Robert Whitlow: Deeper Water

"We'll be there in a couple of minutes, so I have to talk fast," Vince said as he pulled away from the curb. "I totally messed up the Moses Jones case and led you astray. I meant well, but that's no excuse. Will you forgive me?"

"What?"

"You trusted me, and I let you down. It's as simple as that. When I saw that Mr. Carpenter was about to fire you, I should have jumped in and taken the blame, but I froze. It was a cowardly thing to do."

"But what did you do wrong?" I asked, mystified.

Vince glanced sideways at me. "You're nice to say that. And you look great too. If I hadn't fed you wrong ideas about the reason behind the memo from Mr. Carpenter to Mr. Braddock and sent you off to the microfilm records operating under a false assumption as to their motivations, none of this confusion would have gotten past first base. When you toss in the spin put on the conversation I overheard outside Mr. Braddock's office, there's no wonder you were confused."

Vince turned onto Congress Street. "Here we are," he said, turning sideways in the seat. "Before I let you out near the front door, I need to know you forgive me."

"Of course."

"Thanks. That takes a tremendous load off my mind."

"And park the car. We'll walk together."

He found an empty space around the corner from the large home. I'd bought new shoes at the dress shop, and the narrow heels made me wobble on the cobblestones. Vince put his hand on my elbow to steady me. I instinctively pulled away.

"I need to ask your forgiveness too," I said. "I dragged you into the Jones case in the first place. You were only trying to help me."

"I knew you would say that, but most of the blame flows my way."

We reached the house simultaneously with Bob Kettleson and a very thin woman whom he introduced as his wife, Lynn.

"Bob has enjoyed mentoring you," Lynn said. "He says you're a quick learner."

"Thanks. He's quite a teacher."

We entered the house, which was as lavishly furnished as I'd expected. Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter were standing on a silk rug in the foyer greeting their guests. Vince was immediately ushered into the living room by one of the younger partners.

"Welcome, tiger," Mr. Carpenter said, shaking my hand.

"Actually, I already have a nickname."

"What is it?"

"Jaguar."

Mr. Carpenter nodded. "Did you know they are the most unpredictable of the big cats?"

"No sir."

Mr. Carpenter turned to his wife, a tall, stately woman with silver hair. "Maryanne, this is the summer clerk I told you about. I've never seen anyone take the duty to zealously represent a client so seriously." He lowered his voice and leaned closer to me. "And coax open a rusty old memory that might have remained closed to a heavy hand. Come, I want to show you something."

"But your guests-"

"Won't miss me for a few minutes. Besides, I'm the boss."

I followed the senior partner down a hallway and into a paneled study. He pointed to a bookshelf that held a row of pictures-all of Lisa Prescott.

Placed in chronological order, they began with a baby photograph in a lacy bassinet and continued, one per year, to a pose similar to the picture in the newspaper. I spent a few moments with each one, imagining what the little girl was like, comparing her to Ellie and Emma. I reached the end and sighed.

"Thank you," I said. "It's sad, but it helps me to see more of her life."

"None of us knows the number of our days," Mr. Carpenter replied.

I glanced sideways, wondering if the lawyer knew his words were lifted from a Bible verse.

"And over here is a picture of the first board of the foundation," Mr. Carpenter continued.

On the wall was a picture of five men in dark suits. It was easy to spot Floyd Carpenter. None of the others looked familiar.

"Which one is Lawrence Braddock?"

"There he is," he said, pointing to a slender, balding man. "Sam Braddock favors his mother's family and their much higher cholesterol count."

When we returned to the foyer, Julie and a dark-haired young man were talking to Maryanne Carpenter. Julie was wearing a revealing black dress that made me blush. She saw me and waved.

"This is Joel," she announced proudly.

The young man was wearing clothes that hinted at his artistic bent.

"Julie has told me a lot about you," he said.

"All positive," Julie cut in. "Let's get something to eat. I'm starving."

There was a rich selection of hors d'oeuvres laid out in the dining room. I could have skipped supper with Mrs. Fairmont. I collected a small sample of cheeses, fruit, and a pair of chicken wings that might have come from the processing line in Powell Station. Thankfully, Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter included a nonalcoholic punch option. Taking my plate into the living room, I encountered Mr. Braddock.

"You've been at the firm for weeks, and we haven't had a chance to talk," the portly lawyer said. "Although we did have a close call the other day in the parking lot."

"Yes sir. I'm thankful I didn't hit you. I was driving Vince's car. He was kind enough to loan it to me."

"Vince is quite remarkable, isn't he?"

"Yes sir."

"He's so much smarter than I am that it's intimidating," the lawyer added.

"I've felt that way too," I answered in surprise.

Mr. Braddock smiled. "But practicing law isn't just brainpower. Learning how to read people and discern their real motives and interests is often more important than the black-letter rules of statutes and analyzing judicial precedent."

"I have a long way to go in that department too."

"Really? That's not what Joe Carpenter tells me. I can't remember when he was as impressed with the way a summer clerk or associate handled a pressure situation. He says you pushed him so hard he cracked." Mr. Braddock laughed. "There is a boatload of lawyers in this city who would love to make that boast."

"The truth is-"

"That you're also very humble," Mr. Braddock interrupted. He pointed toward Bob Kettleson. "And don't think I'm unaware what you're contributing without getting credit for it. Keep up the good work, and we may be talking about a longer-term relationship."

The senior partner moved away. Vince came over to me.

"Did you impress Mr. Braddock without even trying?" he asked.

"Who knows? I feel more out of my league than I did as a ninth grader on the basketball court."

"That's not what everyone else thinks, especially me."

I WOKE UP SATURDAY MORNING, STRETCHED, AND RELAXED FOR a few extra minutes as I enjoyed again the release of Moses' burden. My burden, too, was lighter. As I lay in bed, I also reflected on the validation I'd received the previous evening at the cocktail party. It felt good, but I knew the praise of men was a hollow substitute for the approval of God.

After my morning run, I showered and brewed a pot of coffee. I tiptoed up the stairs and peeked into Mrs. Fairmont's bedroom. Flip, who was curled up near her feet, barked in greeting. Mrs. Fairmont opened her eyes.

"Can I bring you a fresh cup of coffee?" I asked.

The old woman scooted up in bed and repositioned her pillows. "That would be nice, and you can tell me all about the party while I drink it."

I'd just about finished my account of the previous evening when the doorbell chimed.

"Who could that be so early?" Mrs. Fairmont asked.

I bounded down the stairs and glanced through the sidelight. Standing outside with his black motorcycle helmet under his arm was Zach. I opened the door with a puzzled look on my face. "What are you doing here? I thought you and Mr. Appleby had a meeting in Mobile today."