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  “Glad to meet you,” Jeff said, moving to a vacant seat directly across from the two. The band had begun to play, and the other students who were seated there had either departed for the evening or were on the dance floor, leaving only the three of them at the table. Looking at Scott, Jeff added, “You said you loved me. Does that mean you’ll dismiss those charges against young and innocent Charles Vandera?”

  “I said I loved you like a brother, not a mother,” Scott said, and then added, “We’re going to trial Wednesday. No more continuances, no more BS, no more of your delaying tactics. Time he does the time.”

  “What’s this all about? Dismiss charges? Going to trial?” Jennifer turned and looked at Scott.

  “Jeff and I are in our second semester of the Criminal Law Clinic. Jeff is in the Public Defender Clinic. I’m in the Prosecution Clinic—the good guys. We get to try criminal cases in the Chatham County courts, and we’re on the same case, involving one Charles Vandera, who burglarized a CVS drug store in Savannah.”

  “Allegedly burglarized the store,” interrupted Jeff.

  “OK, allegedly burglarized the store. Anyway, we were in the summer clinic when we first got the case. The case is ready for trial. I’m prosecuting the case; he’s defending the creep. And that’s why we’re no longer roommates.”

  “You had a falling out over the case?”

  “No, not a falling out. We just thought it might be an ethical problem: client phone calls to the shared apartment and the necessary phone conversations with witnesses, supervising attorneys, and so forth. We decided it best to find other housing arrangements. Besides, Jeff’s a slob and a lousy cook and always late paying his rent. Right, Jeff?”

  “Well, I never thought of myself as all that bad of a cook, but a slob and deadbeat... yes. But Scott is a snorer, loud, really loud, so I was glad to get out of that apartment. Have you ever tried to sleep with him?”

  “Jeff, you’re out of order. Jennifer, I apologize again for my degenerate ex-roommate. Jeff, you also apologize to Jennifer.”

  “Right; sorry, Jen. I’d better be going. Got work to do. Scott, old buddy, I’ll see you in court—Wednesday, unless you’re willing to grant me a two-week continuance in the name of justice and fairness and whatever. We still need some witness round-up time.”

  “That’s up to the judge, but I’ll oppose it. You’ve already had a continuance and you’ve had plenty of ‘round-up time.’ Be ready and beware,” Scott said, as Jeff was getting up to leave. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “Not too late to take the pretrial.”

  “Not my choice, but I can tell you, no way. He still claims he’s innocent. He said to take that pretrial and stuff it up your... oops, sorry, Jen. I’m outta here.” With that, Jeff pushed his chair back under the table and walked out.

  Scott turned to Jennifer. “I’m going to have a draft. What would you like?

  “I think I’ll have some iced tea,” said Jennifer.

  Scott called a waitress over, and they ordered.

  “You actually are going to try a felony case before you even graduate from law school? I thought the clinic students only tried DUIs and such... misdemeanors. You have to tell me about this.”

  “About ‘this’? You mean the clinics?” asked Scott.

  “Yes. You’re already doing what I can only hope to do after graduation.”

  “So, you already have the bug. Good. And that’s the beauty of our clinics. You get a chance to go to the ball early on and see if you can dance. Some can’t. No rhythm. Or don’t have the stomach for the pressure. A clinic semester gives you time to head in another direction when job interviews and summer clerkships come up.”

  “OK, true, maybe I’ll find out that I don’t have ‘the rhythm,’ as you call it—or the stomach for it. But right now that’s what I want to do. So, are you going to tell me about that burglary trial?”

  “Of course. If you really are interested. I don’t want to bore you. Would you have some time Sunday afternoon? I’m going to be working on the case in one of the campus courtrooms. I’ll be practicing the opening statement. You could listen and give me a critique.”

  “I don’t claim to know enough to critique, but I really would like to listen. Tell me when and where.”

  Scott was intrigued. She seemed sincerely interested in this trial. But what was he thinking? He was seated next to the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and he had allowed the conversation to drift into work, school, and careers. Dumb. He wanted to know more about Jennifer.

  The waitress brought their drinks. “I have Thomas Courthouse reserved from four to five on Sunday,” Scott said. “That’s the white-columned building by the school fountain. Can you make it then?”

  “Sure.”

  “Now, with that settled, tell me about Jennifer Stone,” said Scott. “We’ve been talking about me and my trial. And I apologize. I want to hear about you. Where is home? Family? Where did you go to undergrad? How did you end up at Savannah Law?”

  Scott and Jennifer were now sitting alone at the end of the table. Before Jennifer could answer, Scott saw Jaak walking toward them. Jennifer looked up and gave Jaak a big smile.

  “Hi, Jaak,” she said.

  Astonished, Scott looked from one to the other. “You two know each other?”

  “Of course; we go back quite a way,” Jaak replied, with a grin. And with that, Jennifer got up and gave Jaak a hug.

  Rising quickly to his feet and extending his hand to Jaak, Scott said, “Jaak, no offense, but please, no hug.” And then, with eyes shifting from one to the other, he added, “What gives?” Scott had known Jennifer for less than a day. She had been at Savannah Law less than a week. He had spent all day introducing first-year students to the law school and its surroundings. Only by accident had he now the good fortune to be spending the evening with this charming young lady. He hoped he wasn’t being set up for some joke, but it did briefly cross his mind.

  Still standing, and with one hand lightly resting on Jennifer’s back, Jaak replied, “Jennifer and I are sworn to secrecy, but if she wants to share it with you, it’s OK with me. You and I go back a way too, Scott.”

  “Then sit down and join us, Jaak.” As soon as they were seated, Scott said, “Jaak, I would offer to buy you a drink, but this place sells only watered-down beer and jug wine, and I know you have more sophisticated tastes.”

  Jaak laughed.

  “I’d just asked Jennifer to tell me about herself and her family and how she came to Savannah Law. But now I learn that you already know her.”

  Jaak smiled, looked over at Jennifer and nodded, indicating the missing story was for her telling.

  “Hometown, St. Louis. My dad was a high school teacher and principal, and my mother ran an art studio. I was an only child—came along late in my folks’ marriage. They thought they couldn’t have children, and then I arrived. I was their ‘miracle,’ so they spoiled me rotten.”

  Scott smiled. “You admit to being ‘spoiled rotten’?”

  “Absolutely. They catered to my every whim. And they gave me the best of everything they could afford—private school, piano lessons, art lessons, voice lessons, tennis lessons—you name it. But I recognized early on how lucky I was to have them as parents. They really sacrificed for me. A child can be spoiled and still be grateful. I was determined not to act like a spoiled child.”

  “Did you succeed?” asked Scott.

  “Probably not, but I’m still trying.”

  “Good. Law school’s not a place for a spoiled child. Just how did you end up here at Savannah Law?”

  “Location. Decided to stay close to my parents.”

  “You said they were in St. Louis.”

  “But they’re at Hilton Head now. They went there for their honeymoon. They fell in love with the island and returned every summer, eventually purchasing a lot to build on. That was over thirty years ago, before real estate at Hilton Head was priced out of reach for those like my mom and dad. They built a house
and moved there the week after my high school graduation.”

  “And you... where did you go?”

  “I went with them that summer, trying to decide what to do about college. I had been admitted to Washington University in St. Louis, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted to study. I enjoyed art but wasn’t much of an artist. My mother was—had her own shop. I worked in it in high school and thought I could be satisfied and successful, managing an art studio. So, when they moved to Hilton Head, I enrolled at Savannah College of Art and Design.”

  Scott interrupted. “You came to law school from an art school? Right here in Savannah?”

  “Yep, that’s right.”

  “How did that quirky turn in your career choice come about?” Scott asked.

  “Quirky? Well, I suppose it is a bit unusual, from an art school to law school. Do you really want to know? I don’t want to bore you with the details of my quirky change of careers.”

  “Poor choice of words, good choice of careers,” replied Scott. “And I stand chastened. But, yes, I’d like to hear about your, shall I say, ‘refreshingly unusual,’ path to Savannah Law.”

  “Well, that’s where Jaak enters the picture. During my first year in the basic architectural history course, we were divided into teams to visit at least three historical churches or synagogues in Savannah. We had to submit a team report on the architectural significance of each. The first one on our list was Ascension Lutheran on Wright Square. We called the church, asking permission to visit. Jaak was a member of the church council and volunteered to be our tour guide. Oldest church elevator in the country, right, Jaak?”

  “That’s what the elevator company says—1928.”

  “But apparently you’ve seen each other since then,” said Scott.

  “Yes, Jaak told us about his ‘Library’ and invited our team to come see the building. He said it would be a good study for our class. It was. We visited several times, and I later wrote a report on it for my class.”

  “So that’s what Jaak meant when he said you and he go back a way?”

  “Well, yes and no,” replied Jennifer. “What he meant was more than that. Remember, I said Jaak was indirectly responsible for my being in law school rather than running some art shop in Hilton Head. I’ll just have to tell you later. It concerns a visit I had to an old courthouse, and it’s a bit involved. Well, ‘involved’ is not the right word, but it does take a bit of explanation. It’s been a long day, and I need to be heading home.”

  “Fuck you, you fucking asshole,” roared a young man in a faded denim jacket several tables away. He was standing, fists clenched, staring at another young man in a Chicago Bears T-shirt who had his right arm extended as if to offer a hand shake. Several young men were standing around the two.

  “Excuse me,” Jaak said, as he got up and left the table.

  All eyes were on Jaak as he approached the confrontation. The regulars knew what was coming. They had seen Jaak defuse such situations before.

  “Let’s all have a seat,” said Jaak.

  All those standing immediately took a seat in one of the oak chairs at the nearby table. All except the young man in the faded denim jacket. He remained standing, but the intensity of his gaze was now a bit diminished and scattered.

  “I said, take a seat.”

  Jaak was staring straight into the young man’s eyes. As if hypnotized, he immediately sat. Whether it was from the force of Jaak’s voice or the absence of any support system from those who had already taken a seat, his strident attitude immediately became one of compliance. He looked around for a friendly eye and found none.

  “You are a student here at Savannah Law?” Jaak asked.

  The young man nodded.

  “Is this your first visit to our Library?”

  The young man looked around, furtively. Again he found no sympathetic eye. “Yes,” he answered.

  “First semester here at Savannah Law?”

  “Yes, sir.” This was his first “sir,” but sooner or later it always happened at these encounters between Jaak and an unruly customer.

  “Did you see the sign at the entrance, ‘Profane or obscene language is prohibited in the Library’?” Jaak was not just making idle chatter; there was indeed such a sign in the alcove, over the door leading into the bar.

  “No, sir.”

  “Can you think of any reason there should be such a sign?”

  The young man shifted uneasily in his seat before answering, “Because there may be ladies present, I suppose.”

  Jaak responded sharply, “No, sir, wrong answer. Not because there may be ladies present, but because there may be ladies or gentlemen present.”

  The young man raised his eyelids then quickly lowered them.

  “Did you come to the Library with the person who was the target of your outburst?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I can only assume he’s a friend.” Jaak sought and found the eyes of the man in the Bears T-shirt. “I believe you were extending your hand in a gesture of friendship earlier. Would you care to do so again?”

  “Sure, no problem.” He extended his hand.

  The young man in the denim jacket, embarrassed and still a little angry, reluctantly put his hand out to end the confrontation.

  “I don’t care about the reason for your disagreement, nor your names,” said Jaak. “I would just prefer to meet you again under more agreeable circumstances.” Then, addressing no one in particular, he added, “All of you are welcome in the Library. I just ask that you acknowledge the sign at the entrance. I can assure you that when we are open, there will always be a gentleman present.”

  Jaak motioned to a waitress who had been listening at a safe distance. “Millie, come and take their orders.”

  As he turned to leave, Jaak was pleased to hear the young man in the denim jacket ask his friend in the Bears T-shirt, “Ben, what will you have? I’m buying.”

  When Jaak arrived back at Scott’s table, Jennifer was absent, having just left for the ladies’ room. “Glad to see you haven’t lost your touch, Jaak,” Scott said.

  “No, I guess I haven’t. Defusing testosterone-spiked egos is getting old. But you know, Scott, I’m a bit disappointed in the latest crop of foul mouths. They are so uninspired—they lack creativity. I saw in the newspaper, just a day or so ago, an account of an interview with Dean Adams. He said the average LSAT and GPA at Savannah Law had increased significantly over the past three years, but that guy’s simple obscenity was no improvement. He’s using ‘fuck’ as a verb and an adjective. Three years ago, near that same table, we had a first-semester student deride his drinking buddy with, ‘Fuck you, you fucking fuck!’ Now that was a classy obscenity—a verb, adjective, and a noun, and only two extraneous words. Admittedly, hard to improve on that, but this latest crop of foul mouths don’t seem to be trying.”

  The twinkle in Jaak’s eyes was soon replaced with a solid and deep laugh, joined by Scott’s.

  Jennifer returned to the table and asked about the disturbance.

  “It appeared to be quite minor,” Jaak replied. “I doubt if either will remember it tomorrow.”

  “Speaking of tomorrow,” said Jennifer, “I’ve got a full day of class preparation. If I read every case I’m assigned to read, it will take me until midnight—and that assumes I’m up at six. This is fun, but I really must be going.”

  “A law student’s life, Jaak, early to bed, early to rise,” said Scott. “Time I headed out, too.”

  “There’s still a bit of moisture in the air,” Jaak said. “Scott, grab an umbrella on your way out. You are responsible for getting Jennifer home, safe and dry.”

  Jaak had an ample supply of umbrellas in the Library alcove, stored in two large antique copper milk cans. A sign on each milk can read:

  Take as Needed but Please Return

  Jaak started this service with a half-dozen umbrellas, purchased just for that purpose. Over time, more umbrellas were brought in than were taken, and now th
e supply had grown to a couple dozen. Scott grabbed one as he and Jennifer walked out onto the street.

  CHAPTER 3

  The sky was pitch-black, and although the heavy rain had subsided, a light rain was still falling. A gusty breeze made Jaak’s admonishment to keep Jennifer dry difficult. Jennifer had parked in the school’s main parking lot, several blocks from the Library. Scott wished he had a flashlight, as visibility was severely limited despite street lights on each corner. Two years on the campus had given Scott a perfect sense of direction, but he couldn’t navigate around every puddle that the earlier heavy rain had left.

  Holding the umbrella in his left hand and mostly over Jennifer’s head, he placed his right arm around her waist—not an intentional gesture but merely a reflex as he sought to protect her from the wind-driven rain that was whipping against them. Maybe it was his imagination, but she seemed to move closer against his body as they walked. He could feel her warmth, and he became oblivious to the moisture that was beginning to cover his shirt. The summer night’s rain brought a respite from the day’s sweltering heat, and the short walk in the rain was invigorating. They made light conversation about the uniqueness of Jaak’s Library, and one or the other, with a laugh, would point out an approaching puddle to avoid. At each puddle, Scott would demonstrate his “chivalrous nature” by pulling Jennifer toward him to avoid the obstacle. Jennifer found it easy to oblige. Neither minded that they were slowly but surely getting drenched.

  The parking lot had a single halogen light in the center, and with the rainy overcast, it provided only limited illumination. Jennifer’s 2004 Toyota Camry was on a dimly lit far side. When they finally arrived at the car, Jennifer quickly slipped into the driver’s seat and rolled down her window. Scott reminded her of their agreement to meet Sunday at Thomas Courthouse.