Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

Vince made a few comments while we ate. He seemed more relaxed than the previous day, and I realized he might have been nervous during our lunch. The thought that a man would be nervous around me suddenly hit me as funny, and I laughed.

"What is it?" Vince asked, quickly touching a napkin to his mouth. "Is there sauce dripping off my chin?"

"No." I sipped my drink. "You're fine. It was a private thought about me."

I ate most of the sandwich and wished I could give what remained to the twins. They would have turned up their noses until coaxed into trying a bite.

"Now, tell me about State v. Jones," Vince said.

"You remember the name of my case?"

"Your client is charged with multiple counts of trespassing, and Julie's client, Mr. Ferguson, was allegedly impersonating a watermeter reader."

"Why am I surprised?" I shrugged.

I began with the first interview. As I talked, I had the impression Vince would remember more about the case than I would.

"Did Jones say anything else about the man named Carpenter?"

"No."

"Have you done any research at the courthouse or on the Internet?"

"No."

Vince looked at his watch. "We need to get back to the office. Let me think about it."

With Vince, I knew the statement wasn't a put-off.

I was able to deliver a memo to Kettleson with fifteen minutes to spare before leaving for the courthouse. I opened my State v. Jones folder and reviewed my notes. I knew if a plea bargain wasn't reached with the district attorney, Moses would be expected to plead not guilty to the charges. I ran over in my mind Moses' argument that he couldn't be convicted of trespassing because the river belonged to God. If that was true, the posts put there by man were the real trespassers. Even a summer clerk couldn't make that argument to a jury of sane adults. I went upstairs to Zach's office. He was pulling his tie tighter around his neck.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Really? Did you contact the homeowners I hadn't interviewed?"

"No."

"I did. One of them will be in the courtroom."

Zach picked up his briefcase. "I'll fill you in on the way over there."

As I followed Zach to the first floor of the office, two thoughts crossed my mind. Both Zach and Vince were smarter than I was; however, Vince didn't go out of his way to remind me.

"YOU'RE KIDDING," I SAID, STANDING BESIDE ZACH'S BLACK motorcycle with the sidecar attached.

Zach handed me the helmet I'd worn on Saturday. "Ride or walk. It's not very far. I didn't unhook the sidecar after our ride to Tybee Island."

"But you knew we had the arraignment calendar today. You could have driven your car."

"Maybe I forgot," he said with a grin.

I debated whether to go back inside and request use of the law firm car, but when I looked around the lot it wasn't there. I took the helmet.

"This isn't funny," I said, slipping it over my head.

Zach put on his helmet and spoke into the microphone. "We'll be able to park close to the entrance. There are special spaces reserved for motorcycles."

I didn't answer. Refusing his offer of a hand to steady me, I got into the sidecar as gracefully as I could. Zach turned on the motor and backed up. As he did, a car passed behind us as it entered the lot. I turned my head and saw Julie, her mouth gaping open, staring at me from the passenger seat.

"Do you want to know what the homeowner told me?" Zach asked.

"Tell me after we get there."

The pleasure I'd felt toward the end of the motorcycle ride on Saturday didn't return during the short, bumpy trip to the courthouse. I clutched the Jones file in my lap and looked straight ahead. I didn't have to wonder if every pedestrian or the people in other vehicles were staring at me. Zach turned into the courthouse parking lot and stopped next to a green motorcycle.

"That's a nice bike, made in Italy," he said as we took off the helmets.

I pushed myself up with my hands and got out of the sidecar. "I'm not wearing motorcycle clothes. Did your father take your mother to church in a motorcycle sidecar?"

"Sometimes. But you have to remember, my parents were living near L.A."

Zach locked up the helmets.

"Which courtroom?" he asked as we climbed the steps.

"I'm not sure."

"Follow me."

I held back for a second, but it looked silly for me to walk two steps behind him. We entered the building together.

"What about the homeowner?" I asked.

"After I told Mr. Fussleman about Moses' life on the river, he said it reminded him of Huck and Jim. He's willing to ask the judge for a lenient sentence."

"What about the other dock owners?"

"I hope they won't be here. Moses used Mr. Fussleman's dock more than any of the others, so you can argue he's the party who suffered the most damage." Zach glanced sideways at me as we waited for an elevator. "Have you written out your argument for the judge?"

"No."

"You'll have a few minutes after we talk to Mr. Fussleman, and maybe our case won't be the first one called."

"Vince has a case-" I stopped. I could have ridden with Vince and avoided the sidecar.

We got off the elevator and turned left down a broad hallway. A cluster of people were milling around.

"I hope all these people aren't on our calendar," Zach said.

He opened the door to the courtroom. It was a large room with bench seating. At least a hundred people were already present. The thought of making my unprepared argument to Judge Cannon in front of a big crowd made my hands sweat. Zach walked to the front of the courtroom. I followed. He turned around and spoke in a loud voice.

"Is Mr. Fussleman here?"

All the conversations ceased, and everyone looked around to see if Mr. Fussleman identified himself. No one raised his hand or came forward. There was a row of chairs in front of a railing that separated the crowd from the area in front of the bench and the jury box on the right-hand side of the room. Zach sat down and motioned for me to join him.

"What is Mr. Fussleman going to say?" I asked.

"Fussleman grew up here and knows men like Moses who roam up and down the river. I want him to meet Moses before the calendar call. Once Fussleman sees how harmless he is, he may ask the judge to let Moses go free without any more jailtime and even allow Moses to use his dock as long as he doesn't do anything except tie up for the night. That would take care of two problems at once."

It was a much better plan of action than the nonexistent one I'd come up with.

"That's great," I said.

Zach glanced sideways at me. "I promised to help."

I felt ashamed. I'd been petty and prideful. I pressed my lips together and silently asked God to forgive me. Zach stood up again. An apology to him would have to wait.

"Is Mr. Fussleman here?" he called out again.

An older man with gray hair and wearing a business suit raised his hand in the air.

"Come on," Zach said to me.

We walked to the rear of the courtroom. Zach extended his hand and introduced himself. "Thanks so much for coming," he said. "I know it's inconvenient."

Zach introduced me to Mr. Fussleman, who smiled.

"Mr. Mays told me this was your first case," he said. "One of my daughters is a young lawyer in Washington, D.C. When I thought about her, I had to see what I could do to help you sort this out."

"Thank you," I said gratefully.

"Let's step into the hallway," Zach suggested.

More people were entering the courtroom. We found a quiet spot. Mr. Fussleman looked at me expectantly. I knew my job-to tell him Moses Jones was a harmless old man who wouldn't hurt anything except the fish he caught for supper. I did my best, but I kept thinking about the newspaper photograph of Lisa Prescott and her face that continued to accuse Moses from a watery grave. Mr. Fussleman listened thoughtfully. The few times I glanced at Zach, I couldn't decipher his expression. Vince walked past us and into the courtroom.