EXCERPT

Putting my hand on the brass doorknob, I glanced at my watch before opening the door. Zach and I wouldn’t get to Powell Station before dark unless we left Savannah within the hour. Mama and Daddy shouldn’t see the young lawyer’s light brown ponytail for the first time after sunset.

On the wall of the conference room hung a massive painting of the Savannah waterfront before the Civil War. At the end of the shiny table sat Joe Carpenter, the managing partner of Braddock, Appleby, and Carpenter. To his left was Myra Dean, a litigation paralegal. Across the table was a man I’d never met.

“Tami,” Mr. Carpenter said, “this is Mr. Jason Paulding.”

Paulding, a balding, stocky man in his early forties, wore an open-collared shirt with a steel beam embroidered on the front. His round head would be the perfect resting place for a hard hat.

“Any projects you have to finish before the end of the day?” Mr. Carpenter asked me.

“No, sir, but—”

“Good,” the tall, gray-haired lawyer continued. “As soon as Jason started going over his problem, I knew this was a case for you. You know something about fanatic religious groups, don’t you?”

“No, sir, except what I read in the paper. I’ve never been to the Middle East.”

Mr. Carpenter smiled slightly. “I don’t mean terrorists. I’m talking about the lunatic fringe of the church, fundamentalists who don’t know where religion stops and tolerance begins.” The lawyer turned toward Paulding. “Tami is one of the sharpest summer law clerks we’ve ever had at the firm. She goes to church every time the doors open, but her beliefs make her tougher, not softer. There’s no ‘turn the other cheek’ in her version of the Bible. A week ago she stared me down in a criminal matter when I challenged her judgment.” His assessment of my conduct in State v. Jones made me wince.

“Mr. Carpenter, that’s not quite accurate—”

“Don’t argue with me, now,” the senior partner said, cutting me off. “Save your ammunition for Ramona Dabney, the dime-store preacher who claims Mr. Paulding is the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler.”

“It’s worse than that,” Paulding said, “and I want it stopped. I offered the church twice the appraised value for its property. All I got back was a bunch of harassing phone calls to people all over town.”

“Jason and his staff have done some of the homework for us,” Mr. Carpenter said, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. “This is a list of people contacted by Dabney.”

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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.

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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 someone 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.

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“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.”

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Start at the beginning: Deeper Water by Robert Whitlow, the first Tides of Truth novel. Click here for more information.