaper know you're conducting an investigation?"

"No!" I said. "And please don't mention this to anyone."

"I'm not subject to any rules of confidentiality." Mrs. Bartlett sniffed. "This is hot news for anyone who has been in Savannah for a long time."

I gave Mrs. Fairmont an imploring look.

"Don't give the girl a heart attack," Mrs. Fairmont said. "If you spread this around town, she could get in trouble."

"That's right," I added. "I could lose my job."

Mrs. Bartlett appeared skeptical. "Okay, but I have to mention it to Ken. I'm sure he remembers the Lisa Prescott mystery."

"Will you ask him not to say anything?" I asked.

"Of course. Don't panic. Anyway, hasn't the statute of limitations run out on that case?"

I didn't respond.

"Well?" she repeated.

I looked directly in her eyes. "There is no statute of limitations for murder."

MRS. BARTLETT DIDN'T STAY for supper. After she left, Mrs. Fairmont joined me in the kitchen while I warmed up leftovers from Gracie's Sunday dinner.

"Do you think Mrs. Bartlett will keep quiet about my interest in the Prescott case?" I asked as I stirred the black-eyed peas.

"I never could bridle Christine's tongue," the older woman said. "I'd be surprised if you have any success either."

After we ate, Mrs. Fairmont returned to the den to read magazines. She would read the same ones over and over. She'd tell about articles that piqued her interest, not realizing that she'd mentioned the same piece a few days before. After listening for the third time in a week to new ideas for Savannah-area flower gardens, I excused myself to call home. Mama answered the phone.

"It's me," I began.