Tides of Truth [02] Higher Hope (2 page)
Mr. Carpenter picked up a sheet of paper. “According to the copy of the deed in your file, the property is owned by Ramona Dabney, individually, not the church.”
“That’s what my real-estate lawyer told me.”
“Tami, what do you think about that arrangement? An individual owning the property where a church is located?”
“Most church property is owned by trustees selected by the congregation or held by a denomination.”
“That’s the way it is at my church,” Mr. Carpenter said. “Not so at the Southside Church. God’s green acres on Gillespie Street are controlled by Reverend Dabney.”
Mr. Carpenter’s sarcastic tone made me uneasy. All ministers deserved at least token respect.
The older lawyer continued. “Jason, would you be happy if I could get an injunction ordering Dabney to stop defaming you and set her up so that if she violates the order, a judge would hold her in contempt and put her in jail?”
“Now you’re talking.”
Mr. Carpenter turned to me. “Tami, is obtaining an injunction difficult when there haven’t been threats of physical violence?”
“Yes, sir. It would be a prior restraint against free speech.”
Paulding cut in. “She’s told people that I’m one of the biggest sinners in Savannah.”
“Which is up to the Almighty, not her,” Mr. Carpenter answered dryly. “Seeking an injunction can be part of our claim. I also recommend a civil suit against Dabney, seeking damages for libel and slander—libel for what she’s written, slander for what she’s said. Some of her statements are so bad there’s no need to prove a negative economic impact on your business to state a claim, but it always helps to show a jury that malicious words cost dollars. When that happens, the case moves beyond hurt feelings and creates an opportunity for a significant money judgment against her.”
“Which is a waste of your time and my money,” Paulding grunted. “Dabney drives a beat-up car and lives beside the church in a house the fire department should burn down for practice. I want the injunction. A money judgment would be worthless.”
“No, sir.” Mr. Carpenter rubbed his neatly trimmed goatee. “You’re wrong. A civil judgment is exactly what you need. Because Dabney owns the church property individually, it’s not protected by a nonprofit denomination or board of trustees. If you have a judgment against her, you can levy on the church and house to satisfy what’s owed.”
“Yes,” Myra muttered, her fingers flying across the keyboard.
“How much is the property worth as raw land without the buildings?” Mr. Carpenter asked Paulding.
“Standing alone or as part of our larger tract?”
“Alone.”
“Not much.” Paulding shrugged. “The buildings don’t add value since they’d have to be torn down before something commercial could be built. Maybe fifty thousand. I offered her seventy-five thou-sand the day she ordered me off her front porch.”
“What are the chances Dabney can afford to hire a good lawyer to stop us from getting what we want?”
“I see where you’re going.” Paulding nodded. “I tried to get her to talk to a lawyer. She told me she doesn’t believe in them.”
“Let’s hope that’s a conviction, not a preference.” Mr. Carpenter turned to Myra and me. “Your job is to find evidence that will convince a jury to award a judgment large enough to blow up Ramona Dabney’s pulpit.”
“Yes, sir,” Myra said.
My mouth was dry. Most American churches had wandered far from God’s plan, but a broad view of religious freedom allowed my family and me to practice our beliefs. Declaration of war against a church, even one as misguided as this one, made me nervous.
“Perhaps Reverend Dabney just feels threatened and lashed out,” I offered. “If we let her know someone understands her concerns, it could lead to common ground for negotiation.”
“The only ground I’m interested in is the dirt where the church sits,” Paulding said.
“Tami, your sympathy is misplaced,” Mr. Carpenter said. “The First Amendment doesn’t protect every kind of speech. This Dabney woman has crossed the line and should be held accountable. When I take her deposition, I’ll throw in a few questions to uncover her latent psyche and satisfy your curiosity. In the meantime, I want you to keep your eye on the main goals—to put a cork in her mouth and find a way to pry her grip from that property.”
Mr. Carpenter stood, signaling the end of the meeting. Myra joined me in the hallway. Mr. Carpenter escorted Paulding toward the reception area.
After Mr. Carpenter was out of earshot, Myra spoke in a low voice. “I’ve worked with Joe for fifteen years. Never criticize his theory of a case in front of a client. If he didn’t like you, he would have kicked you out of the meeting. Save your questions for later after we conduct our investigation.”
“How did I criticize him?”
“By suggesting negotiation when he wants to file suit.”
“But what if the facts don’t support his theory? Won’t the client get upset?”
“No. Once a businessman like Paulding believes we’re going to do everything we can for him, it’s not too hard to suggest a different approach later on. Getting over the initial trust hurdle is the hard part. All Paulding cares about is finding a lawyer as passionate about his problem as he is. When you say negotiate, he hears defeat. Joe read him perfectly. You saw how he turned the meeting.”
She was right, and I knew it. But it all seemed so disingenuous.
“And don’t call it manipulation,” Myra added, reading my thoughts. “It’s simply savvy client relations. Like women’s handbags, one size doesn’t fit all.”
We reached the law firm library that served as my temporary office for the summer.
“I’ll set up a duplicate file so we have the same information,” Myra said, stopping outside the door. “Then we can divide up the names and get busy on Monday.”
After Myra left, I went into the library. The other female summer clerk, Julie Feldman, a Jewish law student from Emory, sat staring at one of the computer terminals we used for legal research.
“What did Mr. C want?” she asked, running her hand through her thick black hair.
I told her about the Dabney case. Her eyes widened.
“I’m stuck here sorting through IRS regulations, and you’re going to bring down a televangelist.”
“She’s not a televangelist. More likely she has a little church in a poor area of town. And all I heard was the client’s side of the story. What if Dabney is doing a lot of good? I don’t want to attack some-one who is faithfully serving God.”
“I doubt that. She’s probably on a local radio station ranting for thirty minutes on Sunday morning. Can you believe the stuff they let on the air? You should check it out. I bet she has her own show at seven thirty on Sunday mornings. If she says something defamatory about our client on the air, you could join the radio station as a defendant.”
Julie had the creative energy I lacked for this fight.
“Maybe you should work on the case.”
“I’d love to. I have no problem busting someone who is using religion as an excuse to harass people, and of course the very idea of a woman preacher offends me. Feminism only goes so far before stubbing its toe on the Ten Commandments.”
I smiled, knowing Julie was kidding.
“I saw that,” Julie said. “I’m friends with a woman rabbi in Atlanta. Does your church have women preachers?”
“Not exactly. A woman can exhort in a meeting with the pastor’s permission.”
“What in the world does that mean?”
Before I answered, Zach Mays stuck his head and broad shoulders into the room.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Give me ten minutes to talk to Mr. Appleby about a research memo I gave him yesterday.”
Zach waved and left.
“Joel only looks at me like that after he’s had three glasses of wine,” Julie said.
Julie was in the midst of a summer romance with a young free-lance photographer.
“He always thinks you’re picture-perfect.”
Julie beamed. “For that, I’ll help you with the Dabney case if you can convince Mr. C to go along with it. We’ve done that on a bunch of files already.”
“But you don’t know anything about religious fundamentalism. That’s what seemed important to him.”
“Don’t be dense. I’ve spent countless hours in the same room with you for weeks. I’m going to be an expert on Christian fanatics by the end of the summer.” She paused. “But Mr. C will be more interested in the research paper I wrote on defamation law in Georgia.”
“You did a research paper on libel and slander?”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like that, would I?”
THIRTY MINUTES PASSED without Zach’s return, and I began to fret he’d been caught in the Friday afternoon work trap I’d escaped. An admiralty law specialist, Zach mostly worked with Mr. Appleby, one of the senior partners. For a second-year associate like Zach, the time demands of the firm were nonnegotiable. I turned on a computer and tried to pick up a thread of research from earlier in the day.
“It’s a good thing Vinny went to Charleston yesterday and won’t see you sneaking out of town with Zach,” Julie said.
“He understands,” I answered, with more confidence than I felt about the summer clerk from Yale. “We’re having lunch on Monday after I get back.”
“Even though he’s a geek, Vinny isn’t going to let you fall into the arms of another man without a struggle.”
“No one is putting his arms around me.”
“That’s right. You have a guy on each side pulling you apart like the wishbone of a chicken.”
I laughed. Julie knew I’d toiled the previous five summers in the chicken plant where my father worked as a floor supervisor.
“That got your mind off the clock for a few seconds,” she said.
The door opened. It was Zach.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Have fun,” Julie said as I quickly grabbed my purse. “And, Zach, leave a trail of bread crumbs so you can find your way out of the mountains.”
ZACH AND I STEPPED INTO THE THICK AFTERNOON HEAT. IT WAS easy to understand why wealthy antebellum plantation owners didn’t stay in Savannah during the summer and owned second homes farther inland. The sprinkler system that watered the flowers and bushes in front of the office was spraying an invisible vapor.
“If we were in Powell Station already, I’d take off my shoes and let the mist cool my toes,” I said, stepping toward the center of the walk-way. “Mountain girls like me don’t wear shoes before our sixteenth birthday. After that it’s optional, except on Sundays.”
“I packed shoes for the trip,” Zach said.
“I hope they’re not wingtips.”
We reached Zach’s car, a small white import. He opened the door for me, a habit that drove Julie nuts. She claimed no man had opened a car door for her since her father put her in a child’s car seat.
The office of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter was at the edge of Savannah’s historic district. It was several blocks to the West Hull Street home of my landlady, Mrs. Margaret Fairmont. Zach parked at the curb in front of the residence, a square two-story brick structure with tall, narrow windows on the first level and broad front steps. Two large live oaks stood between the house and the sidewalk. An iron railing extended from the steps down the street on either side, then turned toward the rear of the house. I could hear Mrs. Fairmont’s pet Chihuahua, Flip, barking on the other side of the front door.
“Should I come in?” Zach asked.
“She likes talking to you, but don’t be surprised if it’s the same conversation you had with her last week.” I put my key in the door. “I’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
The foyer was flanked by matching parlors, one green and the other blue. I knelt and scratched Flip behind his left ear. He gave me a thank-you lick on the tips of my fingers.
“I’ll miss you,” I said, “but I promise to come back with all kinds of interesting smells.”
Flip gave Zach’s foot a quick sniff, which was better than the animosity he showed some of Mrs. Fairmont’s guests. We crossed the green parlor and entered the den. Mrs. Fairmont, wearing a stylish dress and nice shoes, sat in her favorite chair. It was a good day. She’d fixed her hair and put on makeup. The TV was tuned to a sports station. The elderly woman’s eyes were closed. I gently touched her arm. Her eyelids fluttered and opened. She squinted at me for a moment, then looked past me at the TV.
“Tami, unless you really want to watch that show, I’d like to change the channel.”
“You can change it, Mrs. Fairmont. I’m about to leave town,” I said, motioning Zach closer. “Zach Mays, one of the lawyers at the office, is going to take me home to visit my family for the weekend.”
Mrs. Fairmont turned in her chair. Zach leaned over and greeted her.
“The young man from California,” Mrs. Fairmont said, her dark eyes twinkling. “I so enjoyed talking with you about your motorcycle trip down the coast. Harry and I drove that route years ago in a Ford convertible. The cliffs, the ocean, the surf on the rocks—I’ll never forget it.” She paused. “Until this multi-infarct dementia gets the best of me.”
I left Mrs. Fairmont chatting with Zach. On her best days the elderly woman would talk specifically about her illness. It made me glad and sad: glad she was temporarily functioning at a high level; sad that it wouldn’t last. My greatest fear was that she would die without believing the truth of the gospel.
I went downstairs to my apartment, a garden basement suite that opened onto a courtyard with narrow walkways and a large fountain in the middle. I’d already packed two suitcases, one with clothes and another with gifts for each member of my family. I put my hanging clothes in a dark blue bag that included the three new outfits I’d bought since coming to Savannah. I’d saved the sales receipts in case Mama didn’t approve. There was a knock on the door frame. I jumped.
“Sorry,” Zach said. “I thought you might want help with your bags.”
He picked up the suitcases with ease. Even with his hair bound tightly into a short ponytail, there was nothing effeminate about Zach Mays. He carried himself with easy strength and was tall enough that I didn’t look out of place beside him. When I went through the adolescent growth spurt that helped me on the basketball court, I began praying that God wouldn’t send me a short husband. Zach and Vince Colbert were both over six feet. On that level, they were equal.
