“Yes, ma’am.”
Mrs. Fairmont kept the Bible on a small table beside her favorite chair. When I picked it up, I saw there were bits of paper protruding from the pages. I returned to the dining room and handed it to her. She pushed her salad bowl aside and laid the book on the table.
“Where are those verses I was reading the other day? You’d probably know exactly what they say.”
“What’s the general idea?”
Mrs. Fairmont didn’t answer but began opening the pages at the places she’d marked.
“No, it’s not here,” she said, then moved her wrinkled finger to another spot.
“Can you give me a hint?”
“It’s about sheep and goats, only Jesus isn’t talking about being kind to animals.”
“Matthew
chapter 25
,” I replied, leaning over and flipping the pages to the correct spot.
Sure enough, Mrs. Fairmont had marked the place with a slip of yellow paper. The elderly woman spoke.
“Jesus says if we take a stranger into our home and feed him, then the Lord will reward us. When I read that, I thought about the kindness my parents showed to poor people and realized that except for sending a check every so often to a charity, I haven’t been that way.”
I stared, slightly openmouthed, at Mrs. Fairmont. Her eyes returned to the page.
“He even talks about visiting people in prison. That’s what you did.”
“No.” I held up my hand. “It wasn’t exactly a voluntary visit. Judge Cannon ordered me to represent this young woman. But are you sure this passage applies to Jessie Whitewater?”
“Can you give me a reason it doesn’t?” Mrs. Fairmont leaned forward and touched my arm. “I don’t know nearly as much about faith and the Bible as you do, but there is something inside me that says I should try to help this girl.”
“What will you say to Mrs. Bartlett?”
Mrs. Fairmont sat up straight in her chair. “The truth. You came home and found me, still in my pajamas, unconscious in bed. I hadn’t fallen and hurt myself, but I finally had to admit it would be wise to have someone with me during the day while you’re at work. Miss Whitewater is willing to look after me for room and board, which is a lot cheaper than the sitting services Christine contracted after you went back to school. This way there won’t be any frivolous squandering of my estate.”
“Okay.” I laughed. “But I think you should meet Jessie before making up your mind about letting her stay here. I’m going to file a motion to reduce the amount of the bond. Jessie will be brought over from the jail to the courthouse for the hearing, and you can talk to her then.”
Mrs. Fairmont smiled. “This is exciting.”
“If it happens, I hope you feel good about it in a few weeks.”
U
SED TO RUNNING WILD AND UNSUPERVISED,
J
ESSIE HAD TROUBLE
adjusting to being locked up. Boredom bred from inactivity can push anyone toward insanity, and by the third day Jessie had started begging the guards to assign her any odd jobs they would give her. The slightly built girl who’d stolen a bag of donuts didn’t fit the profile for a security risk, and within a week she was working in the kitchen an hour before mealtime and staying an hour later to help clean up. In between, she spent a few hours in the library, a small room with an odd collection of donated books. Her job was to dust and organize the volumes according to author. When she finished she was given permission to read. Books had always been a welcome escape for Jessie, even though her stepmother said reading was a waste of time. Jessie also stayed in the library to avoid the crowded TV room. The prisoners’ preference of soap operas and sordid reality shows didn’t interest her anyway.
Jessie didn’t know if her stepmother had reported her disappearance to the police or not. If so, there was a risk one of the guards would see a picture and identify her. If she hadn’t, then Jessie could begin a new life without having to look over her shoulder. Jessie’s dilemma was not knowing. Until she knew her stepmother’s decision or enough time had passed that her trail down the railroad tracks to Savannah grew too cold to follow, a slip of the tongue or random encounter with a person who recognized her might send her back into a place worse than the jail.
Jessie’s best idea since running away had been to change her last name. She really liked the one she’d chosen. Whitewater had a clean, crisp sound, much prettier than Beanfield, which had caused Jessie a lot of problems in school. The new name came to her while she was admiring the white spray and foamy wake caused by a beautiful yacht sailing up the river toward the harbor. The only boat she’d ever been on was an aluminum johnboat her cousin Barry borrowed from a neighbor when Jessie lived in Alabama. They’d paddled out a few yards from the shore of a small pond and fished using worms they’d found under a rotting log.
She kept the name Jessie because it had been given to her by her real mother, and she was used to responding to it. Most women changed their last name when they got married, so, even though she had no current interest in boys, Jessie figured changing her last name would eventually happen anyway. Also, she’d read in a magazine that movie stars often went by different names. Jessie didn’t know if she’d ever be famous, but Whitewater was a better name for fame than Beanfield.
Jessie was proud of the letter she’d written to the judge asking for a new lawyer. Luckily, she’d been reading a book about a murder case in which the defendant requested and received permission from a judge to have a different lawyer. It would have helped if Jessie could have copied exactly what the defendant in the book wrote, but she remembered enough to make her point.
The tall, young lawyer didn’t fool Jessie. Like Sister Dabney, she was more interested in getting Jessie to be religious than helping her out in a way that really mattered. It was always the same with church people. They’d come by the house and ask if they could take Jessie to a meeting. Her stepmother often said yes, especially if she wanted to get her out of the house for a few hours. Jessie would end up squirming in her seat while a man told her she needed to repent so she could go to heaven. Jessie thought about walking down the church aisle a couple of times, but even her nicest clothes weren’t much to look at. After the church meeting was over, whoever brought her would act disappointed because Jessie didn’t go down to the front for the altar call.
Jessie had attended several Sunday services at Sister Dabney’s church. She had to admit that the meetings on Gillespie Street were different from any others she’d gone to; however, she spent most of the time thinking about the dinner to follow. One Sunday morning she took the paper from the leather pouch with her tattoo design on it along with one of the certificates. When she should have been singing a song, she created a second tattoo design that incorporated some of the curlicues from the certificate. It wasn’t as pretty as the flower tattoo, but she decided it would look okay on her shoulder.
Jessie was carefully stacking clean plastic plates that still steamed from the dishwasher when one of the guards came into the kitchen.
“Whitewater!” she called out.
Jessie held up a steamy hand. “Over here.”
“You have a letter from the courthouse.”
Jessie quickly wiped her hands on her apron and took the letter from the guard. She looked at the envelope. It had her new name typed neatly on the front with “c/o Chatham County Correctional Center” underneath. Because she worked so many hours in the kitchen, Jessie’s fingernails had never been cleaner. She slid her index finger beneath the flap and carefully peeled it back. Inside was a single sheet of paper. It, too, had her new name at the top along with a case number and the words “Chatham County Superior Court.” Beneath the heading, she read:
ORDER
The Court having considered Defendant’s Motion for Change in Counsel, said Motion is hereby, DENIED.
Clifton Cannon
Superior Court Judge
With a sigh, Jessie returned the sheet to the envelope and put it in her pocket. As soon as she could return to the library, she would read more of the book to find out what to do next.
T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING
I
RECEIVED A FAX COPY OF
J
UDGE
Cannon’s order denying Jessie’s request that I be taken off her case. At the bottom of the page was a notation that indicated a copy had been delivered to the jail.
I finished researching the standards applicable to reduction of a defendant’s bond and prepared a simple motion that cited a couple of the more important appellate court decisions. One of my uncertainties as a new lawyer involved whether or not to point out the obvious. Everything was new to me, but Judge Cannon might consider a reference to well-established legal principles as condescending. Maggie stuck her head in my door and I asked her about the cases.
“Should I include them in the motion?” I asked. “I don’t want to offend Judge Cannon.”
“Leave them in. It will make the motion look like a form that’s used over and over. Of course, guessing whether or not Judge Cannon will be offended is a lot tougher than predicting the weather. When I was in the DA’s office, he gave prosecutors a hard time and put defense lawyers through purgatory. The best way to earn his respect is to anticipate what he’ll consider important in a case and bring it out before he asks.”
“That sounds impossible.”
“Focus on survival first; respect can wait.”
I drove to the courthouse to file my motion. Seeing the official date and time stamp on the top sheet of the motion made me feel like a real lawyer. The court administrator provided a date later in the week for the hearing, and I stopped by the district attorney’s office to hand-deliver the motion and notice of hearing. I placed it on the receptionist’s desk. She took it from me without a word and quickly typed something on her computer.
“Ms. Crittenden is available. I’ll tell her you’re here.”
“Uh, I didn’t really think I’d be able to see her—”
“Have a seat.”
It would have been awkward to walk out, so I sat down in a plastic chair. The DA’s office was devoid of frills. In less than a minute, a young woman I recognized from the swearing-in ceremony came into the room. She was slightly overweight with medium-length brown hair, a broad nose, and thick glasses. Ms. Crittenden didn’t fit the stereotype of an aggressive prosecutor. Instead, she reminded me of my high school English teacher who loved James Joyce. For me, reading Joyce was like drinking from a fire hydrant; I could absorb it only in small doses.
“I remember you from the other day at the swearing-in ceremony,” the prosecutor said, extending her hand. “Jan Crittenden.”
“Tami Taylor. I stopped by to deliver a motion to reduce the bond in the Jessie Whitewater case. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”
“No problem. We can talk in one of the conference rooms.”
Not sure what there was to talk about at this early stage of the case, I followed Crittenden down a hallway and into a rectangular room not unlike the simple conference room at Smith and Feldman. She didn’t have a file folder.
“Have you met your client?” Crittenden asked.
“Yes, I interviewed her the same day Judge Cannon appointed me to represent her.”
“How old do you think she is?”
“That’s one of the things the judge wants me to find out.” I answered. “If she’s not really eighteen, would you be willing to send the case to juvenile court?”
“Absolutely. It wasn’t a violent crime. Burglary is serious, but more so when it has the marks of theft for purposes of profit. Your client stole a donut.”
I liked the straightforward way Crittenden talked.
“What do you suggest?”
“We have to know her true age and name to do a background check that would uncover any trouble she’s been in before. If there’s nothing serious in her past, I’d recommend to the juvenile court judge that she be placed on probation for six to twelve months. I’ve been assigned a lot of juvenile cases, and Judge Gott is easy to work with. If the case is sent to him, we can get a hearing fairly quickly.”
“You’re not sure about her name?”
“Of course not. She didn’t have any identification, claimed she’d lost her driver’s license and Social Security card. Her fingerprints aren’t in the system, which is a positive sign that she’s not been previously arrested for a felony. We checked her name against school data for Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama, and Florida and didn’t come up with a match. I think she’s a runaway who doesn’t want to go back to where she came from.”
“I agree.” I nodded.
“If the case is processed in juvenile court, your client will either be sent home if we can find it, or, if that’s not an option, placed with an approved foster family.”
“Okay, that makes sense.”
“When is the bond hearing?”
“Day after tomorrow on the morning calendar.”
“If your client gets out of jail, will she get into trouble?”
“I don’t know, but it will help if she has enough to eat.”
“You can’t guarantee her conduct. At any rate, I won’t oppose the motion and will leave it up to the judge.”
“From what I’ve heard, he does what he wants to.”
Crittenden gave a slight smile. “He reminds me of my high school track coach who never had a problem finding something to criticize. At least Judge Cannon doesn’t scream.”
“You ran track?”
“No.” Crittenden smiled. “Discus and shot put.”
I’d not considered that Crittenden’s bulk might be muscle.
“I played basketball.”
“Where?”
I gave her the name of my high school.
“Up in the mountains.” Crittenden nodded. “I attended a private school here in Savannah. My aunt told me you were living with Mrs. Fairmont. She has a lovely home.”
“You know her?”
“Not personally, but I’m familiar with the house. It was on the house-and-garden tour a few years ago. I went with my mom and aunt.”
So, Crittenden was a female weight lifter who enjoyed pretty houses. The assistant district attorney stood up.
“If your client tells you anything about her past, let me know and I’ll use our resources to find out what we can. There’s no reason why we can’t cooperate on a case like this one.”