Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"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, rectangularshaped 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.