Water's Edge (7 page)

Bernice patted the old typewriter. “It would just make me sloppy. And there really isn’t much to do. I was typing a few envelopes when you came in.”

Tom glanced around the office. There had been no noticeable change in the place since he was in high school.

“I’d better get to work,” he said.

“Let me show you where to start,” Bernice said, pushing herself up from her chair with both hands. “I put the open files in boxes in your father’s office.”

John Crane’s office was directly behind Bernice’s desk. The large walnut desk and matching credenza were scratched and scarred. Bookcases filled with aging law books lined the walls. The only volumes kept up-to-date were the black-and-gold set of the Official Code of Georgia Annotated.

“Where are the pictures?” Tom asked when he saw the empty spaces on the credenza reserved for family photos and snapshots of his father’s favorite fishing holes.

“In that box.” Bernice pointed to a smaller cardboard box in the corner of the room. “I couldn’t bear to see them every time I came in here. If you want to get them out, I know exactly how he had them positioned.”

“No, that’s okay.”

Bernice rested her right hand on several large boxes stacked on top of one another. “These contain the files for cases that haven’t been picked up. I’ve tried to contact everyone, but some clients don’t have a phone, and others may have called back when I wasn’t here.”

Tom quickly counted ten boxes. His father had been busier than he thought.

“Did you get an answering machine for the office?” he asked.

“The day after you told me to. I wasn’t sure how to set it up, but Betty Sosebee from the Sponcler firm helped me. She recorded a very professional greeting that explains why the office is closing and asks folks to leave a phone number along with the date and time they called. Some of the personal messages are precious. I’ve saved a few from folks who had such nice things to say about your daddy. One of the best is from Judge Caldwell.”

“I’ll listen to those later. Is Judge Caldwell still filling in as judge of the probate court?”

“Yes, the county commissioners aren’t going to call a special election, so the governor asked him to serve until November. Three or four people are lining up to run for probate judge. Carl and I are supporting Sheri Blevins.”

The door opened.

“Good morning, Randall,” Bernice called out to a dark-haired, middle-aged man who entered the reception area on crutches. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. This is Mr. Crane’s son, Tom.”

The man awkwardly propped himself up on one crutch and held out his hand. Tom shook it.

“What happened to your leg?” he asked.

“Car hit me, and I had to have an operation. Sorry to hear about your father.”

“Randall’s file is in one of the boxes I showed you,” Bernice said. “He was standing on the curb at the corner of Poplar and Westover minding his own business when a car ran off the road and knocked him down. The driver was Owen Harrelson, an executive at Pelham, who was down here for a meeting. I think he lives in New York or Boston.”

“I never saw him coming until it was too late,” Randall added. “Next thing I know, I’m flying through the air.”

“Harrelson claims a pothole caused him to swerve,” Bernice said. “But I think he’d been drinking. He and some of the other bosses had been playing golf all afternoon at the country club. Everyone knows there’s usually a cooler of beer strapped to the backs of the golf carts. It’s more about boozing and socializing than hitting the ball into the hole.”

“Did the police perform a blood alcohol test?” Tom asked.

“Yeah,” Randall replied.

“What did it show?”

“I hadn’t had anything to drink. Stopped after I got out of the navy.”

“I mean the driver of the car. Was he tested for alcohol?”

“No,” Bernice said. “Your daddy was going to interview the people who were at the club to find out if Harrelson had been into the sauce.”

“Why wasn’t Harrelson tested?”

Bernice rolled her eyes. “He probably showed the policeman his corporate ID.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“I want to see the accident report.”

“It’s in one of those boxes,” Bernice responded. “I’m not sure which one. Do you want me to find it?”

“No, I’ll do it. Mr.—” Tom stopped and looked at Randall. “I’m sorry. What’s your last name?”

“Freiburger.”

“Come into the office and have a seat. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

Randall sat in a side chair while Tom rummaged through the files. There were a lot of different files in each box. At Barnes, McGraw, and Crowther, a single case would quickly fill a box. His father’s practice killed fewer trees.

“Here it is,” he said, pulling out a thin folder with “
Freiburger v. Harrelson
” written on the tab in black ink.

Inside, Tom found a medical release form signed by the client, a contingency fee contract, two pages of scribbled notes in his father’s difficult-to-decipher handwriting, medical records from the emergency room at the hospital, and an accident report completed by a Bethel police officer named Logan. A diagram on the report showed the position of Harrelson’s car, the pothole, and Randall Freiburger.

“This shows you lying in the street,” Tom said.

“He knocked me into the street when he hit me. That’s where I was at when the police arrived.”

“Were you knocked out?”

“No, I was sitting on the asphalt and waiting for an ambulance. My knee wasn’t working at all.”

“This diagram doesn’t show Harrelson’s car veering off the roadway.”

“It wasn’t. After he hit me, he swerved back onto the road.”

“Were there any skid marks?”

“I didn’t see any.”

“Was there a pothole?”

“A little one, but I don’t think it would cause someone to lose control of his car. It’s been filled in since this happened, but you can go over there and see how small it was.”

Tom shook his head. “Based on the police drawing, there’s no way to prove the defendant’s car actually left the road. You could have stepped in front of him.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Were there any witnesses?”

“Maybe. A guy in a pickup stopped to make sure I was okay. He was right behind the car that hit me.”

Tom looked at the bottom of the accident report. It didn’t list any witnesses.

“Did the driver of the truck stay and talk to the police?”

“No, once he saw I wasn’t dead, I guess he kept on going to town.”

“Do you know this man’s name?”

“I think it was Junior.”

Tom smiled. “Having a name like Junior won’t be much help in tracking him down. Any other information about him?”

“He had an older model white truck, maybe a sixties Ford. It all happened so fast. I was kind of woozy.”

“I understand.” Tom closed the file. “Well, I’m sorry my father wasn’t able to see the case through, but since he’s gone you’ll need to find another lawyer to represent you.”

“You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Could you help me?”

Tom shook his head. “I’m here to shut down my father’s practice, not keep it going. I live in Atlanta and need to wrap things up as soon as I can. There’s no problem with the statute of limitations, so you have plenty of time to find someone else to represent you. But hire someone soon. Witnesses tend to forget what they saw and heard.”

“Okay.” Randall struggled to his feet and leaned on his crutches. “What do I owe you? My insurance at work paid part of the bill for my surgery, and things are going to be tight around my house for a while.”

“You don’t owe me anything. My father took the case on a contingency basis and because he didn’t collect any money, there won’t be a fee. The medical records from the hospital only cost a few dollars. I’ll take care of that.”

“That’s nice of you. If you change your mind, let me know. I won’t be running out to hire another lawyer until I start feeling better.”

“Someone needs to track down those witnesses,” Tom reminded him.

“I understand.”

Randall slowly left the office. Tom stood in the doorway of his father’s office and watched him make his way down the sidewalk. He turned to Bernice.

“Who should he hire to represent him?”

“Reggie Mixon would take the case.”

Tom grimaced. Mixon had a reputation for flamboyant incompetence.

“That’s not good.”

“It’s going to be hard to find a decent local attorney,” Bernice said. “Lamar Sponcler would do a good job, but he’s slowing down. The big firms are tied in with Pelham and would see the case as a conflict of interest.”

Bethel’s definition of a big law firm started at three lawyers. Based on that criteria there were two large firms, one with five lawyers, another with three. The population of the county bar, including the attorneys in the district attorney’s office, was seventeen.

For years the preeminent trial lawyers had been Lamar Sponcler on the plaintiff side and Carnell Waycaster on behalf of insurance companies. When they butted heads in court, a handful of spectators, mostly retired men with nothing better to do, might show up to watch the oratorical fireworks.

Presiding over the local bar was superior court judge Nathan Caldwell. Appointed to the bench when he was barely thirty-two years old by a governor distantly related to his mother’s family, Judge Caldwell had been reelected without opposition nine times. Big-city lawyers who came to Bethel thinking they could dominate Judge Caldwell’s courtroom left with wounded pride, damaged egos, and a respect for the country jurist.

Tom began reviewing the other files in the box that contained the Freiburger case. He found a hodgepodge of cases that ran counter to the modern view that an attorney must specialize to be competent. There were real estate files, contract disputes, probate matters, civil lawsuits, traffic ticket cases, and even a few misdemeanor criminal files. Tom set the criminal cases aside for closer scrutiny.

The bell on the front door jangled, and Bernice called out a greeting. Tom didn’t have a clear line of sight and got up from his chair so he could see. A group of black men and women, all wearing nice clothes, had come into the office.

“Tom, this is Reverend England,” Bernice said, introducing a large man wearing a dark suit, white shirt, and black tie. “He’s the pastor of the Ebenezer Church on Highway 201.”

The pastor shook Tom’s hand with a firm grip. “Please accept our deepest heartfelt condolences.”

The other people with the minister nodded in agreement.

“Thank you.”

“Brother Crane helped us walk through a difficult situation a few years ago. Now something else has come up. It involves a brother and two sisters arguing over who should pay a bill for repairs to the family homeplace after the death of their parents. I’ve been told you’re a lawyer too.”

“Yes, but I’m not accepting new probate cases.”

“It’s not a lawsuit,” the minister replied. “They want to follow 1 Corinthians 6.”

Tom stared blankly at the minister.

“The siblings don’t want to sue one another,” one of the other men continued. “We’ve shown them what the Bible says about Christians taking their disputes in front of unbelievers, and they’ve agreed to obey the Scriptures.”

Pastor England spoke: “Several years ago Brother Crane served as a peacemaker in another situation involving members of our church. It worked out so well that the folks were reconciled without anyone having the burden of an unresolved offense weighing down their souls.”

Tom was mystified by the preacher’s request and the religious lingo wrapped around it. He turned to Bernice for help.

“What are they talking about?”

“Every so often your daddy would serve as a private mediator for Christians who got in a fuss. He’d schedule a couple of meetings to try to help people work through their differences.”

“Mediation?”

“Only different, because he tried to get the folks who were at odds to forgive one another first. Once that happened, settling the practical stuff almost always followed. I went with him a few times to take notes. It was all new to me.”

“Confession of sin and seeking forgiveness are powerful weapons,” Pastor England said, nodding his head. “It’s one thing to talk about; another to practice when the old sinful nature cries out for its own way.”

“Is there anyone else in Bethel who could help these folks?” Tom asked Bernice.

“We came to you,” one of the women spoke up. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Tom shook his head. “You’re wrong about that. I’m not from the same orchard as my father and don’t share his beliefs.”

The woman who mentioned the apple stared wide-eyed at Tom for a moment, then closed her eyes and raised her left hand high in the air.

“Lord, we praise you for bringing us here today. We thank you for Brother John Crane and pray that every good thing stored up in heaven for his offspring will be revealed in due season. Speak tender words of love to this young man and lead him in the way everlasting.”

Two more people took up the prayer, apparently following some kind of unwritten religious protocol. Tom had no choice but to listen.

Finally Pastor England prayed, “Heavenly Father, we thank you for this young man’s life and declare that the enemy of his soul will not be able to thwart the purposes of God. In answer to these prayers, deliver Mr. Tom Crane fully into the kingdom of your dear Son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

Everyone else said “Amen.” The woman who started the impromptu prayer meeting stepped forward and gave Tom a big hug.

“We came here for one reason, but the Lord had something else in mind!” she exclaimed. “Thank you for letting us pray with you.”

“I didn’t hear you ask his permission, Sister Tamara,” Brother England said drily. “Let me know if we can be of service to you.”

“Uh, I’ll keep that in mind,” Tom replied. “And I hope you find someone to help with the family dispute.”

Pastor England turned to the oldest man in the group.

“Brother Stevens, maybe the Lord is telling us to take what we learned from Brother Crane and care for the sheep ourselves.”