“Good morning, Mrs. Kaufman,” I called out. “Mrs. Fairmont is doing better. This is Zach Mays, one of the attorneys at the firm.”
The woman waved her hand and kept walking.
“I’m not sure Mrs. Kaufman heard you,” Zach said.
“It doesn’t matter. She’ll tell her friends whatever she wants to.”
Zach leaned over and scratched Flip behind the ears.
“What’s he going to do all day?”
“He’ll be fine. He goes out his doggie door, and I’ll leave him plenty of food and water.”
“Do you want to bring him with us?”
If the little animal was confined with me in the sidecar, he might scratch my legs to pieces.
“No, that’s not a good idea. Wait here while I get my bag.”
I didn’t want Zach inside the house with Mrs. Fairmont gone. My personal morality was a much better moral guardian than Mrs. Kaufman’s gossipy imagination.
The sidecar was black with orange flames painted on the sides. There was a matching helmet with smaller flames, which I slipped over my head. A microphone embedded near my mouth allowed us to communicate helmet-to-helmet.
“Ready?” Zach asked.
Hearing his voice in the confined space made it seem like he was inside my head.
“Roger and 10-4.”
He laughed. “That’s a mixed metaphor of signals.”
There was no graceful way to get into the sidecar, but I slipped my legs in as fast as I could and let the rest of my body follow. Zach swung his leg over the motorcycle and started the engine. It was fairly quiet. I wouldn’t have enjoyed the roar of a motorcycle that rattled the plate-glass windows of stores when it passed by.
When we pulled away from the curb, the sidecar, with its small tires and no shock absorbers, bumped sharply over the cobblestone streets. My teeth rattled together.
“This will be over soon,” Zach said.
“I know,” I replied in a voice that shook.
We left the bumps of the historic district and crossed the Savannah River. Riding in the sidecar was a cross between riding in a convertible and a go-kart. As we came across the bridge, I looked back over my left shoulder at the riverfront. We continued north on Highway 17, the road that skirted the coast of Georgia and South Carolina like the hem of a garment. We seemed to fly down the road.
“How fast are we going?” I yelled into the microphone.
“You don’t have to shout,” Zach replied in a normal tone of voice. “It might cause me to swerve off the road. We’re going fifty-three miles an hour.”
The speed limit was fifty-five. Lots of cars were passing us in the left lane. It was the sensation of speed in an exposed position that made it seem so much faster.
“Are we going to Hilton Head?” I asked.
“Yes. Have you ever been there?”
“Countless times,” I joked. “My family owns a time-share at one of the resorts, and we spend a week every summer.”
Though I couldn’t see his face, I knew Zach was smiling. It was a beautiful day, not too hot, and the air rushing past kept me cool. I snuggled into the sidecar and ignored the constant stares of drivers and passengers of cars. It took less than an hour to reach the bridge that connected Hilton Head to the mainland. As soon as we reached the island, we were surrounded by signs of conspicuous wealth. We stopped at the welcome center to stretch. Sitting in the sidecar had been a little like being in a body cast from the waist down, so it was fabulous to stretch my legs. We took our time walking through the coastal discovery museum on the second floor.
“Mama could turn this place into a week’s worth of lessons,” I said as we stood in front of a display about local history.
“We can come back when they visit,” Zach replied. “Have you talked to them about it?”
“No,” I admitted, pointing to information about the struggles of early settlers who grew indigo. “And my family would be as foreign to this world as they were to theirs.”
We left the welcome center. Traffic on the island was heavy as we rode to the south end of the island and the Harbour Town Lighthouse where we squeezed into a tiny parking space next to a pair of bicycles. The lighthouse wasn’t built to guide eighteenth-century sailors past treacherous shoals; it was constructed in 1970 by Charles Fraser, the man with a vision for commercial development of the island, to attract golfers, not merchant ships. Zach and I walked through the gift shop and climbed to the top of the lighthouse.
We stood shoulder-to-shoulder and looked south toward Sea Pines Plantation. The sand traps glistened white on a golf course. When Zach’s arm brushed against mine, the thrill that shot through me when we held hands during the prayer in Powell Station returned. Not wanting to send the wrong message, I moved away an inch or two, then leaned on the railing. We watched people walking in and out of stores below and the sailboats coming up the channel. My heart, which had sped up a few beats, returned to normal.
“How well do you know Maggie Smith?” I asked.
“Barely. She clerked for the firm a few years before I came but either didn’t get an offer or turned one down. Since I don’t handle criminal cases, our paths don’t cross.”
I told him about our lunch. When I mentioned Maggie’s questions about the firm, he interrupted me.
“Why would she be so interested in your experience at the firm? Did she ask Julie the same things?”
“Not when I was there, but they’ve gotten together several times already. This was more about me.”
“Does she want you to work at the district attorney’s office?”
“That’s what I thought, but she didn’t bring it up.”
“Did she criticize the firm?”
I paused for a moment before answering.
“Not really, except for the reason she wasn’t hired.”
I told him about Maggie and the associate attorney. The words spilled out faster and faster.
“And what Ms. Patrick said to us the other day now makes a lot more sense. I don’t want you to get into trouble because of me.”
Zach stared out at the scene below us. “I bet there was a lot more going on with Maggie Smith and Rick Donaldson than a motorcycle trip to Hilton Head.”
“You knew him?”
“No, but I’ve seen his name on files. Like me, he worked with Mr. Appleby.”
My stomach tightened. “Are you going to talk to Mr. Carpenter?”
“Eventually; I just didn’t think it was important enough to schedule a meeting for that reason alone. Firm business that doesn’t involve a client, a case, or a fee is pushed to the bottom of the pile. Maybe I can bring it up when we talk about the claim McKenzie Electrical Supply has against Jason Paulding.”
“Has anything else happened on that?”
“After he read my memo, Mr. Carpenter contacted Paulding, who claims McKenzie is relying on a preliminary, verbal discussion that was modified by the subsequent written agreements. If that’s the case, there may not be a discrepancy. It’ll probably end up as an accounting dispute that will be cheaper to resolve than litigate in court, especially if Paulding wants to continue to do business with McKenzie’s company.”
We left the lighthouse. Hilton Head has a few thru roads and countless winding culsdesac. From the low-riding sidecar, I saw the island from a child’s view. Twice we stopped and walked a short distance to the white sand beach.
“Are you going to comment on my lack of a tan?” I asked, digging my toes into the sand.
“No, except to ask if you put on enough sunscreen.”
“Gobs,” I answered from beneath a floppy sun hat.
We ate a late lunch at a seafood café. Zach smiled a lot, and for the first time since I’d dragged Zach into the
Paulding v. Dabney
case, I felt we were back on track. While we waited for the waiter to bring the bill, Zach’s cell phone rang. He listened for a moment.
“No, sir. I wasn’t planning on coming into the office today.” He paused, then said, “I’m at Hilton Head with Tami Taylor.”
I set my glass of tea on the table.
“Just for the day,” he said. “We’ll be back later this afternoon. If you want me to take—” He stopped and listened again.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked with a puzzled expression on his face. The waiter returned with the bill. Zach took it in his free hand.
“Yes, sir. I understand. Of course, it’s billable time. And Tami?”
The person on the other end of the call spoke for a long time. The air-conditioning in the café kept the restaurant as cool as fall in the mountains, but my hands were perspiring.
“I’m sure she won’t have a problem. I’ll meet with you Monday morning.”
He hung up the phone.
“Mr. Carpenter.”
“Do you still have a job?”
“Oh, yes. We both do.”
“He’s not mad that we’re together?”
“Not yet. He had something besides fraternization between associates and summer clerks on his mind. He wants us to visit Reverend Dabney’s church in the morning.”
“To go to the Sunday morning service?”
“That’s right.”
My hands decided to keep panicking.
“Why?”
Zach leaned forward. “To secretly record the service in case she says something about Jason Paulding. Dabney found out about the lawsuit, and Mr. Carpenter thinks she’ll say something to the congregation that might help the case.”
“How did she find out? It hasn’t been served.”
“Who knows, but she left a message last night on the answering machine at Paulding Development. Paulding heard it this morning and called Mr. Carpenter.”
“What was the message?”
“Mr. Carpenter didn’t say.”
“Zach, this isn’t going to work. Sister Dabney will spot us within five seconds after we come into the sanctuary, tell everyone who we are and why we’re there, then harangue us until we leave.”
Zach flipped open his phone and handed it to me. “You’re right. It’s a waste of time. Call Mr. Carpenter and straighten him out. Just hit the Send button.”
I stared at the phone, trying to summon my jaguar courage. I pushed the button and saw the screen light up with Mr. Carpenter’s name and number. As I raised the phone to my ear, I pushed the End button with a sweaty finger and handed the phone back to Zach.
“Nice bluff. For a second, I thought you were going to give a repeat performance of your courtroom confrontation with Mr. Carpenter in the Moses Jones case.”
“That was different,” I sighed. “I believed in my client.”
He laid his cell phone on the table. “Don’t take your hunches too far. Dabney may be the leader of a church, but that doesn’t give her the right to slander Jason Paulding. If her church won’t discipline her, it may be necessary for a court to do so. There’s a place in the system for accountability.”
“Zach, this lawsuit isn’t about getting her to do right. It’s a setup to grab a piece of property for a real-estate developer. What if Dabney was accurate about the McKenzie transaction? What if she’s right about Paulding being a crook and a thief? What if Paulding has been cheating on his wife? The last time I checked, truth was a defense to a defamation action.”
“But is it up to you to decide who’s right in each and every detail of a case?”
“It is if someone wants me to be their lawyer.”
Zach shook his head. “That’s asking a lot. Most people are a mix of good, bad, and something in the middle. Motivations and actions have a way of tripping over each other to create a confused mess. Both Paulding and Dabney may have a measure of justice on their sides. That’s the reason each side should have an attorney.”
“Sister Dabney doesn’t believe in lawyers.”
“Then she’ll represent herself or change her belief. If there’s a verse in the Bible that condemns all lawyers, show it to me, and I’ll surrender my law license and find work coaching high school soccer.”
I pounced. “Is that why God sent you to Savannah? To coach high school soccer?”
Zach shook his head. “No, and I’m waiting on that verse.”
“‘Woe to the lawyers.’ That’s what one of the men at my church said to me when he found out I was going to law school.”
“That’s directed toward Pharisaic Jewish leaders who spent all their time burdening ordinary people with religious obligations that didn’t produce true righteousness.”
“Don’t get so theological on me.”
Zach stopped and smiled. “Look, I don’t want to spy on Reverend Dabney any more than you do, but given the circumstances of the case and our obligation to our client and the law firm, I can’t think of a compelling reason not to.”
I paused. “And I’ll go. But you’d better drive your car.”
“I agree. The motorcycle with you in the sidecar would definitely attract the wrong kind of attention.”
IN SPITE OF THE LIBERAL DOUSING WITH SUNSCREEN, MY SKIN felt prickly when Zach dropped me off at Mrs. Fairmont’s house. I would be glowing when we visited Sister Dabney’s church, but unfortunately, not with the glory of God. There was a message on the answering machine from Mrs. Bartlett.
“Tami, where are you? I hope you haven’t left that dog alone all day. If he chews a hole in the rug, it won’t be covered by the home-owner’s insurance. Call me as soon as possible. Mother isn’t cooperating about the move to a nursing home. I need you to talk some sense into her.”
I punched the button and listened again. The short message raised several issues. First, I’d never considered whether pet damage might be an insured event in a home-owner’s policy. Second, I had to decide whether or not to return Mrs. Bartlett’s call. However, so long as I lived in the house, I had to call her even if it was a hard thing to do. Third, and the most troubling problem—how to respond to Mrs. Bartlett’s demand that I help shove her mother out of the house into a nursing home. I stepped into the blue parlor to check on the antique rug. It was a few hours older but no different from when I’d left in the morning.
“Good dog,” I said to Flip, who’d followed me into the room. “Keep guarding all the valuable antiques. And remember, there aren’t any bones buried beneath that carpet.”
I walked back to the kitchen and returned the call to Mrs. Bartlett.
“I’m sorry I missed your call,” I said before Mrs. Bartlett could start an interrogation. “The rug in the parlor is in great shape for a two-hundred-year-old fabric.”