Life Support

by Robert Whitlow

  “Did Baxter get his eyes from your mother?” Rena asked when they stopped at a red light.

  “Uh, I guess so. I’ve never thought much about it. Ever since we were little boys, people have said we look alike. I can’t see it myself.”

  “Anyone could pick you from a crowd and put you in the same family.”

  Rena turned her attention back to the street scenes. The clouds overhead were thick and black, and the rain made everything outside blur together. When she turned her head toward Jeffrey, he wasn’t there.

  Baxter was behind the wheel. He was peering forward, focused on driving in the rain.

  Rena gasped, and Jeffrey quickly looked in her direction.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  The sound of Jeffrey’s voice was enough to break the spell; however, Rena took a deep breath before answering.

  “I don’t know. Seeing you healthy and Baxter at death’s door is a shock. I guess talking about the similarities in your appearance brought that home to me.”

  They pulled into the parking lot for the restaurant. The rain poured down in sheets, so he drove as close to the door as possible.

  “Do you have an umbrella?” Jeffrey asked.

  Rena looked in the backseat. “Only one. You use it. I’ll run for the door.”

  Jeffrey reached into the backseat and handed the umbrella to Rena. “Take it. A little water won’t hurt me.”

  Rena walked the few steps to the door. Without the umbrella, she would have been soaked. When Jeffrey appeared, his head was dripping wet.

  “Get a table while I go to the restroom and dry off,” he said.

  When Jeffrey appeared, Rena noticed that he had parted his hair on the same side as the comatose Baxter. Perhaps that, together with the discussion of the brothers’ common physical traits, had triggered the disturbing reappearance of her husband in the SUV. Rena had decided Baxter’s appearance on the trail when she was walking back to the parking lot was a product of the stress of the moment, not a recurring phenomenon. Jeffrey’s cell phone chirped, and he answered it.

  “Yes, I saw Baxter, and I’m taking Rena to get a bite to eat.”

  He listened for a few moments.

  “That’s right. Twenty-two million and not a dime more. Our cut is 15 percent as a developer’s fee. If the contract says anything else, don’t sign it. I’ll see you at the hotel. Bye.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes. He’s at the hotel. One of us has to go back to Santee in the morning.”

  “Can you stay and let him go?” Rena pleaded. “It has been so stressful being around him.”

  Jeffrey looked down at her with a curious look in his eyes. “Maybe.”

  They were seated at a small, round table for two. The restaurant was as authentically French as anything Greenville, South Carolina, could boast. They sat in ornately designed wrought-iron chairs painted white. The owner was an Algerian who had lived many years in Paris before coming to the United States. The waiter brought them water with a twist of lime in wineglasses.

  “This is what I needed.” Rena sighed after she took a sip. “I haven’t been able to think about myself since the accident.”

  “Are you hungry?” Jeffrey asked.

  Rena looked at the menu. There were four different quiches, an assortment of delicately seasoned pastas, three soups, and a variety of meat pastries with flaky crusts.

  “I am now,” she said.

  Rena selected a quiche and soup. Jeffrey opted for a meat pastry. He quickly scanned the wine list and ordered a bottle.

  “Baxter would have done that differently,” Rena said. “He’d have found out if the wine steward was here and called him over for a long conversation before making a selection.”

  “He’s the expert. I think the differences are exaggerated.”

  Rena took another sip of water. “You know, Baxter drank almost a whole bottle before he fell. We were sitting on some rocks near the waterfall, and he was wobbly when he stood up. I told him to be careful. If only—” She stopped.

  Jeffrey shook his head. “Even a whole bottle shouldn’t have made him drunk. Baxter can drink four glasses and still walk a straight line.”

  “Maybe it was drinking after hiking for a couple of hours that caused the alcohol to have a greater effect on him.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “He wasn’t used to much exercise.”

  “Yeah, he resents it when we can’t drive the golf cart directly to the ball and have to walk from the cart to the middle of the fairway.”

  The waiter brought the wine, held the bottle so Jeffrey could inspect the label, and then poured a small amount into a glass. Jeffrey sampled it and nodded.

  “The hike was my fault,” Rena continued sadly. “He wanted to see a waterfall I’d told him about. It’s a beautiful place. I’ve been there many times since I was a little girl.”

  “Has anything bad happened there before?” he asked.

  “What do you mean?” Rena asked sharply.

  “Have other people fallen and injured themselves?”

  Rena relaxed. “Yes, but there weren’t any signs warning people to stay away from the edge.”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “That shouldn’t be necessary. Anyone should know to stay away from the edge of a cliff. Did he slip on some wet rocks?”

  “I think so. After he finished the bottle of wine, he stepped too close to the edge and lost his footing. I tried to save him, but it was too late.” Rena held out her left arm and pointed to the deep scratch marks. “I tried to grab his hand, but it slipped down my arm. He was there one second and gone the next. It all happened so fast, there was nothing I could do.”

  Rena’s eyes were dry, but she thought it would add pathos to the story if she touched her right eye with her napkin. Telling the story to Jeffrey had been her best performance thus far.

  Jeffrey saw her and asked, “Do you have something in your eye?”

  Rena’s voice cracked when she answered. “The beginning of a tear. The shock of the accident is beginning to wear off, and I’m beginning to grieve. I think watching Baxter continue to suffer is worse torture than dealing with his death.”

  Jeffrey reached out and touched her hand. “I’m sorry. For all of us.”

  Rena looked into his eyes with gratitude for a moment and then lowered her gaze.

  Jeffrey withdrew his hand and spoke more sternly. “But I’m also upset with Baxter. I can’t believe he was so reckless. When I saw him today, I felt pity for him, but I’m also angry that he wasn’t more careful.”

  Rena put her napkin back in her lap. “I’ve gone through the same thing. Look at my situation. I’ve not been married a year, and my husband is paralyzed in a coma because of one foolish step. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  The waiter brought their meal. It was delicious. Rena particularly savored the soup, a creamy spinach concoction that felt smooth in her mouth and caressed her taste buds. Since meeting Baxter, she’d become accustomed to the benefits of wealth, and she was determined never to return to the generic canned soups of her childhood. While nibbling the fluffy quiche, she glanced at Jeffrey. It felt odd sitting across the table from her brother-in-law without Baxter present. The brothers occasionally spent time together in social settings; however, Rena’s impressions of Jeffrey were formed more by Baxter’s comments than her own observations. Seeing Jeffrey now, she had to admit that he had a strength Baxter lacked and a decisiveness that communicated security. A stray thought crossed her mind that she had married the wrong one of Ezra Richardson’s sons.

  “Have you thought any about the future?” Jeffrey asked softly.

  Rena was surprised that Jeffrey had picked up her thought. A widow isn’t propositioned at her husband’s funeral. And Baxter wasn’t even dead, yet. She leaned forward.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  Jeffrey spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “If Baxter survives, where will he go for ongoing medica
l help? I know there are good facilities in Atlanta, and there might be something suitable in Charleston. I guess a lot depends on his mental condition if he comes out of the coma. If he can think and talk normally, he can tell us what he wants to do.”

  Rena swallowed nervously and shook off her misunderstanding of Jeffrey’s intentions toward her. The specter of Baxter in a rehabilitation facility—alert and talking to Detective Giles Porter was her greatest fear. The pleasant sensation the luncheon had evoked evaporated like cotton candy in a child’s mouth. Her stomach felt suddenly queasy.

  “Oh, I haven’t given it much thought,” she answered. “I’ve been focused on the immediate situation and haven’t considered the future.”

  Jeffrey poured another glass of wine for both of them. “Yeah, I guess talking about wine stewards and playing golf made me think Baxter may come out of this, but I know we have to be realistic.”

  “And find a doctor we can trust. The ones I’ve met are giving us the runaround,” Rena reiterated.

  Jeffrey leaned back and folded his arms. “I have a fraternity brother in Richmond who is doing a residency in neurosurgery. I could contact him. He’d give us a straight answer.” Jeffrey stared past Rena’s shoulder. “Of course, there’s the chance Baxter won’t wake up. Lying in a hospital room with tubes everywhere is not living.”

  Rena pressed forward. “You’re right, and every time I see him I’m more convinced that it’s wrong to sustain his life artificially. You know, it’s weird, but we’d prepared for this very situation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Several months ago, Baxter and I had an appointment with a lawyer in Santee and signed a declaration of desire for a natural death, making it clear we didn’t want to be kept on life support in case of a serious injury. Baxter also gave me a health care power of attorney so that I could decide the treatment to approve in situations like this one.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Yeah, I wouldn’t want anyone to have that kind of control over my life. Of course, it’s different with you and Baxter. You’re committed to one another.”

  “For as long as we both shall live, until death do us part,” Rena responded piously. “But there is a problem with your father. When Baxter was eighteen, he signed power of attorney—”

  “Giving my father control of everything,” Jeffrey interrupted.

  Surprised, Rena asked, “Did Baxter talk to you about it?”

  “No, but my father mentioned it last night on the phone. I had to sign one when I was eighteen,” Jeffrey said. “A couple of years later, I went to a lawyer in Charleston and revoked it.”

  “What did your father do?”

  Jeffrey shrugged. “He doesn’t know. He probably thinks it’s still valid, but my attorney in Charleston knows what to do if it ever comes up.”

  “I wish Baxter had thought ahead,” Rena said bitterly.

  “How do you know he didn’t? I told him what I’d done a few months before you were married.”

  Rena sat up straight. “What did he say?”

  “That he would look into it. Whether he did or not, I don’t know.”

  “Did you give him that name of your lawyer in Charleston?”

  “Yeah, he knows him. We’ve gone sailing together several times.”

  “Could I call him and find out if he talked to Baxter?”

  “Sure. His name is Rufus Grange, but he goes by Rafe. He’s a trial lawyer, but he helped me out because he’d been with us on the boat. Do you want his phone number?”

  “Yes. I also need to talk with the woman attorney from Santee who flew up and met with us. I liked her a lot.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Alexia Lindale.”

  “Does she work for Leggitt & Freeman?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Yes.”

  Jeffrey frowned. “I’ve heard about her. She handles a lot of divorces. She nailed a friend of mine last year, and he had to give his wife twice what he offered before trial.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Rena asked. “He was probably going to rip her off.”

  The frown was replaced with an impish grin. “Probably. Women usually stick together, but anybody who works for Ralph Leggitt is in my father’s back pocket. That’s why I went to Charleston for legal advice. Leggitt & Freeman is okay for business matters, but for personal protection, I want my own attorney.”

  “But Alexia told me everything we discussed was confidential.”

  “It is until the lawyers have to pick sides. If her firm has to choose between my father and you, who will they pick?”

  Rena’s face flushed. “She mentioned a possible problem but told me I could trust her.”

  Jeffrey gave her a cynical look. “Don’t be naive. I’ve never met a lawyer who wasn’t looking out for themselves first and the client second. Male or female doesn’t make any difference.”

  “Then I don’t know who to trust.”

  Jeffrey took a sip of wine. “You can trust me.”

  Rena looked into his eyes but couldn’t see beneath the surface. “Why?”

  “We have more in common than you suspect.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After seeing Baxter, I agree it would be cruel to keep him alive by artificial means.”

  Rena’s heart leaped. “Does that mean you will talk to your father about ending life support?”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Yes. At the right time.”

  17

  The aim of forensic oratory is to teach.

  CICERO

  Gwen buzzed Alexia.

  “Prince Pinchot wants to see you,” she said.

  Before working for Alexia and Leonard Mitchell, Gwen had served as Kenneth Pinchot’s legal secretary. She had jumped at the chance to switch, even though it meant working for two lawyers instead of one.

  “Is that what you called him when you worked for him?” Alexia asked.

  “You don’t want to know what I called him behind his back.”

  “Okay, tell him I’ll be there shortly.”

  Alexia smiled. Pinchot’s arrogant confidence rubbed Gwen the wrong way. Alexia could tolerate an egotistical lawyer if he or she backed it up by superior performance in the courtroom. She’d assisted Pinchot in several trials. He was meticulous in preparation and calm and thoughtful when questioning a witness. His methods occasionally lulled enemies into letting down their guard—a lapse they later regretted.

  The senior partner stood in the hall outside his office as Alexia approached. Pinchot wore professionally tailored suits with a monogrammed shirt and silk tie. His idea of casual dress at the office was a sport coat and tie. Today, he was wearing a banker’s gray suit.

  “Alexia, can you spare a couple of hours? I’m in the second day of a trial, and a witness can’t make it, so I’m going to have to use a deposition we took several months ago. My paralegal was going to read the answers, but she’s gone home with a fever.”

  “Yes. What kind of testimony?”

  “I’ll tell you as we go.”

  They walked down the hall and out the door. Pinchot drove a new Mercedes. Alexia waited for him to open the door for her. She’d learned that the older lawyer was insulted if he wasn’t allowed to play the gentleman’s role.

  “You’re a witness to a will,” Pinchot said as he started the car’s motor. “There was a caveat filed by the children of the first wife against the children of the second wife. They claim undue and improper influence by wife number two in favor of her children. Both wives predeceased the man.”

  “Where is the witness to the will?” Alexia asked.

  “That depends on your belief in the hereafter,” Pinchot replied dryly. “She died a few weeks after we took her deposition. She was a secretary at the law firm that prepared the second will.”

  “Which group of children do we represent?”

  “Wife number two’s brood.”

  Pinchot turned the corner onto the street that led to the courthouse and continued. “The two children
of the second wife receive 80 percent of the estate, and the four children from the first wife split the remaining 20 percent.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You’ll understand when you read the deposition transcript. You’ll have a few minutes before you’re called to the witness stand.”

  The most common instance of reading a deposition occurred with the testimony of doctors who didn’t want to sit in court until called to the witness stand. Reading lay testimony was less frequent.

  “How old am I?” Alexia asked.

  Pinchot grinned. “Sixty-eight. You’ve been a legal secretary for forty-five years.”

  They parked along the street. City leaders wanted to encourage people to come to the downtown area, so there weren’t any parking meters.

  For generations, the courthouse in Santee had reflected the poverty years of the South Carolina coast that lasted without significant interruption from 1865 to 1939. A painting of the old courthouse, a one-story building built with dirty brown bricks similar in color to the ones used by the ancient Egyptians, still hung in the main lobby of the newer building. The burst of manufacturing activity that swept across the region during World War II broke the bondage of economic slavery, and shipyards and military installations brought high-paying jobs to the area.

  Then the tourism boom that began in the 1960s carried the Low Country to a level of prosperity not known since cotton and rice sat on the wharves of Charleston. The old courthouse was demolished without regret in the 1970s and a structure erected that reflected the architecture of the prosperous coast. Built to look older than it was, the imposing building was faced with sandstone and had a red tile roof.

  Alexia and Pinchot walked through metal detectors that were unplugged and unguarded. The local sheriff ’s office only sent deputies to the security checkpoints on busy court days. The rest of the time the two courtrooms on the main floor were unprotected from terrorists; however, the greater dangers to the public safety were from hotheaded exhusbands and the friends of criminal defendants. It wasn’t unusual for the deputies to confiscate a wickedly long knife or two during a two-week term of court.