Mountain Top(228)

Julie looked at her watch. “Uh-oh, that reminds me. I’m late for a meeting with Ned about our bogus water-meter reader.”

She grabbed her file, a legal pad, and rushed to the door. “Have a good lunch with Vinny,” she said. “Maybe you can hold hands under the table.”

After she left, I worked steadily on a long list of questions for Mr. Carpenter to ask Marie Folsom during her deposition and didn’t check my watch until the library door opened. It was Vince.

“Sorry,” he said with a sad face. “Mr. Appleby asked me to have lunch with him. I’m in the middle of a big project, and the general counsel for our client is coming into town from Birmingham. It may be the only face-to-face contact I have with the client all summer, so I can’t miss it.”

“Sure,” I replied. “We’ll do it some other time.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I replied noncommittally.

Vince left. I stood and stretched. I’d reached a good stopping place in my work and wasn’t sure what to do next. I picked up the thin folder labeled State v. Jones. There was no use delaying. One lesson I’d learned from Mama was that if I didn’t begin a project, it wouldn’t get done. I went to the reception area.

“Where is the jail?” I asked an older woman on duty after I introduced myself. “Is it near the courthouse?”

“Used to be, but they moved it to the new complex with the sheriff ’s department.” She gave me an address and told me it was several miles away.

“Does the bus line run there?” I asked.

She gave me an odd look. “Why would you want to take a bus?”

“I don’t own a car.”

“Is your visit to the jail personal or business?”

“Business.”

“Then ask Gerry to let you use the firm car.”

“The law firm has a car?”

“Of course. The runners use it, and it’s available to the lawyers if one of them needs a vehicle.” She smiled. “I understand the air conditioner works. That and a motor is all you’ll need in Savannah.”

I went upstairs to Ms. Patrick’s office. She was eating a salad at her desk.

“May I use the firm car so I can visit a client at the jail?” I asked somewhat breathlessly.

“Probably, unless it’s checked out.”

“Who keeps that record?”

“The receptionist on duty.”

I returned downstairs. The woman saw me coming and spoke before I asked a question.

“Yes, it’s here, and no one has reserved it until later this afternoon. I should have told you.”

I turned around and climbed the stairs. Ms. Patrick made a photocopy of my driver’s license, and I signed several sheets of paper without reading them.

“The receptionist can give you directions and the keys.”

“Thanks,” I said, then stopped. “Oh, and I had a wonderful evening with Mrs. Fairmont last night. She’s a very gracious lady. We talked a long time at dinner and spent a time together in the parlor. She was completely lucid. I appreciate you putting me in touch with her daughter.”

“I hope things continue to go well,” Ms. Patrick said, returning to her salad.

I stepped outside into the heat, which made me doubly thankful I wouldn’t have to stand on a street corner, waiting for a bus or ride in a smelly cab. I found the car. It had just been returned, and the air conditioner began to cool the interior by the time I left the parking lot. Several minutes later I parked in front of the Chatham County Correctional Center. The size of the sheriff ’s department complex surprised me. It was larger than I suspected.

I didn’t feel very confident. I’d gritted my teeth all the way through criminal law and procedure, and the law school course trained us to argue a case before the Supreme Court, not figure out the best way to dispose of a petty criminal offense. I wasn’t even sure how to conduct an effective interview.

I presented the order from Judge Cannon to a female deputy in the lobby area of the jail. She left with the order. Beyond the lobby was a large open room with chairs and phones on either side of clear glass. It wasn’t visiting hours, and the room was empty. To my surprise, the jail smelled as clean as a hospital. The woman returned and handed the order to me.

“Wait here until someone brings the prisoner from lockup,” she said. “Jones is a trusty so they may have to track him down.”

I didn’t know what “trusty” meant, but it made me feel better about meeting a man who lived behind bars. A door behind the woman opened and a male deputy appeared.

“Tami Taylor?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” I answered before realizing it probably wasn’t necessary to be so formal.