Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"Yeah, a lot of Jews have a touch of the messiah complex in them," she replied. "Let's work on Folsom v. Folsom. A dose of divorce will keep you balanced as you go forward with Vinny."

We spent most of the morning sorting through financial documents and memos to and from Mr. Carpenter and J. K. Folsom. The business dealings were as confusing as a shell game at the county fair, but one thing became clear-Mr. Folsom didn't want his estranged wife looking in every place he'd hidden money. Julie contacted the law firm she'd worked for in Atlanta, and a paralegal e-mailed research and pleadings Julie had prepared in two other cases.

"Are you sure this is okay?" I asked. "The agreement I signed with the firm said it owned my work product."

"I didn't sign anything in Atlanta." Julie shrugged. "Beth is a friend who wouldn't do anything wrong. It's mainly research and sample questions, not facts about an identified client."

I had to admit that the information was very helpful. Julie had done a good job.

"Did you make up all these interrogatory and deposition questions?" I asked.

"No. Most of them were pulled from other files and transcripts. I organized them and made them fit our case, just like you'll do for Folsom."

"I wish I had something like this for my criminal case," I said. "I talked to Zach Mays for a few minutes early this morning, but he stayed up all night working for Mr. Appleby and doesn't have time to help."

Julie looked at her watch. "Uh-oh, that reminds me. I'm late for a meeting with Ned about our bogus water-meter reader."

She grabbed her file, a legal pad, and rushed to the door. "Have a good lunch with Vinny," she said. "Maybe you can hold hands under the table."

After she left, I worked steadily on a long list of questions for Mr. Carpenter to ask Marie Folsom during her deposition and didn't check my watch until the library door opened. It was Vince.

"Sorry," he said with a sad face. "Mr. Appleby asked me to have lunch with him. I'm in the middle of a big project, and the general counsel for our client is coming into town from Birmingham. It may be the only face-to-face contact I have with the client all summer, so I can't miss it."

"Sure," I replied. "We'll do it some other time."

"How about tomorrow?"

"Maybe," I replied noncommittally.

Vince left. I stood and stretched. I'd reached a good stopping place in my work and wasn't sure what to do next. I picked up the thin folder labeled State v. Jones. There was no use delaying. One lesson I'd learned from Mama was that if I didn't begin a project, it wouldn't get done. I went to the reception area.

"Where is the jail?" I asked an older woman on duty after I introduced myself. "Is it near the courthouse?"

"Used to be, but they moved it to the new complex with the sheriff's department." She gave me an address and told me it was several miles away.

"Does the bus line run there?" I asked.

She gave me an odd look. "Why would you want to take a bus?"

"I don't own a car."

"Is your visit to the jail personal or business?"

"Business."

"Then ask Gerry to let you use the firm car."

"The law firm has a car?"

"Of course. The runners use it, and it's available to the lawyers if one of them needs a vehicle." She smiled. "I understand the air conditioner works. That and a motor is all you'll need in Savannah."

I went upstairs to Ms. Patrick's office. She was eating a salad at her desk.

"May I use the firm car so I can visit a client at the jail?" I asked somewhat breathlessly.

"Probably, unless it's checked out."

"Who keeps that record?"

"The receptionist on duty."

I returned downstairs. The woman saw me coming and spoke before I asked a question.

"Yes, it's here, and no one has reserved it until later this afternoon. I should have told you."

I turned around and climbed the stairs. Ms. Patrick made a photocopy of my driver's license, and I signed several sheets of paper without reading them.

"The receptionist can give you directions and the keys."

"Thanks," I said, then stopped. "Oh, and I had a wonderful evening with Mrs. Fairmont last night. She's a very gracious lady. We talked a long time at dinner and spent a time together in the parlor. She was completely lucid. I appreciate you putting me in touch with her daughter."

"I hope things continue to go well," Ms. Patrick said, returning to her salad.

I stepped outside into the heat, which made me doubly thankful I wouldn't have to stand on a street corner, waiting for a bus or ride in a smelly cab. I found the car. It had just been returned, and the air conditioner began to cool the interior by the time I left the parking lot. Several minutes later I parked in front of the Chatham County Correctional Center. The size of the sheriff's department complex surprised me. It was larger than I suspected.

I didn't feel very confident. I'd gritted my teeth all the way through criminal law and procedure, and the law school course trained us to argue a case before the Supreme Court, not figure out the best way to dispose of a petty criminal offense. I wasn't even sure how to conduct an effective interview.

I presented the order from Judge Cannon to a female deputy in the lobby area of the jail. She left with the order. Beyond the lobby was a large open room with chairs and phones on either side of clear glass. It wasn't visiting hours, and the room was empty. To my surprise, the jail smelled as clean as a hospital. The woman returned and handed the order to me.

"Wait here until someone brings the prisoner from lockup," she said. "Jones is a trusty so they may have to track him down."

I didn't know what "trusty" meant, but it made me feel better about meeting a man who lived behind bars. A door behind the woman opened and a male deputy appeared.

"Tami Taylor?" he asked.

"Yes sir," I answered before realizing it probably wasn't necessary to be so formal.

The deputy grinned. "Follow me."

The door clicked shut with a thud behind me. We walked down a short hallway to another door that opened when the deputy pushed a series of buttons. I could see surveillance cameras mounted on the wall. If the twins had been with me they would probably have waved to the cameras.

We entered another room with several numbered doors around an open space. None of the doors had windows in them. A deputy sat behind a desk at one end of the room.

"He's in room 5," the deputy said.

"Do I go in alone?" I asked.

"I don't think Jones is a security risk," the deputy answered. "If you have a concern, you can leave the door open. Deputy Jenkins and I will be on the other side of the room."

"All right." I nodded grimly.

I approached the door and pushed it open. It contained a small table and four plastic chairs. Standing by the table was an old black man with graying hair.

"I'm Tami Taylor," I said. "Are you Mr. Jones?"

"Yes, missy. But you can call me Moses."

The man extended his hand. It felt like old leather. His fingernails were cracked and yellowed with age. I let the door close. The deputy was right. Moses didn't look like a serious threat to my personal safety.

"You be my lawyer?"

"Sort of," I said, then quickly added, "I'm a law student working for a law firm in Savannah this summer. One of the firm's lawyers will be supervising what I do for you."

I put a blank legal pad on the table. We both sat down. I clicked open my pen. I wanted to be professional and efficient.

"First, I need some background information. Your full name, Social Security number, and date of birth."

Moses turned his head to the side and made a sucking noise as he drew air into his mouth. I couldn't see more than a couple of teeth.

"Moses Jones is all I go by. My mama, she give me another name, Tobias, but I don't never use it. I lost my Social Security card. The boss man, he pays me cash under the table. What else you want to know?"