Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope (38 page)

“Brenda Abernathy? The one Jason wanted us to interview?” Mr. Carpenter asked.

“Yes, sir,” I answered, impressed that he’d remembered her name.

“Is she trying to take up Dabney’s cause against the evil corporation and its CEO?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “She’s investigating Reverend Dabney’s allegations for the newspaper and wanted to ask us some questions.”

“We said we’d have to get permission from you,” Julie added. “Here’s a memo of the conversation.”

Mr. Carpenter took the memo from her hand but did not look at it.

“Anyone with a few years’ experience at the paper knows I won’t comment on pending litigation. It’s easy to commit an ethical violation. The judges don’t like lawyers who try their cases in the media. I’d rather offend Ms. Abernathy by keeping my mouth shut and make Judge Cannon happy.”

“But aren’t you concerned about what she might write?” I asked.

Mr. Carpenter shrugged. “Pretrial publicity might taint the jury pool. And I’m sure Jason wouldn’t want his name dragged through the mud. If Ms. Abernathy hasn’t been with the paper very long, she might get excited and cross the line.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Suing Dabney is easy. Would Jason Paulding be considered a public figure under the
New York Times v. Sullivan
test?”

“No,” Julie answered. “It wouldn’t be necessary to prove malice or reckless disregard for the truth to support a defamation claim.”

“Then the paper might open the door to a libel suit if it prints information about him that isn’t accurate.”

“But they’d only report Dabney’s statements,” Julie said.

“That’s not what an investigative journalist does,” Mr. Carpenter replied. “Nothing’s happened yet. Your job is to finish the deposition questions.”

“Yes, sir.”

Julie didn’t say anything until we were in the library. “Okay, let me see your questions.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to help. Haven’t I proven how unselfish I am by now? Your problem is my problem, and if I can be part of the solution, I’m here for you.”

Julie took the sheets and went to work. By the end of the day she had a matching set to the questions she’d prepared on the legal issues. I had to admit she had a flare for ferreting out information. There was an edge to her inquiries without sounding petty.

“This is good. I’ll make sure Mr. Carpenter knows that you did most of the work.”

“Don’t. He never knew how we divided the research on the Article 9 question you helped me with a couple of weeks ago.”

“That was easy; this was—”

“Easier for me than you. Mr. Carpenter knows we’ve collaborated. Our work product is so jumbled up the partners couldn’t figure out where you started and I ended.”

It was true.

“Which is why they’re going to offer Vinny a job instead of you or me,” Julie said. “Get used to the idea and enjoy the rest of the summer.”

I didn’t say anything about the upstairs offices.

FRIDAY EVENING Mrs. Fairmont greeted me with a big smile.

“I’m going home tomorrow,” she said, beaming. “Dr. Dixon signed the discharge papers when he was here this afternoon. Christine wants you to help move my things.”

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I didn’t make it up! Christine was here, and he talked to both of us. She asked a lot of questions, but I kept quiet. I didn’t want to say something that might change his mind.”

“That’s great,” I said, then, noticing the empty plastic ice bucket in the corner of the room, I asked, “Could I get you some ice?”

Mrs. Fairmont nodded. I immediately went to the nurse’s station and introduced myself to the woman in charge.

“If she’s going home tomorrow, I need to get the house ready,” I said. “Can you check her chart to make sure?”

“I don’t have to. Her cardiologist signed the discharge papers before he left this afternoon.”

“Do you think she’s capable of caring for herself?”

“That’s for the doctor to decide. Sometimes she hides her problems so that it’s hard to sort out when she’s not thinking clearly.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t think she’s a danger to herself so long as she stays out of the kitchen, doesn’t climb ladders, or drive a car. Things like that.”

“Okay. If I’m going to help her check out, what time should I be here?”

“Around eleven. We like to handle it in the middle of the shift.”

I returned to Mrs. Fairmont’s room. She was sitting up in bed with Flip curled at her feet.

“Where’s the ice?” she asked.

I glanced down at the empty bucket.

“I forgot.”

Mrs. Fairmont shook her head. “Remember, I’m the one with multi-infarct dementia.”

TRANSPORTING MRS. FAIRMONT from Surfside to home took longer than I’d thought. Signing all the paperwork at the nursing facility was tedious, and quite a few of the items Mrs. Bartlett, Gracie, and I had brought from the house had to be carefully wrapped. After we finished, Mrs. Bartlett pulled me aside into the kitchen.

“I’m relying on you to make sure nothing happens to her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t play lawyer with me. You supported her in this crazy idea to live at home. I don’t want you leaving her for hours at a time on the weekends while you—” Mrs. Bartlett paused. “What do you do on Saturday and Sunday? You can’t go to church all the time, and you don’t golf or go out for a drink with your friends.”

“I play with Flip,” I answered with a straight face. “We spend hours chasing each other in the courtyard.”

“Whatever.” Mrs. Bartlett shrugged. “Be here for all meals. I don’t want Mother to choke. She’s still having trouble swallowing. Gracie is going to start coming more often while you’re at work. Once your job ends in a few weeks, I’ll have to find another person for the weekends. Gracie’s niece is unacceptable. She can’t walk through a room without breaking something. Things would be a lot simpler if Mother had agreed to buy a life-estate unit at Surfside.”

“That time may come, but she seems happier here for now.”

Mrs. Bartlett looked past me toward the den where Mrs. Fairmont was watching a TV show about baby tigers.

“I know,” Mrs. Bartlett said, “but worrying about her puts a lot of stress on me.”

A wave of compassion for Mrs. Bartlett washed over me.

“Which is why you’re kind enough to let me stay here. I’ll do everything I can for her.”

“Okay, I’m gone. I’m keeping my cell phone with me all the time now. Call me. Not if Mother has a little spell of confusion, of course, but if anything major happens. You should enter the twenty-first century and get a cell phone yourself.”

A couple of minutes later the phone in the kitchen rang. I answered, sure it was Mrs. Bartlett. She was like a lawyer who had to get in the last question at a deposition.

“Hello,” I said.

“It’s Zach. I slept ten hours, shaved, and took a bath.”

That was a bit more personal information than I wanted.

“Did the big deal go through?”

“As far as we could push it for now. Things still have to go to the top of the corporate ladders for a couple of the companies, but there’s nothing else I can do, so I wanted to invite you out for a round of golf. It’s cloudy and won’t be terribly hot.”

“I can’t. I need to stay close to Mrs. Fairmont.”

“She’s home?”

“As of yesterday. Her daughter warned me five minutes ago not to be gone too long.”

“Then could we have dinner? There’s a place on the south side I think you would enjoy.”

“Uh, I have to be here for Mrs. Fairmont’s supper to make sure she doesn’t choke.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line.

“Is this your way of avoiding me?” Zach asked.

I could hear the hurt feelings in his voice.

“No,” I responded quickly. “It’s the truth.”

“Okay, I guess I’ll see you next week.”

“We could go to Sister Dabney’s church tomorrow. Mr. Carpenter is going to take her deposition next week. After that, I’ll need to avoid Gillespie Street.”

“I’ll pass. One dose of Dabney was enough to last me for a while. She’s wrapped so tightly in her religious straitjacket I don’t see how she can breathe.”

My head jerked back as if I’d been punched.

“Do you think I’m wrapped up in a religious straitjacket?”

“That’s a loaded question. I doubt you’ll be anything like Sister Dabney when you’re her age.”

“But you think I might?”

“Please, Tami, forget it. It was a stupid thing to say.”

It was an excuse, not an apology.

“I’ll see you on Monday,” Zach continued. “Oh, and do you know if Mr. Carpenter wants me at the deposition?”

“No, from now on you’re not going to be tied to this case as tightly as you feared. Mr. Carpenter has taken over.”

“That’s good.” I could hear the relief in his voice. “Except for the chance to spend time with you, of course.”

“Okay.”

We ended the awkward call. I took Flip down to the courtyard and threw his ball into the far corner. He bounded after it. The little dog didn’t know how different I was from other women. Or care.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING I spent time praying and trying to make up my mind whether to attend Sister Dabney’s church alone. There had been a sense of home in the service that touched a familiar place in my heart, but also a potential for disaster.

“Would it be okay if I went out for a couple of hours?” I asked Mrs. Fairmont when I brought her a cup of coffee.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“What’s wrong with me?” She looked up with slightly clouded eyes.

“Nothing. I just wondered if I should stay with you in the house.”

“Not if you have someplace to go. You should be at work by now.”

“It’s Sunday. I’m going to church.”

Mrs. Fairmont picked up the remote. “Then I should be watching a service on TV. What is the name of the minister I enjoy listening to so much?”

“I don’t know. But let’s avoid the one you had on when the ambulance came.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“There wasn’t anything wrong with him, but I would feel strange leaving you alone in the house with the same program on the TV. Let’s look together.”

I glanced down at my watch. Mrs. Fairmont handed me the remote. I quickly settled on an older, white-haired minister with an open Bible on the pulpit and a choir wearing burgundy-and-gold robes standing behind him. He was talking about Jesus’ parables of the kingdom in Matthew 13. I listened long enough to be sure he was sticking to the text.

“Try this one,” I said, handing the remote back to the elderly lady.

“He seems like a good speaker.”

“And the people behind him, what are they called?”

“The choir.”

“Yes, they have nice robes.”

I stood to the side and watched Mrs. Fairmont for several seconds. A mild level of confusion wasn’t uncommon, but so soon after her hospitalization, I was extra cautious. She saw me and waved her hand.

“Go on,” she said.

As I left the room, she called after me, “Get the spinach salad!”

I returned to the doorway.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the best thing on the menu.”

I hesitated again but made a quick decision that Mrs. Fairmont’s behavior hadn’t risen to the level of danger described by the nurse at Surfside. And I certainly didn’t want the devil to use fear to keep me from going to church.

I pulled into the church parking lot a few minutes late and found a seat on the same pew Zach and I had occupied. The gap-toothed woman who had shared it with us wasn’t there, but the same piano player was belting out the anthem, and the congregation was singing with gusto. Sister Dabney rocked in her purple chair with her eyes closed. Without Zach there to squelch me, I joined enthusiastically in the song.

Every church has its own DNA, and the service followed the pat-tern of the previous week. There was a lull in the music and everyone prayed out loud. I expressed my thankfulness for the ways God had touched Mrs. Fairmont and my concerns about her future. When everyone streamed down to the front of the room, I joined the crowd and found a spot on the floor. This morning I could have been invisible. The preacher called out several people, but even when I opened my eyes and tried to catch her gaze, she passed by me without acknowledging my presence. The second time that I tried to pull her attention in my direction, I caught myself up short.

What was I trying to do? Sister Dabney was more likely to rake me over the coals for compromising my faith by participating in a godless inquisition against her ministry than assure me that God was going to extend Mrs. Fairmont’s life. I was relieved when it was time to return to our seats. Sister Dabney opened her Bible. My relief was short-lived.

“‘Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing? The kings of the earth set themselves, and the rulers take counsel together, against the Lord, and against his anointed.’”

Her eyes ranged across the congregation like the probing beam of a coastal lighthouse. When she reached me, I involuntarily ducked my head. Fortunately, she kept going. Then, taking a deep breath, the preacher launched into a diatribe of judgment and doom against those who dared lift a finger against God and those called to serve him. Even though she didn’t name anyone, it took no imagination for me to know the objects of her wrath. Oscar Callahan’s statement that preachers should be held accountable for what they said was dry toast to the raw meat of Sister Dabney’s onslaught against her accusers. I felt myself shrivel up on the inside. I pressed my arms against my sides and slid down in the pew to make myself smaller.

“And if you find yourself in the midst of this rebellion, there is one, and only one, way to escape judgment,” she thundered. “As the apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians, ‘Wherefore come out from among them, and be ye separate, saith the Lord, and touch not the unclean thing; and I will receive you.’”

I bit my lower lip. I’d heard enough. While the preacher’s attention was focused toward another part of the room, I fled the building.

I entered Mrs. Fairmont’s house with a heavy heart. She was watching a game show on TV.