Deeper Water (18 page)

"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.

Ms. Patrick returned to the conference room. I started to offer an apology but before I could start, she spoke.

"Come with me," she said from the doorway. "You're going to assist one of the paralegals this morning."

There was no denying my relegation to the bottom rank of the summer clerks. I recognized the large open work areas that were filling with people. We walked down a hall to an open door.

"Myra," Ms. Patrick began, "this is Tami Taylor."

The paralegal glanced up from a stack of papers on her desk. "Welcome, nice to see you again."

Ms. Patrick looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"Zach Mays introduced us when I came by the office on a Saturday a few weeks ago," I said.

Ms. Patrick waved her hand to the paralegal. "She's all yours until 11:30."

"Thank you," I said to Ms. Patrick's departing back.

Myra reached forward and picked up a thick envelope. "I'm in the middle of a project that has to be finished before the end of the day. Do you know where the county courthouse is located?"

"Yes ma'am."

The paralegal pulled back the envelope. "Unless you think I'm old, call me Myra."

"Okay."

She handed me the heavy envelope. "This is a response to a motion for preliminary injunction that needs to be filed this morning. Mr. Carpenter has a hearing in this case tomorrow, and the other side needs twenty-four hours' notice. We have electronic filing in federal court but not in the state courts. There are two copies. Have both of them stamped at the clerk's office, then take one to Judge Cannon's office. Bring the other back here, and I'll have a courier take it to the opposing counsel's office."

"I could take it," I offered.

"It's in Brunswick. It would be cutting it close for you to drive down and back before lunch."

"Oh, I don't have a car."

Myra stopped and stared at me. Stares had always been part of my life, but a new environment inevitably provoked a rash of them. Without further comment the paralegal turned her attention to the documents on her desk, and I backed out of the room.

My earlier confidence was gone. As I walked down Montgomery Street, the hopelessness of my situation washed over me. I had no business working in Savannah. My success was as unlikely as one of the slaves in the painting making the transition from dock laborer to cotton merchant.

I reached the courthouse and climbed the steps. After passing through security, I found the clerk's office where a helpful middleaged woman date-stamped the response to the motion. But when I tried to pick up both copies, she held on to one of them

"One of these needs to go in the file. You can serve the other," she said.

"No, I need to take it to Judge Cannon's office. There's a hearing tomorrow afternoon."

The clerk pointed to a copy machine. "Then make another copy."

I panicked. "I didn't bring my purse and don't have any money."

An image of myself hot and sweaty, running back to the office, flashed through my mind.

"Which law firm do you work for?" the woman asked.

"Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter."

"Use their copy code."

"I'm a summer clerk. It's my first day, and I don't have it with me."

The woman made a face that showed me I'd reached the end of her patience.

"Call and get it," she said.

"I don't have a cell phone."

The woman rubbed her hand across her forehead and through her hair. Without saying anything else, she reached under the counter and retrieved a black notebook. She flipped open the book and turned it so I could see the firm name with a number beside it.

"Thank you," I replied gratefully.

I made two copies in case I hit another unforeseen roadblock. I left the clerk's office and found Judge Cannon's chambers on the directory beside the elevator. It must have been a day for criminal court, because several of the people who joined me on the elevator looked like criminals. No one spoke, but two of the men stole sideways glances at me. I quickly stepped out when the door opened.

The judge's office had an anteroom where an older woman sat behind a scarred wooden desk. Public administration of justice didn't pay as well as the private practice of law. I identified myself and handed the envelope to the woman.

"The judge has something for you to deliver to Mr. Carpenter," the woman said in a raspy voice. "I was going to mail it, but you can deliver it in person."

"Yes ma'am. I'll be glad to."

She gave me a sealed envelope. Holding it tightly in my hand along with the service copies of the response to the motion, I retraced my steps to the law firm. It was hot, and I was doubly glad I'd not had to make an extra trip. By the time I reached the foyer of the law office, the cool air felt good on my hot face. I climbed the stairs to Myra's office. Her door was closed. I knocked.

"Come in," she said.

"Here it is," I announced. I laid the stamped copies on her desk. I held up the other envelope. "The judge's secretary gave me this to deliver to Mr. Carpenter."

"Take it downstairs to his office," she said without thanking me and resumed her work.

I didn't know where to go so I wandered the hallway looking for clues. I opened one door. An older man with a bald head and wearing glasses glanced up in obvious irritation.

"Sorry," I mumbled and quickly closed the door.

At that moment, Julie Feldman entered the hall.

"Where's Mr. Carpenter's office?" I asked in relief. "I have something to give him from a judge."

"He's on a conference call with a client, but his secretary is in there," she replied, pointing to a door next to the one I'd opened.

"What does he look like?" I asked in an anxious voice.

"Uh, he's tall with gray hair and a goatee. He reminds me of an actor whose name I can't remember. Some guy who used to be in old movies."

"Good," I said with relief. "What are you doing for him?"

Julie held up a thick file in her hand. "He gave me a research project, something about competing security interests in forklifts and other equipment at a big factory that's about to go into bankruptcy. There are claims by two banks and three companies that sold the equipment. I'm supposed to read all the documents and prepare a chart telling him which companies are secured as to each piece of property and for how much."

"That sounds interesting," I replied.

Julie gave me a strange look. "Are you kidding?" she asked.

"No."

Julie shook her head. "I'll see you at lunch. Until then, I'll have my head stuck in article nine of the uniform commercial code."

I entered the office, which was as fancy as the office at the courthouse had been plain. I introduced myself to a woman in her thirties and gave her the envelope from Judge Cannon.

"Have a seat," she said, motioning to one of two chairs in front of her desk. "Mr. Carpenter will want to meet you as soon as he finishes his conference call."

I sat down and waited. Fifteen minutes passed. The secretary ignored me. Both Julie and Vince Colbert were already busy on projects. I knew it was only the first day, but I already felt behind. Another fifteen minutes passed. In between phone calls, which she seemed to be able to handle without consulting Mr. Carpenter, the secretary's fingers flew across the keyboard. I wanted to be productive. But there was nothing to do except become intimately familiar with every detail of the room. More time passed. Finally, the secretary seemed to notice my existence again. She picked up the phone and told Mr. Carpenter that I was waiting to see him. The office door behind her opened, and a man matching Julie's description entered the room.

Mr. Carpenter had a slender build and extended his hand in a way that struck me as slightly effeminate. However, when I shook his hand, the grip was firm.

"Ms. Saylor," he said in a smooth voice.

"It's Taylor," I corrected, perhaps too abruptly.

"Sorry," he said. "Tami, right?"

"Yes sir."

We entered his office. It was about the same size as Mr. Callahan's office. Apparently, Mr. Carpenter liked boats, because the walls were covered with pictures of yachts.

"I've been on the phone with so many people this morning the names are running together."

He sat behind a large desk with a leather inlaid top and stared at me for several seconds without speaking. I shifted in my seat.

"You have a lovely office," I said.

His phone buzzed and he picked it up. "Put him through," he said after listening for a moment.

I started to get up, but he motioned for me to remain. The call involved a domestic relations case. Mr. Carpenter represented the husband who had filed for the divorce. I picked up that the man on the other end of the line was the lawyer for the wife. The main issue had to do with division of property.

"Our answers to your discovery set valuation of the marital estate at twenty-two million and change," Mr. Carpenter said. "I think we should be able to arrive at an amicable resolution. My letter of the fifteenth is a starting point, but there is room for discussion on several items."

Mr. Carpenter listened for a long time. I watched his jaw tighten and his lips turn downward.

"Bob, I don't think you want to go there," he said. "We can divide the pie, but if you try to throw it in my face, this will get messy."

It seemed like a silly comment, but the way Mr. Carpenter said it sounded ominous. He listened again, then spoke in a steely voice.

"If that's the way you want it, we'll litigate into the next decade. Have your paralegal call Myra Dean to set up the depositions." He paused. "And tell Mrs. Folsom my previous proposal is off the table. Our next offer will be less-a lot less."

He hung up the phone and looked at me.

"Welcome to Savannah," he said cheerily.

I gave him a startled look at his easy transition from threatening to friendly. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate the opportunity."

"Gerry tells me you're living with Margaret Fairmont. She's a gracious lady. Her husband was a great friend of Sam Braddock."

"Yes sir."

"And I have your resume somewhere in here."

The lawyer leafed through a short stack of papers on the corner of his desk.

"Have you met Vince and Julie?" he asked as he continued to search.

"Yes sir."

"And you already know Zach Mays?"

"Not really. I met him a few weeks ago when I stopped by the office on a Saturday. He's been very helpful in helping me acclimate to the firm."

"Good, good. Zach is an earnest young man who isn't afraid to ask hard questions. Here it is," Mr. Carpenter announced, holding up a sheet of paper.

I watched while he skimmed the one-page summary of my life.

"That's right. You worked for Oscar Callahan. It's the reason I pulled your resume out in the first place. Oscar gave you a glowing recommendation. If he'd stopped representing mill workers for petty injuries and crawled out of the mountains, he could have been one of the best litigators in the state."

"Yes sir," I said, not sure if agreeing with Mr. Carpenter would dishonor Mr. Callahan.

"His grandfather was a preacher, wasn't he?"

"Yes sir."

"If I recall, he was the leader of some kind of obscure religious sect that wanted to turn back the clock to the Dark Ages."

I swallowed, not sure if this was a time to defend the faith or accumulate more information.

"Is that what Mr. Callahan told you?"

"How else would I have picked up that bit of trivia?" Mr. Carpenter slapped his hands together. "Enough of that. Let's get down to business. Your summer at the firm will be a good mix of work and pleasure. I hope your experience will be intellectually stimulating. Law school prepares you to take tests, not practice law. We'll have plenty of projects that will involve research within your comfort zone, but there will also be practical opportunities to broaden your experience."

"Yes sir."

"I'm glad you had a chance to hear my side of the opening salvo in the Folsom divorce case. I don't handle many divorce cases, but our firm is deeply involved in J.K. Folsom's corporate dealings, and he doesn't want another law firm to know his business. J.K. pays our top hourly rate for representation. Using you to assist with research and deposition preparation, I can keep his bills lower."

My stomach went into a knot. I'd wanted to avoid domestic practice. Mr. Carpenter continued. "Have you taken a domestic relations course in law school?"