private.
Julie lowered her voice. 'Maybe you can sneak out after hours. I've already been to River Street twice. It's a lot of fun.'
A middle-aged woman with dark hair and reading glasses on a chain around her neck came down the stairs and introduced herself. It was Gerry Patrick. Ms. Patrick was the same height as Julie. She gave Julie a quick hug and shook my hand.
'Did you move in yesterday?' she asked me crisply.
'Yes ma'am. Mrs. Fairmont completely renovated the downstairs apartment.'
'That's good to hear. Let's go to a conference room. Vince Colbert is already here this morning. He's working on a project for Mr. Braddock.'
When Ms. Patrick turned away, Julie leaned over and whispered, 'Vince must be a gunner.'
We went into one of the plush downstairs conference rooms Zach had shown me during my first visit. Ms. Patrick sat at the end of the table and offered us coffee or water. She then pushed the intercom button on the phone.
'Deborah, send Vince into conference room two.'
I crossed my ankles under the shiny table. Opposite me was a massive oil painting of a harbor scene from the early nineteenth century. I could see bales of cotton piled on a wharf in front of a row of sailing ships. Scores of people filled the scene. The detail in the painting would have taken a long time to create.
'Is that Savannah?' I asked.
'Yes,' Ms. Patrick said. 'Mr. Braddock lets the art museum keep it for a year then brings it back to the office for twelve months.'
The door to the conference room opened and a tall, lanky young man with wavy brown hair and dark eyes came into the room. He was wearing a dark blue sport coat, gray slacks, white shirt, and burgundy tie. He was carrying a very thin laptop computer in his right hand.
'Vince, meet Julie Feldman and Tami Taylor,' Ms. Patrick said.
When I shook the male clerk's hand, I noticed a large, rectangularshaped scar on it. The skin was oddly wrinkled and lacked pigment. I quickly glanced up. His eyes were on my face. He released his grip and sat on the opposite side of the table with his right hand out of sight.
'Vince already knows what I'm going to tell you,' Ms. Patrick began. 'But Mr. Carpenter wanted the three of you to have a sense of starting together.'
She distributed cards that would give us access to the building twenty-four hours a day and rapidly outlined a lot of details about office procedures: names of support staff and their job duties, locations of copy machines and the codes to input when using them, Internet research policies, areas of specialty for each of the lawyers, and office schedules. Vince's fingers flew across the keyboard. Neither Julie nor I had anything to write on. Ms. Patrick didn't seem to notice.
'Will all this be included in an information packet or should I take notes?' I asked when she paused.
'You can copy my notes,' Vince replied.
He slid the computer across the table. Julie and I leaned in and looked at the screen. He'd typed in almost every word on a template that made it look like a corporate flow chart.
'That works for me,' Julie said.
'I don't own a laptop computer,' I said, trying not to sound whiny. 'Does the firm supply one?'
'Not for summer clerks,' Ms. Patrick replied. 'The younger lawyers bring one to meetings, but most partners don't. It's a generational difference.'
I concentrated hard through the rest of the meeting. At least my memory, forged in the front room of the house in Powell Station, went with me everywhere. And it never needed rebooting.
'That's it,' Ms. Patrick said in conclusion. 'Any questions?'
I didn't know what to ask and kept my mouth shut. Julie spoke. 'How will we circulate through the different sections of the firm?'
It was a good question, and I wished I'd thought to ask it.
'You'll find out at the luncheon. There isn't time during the summer for you to spend a lot of time with each partner. Anything else?'
'Is there a dress code?' I asked.
'This is a traditional firm with clients who expect a professional appearance at all times. We don't wear blue jeans on Friday.'
'That's fine. I don't own a pair of jeans.'
The other three people stared at me. I'd needlessly blurted out controversial information. I wanted to crawl under the table.
'Any other questions?' Ms. Patrick asked after an awkward pause.
I pressed my lips tightly together. The progress I'd made with Ms. Patrick after meeting with Christine Bartlett had been nullified by the events of the past few days.
'Very well,' the office manager said. 'Vince, you can return to your project with Mr. Braddock. Julie, Mr. Carpenter wants to meet with you in his office. Tami, wait here.'
Left alone in the conference room, I had nothing to do but stare at the painting. Many of the figures on the wharf were slaves, toiling without pay in the burning heat as they loaded the heavy cotton bales onto the ships. I suspected the painter intended to portray normal life. However, normal in one era can be barbarian to the next. The slaves, a people oppressed for no reason except the color of their skin, illustrated that truth with a massive exclamation point. The painting was an indefensible snapshot of injustice. I sighed. Oppression took many forms, and often, the society of the day didn't recognize it.
Ms. Patrick returned to the conference room. I started to offer an apology but before I could start, she spoke.
'Come with me,' she said from the doorway. 'You're going to assist one of the paralegals this morning.'
There was no denying my relegation to the bottom rank of the summer clerks. I recognized the large open work areas that were filling with people. We walked down a hall to an open door.
'Myra,' Ms. Patrick began, 'this is Tami Taylor.'
The paralegal glanced up from a stack of papers on her desk. 'Welcome, nice to see you again.'
Ms. Patrick looked at me with raised eyebrows.
'Zach Mays introduced us when I came by the office on a Saturday a few weeks ago,' I said.
Ms. Patrick waved her hand to the paralegal. 'She's all yours until 11:30.'
'Thank you,' I said to Ms. Patrick's departing back.
Myra reached forward and picked up a thick envelope. 'I'm in the middle of a project that has to be finished before the end of the day. Do you know where the county courthouse is located?'
'Yes ma'am.'
The paralegal pulled back the envelope. 'Unless you think I'm old, call me Myra.'
'Okay.'
She handed me the heavy envelope. 'This is a response to a motion for preliminary injunction that needs to be filed this morning. Mr. Carpenter has a hearing in this case tomorrow, and the other side needs twenty-four hours' notice. We have electronic filing in federal court but not in the state courts. There are two copies. Have both of them stamped at the clerk's office, then take one to Judge Cannon's office. Bring the other back here, and I'll have a courier take it to the opposing counsel's office.'
'I could take it,' I offered.
'It's in Brunswick. It would be cutting it close for you to drive down and back before lunch.'
'Oh, I don't have a car.'
Myra stopped and stared at me. Stares had always been part of my life, but a new environment inevitably provoked a rash of them. Without further comment the paralegal turned her attention to the documents on her desk, and I backed out of the room.
My earlier confidence was gone. As I walked down Montgomery Street, the hopelessness of my situation washed over me. I had no business working in Savannah. My success was as unlikely as one of the slaves in the painting making the transition from dock laborer to cotton merchant.
I reached the courthouse and climbed the steps. After passing through security, I found the clerk's office where
