Life Support

by Robert Whitlow

  Leggitt interrupted, his countenance grim. “I don’t want to hear your theories about this man’s consulting work. My concern is ethical. Did you do a conflicts check when you took the case?”

  “Of course. I ran a search on Gregory L. Simpson and his business, Simpco. We’ve never represented either him or his company. I didn’t check KalGo because I didn’t find out about it until shortly before trial. All I know is that it’s based in Texas.” Alexia paused, but her mental wheels kept turning. “Do we represent KalGo?”

  Leggitt’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward in his chair. “We did until about an hour ago. They were planning a major coastal development in the fifty to sixty million dollar range. This firm was going to handle the legal work, and I was going to serve on the board for a subsidiary corporation that would oversee local operations.”

  Alexia’s face was a shade paler. “With Greg Simpson?”

  “I don’t know about that, and it doesn’t matter at this point. Can you tell me why you didn’t do a conflicts check on KalGo once the name surfaced in the case?”

  Alexia spoke rapidly. “I couldn’t imagine that anything Simpson was involved in would be connected with this firm. He lies to everyone who will listen to him talk for five minutes.”

  Leggitt bristled. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

  Alexia swallowed and slowed down. “No, I didn’t check it. I was zealously representing my client and didn’t think about it.”

  “Your little area of practice is not what floats this boat, and you have to check out everything the women you represent tell you—”

  “This wasn’t based on what my client told me,” Alexia interrupted. “I discovered the information on my own.”

  “Which doesn’t help your case with me,” Mr. Leggitt shot back. “Admit it, Alexia. You dropped the ball. According to Killoran, Simpson owns a piece of the corporate pie and our knowledge of KalGo’s affairs is protected by the attorney-client relationship. You’ll probably be getting a motion to set aside the agreement you reached in the case based on allegations that you used privileged information to gain an unfair advantage in negotiations.”

  “How was I supposed to know about that?”

  “By checking for KalGo on the firm’s conflicts system. That’s what I did.”

  Mr. Leggitt slid a piece of paper across his desk toward her. Alexia picked it up and scanned down the column of names. It was a computer printout of the firm’s clients. A file for KalGo had been opened shortly before Marilyn Simpson hired Alexia in the divorce case. Mr. Leggitt was right. Once a conflict surfaced, Alexia was bound to withdraw from the divorce case based on the firm’s prior representation of the company. Even if the situation wasn’t known at first, she had an obligation to investigate a conflict of interest once it became a possible issue. There was one tiny loophole that might get her off the hook.

  “Is Greg Simpson mentioned in the records here at the office?” she asked.

  Mr. Leggitt patted a file on the corner of his desk. “Yes. Do you want to see for yourself?”

  Alexia shook her head. She was beaten.

  “What am I going to tell Marilyn Simpson?” she asked.

  “To get another lawyer. And I suggest that you be a lot more careful. The future of this firm is based on attracting top business clients and making them happy. That hasn’t happened today, and I’m holding you responsible.”

  At that moment it was easy to see what had happened, but as Alexia picked her way forward in search of evidence in the Simpson case it hadn’t been so crystal clear. She decided to try another angle of postmortem justification.

  “Mr. Leggitt,” she began, but the look in the senior partner’s eyes stopped her. “Uh, I’m sorry. I’ll be more careful.”

  “Alright. But I’ll have to bring this up at the next partners’ meeting. You have cost the firm a considerable sum today, and this will have to be considered when discussing your future role here. I’ll explain what you did the best I can, but I’m not sure how the others will respond.”

  Her triumph turned into a fiasco, Alexia slunk from the office. She was used to building on victories, not trying to recoup after a defeat. She felt sorry for herself; she felt sorry for Marilyn Simpson. The woman’s next lawyer wouldn’t have the element of surprise in ambushing Greg Simpson, and the businessman could use the intervening time to construct a better labyrinth of deception to conceal his true financial resources. As she walked down the hallway, her embarrassment turned into anger.

  She passed Gwen’s desk without speaking and slammed the door to her office so hard that the frame containing her collage of European travel pictures tilted to one side. The settlement documents in the Simpson case mocked her from the tray of her laser printer. Alexia picked up the papers and threw them in the trash can. On the desk in front of her chair was a motion faxed to her by Greg Simpson’s lawyer while she talked to Ralph Leggitt. Sure enough, Byron Smith wanted to set aside the agreement reached in front of the judge based on “unethical use of confidential information obtained by opposing counsel.”

  Alexia sat down in her chair and picked up the bone-handled dagger from Kenya she used as a letter opener. As she passed the dagger back and forth from one hand to the other, her anger turned inward. She was mad. First at herself for being so focused on blowing up Greg Simpson’s deceit that she didn’t consider the possibility that the businesses she uncovered might have links to Leggitt & Freeman. But she was also mad at Ralph Leggitt. Alexia had made a mistake, but the real reason for Mr. Leggitt’s rebuke was pure, narrow-minded greed. The canons of ethics were a hypocritical rationale for a self-serving motive. All the senior partner cared about was having his slice of every pie the firm baked.

  Alexia put the dagger back in the top drawer of her desk and dialed Marilyn Simpson’s number. It took more than forty-five minutes to explain what had happened. Twice, her client started crying, and Alexia had to wait until Marilyn regained her composure before continuing. Alexia didn’t want to cry; she wanted to bite a nail in two. She gave Marilyn the names of the only two local divorce lawyers whom Alexia respected. Hopefully, one of them would be willing to take on the case and straighten out the mess.

  When she hung up the phone, Alexia looked at the clock on the wall. It wasn’t time to leave for the day, but she was emotionally exhausted. Her anger and frustration were spent. Preparing for the trial had been enough; coping with the aftermath was worse. She put a file that she needed to review in her briefcase so she could look it over at home. She had an important hearing on the following week’s court calendar and had a lot of work to do.

  She stopped briefly at Gwen’s desk.

  “I’m gone for the day. I need a swim and a bubble bath.”

  “Do I need to call a repairman to fix your door?”

  Alexia glanced over her shoulder. “Was it that loud?”

  Gwen nodded. “What happened?”

  Alexia leaned against the wall and sighed. “Mr. Leggitt called me into his office and chewed me out. Marilyn Simpson’s husband is involved in a business the firm represents, so I’m going to have to withdraw from the case.”

  “Oh, no! Will he be able to weasel out of the agreement?”

  “Probably. I’ve already received a fax from Byron Smith. He’s filing a motion to set it aside.”

  Gwen frowned. “That stinks,” she said. “Marilyn is a nice woman.”

  “Yes, and I feel terrible about it. I’ve had enough of the law for today.”

  A moment after Alexia left, Leonard Mitchell came out of his office and saw her turning the corner at the end of the hall.

  “Where is Alexia going?” he asked Gwen. “It’s not time to go home.”

  Gwen quickly diverted his curiosity with a question.

  “Do you want me to use the same restrictive covenants in Kettle Creek Estates and Bent Tree Country Club?”

  “No. I need to tweak them a bit. The power of the architectural control committee at Bent Tree is g
oing to be slightly different.”

  Alexia lived fifteen minutes from the office. After paying off a small student loan, she had saved enough money to purchase a lot overlooking a coastal marsh. Two years later she built a modest but stylish house with a mortgage that wouldn’t sink her in debt like bricks in tidewater mud.

  She drove south on Highway 17, the main roadway that connected the coastal communities, until she reached a narrow, roughly paved road with a crooked sign that read “Pelican Point Drive.” A developer had intended the road to be the main access point for a small, exclusive community, but two bad investments in other projects sent him into bankruptcy, and no bulldozers had rumbled down Pelican Point. Alexia bought her lot directly from the bankruptcy court trustee and took her chances on the property’s future. With the general increase in land prices along the coast there was little risk that the tract would be turned into a mobile home park. When it eventually filled with expensive homes, the value of Alexia’s house would skyrocket.

  She drove a half-mile to the edge of the marsh and turned left on an unmarked byway covered with broken seashells that crunched under the tires of her car. Her house was the only dwelling on the road. It was an isolated spot without friendly neighbors, but Alexia wasn’t afraid. In the spring and fall she occasionally slept on her screen porch in a Pawley’s Island hammock. It was like camping out at the beach without the hassle of sand in a sleeping bag.

  Many people who moved to the coast wanted to live directly on the ocean. Local residents often preferred the marshes. In the backwater areas there was less chance of devastation from hurricanes and storm tides, and the marsh offered a subtle variety of life. The ocean left nothing to the imagination; the marsh reserved its beauty for a careful observer. The marsh had moods. The grasses and reeds responded to the slightest breeze. The ebb and flow of the tide gave texture to the picture God painted. And a sunset over the marsh dared all competitors.

  Birds, crabs, fish, and other creatures made homes in the marsh. Herons, egrets, and even an occasional alligator were familiar neighbors. Channels intersected the marsh in every direction. Alexia had a flat-bottomed boat with a tiny motor. She didn’t like to fish, but she would navigate the channels at high tide, cut the engine, and quietly drift through the reeds. During those moments she felt very small in the midst of a big universe.

  The design of Alexia’s house maximized its proximity to the wetlands. It was built on tall concrete pillars covered with stucco, and she parked her car underneath. The living room featured a large picture window through which she had an unobstructed view of several hundred yards of marsh and the barrier island that served as a buffer to the ocean beyond. The kitchen was on the opposite end of the house from the porch. It jutted out slightly to accommodate a glass-walled breakfast nook that seemed to hang in the air. It was a great spot for a cup of coffee in the morning but tended to get too warm in the late afternoon. Also on the main floor were a guest bedroom to the rear of the house and a den that Alexia used for storage. A wooden deck extended across the rear of the house. It was often covered with birdseed from the feeders Alexia put up. Containers of red liquid for hummingbirds stood at opposite ends of the deck.

  The entire upstairs was devoted to the master suite and another guest bedroom. It was a third the size of the downstairs area and from the outside gave the house the look of a gray top hat. When Alexia sat up in bed, she could see the marsh, and she often woke up with the sun streaming through the windows.

  Alexia walked up the stairs to her front door. During the drive home, her remaining anger had simmered into a malaise mixed with a touch of depression. As soon as she opened the front door, she was greeted with unfeigned exuberance by Boris, her three-year-old black Labrador. The dog was unaware of the facts of the Simpson case or the tongue-lashing Alexia had received from Ralph Leggitt. His affection was unconditional. Alexia grabbed the dog’s head between her hands and lowered her face so he could lick her nose.

  “I love you, too,” she said. “Even if you forget to do a conflict of interest check.”

  She opened the door, and Boris ran down the steps. Alexia kicked off her shoes and walked across the living room into the kitchen where she was greeted by Misha, her silver Persian cat. Misha welcomed her by stretching her body and rubbing Alexia’s leg. Alexia leaned over and stroked her pet’s head and back.

  “Did you have a rough day?” she asked sympathetically.

  Misha answered with a deep-throated rumble.

  “It’s tough lying in your bed and sleeping in the warm sun, isn’t it?”

  The cat slipped away from Alexia’s hand and ran to the back door that opened onto the deck. Alexia let her out, and a few birds scattered at the cat’s appearance. They needn’t have bothered. Misha wasn’t interested in hunting wild game. She preferred the tasty food in her dish and didn’t expend the energy necessary to stalk one of Alexia’s feathered guests. Boris scrambled down the steps to the sandy soil below. Misha followed at a more sedate pace.

  Alexia watched a ruby-throated hummingbird finish a quick drink and zoom away to a resting place in a nearby live oak tree. By having a feeder at each end of the deck she’d been able to attract four birds. The dominant male in the group, a robust little fellow, couldn’t guard both feeders at once, and there was a place for the other birds to enjoy a sip. Alexia walked over to the railing and looked to the west. It was close to 5 P.M., and the sun was descending rapidly toward the horizon over the tops of the trees along the coastal highway. A few cirrus clouds high in the sky promised a nice sunset in an hour or two.

  Safe within the refuge of her home, Alexia moved from emotion to analysis. Some mistakes in a law practice produced immediate and short-lived consequences. Others had a longer shelf life. The Simpson case would probably fall in that middle range. Marilyn Simpson would have to hire another lawyer, and Alexia might become a witness required to testify that she had not relied on privileged information in cross-examining Greg Simpson or negotiating with his lawyer. It would be an embarrassing scenario in front of Judge Garland, who respected Alexia’s legal ability and ethical integrity.

  In addition, there might be a complaint filed by Simpson’s lawyer with the state bar association. Alexia grimaced. The notification letter would be circulated among the lawyers at Leggitt & Freeman, and the other attorneys would self-righteously shake their heads at her indiscretion while ignoring worse violations that lurked in their own filing cabinets. A volunteer member of the local bar committee would conduct a cursory investigation, and Alexia would have to write a letter of explanation. In the end, a bureaucrat in Columbia would send out a generic warning admonishing her to be more careful in the future. The experience would be unpleasant from start to finish.

  Misha pattered up the steps and waited at the door for Alexia to let her in. The cat had an uncomplicated, carefully ordered life. She ate when hungry, slept on her own schedule, and enjoyed a regular back scratch. Panting loudly, Boris joined her. He was wired for adventure, and if he could talk would have told Alexia what he saw at the edge of the water in run-on sentences. Her pets always had a way of soothing Alexia’s nerves and giving her perspective. She patted Boris’s head.

  “Let’s go inside for a drink of cool water.”

  5

  Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

  ROMEO AND JULIET, ACT 1, SCENE 4

  The repeated rushes of adrenaline that had coursed through Rena’s veins over the past hour were gone, and the climb up the trail from the waterfall proved more strenuous than she had anticipated. Breathing heavily, she stopped at the top of the ridge and wiped away the perspiration that had beaded on her forehead. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through the upper left side of her chest, and her hand went to the area over her heart. A heart attack was not part of her plan. She leaned against the smooth trunk of a young tree and waited for the pain to diminish, but it increased. Her left arm began to tingle.

  Rena closed her eyes, and her mind returned to the shadow world
where her connection with reality teetered as unsteadily as Baxter at the edge of the cliff. She saw herself, pale and unmoving, lying in the newly fallen leaves. Rescue workers came on the scene and rushed over to her. One man knelt down and put his fingers on the side of her neck for several seconds and then looked up at his companions and shook his head. She could hear their voices.

  “She’s gone. No pulse.”

  The man in charge of the rescue squad spoke. “It looks like she came up the path from Double-Barrel Falls. Her husband may be down there somewhere. Three of you take out her body, and the rest of us will search for him.”

  Rena saw herself gently lifted in the arms of the three pallbearers who laid her gently on a stretcher that would serve as her woodland bier. She would be viewed as a heroine. A woman who died trying to climb out and find help for her husband.

  Behind her closed eyelids, Rena could hear her heart beating in veto of a heart attack. She made herself breathe slowly, hoping the chest pain would pass. Still leaning against the tree, she waited. Minutes ticked by. Finally the pain retreated, and Rena took a deep breath. She was not going to die. The discomfort she’d felt was probably just a complaining muscle. The images of her death faded. She was in good physical condition, and her body recovered quickly from strenuous exercise. Her heart rate returned to normal, and she resumed her march to the parking lot at the trailhead.

  After the steep ascent, the trail was generally flat as it ran along the ridge line. Over and over as she walked along, Rena rehearsed the words she intended to use when asked about the day’s events. She had to be appropriately distraught to match expectations of a grieving bride, yet sufficiently circumspect to avoid statements that might implicate her in her husband’s death. Natural sympathy would be her ally, factual guilt her foe. She knew everything depended on maintaining a simple theme: It was all a tragic accident. There was nothing she could have done to prevent it.