Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"Date of birth."

"I was born on June 5."

"What year?"

"I'm seventy-one years old," he said, "if that helps you figure it."

I wrote down the date and other information on the legal pad.

"And your address?"

"I ain't got none."

"You're homeless?"

"No!" he said with more force than I expected. "I got me a place down on the river, but it ain't on no road or nothing."

"Are you married?"

"No, missy. I ain't had a woman in my life for a long time."

"Any children?"

"I had one, a boy, but he be dead."

"I'm sorry."

Moses leaned forward and his eyes became more animated. "I never seen his face in the water. If'n I did, I don't think I could stand it."

"What water?" I asked.

"The black water. In the night. That's when the faces come up to look around. They don't say nothing, but I can read their thoughts. They know that I know. They be calling out to me."

I wrote down his words. When I saw them on the legal pad, it made me feel creepy. I looked up. The old man was staring past my shoulder. I quickly turned around. All I saw was the blank concrete wall.

"Do you see something in this room?" I asked hesitantly.

"No, missy. But the faces ain't never far from me. You from Savannah?"

"No."

Moses Jones was obviously delusional and had mental problems much more serious than twenty-four counts of misdemeanor trespassing in his boat. He needed professional help. No one in our church ever admitted going to a psychologist or psychiatrist, but it made sense to me, at least until God came in to straighten out a person's life.

"Well, you may need to talk to someone about that later," I said.

"I told the detective all about it. He asked me a lot more questions than you."

"Which detective?"

"I don't know his name. He be young and black."

"Did he question you about tying your boat up to docks where you didn't have permission?"

Moses nodded his head. "Yeah, but I told him the river, it belong to God who made it. How can anyone own a river? It always be moving and changing. You can't hold on to water like you can a piece of dirty ground."

I was startled by his logic. In a way, it made sense.

"But when a person builds a dock on the river, that's private property," I answered. "That's why you were arrested, because you tied up your boat where you didn't have permission."

"Who'm I going to ask? Will a man be happy and hug my neck if'n I come up on his house in the dark, beat on his door, and say, `I want to tie up for the rest of the night. I won't hurt a thing. My rope, it don't leave a mark. And I'll be slipping away at dawn light?"'

"The law says you have to get permission."

"You be the lawyer. Make the law right so I can leave this jailhouse with my boat."

"Where is your boat?"

"In amongst the cars behind that tall fence. I can see it, but I can't touch it. I don't know if it be leaky or not."

"It's here at the jail?"

Moses nodded.

"I'll check into that for you. Have they set your bond?"

"I reckon, but I ain't got money for no bondsman. My boat ain't worth nothing to nobody but me."

"Have you had a court hearing of any kind?"

"I ain't been before no judge, if'n that's what you mean."

"So they'll leave you in here indefinitely for trespassing?" I asked, expressing my private thoughts.

"That be your job, missy. Most of the time, the lawyer be the one to get a man out of this jail."

"Okay."

I opened the folder and looked again at the twenty-four counts. The scenario seemed clear. I spoke slowly.

"You would fish at night and tie up at a private dock for a few hours of sleep until the sun came up."

"Yes, missy. That part be true. I never took nothing that weren't mine." He looked away. "Except for some other stuff."

"What other stuff?"

"At the taverns where I cleaned up. I'd grab cooked food, a knife, a fork. Not every week, only when I was extra hungry or needed it."

All theft is wrong, but these newly admitted offenses weren't part of the case I had to resolve, and I wasn't a prosecutor. I sat back in my chair.

"So what is our defense to the charges against you? They've listed twenty-four counts of trespassing when you tied up without permission at private docks. I agree with you that the river belongs to God, but the docks are private property."

Moses looked at me and blinked his dark eyes. "I want my boat back and to get out of this jailhouse so I can go to the river and catch fish. I won't bother nobody else. Never again."

"Will you stop tying up at private docks?"

He rubbed his hand across the top of his head. "I been on that river before there be docks. I reckon I can say to myself they ain't there no more."

"Does that mean you won't tie up there?"

"Yes, missy. That be exactly what that mean."

I WATCHED DEPUTYJENKINS ESCORT MOSES OUT OF THE INTERview area. I wasn't sure I'd conducted an adequate first interview or not. I glanced down at my single page of notes. There didn't seem to be any benefit in asking the old man about each count. I'm sure the story was the same. I considered my options.

I could remind the judge that God, as the Creator of all things, owned all the rivers of the world and looked favorably on baby Moses when his basket trespassed onto waters reserved for Pharaoh's daughter. Such an argument, while creative, wouldn't make me look like a competent lawyer-in-training. I could follow Julie's advice to subpoena the twenty-four dock owners to trial and hope none of them showed up. While trying the case would give me courtroom experience, it would also drag Zach Mays away from his more important work at the firm.

The best course of action was obvious. Moses Jones ought to plead guilty to the charges with a promise not to trespass in the future. After receiving a stern lecture from the judge, he could be placed on a short period of probation. I reached the lobby.

"Could I find out the name of the detective who interviewed my client, Moses Jones?" I asked the woman deputy on duty.

"Give me the case number."

I handed her the file. She opened it and returned my notes.

"You might want to keep this."

"Thanks."

"Wait here."

She left for several minutes. While I waited a deputy brought in a woman in handcuffs accompanied by two small girls. She stood forlornly with the little girls holding on to her legs while the officer spoke on a walkie-talkie to someone in another section of the jail. I stared, unable to pull my gaze away from the tragedy. The woman looked at me with eyes that pleaded for help. I took a step forward, then stopped. I had no right to intrude. The deputy took the woman by the arm and led her into the lockup area with the children trailing along behind.

The woman officer returned.

"It's Detective Branson. He's on his way up to see you."

"He's willing to talk to me?"

"I showed him the order from the judge."

A different door than the one I'd taken to the interview area opened, and a black man in his thirties wearing a casual shirt and dark pants entered.

"I'm Sylvester Branson," he said.

"Tami Taylor."

"Come with me."

I followed him through the door into a suite of small offices.

"Have a seat," the detective said.

On the detective's desk was a picture of a woman and two girls about the same ages as the ones I'd seen a few minutes before.

"You're working for Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter?"

"Yes sir."

"Mr. Carpenter represented my father and his brothers in a civil case several years ago. He's a great trial lawyer, one of the best crossexaminers in this part of the state."