“He’s willing to talk to me?”
“I showed him the order from the judge.”
A different door than the one I’d taken to the interview area opened, and a black man in his thirties wearing a casual shirt and dark pants entered.
“I’m Sylvester Branson,” he said.
“Tami Taylor.”
“Come with me.”
I followed him through the door into a suite of small offices.
“Have a seat,” the detective said.
On the detective’s desk was a picture of a woman and two girls about the same ages as the ones I’d seen a few minutes before.
“You’re working for Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter?”
“Yes sir.”
“Mr. Carpenter represented my father and his brothers in a civil case several years ago. He’s a great trial lawyer, one of the best cross-examiners in this part of the state.”
“That’s what I’ve been told. I hope to see him in the courtroom while I’m here.”
“Did he send you down here to represent Moses Jones?”
“In a way. He asked Judge Cannon to appoint summer clerks to work on misdemeanor cases so long as another lawyer in the firm supervised our work.”
The detective didn’t say anything. I shifted in my chair, not sure about the proper way to proceed.
“When I met with Mr. Jones, he mentioned that he had been interviewed by a detective,” I said.
“That’s right. I talked to him.”
“Could you tell me what he told you?”
Branson tapped a folder on his desk. It was much thicker than mine.
“After waiving his Miranda rights, he talked freely about the charges.”
“Did he sign a statement?”
“Yes, but I won’t give it to you now. You can obtain a copy once you file the proper request with the court.”
“I’m going to have to research how to do that.” I bit my lower lip and tried to think of something else to ask. I decided to broach the ultimate issue. “If Mr. Jones wants to enter a plea, could I talk to you about that?”
“No, the district attorney’s office will have the case assigned to a prosecutor. All plea negotiations are handled by the prosecutor.”
“Who has the case?”
“I’m not sure. No one has contacted me.”
I ran down my mental checklist. “Is there a bond set in Mr. Jones’ case?”
“Yes, it’s five thousand dollars.”
“I don’t think he has much money.”
“That’s why he’s still in jail and represented by an appointed lawyer.”
“I’m sorry. That was a stupid question.”
The detective smiled. “No need to apologize. There are a lot of lawyers in Savannah who ask stupid questions. They could use a dose of your honesty.”
“Have you talked to any of the people who claim he tied up his boat at their dock?”
“One of my assistants and a deputy verified the information contained in every count listed in the accusation. The complainants are from the same homeowners association.”
“Can you give me the name of the association?”
The detective opened the file and read a name.
“Was there any physical damage to the docks?” I asked.
“Is there any mention of criminal damage to property in the charges?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not part of the case at this time.”
“Good. Do you think the complainants would oppose probation for Mr. Jones if he promised to stay away from their docks?”
“That wasn’t discussed. Their primary goal is to put a stop to your client’s trespassing. This area is only partially developed, and there is still a lot of marshy wilderness. It’s disturbing when a stranger comes around a private residence. Break-ins have occurred.”
“But nothing linked to Mr. Jones?”
“Not at this time.”
I looked at a certificate on the wall of the detective’s office. It had something to do with proficiency in the use of a weapon I’d never heard of.
“Is there anything else?” the detective asked.
“Yes, I think Mr. Jones may need treatment from a mental health professional.”
“That’s already started. He’s meeting with a counselor who, I believe, placed him on medication.”
“Thanks.”
I got up to leave but then sat back down. “I appreciate your patience, but there is one other thing I don’t understand. Did Mr. Jones talk to you about seeing faces in the water?”
“That’s the reason for the referral to mental health.”
“He said he talked to you about the faces in the water for a long time.”
The detective didn’t respond.