Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope (41 page)

Two tears raced down the woman’s wrinkled face. The one on her left cheek beat the one on the right and fell from her face onto the shiny table. Barely breathing, I looked into the old woman’s eyes and saw deep pain entombed in an indomitable will. Anxiety about a job, my future as a lawyer, or what others might think about me shriveled to microscopic insignificance. I was in the room and not in the room; the veil between heaven and earth thinned. Mr. Carpenter became as irrelevant as a poorly worded question. All that mattered was Rachel Ramona Dabney, a person in need, a woman for whom God’s com-passion had not yet found its limit. But I didn’t know what to do or say.

“You need to speak it,” the old woman said in a creaky voice.

And in that instant I knew the meaning of the moment.

“‘Lazarus, come forth,’” I said in a calm voice.

Sister Dabney lifted her hands and let out a shriek that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

“Ma’am, if you’re not feeling well, we can reschedule the deposition for another day,” Mr. Carpenter said in alarm.

I continued, “‘And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave clothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, “Loose him, and let him go.”’”

Sister Dabney cried out again, bent over, and began to sob. Her body shook violently. Mr. Carpenter looked at me.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but you need to put a stop to it!”

“I can’t.”

He redirected his attention to the witness. “Ms. Dabney, it won’t be possible to go forward with your deposition if you aren’t able to control yourself.”

Sister Dabney shook her head from side to side and continued to wail. Mr. Carpenter turned to me in dismay.

“Should we call an ambulance?”

“No, sir,” I replied with surprising calm. “I think we should wait a few minutes and see how she feels. Could we let her sit in here by herself for a while?”

“No,” the senior partner replied.

“Then I’ll stay,” I volunteered. “You and the court reporter could take a break. I’ll find out if we can go forward with the deposition or not and let you know.”

Mr. Carpenter stared at me for a second, then looked at his watch. “I’ll wait ten minutes. If she’s emotionally unable to answer questions, we’ll reschedule the deposition.”

Sister Dabney let out a loud sob. Mr. Carpenter spoke to her.

“Madam, this outburst won’t change anything that we’re going to do to represent our client’s interests.” As he left the room, he said to me in a low voice, “Remember why we’re here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The court reporter followed him from the conference room.

Sister Dabney, her head bowed, continued to sob. She neither paid attention to Mr. Carpenter’s departure nor seemed to care that I remained. I sat quietly and waited. Sobs turned to softer crying that dissolved into a few sniffles. I slid a box of tissues across the table. She grabbed a handful but didn’t look at me. I checked my watch. Five minutes passed before the crying subsided. Sister Dabney raised her head. Her eyes and nose were red, which made her appear more bizarre than ever.

“I didn’t see this coming until I stepped into this room. It’s the last place I would have expected to find the word of life. But that’s what a tomb is all about. No one expects life to come forth out of a grave.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m the young woman who knows Oscar Callahan.”

“You’ve visited the church a couple of times. And I was led into prayer for you one day at my house.” Her face clouded over. “You were spying on me?”

“Yes, ma’am. But the first time I came to the church, I felt like I’d come home.”

Sister Dabney glanced around the conference room as if seeing it for the first time.

“There is much wickedness in this place. Overweening pride lives here. What fellowship does light have with darkness?”

“None, but I think I was supposed to be here for you this morning.”

“Yes, you were.” She nodded, then stared at me for a couple of seconds. “Do you want me to tell you what I see?”

“Only if you’re supposed to.”

Sister Dabney grunted. “Not many people give me that answer. I’ll hold on to the message and ask the Lord to make it grow.”

“I’m young and want to—” I stopped.

“You don’t know what you want,” she said brusquely. “But you’ve been obedient today. That’s the place to start. I heard the sound of resurrection in your voice calling me out of the cave of despair. I’ve been laboring for others without hope for myself. A few strips of my grave clothes are gone, and now I have faith more will fall.”

“Yes, ma’am. God’s Word never loses its power.”

Sister Dabney cried out again. I jumped. It wasn’t a shriek or a wail; it was a shout that sounded vaguely familiar, like the occasional cries from older members of my church when they felt moved by the Spirit. Sister Dabney clapped her hands together.

“This has been a good meeting,” she said, her face cracking into a smile that made her wrinkles run uphill. “It’s about time for your boss to return.”

As if on cue, the door opened and Mr. Carpenter stuck his head in the door.

“Is she ready to proceed?” he asked me.

I turned to Sister Dabney and raised my eyebrows.

“Let’s get to it,” she said, turning in her chair so she could face Mr. Carpenter. “It doesn’t matter what you ask, all you’ll get from me is the truth.”

29

MR. CARPENTER CLEARED HIS THROAT. “TAMI, PLEASE GET THE court reporter. She’s in the reception area.”

I left the conference room and found the court reporter reading a women’s magazine and sipping a cup of coffee.

“We’re ready,” I said.

“Could I borrow this for a couple of days?” she asked, holding up the magazine. “I’d like to finish this article about the best beaches on the East Coast. I can bring it back when I’m here on Friday for a deposition with one of the other lawyers.”

I nodded, not sure if I had the authority to authorize removal of magazines from the office, but feeling bold enough to risk it. The court reporter gathered up her equipment.

“That was a different way to start a deposition,” I said.

“I do a lot of domestic cases. Hysterical women aren’t all that uncommon.”

We returned to the conference room. Sister Dabney, her eyes closed, was sitting in a chair with a bottle of water in front of her.

Mr. Carpenter had his head down, reviewing his notes. The court reporter took her place.

“Ready,” she announced.

“This will be the deposition of Rachel Ramona Dabney taken pursuant to notice for purposes of discovery under the provisions of the Georgia Civil Practice Act . . .”

I listened to Mr. Carpenter recite the lawyer’s litany before the start of a deposition. I’d read several depositions, and he tracked the customary language without a slip. It was like watching an experienced driver buckle a seat belt, turn on a car’s engine, and scan the gauges to make sure nothing appeared amiss. He finished and turned to the court reporter.

“Will you swear in the witness?”

I watched as Sister Dabney raised her right hand and said, “I do.”

“Please state your name,” Mr. Carpenter said.

“Rachel Ramona Dabney.”

“Have you ever gone by any other names?”

“I was a Miller before I married.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Forty-one years.”

Sister Dabney’s voice was level. Except for redness around her eyes, she showed no signs of the emotion that had racked her body a few minutes earlier. I knew Mr. Carpenter would ask a lot of background questions without any direct relevancy to the case. A discovery deposition is an unrestricted opportunity to find out as much as possible about a person. Few objections are allowed, and since no lawyer was representing Sister Dabney, the only limit to Mr. Carpenter’s questions would be the witness’s willingness to answer. Soon it was apparent that Sister Dabney didn’t intend to frustrate the process. She came across as very open and forthright. Her grammar was good, and it didn’t surprise me to learn that she’d finished college at a small school in central Alabama. When the questions started exploring her life in ministry, the answers grew longer. I listened with interest as she described the places she’d been and what she and her husband did. She rarely glanced in my direction. After an hour, she asked if we could take a bathroom break.

“I’ll show her where it is,” the court reporter volunteered.

The two women left Mr. Carpenter and me in the conference room.

“Whatever you did worked,” the senior partner said when the door closed. “This is going much more smoothly than I’d hoped. I thought she would be refusing to respond or try to ask me questions.

Was that a Bible verse you cited?”

“Yes, sir. It’s from John chapter eleven.”

“The code these fanatics use is beyond me. Not that I’m lumping you into the same pot as Dabney,” he added quickly, “but you under-stand religious lingo, which is like a foreign language to me.”

“Sister Dabney and I may not be in the same pot, but we’re cooking on the same stove.”

Mr. Carpenter gave me a puzzled look. “I won’t unpack that with you now, but at some point I need to know how that might affect your ability to function in this law firm.” He paused. “So long as we don’t violate any of the antidiscrimination laws, of course. I trust you’re interested in a job when you get out of law school, not a law-suit because you don’t get an offer.”

His concern almost made me smile.

“Mr. Carpenter, I can assure you I’m not posturing for a discrimination suit. I appreciate the opportunity to work here. It’s been hard, but as you told me the other day, that’s how I can grow.”

“Good,” Mr. Carpenter grunted. “You’re honest, more blunt than I’m used to from a summer clerk who is so polite most of the time, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

Mr. Carpenter stood. “I’ll be back in a minute. Don’t start with-out me.”

Sister Dabney and the court reporter returned together.

“My sister and I only see each other at Christmas,” the court reporter was saying. “I’m not sure what she’ll think if I call her out of the blue and tell her what you told me. She might think I’m nuts.”

“That’s a chance anyone takes who speaks for God,” Sister Dabney replied. “If you don’t say anything, what would the consequences be?”

“Should I just blurt it out?”

“That’s better than keeping silent and having her blood on your hands. You can bring the peace.”

The court reporter was preoccupied as she sat down. Mr. Carpenter returned.

“Ready to continue?” he asked lightly.

The court reporter stood up. “Mr. Carpenter, could we wait a few more minutes? I need to make a quick phone call.”

Mr. Carpenter looked at his watch. “Can’t you take care of it later?”

“No, sir,” she answered emphatically.

The court reporter left her machine and exited the room.

“Why didn’t she make the call during the break?” Mr. Carpenter asked the rest of us.

I didn’t know. Sister Dabney sat as still as a stone. While we waited, Mr. Carpenter reviewed his notes and Sister Dabney closed her eyes. The court reporter returned.

“Thanks,” she said with obvious relief in her voice. “I had an unexpected family emergency.”

“Is everything okay?” Mr. Carpenter asked.

The woman looked at Sister Dabney as she answered.

“Yes. I think there’s hope.”

“Good,” Mr. Carpenter replied. “Let’s get back to business.”

The next round of questioning left no stone unturned about Sister Dabney’s past involvement with the law. She and her husband had been arrested several times for trespassing, disturbing the peace, and creating a public nuisance. All the arrests sounded like examples of religious persecution.

“Whenever we were locked up we tried to be like Paul and Silas,” Sister Dabney said at one point.

“Were they part of your denomination?” Mr. Carpenter asked.

Sister Dabney looked at me when she answered. “Yes, they were respected leaders who spent a lot of time in jail and found ways to make it count for good. When Brother Russell and I were in that Arkansas jail, we started a Bible study for the inmates.”

“How long were you incarcerated?”

“About twenty days, but we redeemed the time.”

“Do you know the disposition of the case?”

“The judge let us out and told us to leave town.”

“Did you comply with the court’s order?”

“Yes, we’d already heard from the Lord that it was time to move on. We shook the dust from our feet in judgment against them and left.”

It took over two hours of questioning before Mr. Carpenter reached the period of time when Sister Dabney and her husband came to Savannah. They’d planned on staying for a couple of months that turned into years.

“Being on the road is hard,” Sister Dabney said, “but we probably should have kept moving.”

“Why?”

“Because of what happened. Brother Russell got lazy and fell into sin with a woman we were helping.”

To my surprise, Mr. Carpenter didn’t dig up all the lurid details about the disintegration of Sister Dabney’s marriage. I was taking notes and wrote myself a reminder to ask him why. Instead, he moved to the legal structure of the church, which I knew had a lot more importance to the endgame of the lawsuit.

“And the church property and the house where you live were placed solely in your name after the divorce?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any debt secured by either piece of property?”

“No, he who borrows is slave to the lender.”

“Do you have any personal debt?”

“If I don’t have the money, I don’t buy. God supplies what I need to do the work he calls me to do.”

That prompted a long series of questions about the amount of money given to the church and how it was spent. I was surprised at Sister Dabney’s specific answers. She either had a good memory for figures or had reviewed the financial information shortly before the deposition. One thing was clear: there wasn’t much surplus for Sister Dabney’s personal needs. I could see Mr. Carpenter making quick calculations on his notes. If Brenda Abernathy wanted to accurately criticize Sister Dabney’s use of money, she’d better document it. The preacher owned a ten-year-old car, purchased used furniture, and lived on not much more than the women who worked on the chicken line in Powell Station.