The First Immortal

by James L. Halperin

  “‘Sale of residence and other property: I instruct the executrix to sell my residence, stocks, bonds, and all other investments, and to pay all appropriate estate taxes from those proceeds.

  “‘Specific gifts: Once all taxes are paid, I instruct the executrix to pay each of my surviving children one-quarter of the first $1,400,000 remaining, up to $350,000 per child. I then instruct her to pay the trustee of my grandchildren’s trusts their pro-rata share of the next $1,250,000 remaining, up to $250,000 per grandchild. I then instruct her to pay the next $200,000 to Tobias Fiske.’”

  The three women glanced at Toby, who shrugged in artless bewilderment, while Webster continued, “‘Finally, I instruct her to divide any remaining funds equally among my surviving children and grandchildren.’”

  “How much more will there be?” Jan asked, trying to remain composed.

  “I figure about $30,000 each.”

  “That’s all?” Jan said. “He was worth over ten million.”

  “If you’ll just wait till I’m finished…” Webster said sternly, and went on, “‘Trust administration…’”

  What trust? Jan thought, and almost blurted it.

  “‘I hereby appoint Tobias Fiske as administrator of the Smith Family Cryonic Trust. Should he be unable to administer the Trust, I appoint Gary Franklin Smith. The administrator will make investment decisions and direct disbursements for the Trust’s expenses, taxes, and partitions.’”

  “How much is in it?” Jan asked.

  Webster replied, “I can’t tell you that.”

  Gary realized he needed to hear it the way his father thought it. “Please continue.”

  “Anyone mind if I skip some more technical stuff?”

  Nobody objected.

  Then Webster read the only part of the Last Will and Testament written not by lawyers, but by Ben himself:

  “‘I hope none of my children will think too harshly of me for considering my own welfare. You have all heard my oxygen-mask-on-the-airplane parable. I can only imagine how a small child in that situation would feel during those first seconds, watching her parent place the oxygen mask over his own nose and mouth while she gasps for air. And I suppose this must be how you feel today.

  “‘Nature has endowed parents with an instinct to unhesitatingly sacrifice for their children’s sake, an impulse difficult to ignore. I have asked myself if my family would be better off were I gone entirely rather than in limbo. But science has so changed the human condition, it is conceivable that even death itself will someday be defeated. I am now convinced that parents must see to their own survival as well as providing for their offspring. My motivation is selfish: I love you all and want to be with you. If humanly possible, I intend to be there for and with all of you, perhaps centuries from now.

  “‘Therefore the Trust will pay for cryonic suspension of any of my direct descendants who wish to arrange for it upon their death, and for Tobias Fiske if he so chooses. Remaining funds, if any, will revert to me upon my eventual revival.’”

  Rebecca and Maxine exited the building together in silent bewilderment. They’d each entertained vague notions that their father was rich, but neither had considered their inheritance in actual dollar terms. For them, the afternoon’s encounter seemed almost surreal, not yet connected to their lives.

  In his mind Gary already had part of his money spent. He decided to visit a few galleries on the way home; maybe buy something worthy some struggling kid had done. He was surprised at how good the notion made him feel.

  In the lobby, Jan stopped at a pay phone and called her husband’s private line. He was waiting for her call and answered on the first ring. “Noah Banks.”

  “He left us $350,000,” she said, dispensing with all formalities, “plus $250,000 each in trust for Sarah and Michael.”

  “After taxes?” he asked. There was a naked avarice in his voice that neither of them noticed.

  “Yes, but we can’t touch the money in Sarah and Michael’s trusts; $350,000 is it, plus maybe another thirty in residual money after all the dust settles.”

  “Not what we hoped for, but it’s better than a poke in the eye.”

  “Noah, at least three-quarters of his estate went into a trust to fund cryonic suspensions for family members,” she explained, her anger building, “and for Toby Fiske, to whom, by the way, he also bequeathed two hundred grand.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “With the balance reverting to Dad upon his, and I quote: ‘eventual revival’!”

  “Damn! What should we do?”

  “Before we decide, there’s something else you should know.”

  “Which is?” he asked. She could just imagine his thoughts: Oh God, must be about money, or she wouldn’t bring it up now.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “I see,” was all he said.

  She wanted to cry.

  June 19, 1988

  The pleading took less than forty-eight hours to compose; the two lawyers who drafted it were highly motivated.

  “The Estate of Benjamin Franklin Smith, Rebecca Carol Smith-Crane, Maxine Lee Smith Swenson, Jan Lois Smith, et al. versus the Smith Family Cryonic Trust and John Does One through Ten” was filed by Noah Banks at exactly ten A.M. in Suffolk County Federal Court. Within hours, papers and subpoenas would be served on Patrick Webster, Gary Franklin Smith, Harvey Bacon, and Tobias Fiske. Copies of all the pleadings had also been sent via certified mail to the Phoenix.

  Though ambivalent about serving papers on her brother, Jan considered the action a necessity, as Gary was alternate trustee of the Smith Family Cryonic Trust. She’d phoned the previous evening and left a message on his answering machine explaining the legal technicality; a courtesy to an ally she presumed to be on the other side through chance rather than intent.

  The document read, in part, “Dr. Benjamin Franklin Smith (‘the Deceased’) was a natural person who died on June 2, 1988, a resident of Boston, Massachusetts, either the father or grandfather of each and every plaintiff in this case.

  “Upon information and belief, the Deceased was tricked, conned, brainwashed, and otherwise seduced into embracing the purported ‘science’ of cryonics, a pseudocult which promotes the preposterous creed that dead bodies frozen in liquid nitrogen can somehow be restored to life…”

  The lawsuit further demanded that all assets of the Smith Family Cryonic Trust be returned to the Estate, and that the corpse of Benjamin Franklin Smith be returned to Massachusetts to receive “a proper Christian burial.”

  November 17, 1988

  “Please state your name and occupation for the record,” Noah Banks said, looking away from the witness to glare at opposing counsel. Over these past months, he and Patrick Webster had managed to escalate their mutual distrust into full-blown hatred. It was now personal.

  Indeed, Webster had made life miserable for the financially strapped firm of Banks and Smith. At his urging, Harvey Bacon had refused to be deposed in Boston. Instead, the four lawyers, along with Toby Fiske, had been forced to drive to Woonsocket, Rhode Island, today. A neutral law firm had been willing to supply the conference room, but the transit time was expensive, a complication Webster obviously preferred.

  A court reporter worked the steno machine like a cash register, to which some would say the device was a relation. But Noah, like many personal injury lawyers, tended to think of the legal profession as being in the province of games of chance. He and Jan had fed vast amounts of silver into this particular slot machine, and thus far no payoff had been forthcoming. They were becoming progressively more worried about how much longer they could afford to remain as guests of the casino.

  “Harvey Bacon. I’m an ambulance operator and technician,” the witness answered.

  “Imagine that! An operator, deposed by a chaser,” Webster cracked. Grinning, he gently elbowed his youthful associate, Bryan Perry, whose principal assignment today was to watch and learn—and to bill the client, the Smith Family Cryonic Trust, at th
e rate of $185 per hour.

  Toby smiled; he thought the comment gratuitous but accepted the mindset that the psychological warfare of litigation required.

  Jan scowled at Webster and said nothing.

  Over the past five months, Noah Banks and Jan Smith had spent nearly half of their billable hours on this case. The family had yet to receive their inheritance from probate, and the bank loan Noah had arranged against it was already spent. Cash was tight, and all three depositions so far had been virtual nonevents: a waste of time they could ill afford. Noah was not amused. “If Mr. Webster would refrain from puerile interruptions,” he said, “we might actually finish this deposition today.”

  Webster smirked. Some incentive, he thought. Billing at $350 per hour including travel, plus his partnership share of the associate’s time, he would be thrilled if it lasted all week. The income was pleasing; all well and good. But he’d always found a special pleasure in tormenting cocky, self-inflated weasels like Noah Banks.

  Finally Noah arrived at the events occurring on the day of Ben’s death and suspension. Webster watched, calm and smug. How could this lightweight ever expect to win such a convoluted case? He’d never have the stamina for it. They would simply outlast him.

  “How, where, and when were you first summoned to New England Medical Center?” Noah asked.

  “The Phoenix paged us at eleven-seventeen A.M. We were in Providence at the time. I called their 800 number immediately, and the receptionist gave me the information.”

  “Who accompanied you to Boston?”

  “Kent Chamberlain and Steve Reed.”

  Banks was wasting his time, Webster gloated to himself. Bacon was a great witness all right—but for Webster’s side.

  “You generally work with them?” Noah asked.

  Webster yawned.

  “Yes, sir. I run three ambulances and employ fourteen technicians in all, but only four of us have been trained in cryonic preparation techniques.”

  “Who would the other one be?”

  Another useless question, Webster celebrated to himself.

  “Susan Reed, Steve’s wife. But she was off duty at the time. Steve and Sue rarely work the same shifts; they have a small child at home.”

  Now Webster grimaced. Man, just stick to answering the questions! he tried to telegraph. Don’t disentomb more details than you have to. The estate attorney had seen too many witnesses dig their own graves with such habits, although he doubted Bacon possessed so much as a spoonful of relevant knowledge, much less a shovel.

  Indeed, the only thing Webster’s side had to fear from these depositions was the opposition somehow learning of Toby’s administration of morphine to Ben. That fact could give Noah considerable leverage, and leverage was what this type of litigation almost always boiled down to. Who could know what a judge or jury would do if they found that Toby Fiske, now the trustee of the Trust and a beneficiary of the Will, had intentionally shortened his patient’s life?

  Webster had become aware of “their potential problem” from conversations with Toby prior to his testimony several weeks earlier. At the time, Webster had managed, by invoking doctor/patient confidentiality, to shield Fiske from disclosing any private conversations with Ben. And if such confidentiality were ever to be overruled, the defendant could always, if necessary, resort to the Fifth Amendment. During preparation, he’d imparted to Toby the standard legal boilerplate: “Answer honestly and listen carefully; but only respond to the precise questions he asks. Never, never volunteer information.” Now he wished he’d had the same conversation with Bacon.

  Well, no big deal, he decided.

  “I see,” said Noah. “How long did it take you to get to the hospital?”

  “About fifty minutes.”

  “What did you do when you arrived?”

  “First I talked to the patient’s doctor, and then to his daughter; explained the whole procedure to them.”

  “Would his doctor have been Tobias Fiske?”

  “Yes.”

  “Had you known Dr. Fiske previously?”

  Another unconcealed yawn emanated from Patrick Webster.

  “No. Never met the man before that.”

  “And how did he react to your description of cryonics?” “He listened, asked a few questions. Seemed a little distracted, actually.”

  To Webster it seemed as if Bacon was enjoying listening to himself. He knew such an inclination was never a good thing in a witness, but nevertheless sat back in his chair, barely noticing that the medic had just given Noah yet another small piece of unsolicited, and potentially damaging, information.

  “What do you mean by distracted?”

  “Well, he told me that the patient was his best friend. I guess he was kind of upset. Who wouldn’t be? Hmm. I suppose that might explain… well, never mind.”

  Oh shit! Suddenly no longer so relaxed, Webster interrupted. “Noah, I’d like to take a short break if you don’t mind.”

  “I do, actually,” Noah said, apparently oblivious to the value of the information he’d just received. “Let me finish this line of questioning first.”

  “I’m afraid I have to take a bathroom break,” Webster said. “Sorry. I’ll only be a minute.” He left the room.

  Perry continued to sit like a piece of granite, saying nothing. But you didn’t make law review at Stanford just for showing up. The young associate’s only real task of the day was now to make certain that Noah asked no questions of the witness until Webster returned.

  Predictably enough, Noah said, “Mr. Bacon, could you please clarify something you just said? Off the record?”

  “Sure.”

  “Actually, Mr. Banks,” Perry interrupted without hesitation, “it wouldn’t be fair to speak with Mr. Bacon without Mr. Webster present. I think you’d better wait till he gets back.”

  “Why?” Noah asked. “It’s off the record.”

  Perry turned to Bacon. “Regardless of what Mr. Banks says to you, please wait until Mr. Webster returns before you say another word.”

  Bacon nodded, and pantomimed a zipper stroke across his mouth.

  Noah sat down. This particular scuffle was over.

  Meanwhile Webster was using the time to regroup. He stood in front of the men’s room mirror, eyes closed, and tried to concentrate. Bacon knew something, but what? Unless… Oh damn. Unless he’d seen the empty syringe. Shit! That had to be it. Well, maybe he could get Bacon to keep any other gratuitous musings to himself.

  Returning to the conference room, Webster smiled apologetically, his well-rehearsed expression of “aw-shucks” charm and sincerity. “Sorry about that, Noah,” he said. “Just couldn’t hold it in any longer. Before we start over, do you mind if I speak with Mr. Bacon privately for a moment?”

  “Not until I finish this line of questioning,” Noah shot back.

  “Okay,” Webster said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. Better this way than not saying anything at all. “I only intended to advise him to listen to your questions more carefully, Noah.”

  “Exactly what are you getting at?” Noah asked.

  “I want to make sure Mr. Bacon understands,” Webster said, “that he’s only supposed to answer your direct questions; he doesn’t need to waste your valuable time telling you anything you haven’t asked him about.”

  “I know that,” Bacon interjected.

  Webster gazed intently at Bacon. “I’m sure you do, but I just had to make sure.”

  Noah pondered this conversation, and the wordless exchange following it, then smiled. “Thank you, Pat.” He turned to the court reporter. “Ms. Halloway, please read back my last two questions, and Mr. Bacon’s responses.”

  The faces of Toby Fiske and Patrick Webster each grew whiter; the litigation roller coaster had just crested the hill.

  She read:

  “Mr. Banks: ‘And how did he react when you explained about cryonics?’

  “Mr. Bacon: ‘He just listened, asked a few questions. Seemed a little di
stracted actually.’

  “Mr. Banks: ‘What do you mean by distracted?’

  “Mr. Bacon: ‘Well, he told me that the patient was his best friend. I guess he was kind of upset. Who wouldn’t be? Hmm. I suppose that might explain… well, never mind.’”

  “Mr. Bacon,” Noah asked, his smile now a wide grin, “what exactly might that explain?”

  “You’re not required to answer,” Webster cut in.

  Noah scowled. “On what grounds can he refuse, counselor? Perhaps I should call the judge and ask him whether or not the witness has to answer?”

  Webster quickly backed down. “No need for that. Sorry.”

  Noah’s expression seemed to betray a burst of admiration for Webster, as if to say, Damn nice move; I bet you even get away with it once in a while. “Now, Mr. Bacon,” Noah said, “what did you mean when you said that the two facts—that Dr. Fiske was Dr. Smith’s best friend, and that he was upset—might possibly explain something?”

  “It’s just that I thought, uh, maybe he had some important decisions to make, y’know, since they were such close friends and all.”

  “What kind of decisions?”

  “I don’t know. Medical decisions, I guess.”

  “Like what?” Noah asked, his now-alert eyes bearing down like a falcon homing in on a field mouse.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Mr. Bacon, did you see anything unusual that day in the hospital?”

  “What do you m-mean by unusual?”

  “Anything that Dr. Fiske may have done in the treatment of Dr. Smith that he might not have done for a patient who wasn’t his close friend! Mr. Bacon, I remind you that you are under oath. What the devil did you see?”

  Bacon turned toward Webster, who closed his eyes and nodded.