Life Support

by Robert Whitlow

  “Yes; however, I won’t be involved as the primary attorney in this situation. Mr. Leggitt is the one who handles your family’s legal matters.”

  Rena frowned. “I’ve never met him and don’t want him to know what I told you.”

  Alexia hesitated, but at its core, the privilege was personal to her, not to the law firm.

  “Then I won’t tell him or anyone else in the firm without your permission.”

  “Thanks,” Rena said with relief. “Like I said. I need someone I can trust.”

  13

  Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him.

  PSALM 37:7

  Alexia stepped into the hallway and called Ralph Leggitt. She tapped her foot nervously on the shiny floor while waiting for the call to reach the senior partner’s office.

  “What’s happening?” Leggitt asked brusquely.

  “An uneasy truce. I was able to stick to our first game plan and assist the Richardsons as the family lawyer. They had a few tense exchanges, but there is no open conflict. The doctors are calling the shots.”

  Alexia quickly summarized the discussion of the legal documents and the meeting with the physicians.

  “I’ve been here several hours since we met with the doctors and don’t think anything else is going to happen,” she concluded.

  She stopped talking and listened to silence. Ralph Leggitt was either thinking or preparing to explode.

  “Okay, that’s fine,” he said. “It may not come to war. It sounds like you’ve done all you can do at this time. Come back to Santee.”

  “How do I travel?”

  “I’ll have my secretary hire another private flight. It should be arranged by the time you reach the airport.”

  Relieved, Alexia put her cell phone in her purse. She returned to the ICU waiting area and gave her contact numbers to both Ezra and Rena. As she drove to the airport in her rental car, she decided the best course of action would be for Ralph Leggitt to deal directly with Ezra Richardson. If called upon, Alexia could step in and hold Rena’s hand, but the Richardsons needed a group of attorneys to advise them. There would be safety in numbers.

  The pilot who flew Alexia from Greenville to Santee wore a clean white shirt and dark tie. His company owned a bigger plane than Mo Reynolds, and she shared the passenger cabin with two businessmen who were going to play golf at Litchfield the following day. They tried to engage her in small talk, but Alexia wasn’t interested. She let the roar of the engine silence any attempt at conversation.

  It was late afternoon when she landed in Santee, and Alexia didn’t return to the office. She’d given enough of herself to the cause of Leggitt & Freeman for one day. She drove home and changed into comfortable clothes. Sitting on her screen porch with a glass of wine in her hand, she watched the dance of the marsh grass in the evening breeze. Misha purred in her lap, and Boris lay quietly at her feet. She let the cleansing wind from the ocean wash over her soul.

  Rena’s secret was a heavy burden. The young woman faced staggering problems, and Alexia felt drained by her contact with her. Alexia stayed on the porch until the air grew cool. She emptied her glass a second time, but the relief she sought didn’t come. Evil had come to her sanctuary, and there was no barricade to keep it out. She went to bed and had fitful dreams without resolution.

  The following morning Gwen greeted her in a conspiratorial tone.

  “How did it go?”

  In the light of a new day, Alexia managed a smile. “The sisters held together.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me. Is the husband going to make it?”

  “Don’t know. The first couple of days are the most critical. He passed one hurdle, but his condition is terrible. He’s in a deep coma and probably quadriplegic. If he wakes up, there is the possibility of serious brain damage.”

  “They never give any details on the radio,” Gwen said with frustration.

  “You know to keep it quiet,” Alexia reminded.

  “Of course,” Gwen sniffed. “I know the rules.”

  Alexia leaned against the secretary’s desk. “I’m feeling a lot of pressure and don’t want to step out of bounds. It’s different from the typical situation. The stakes are higher than usual.”

  Gwen nodded. “Someone’s life is hanging by a thread.”

  “Yes. I guess that’s it.”

  Alexia picked up a stack of phone messages from the corner of Gwen’s desk and began to leaf through them.

  “Did anything horrible happen while I was gone?” she asked.

  “No. It was a quiet day. Marilyn Simpson hired the lawyer you suggested. I’ll copy the file and send it over to him this afternoon.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And Barbara Kensington gave me the name of a character witness for her case.”

  “Who is it?”

  Gwen raised her eyebrows. “A minister.”

  Alexia groaned. Clergy and priests uniformly testified about their parishioners in glowing terms that frequently contradicted other evidence so dramatically that the ministers’ credibility slid to the bottom of the scale with their testimony ultimately ignored by the judge.

  “You know that’s no good,” she said.

  “He’s not a preacher. He plays the piano and leads the choir. Barbara says he also does remodeling work on the side.”

  “A musical Jesus figure,” Alexia grunted. “Does he walk on water?”

  Gwen smiled. “You’ll have to ask him. He works at Sandy Flats Church on McBee Road. He’s usually there in the late afternoon.”

  “Do you have a phone number?”

  “Only for the church.”

  “Call and see if I can meet with him this afternoon on my way home. It’s not far out of my way.”

  “Will do. And Bert Nixon called. If I had to guess, he has tickets to a classical music thing in Charleston and wants you to go with him on Saturday night.”

  Bert Nixon was a successful young stockbroker who thought it worthwhile to invest time in Alexia. They’d gone out for dinner twice in the past two months, but Alexia wasn’t sure she wanted to buy what Bert was offering. She raised her eyebrows.

  “That is quite a detailed guess. Are you talking about the woodwind ensemble from Houston that’s in town for a couple of performances?”

  Gwen grinned. “Hey, you should be flattered. Bert’s obviously trying to fit into your mold, so he can spend time with you. He is very polite and friendly when he calls. I like ’60s beach music, but if a man like him wanted me to listen to an oboe for a couple of hours, I’d say yes.”

  Alexia took the slip with Bert’s phone number on it. “I’ll think about it. You know, I leave for France the following day, so it may not work out.”

  “Don’t break his heart without a good reason,” Gwen admonished. “Oh, you also have a voice mail from a possible new client.”

  “Who?”

  Gwen resumed her conspiratorial voice. “Eleanor Vox.”

  Alexia’s eyes grew wide. Mrs. Vox was a very wealthy older lady from a conservative, well-established family.

  “She’s getting a divorce?” Alexia asked.

  “The deputy sheriff served her with the papers while she was playing bridge and drinking tea with her friends. It must have caused a big stink. She’s coming in tomorrow.”

  “Did she tell you any background information?”

  “Don’t they all? Nothing unusual. Her hubby has a girlfriend young enough to be his daughter. Eleanor found out and confronted him. He said he would straighten up and fly right. The next thing Eleanor gets is the summons from the clerk of court. The complaint was signed before she busted him, so it was already in the works before he promised to repent.”

  Insuring a steady flow of new business was always at the top of her agenda, so before sorting through her mail or thinking about Bert Nixon, Alexia called Eleanor Vox. Mrs. Vox was a stiff upper lip aristocrat who didn’t break down in tears. She succinctly answered Alexia’s preliminary question
s and scheduled an appointment for the following morning. It would be a good case. Mr. Vox would probably be able to keep his thirty-six-foot sailboat, but he might have to live on it and put off retirement for several more years. Eleanor should get the house, her diamonds, the newer Mercedes, a hefty alimony check, and all the money her rich father had left her.

  Alexia spent the rest of the day catching up on her correspondence and returning business-related phone calls. In the back of her mind, she thought about Ezra and Rena and wondered if the Richardson case was going to raise its head and bite her. When she made it past lunch without receiving a summons from Ralph Leggitt to come to his office, she began to relax. At 3 P.M. she buzzed Gwen.

  “Am I going to the church? I didn’t see it on my calendar.”

  “Sorry. I forgot to enter it on your computer. It’s at four o’clock. The minister’s name is Ted Morgan.”

  Alexia continued processing the files piled on her desk until she saw only her blotter. The disturbing feelings she’d experienced after her day in Greenville dissipated by the time she walked out of the office and got in her car. It was a warm afternoon, and she rolled down the windows. As she pulled out of the parking lot, she called Bert Nixon on her cell phone. He wasn’t available so she declined his invitation to the concert in a nice way on his voice mail. Bert was okay, and Alexia appreciated his willingness to please her, but she wasn’t sure the real man underneath was someone who could hold her interest.

  The route to the church took her through a cross section of the Santee area. It was a jumbled mix of rich and poor. She passed well-manicured entrances to gated communities built next to concrete block houses with more sand than grass in the front yards. Pockets of poverty were being squeezed out by the spread of prosperity, and those who needed cheap housing were migrating to the western part of the county.

  Many of the poorer inhabitants filled low-paying jobs on the coast or at the golf courses. Every morning busloads of workers left for Myrtle Beach where they cleaned motel rooms or washed dishes all day. Others stayed close to home and worked as maids and groundskeepers. Unemployment was low, but underemployment at subsistence wages was rampant. A steady influx of immigrants kept the labor pool overflowing.

  Sandy Flats Church was located near the two-lane highway built over what had once been the main thoroughfare along the coast for the Indians and early settlers. Alexia turned into the driveway for the church. It was a picturesque building often featured on postcards of local places with historical interest. Two enormous live oak trees stood as sentinels close to the road. The stately trees framed the beauty of the building. The white structure had narrow, stained-glass windows and ornate molding along the rooflines that reminded Alexia of a gingerbread house, although not as ornate. Azalea bushes skirted the front of the building, and dune grass surrounded the parking lot.

  Alexia stopped near the front entrance. A small black sign on an iron post pointed around the corner to the church office. She followed a brick path to a small white building constructed behind the sanctuary and connected to it by a short covered walkway. When she opened the door, a bell gave a quaint tingle, and she entered a small waiting room containing a single green leather chair and a matching sofa. A skinny, middle-aged woman with half-frame glasses and short brown hair looked up from an antique desk.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m Alexia Lindale. I have an appointment with Rev. Morgan.”

  “About a wedding?”

  “I wish,” Alexia said in an attempt at humor that was immediately lost on the church secretary. “It’s about a divorce case. I’m a lawyer.”

  The woman looked down her nose at Alexia. “He’s in the sanctuary.”

  Alexia chuckled to herself as she walked between the latticework that served as open walls for the covered walkway to the sanctuary. She suspected there would be further interrogation of Rev. Morgan by the dour-faced woman after Alexia left. She went into the foyer through a side door. Her nose immediately caught the smell of well-oiled wood and the slight mustiness that is unavoidable in buildings more than two hundred years old.

  Then she heard the music.

  Alexia stopped and listened. Within a few measures, she knew it was from The Italian Concerto by Bach. The sound that traveled through the wide opening between the sanctuary and the foyer had a richness and depth exactly like the recording she’d listened to the previous week. Bach’s genius was undeniable and, when expertly performed, often revealed new facets of intricate beauty far beyond what the composer could have produced on a harpsichord.

  Alexia loved classical piano music. She’d taken piano lessons as a child but never progressed beyond watered-down versions of Mozart sonatas. However, her limited talent didn’t prevent her from developing an enduring appreciation for the scope of the piano’s musicality. In law school, she listened to Rachmaninoff while studying casebooks or marking legal outlines with a yellow highlighter. Friends whose musical preferences were popular songs that repeated the same three guitar chords over and over accused her of being stuck-up. Alexia was unmoved. She jokingly maintained that the intricacies of classical music prepared the human brain for the complexities of the law. But her real motive had no secondary rationale. She loved music because it was the greatest form of beauty created by mankind. Others might like art or poetry. Alexia chose sound.

  She set down her briefcase, took a few steps forward, and peeked around the edge of the opening for the sanctuary. A middle-aged man with curly brown hair was sitting in front of a grand piano. His head leaned forward as he bore down on a climactic passage. There was no music on the stand before him. Alexia drew back. She had no sense of reverence for a church building but held in awe the sounds coming from the piano. To intrude was out of the question. She sat in a small chair against the wall of the foyer, closed her eyes, and pretended she was in a symphony hall. Barbara Kensington’s case could wait.

  When the last notes faded, Alexia wanted to stand up and applaud. She stepped around the corner.

  “Bravo!” she called out. “That was magnificent!”

  The man looked toward her. He was wearing a simple blue shirt and blue jeans. He took a pair of glasses from the front pocket of his shirt and put them on.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  “I’m Alexia Lindale.”

  “Ted Morgan. Tell me how you like this.”

  The pianist launched into a variation on the wedding march that featured an enhanced prelude and extra frills in the bridges between repetitions. Startled, Alexia walked down the aisle that separated the two narrow banks of pews. As she drew closer, she saw that the music minister definitely looked more like a musician than a preacher. His slightly disheveled hair was sprinkled with gray, and he had a few permanent furrows in his forehead. He had a finely shaped nose and wore wire-frame glasses that gave him a studious look. He cocked his head slightly to the side as he played.

  “Would that work?” he asked.

  “It’s great, but I’m not getting married. I’m a lawyer who needs to talk to you about Barbara Kensington.”

  Ted tapped the side of his head with his fingers. “Oh, I thought you were the woman who wanted to talk to me about the music for her wedding.”

  Ted stood and extended his hand. Alexia shook it and felt calluses across the top of his palm. She remembered Gwen’s comment that the minister also worked in construction.

  “Sorry for the misunderstanding,” he said.

  “My wedding day hasn’t come,” Alexia responded. “But when it does, I know who I want to play the wedding march. I was in the foyer listening to The Italian Concerto. I’ve never heard it performed in person.”

  “You recognized it?”

  “Yes, I was listening to it on a CD several days ago.”

  The minister nodded in approval. “What did you think of my rendition? I know there needed to be more contrast in dynamics.”

  Alexia shook her head. “I’m not a critic, but I thought it wa
s perfect. How did you learn to play like that?”

  “I took lessons and practiced.”

  Alexia laughed. “Me, too, so I know there’s more to it than that.”

  Ted smiled. “There is, but that’s a long story.”

  Alexia touched the shiny black top of the piano. “That’s quite a piano for a small church.”

  “It’s a Steinway ‘B,’ a seven-footer built in Hamburg in 1919. It doesn’t belong to the church. It’s mine.”

  “It’s beautiful. Where did you get it?”

  “In Romania.”

  Alexia removed her hand from the piano. “I do have a criticism about the way you played the wedding march. People will be more interested in your playing than watching the bride walk down the aisle. No woman wants to be upstaged at her wedding by a seven-foot piano.”

  “I can do it straight.”

  Ted began again and played in a ponderous manner that suggested the music was slightly beyond the upper end of his ability. He stopped and looked at Alexia.

  “How was that?”

  “Too typical. Something in between should work.”

  “Over the years, I’ve learned to adapt to a lot of situations.” Ted closed the cover over the keyboard.

  Alexia wanted to ask a follow-up question, but reminded herself why she had come. She sat down, opened her briefcase, and took out a legal pad.

  “Can I ask you some questions about Barbara Kensington?”

  “Sure.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Alexia left with two sheets of handwritten notes and several question marks in the margins. Ted stayed behind in the sanctuary. He knew the young lawyer was dissatisfied with his answers to some of her questions. He’d refused to follow obligingly the path she’d marked out for him.

  “I’ll testify about Barbara’s strengths as a mother,” Ted told her. “But if her husband’s lawyer asks me about her weaknesses, I’m not going to cover for her.”

  “Does the same apply to her husband? Will you talk about his weaknesses, too?”