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Robert Whitlow is the bestselling author of legal novels set in the South and winner of the Christy Award for Contemporary Fiction. He received his JD with honors from the University of Georgia School of Law where he served on the staff of the Georgia Law Review. Website: robertwhitlow.com; Twitter: @whitlowwriter; Facebook: robertwhitlowbooks.

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HIGHER HOPE

Thomas Nelson

Chapter One

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."

"She even organized a protest outside our corporate office."

"Myra, copy this list for Tami, divide the names, and interview all of them. There may be more. Get affidavits or recorded statements from those willing to sign one, then provide a summary to me."

"What are we asking them?" I asked.

"Everything you can think of," Mr. Carpenter said. "Don't let anyone try to tell you what they think is important; find out for yourself. Persistence is one of your strengths. Use it."

Mr. Carpenter's mind could race ahead so fast it was difficult to see more than a cloud of dust in the distance. If patient, I hoped a fuller explanation of my task would emerge when he came back into view. I pushed my long brown hair behind my ears.

"When do you want the summaries and affidavits?" Myra asked.

My stomach turned over. A twenty-three-year-old summer clerk wasn't supposed to work overtime, but Mr. Carpenter had started treating me more and more like a junior associate.

"In the next few weeks."

I sighed in relief.

"Why wait?" Paulding asked indignantly. "With what I've told you and prepared in advance, don't you have enough to file suit?"

"Our representation is similar to your company building a shopping center. We follow a carefully laid-out plan to make sure we're thorough."

"I don't want a fancy lawsuit that takes three years," Paulding said, his voice rising. "Last week this woman wrote my wife a letter accusing me of all kinds of stuff. I know how lawyers drag things out. If you're not going to do anything, I'll find a cheaper lawyer who will. I want a court order putting a stop to this. And I want it now!"

"No you don't," Mr. Carpenter replied calmly. "It's good for you and your business if Ms. Dabney continues."

"What?" Paulding burst out, the veins in his neck bulging. "That's crazy. Are you an idiot?"

Stretching my long fingers, I put my pen on the table, certain Paulding was about to be ushered out of the office. Mr. Carpenter had plenty of business; he didn't need to put up with abuse from a prospective client.

"Who referred you to me?" Mr. Carpenter asked calmly.

Paulding rubbed the top of his head. "Frank Newsome."

"Did he accuse me of wasting time by churning his file to make a big fee?"

"No."

"What did he tell you?"

"That you saved his company when he thought he was going to lose everything."

"How is his business doing now?"

"Fine. He does a lot of subcontracting work for us. The Dabney woman went to see him with one of her crazy visions. He ordered her out of his office and told me to call you."

Mr. Carpenter pointed at me. "Ms. Taylor can work on your file for a fraction of my hourly rate. Does that sound like I'm trying to take advantage of you?"

"No, but it doesn't make sense that you want this preacher woman running her mouth all over town. If this keeps up, she's going to hurt our business. She already has."

"Good, good, that's even better," Mr. Carpenter replied, holding up his hand before Paulding could explode again. "Hear me out. How much profit did you expect to make from the development your company was going to build on the site that included the church?"

"I gave up on that deal. The church parcel was in the middle of the entire tract. Without it, the project wouldn't work."

"Was it a good opportunity?"

"Yeah, one of the best ever."

"So, what did you hope to clear?"

Paulding scratched his chin. "At least a million and a half after costs, maybe more. The anchor tenants were already lined up."

"Would you still like the deal to go through?"

"Sure. We were counting on it so much that I passed on another great opportunity. The whole thing left us losing money for the quarter, probably for the year."

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 thousand 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 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.

"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 freelance 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."

Excerpted from HIGHER HOPEby ROBERT WHITLOW Copyright © 2009 by Robert Whitlow. Excerpted by permission.
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