Chapter 5 - The Division of DocksThe live oaks in Johnson Square were shedding their winter leaves when the commercial partition sale of 814 Live Oak Drive concluded on the third Tuesday of December.

The auction took place on the marble steps of the Chatham County Courthouse, conducted by a licensed master commissioner in equity with a silver-plated gavel that had been used for maritime arbitrations since 1892.

Arthur Vance, my attorney and the trustee of my father’s legacy estate, stood beside me on the portico.

I was on my feet now, leaning lightly on a dark walnut cane that my father had carved from a fallen branch on the Altamaha River forty years ago, my wool winter coat wrapped tightly against the river breeze.

Across the brick plaza, standing behind the iron fence that separated the public square from the judicial annex, stood Blake Sterling.

He had been released on bond forty-eight hours earlier after his father’s brother—a retired dentist from Macon—had mortgaged his personal clinic to post the cash surety. Blake wore a cheap off-the-rack blue suit from a department store in Pooler; his tailored flannel was still in the evidence locker at the sheriff's department, labeled EXHIBIT NINE: MATERNAL FLUID RESIDUE.

He had lost twenty-five pounds. His collar was two inches too wide for his neck, his jaw was covered in patchy, graying stubble, and his hands, thrust deep into his trouser pockets, were trembling with that rhythmic, permanent tremor common to men who have spent three weeks in county detention listening to the steel doors slam.

He did not look at me. He could not.

Under the terms of his protective order, if his gaze lingered on my face for more than three seconds, the two plainclothes deputies standing twenty feet behind him on the curb had orders to revoke his bond and return him to Cell 4B before the auctioneer could strike the block.

"The bidding is currently at seven hundred and forty thousand dollars," the commissioner called out, his voice carrying over the rumble of the container trucks moving toward the river terminals. "Held by the representative from the Coastal Georgia Land Trust. Do I hear seven-fifty? Seven-fifty from the floor?"

Calloway, standing five feet to Blake’s left, shook his head once—a sharp, disgusted jerk of his chin.

"Sold," the commissioner cried, the silver gavel striking the mahogany sounding block with a sharp, final CRACK. "For seven hundred and forty thousand dollars, to the Coastal Georgia Land Trust. Conveyance by master's deed, clear of all prior encumbrances, liens, and spousal tenancies."

Arthur Vance made a small, precise notation in his leather-bound journal.

"The title is stripped, Clara," Arthur said, his voice quiet, dry, and thoroughly satisfied. "The net proceeds after the commissioner's fees and the outstanding municipal utilities will be four hundred and eighty thousand dollars."

"And the distribution?" I asked.

"Two hundred and forty thousand directly to the Arthur and Julian Vance Trust at SunTrust Bank," Arthur said. "Protected by an irrevocable spent-thrift provision that prevents Blake, Diane, or their creditors from touching a single cent until the boys reach the age of twenty-five."

"And Blake's half?"

Arthur smiled—a thin, gray line that showed none of his teeth.

"Blake’s half was attached by the hospital’s collection attorneys forty minutes ago," he said. "The surgical bill was eighty-four thousand. The Level Three NICU charges for sixty days of dual neonatal intensive care were one hundred and ninety-two thousand. Blake’s share leaves him owing the hospital thirty-six thousand dollars, which Dr. Eleanor Vance’s practice group has already referred to the state department of revenue for wage garnishment."

I looked across the square.

Blake was walking away now, his cheap blue suit flapping in the river wind, his head down, his shoulders hunched as he walked toward the bus stop on Whitaker Street.

He had no car. The Mercedes was parked in the county impound lot behind the jail, held under an evidentiary hold until the criminal trial in March. He had no house; the plywood on the front door of Live Oak Drive was being replaced that afternoon by the land trust’s renovation crew, who planned to turn the property into a transitional shelter for women recovering from domestic violence.

And he had no name on the docks.

The Savannah Maritime Exchange had met on Monday morning; under the character-and-fitness provisions of the harbor commission charter, Blake’s commercial broker’s license had been revoked indefinitely following his felony indictment.

He was thirty-two years old, twenty-five thousand dollars in debt to his defense counsel, thirty-six thousand dollars in debt to the hospital that saved his sons, and his mother was currently awaiting trial on a criminal summons that would likely put her in an institutional jumpsuit before the azaleas bloomed in Forsyth Park.

"Clara," Arthur said gently, touching my elbow. "The van is here. The nurses said the boys are ready for their afternoon feed."

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I turned my back on Johnson Square, on the courthouse steps, and on the ghost of Blake Sterling walking toward the bus stop.

I climbed into the passenger seat of Arthur’s station wagon, laid my walnut cane across the floorboards, and closed the heavy steel door against the wind.