Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  “Alexia Lindale.”

  “Sean Pruitt in Charleston. Are you the lawyer representing Mrs. Rena Richardson?”

  The lawyer’s accent was as deeply steeped in Charleston as a tea bag in boiling spring water. He also sounded young, and the billowing intonation seemed almost contrived.

  “Yes,” Alexia answered with a slight smile. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been appointed by Judge Moreau to represent Henry L. Quinton, and I’d like to talk to your client about the theft of her car.”

  “What are the charges against Quinton?”

  “Felony-murder. There’s a chance the solicitor may seek the death penalty, seeing the murder involves a police officer.”

  Pruitt sounded casual about the responsibility of defending a man’s life.

  “There’s not much my client can tell you,” Alexia said. “The car was in her driveway with the keys in it. She noticed that it was missing in the early afternoon and called the police. The car was recovered in a parking lot in north Charleston within a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t doubt that’s an accurate summary, but would it be possible for her to tell me about it in her own words?”

  Alexia tapped her pen on the top of her desk.

  “Do you handle a lot of criminal cases?” she asked.

  “Only when the judge makes me,” Pruitt answered.

  “What do you do the rest of the time?”

  “I’m building a robust personal-injury practice.”

  Alexia wasn’t impressed. Personal-injury lawyers included the best and worst of the legal profession, and the number of tadpoles swimming at the edge of the pond greatly exceeded the few who became big frogs sitting on a water lily. If Pruitt was any good, she’d have heard about him. He was probably a hack trying to pretend he was the descendant of an Old South barrister.

  “In the criminal cases you’ve handled, can you name a time in which it was in the victim’s favor to agree to a pretrial interview with the defendant’s lawyer?”

  “Almost every case.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. After I talk to the victim and tell my client the nature of the testimony that will come to light in court, I persuade most of them to enter a plea agreement with the State. The victim doesn’t have to come to court to testify, and I consider that a plus.”

  “And if your client doesn’t enter into a plea agreement?”

  “Uh, that hasn’t happened very often.”

  Alexia sat up straighter. “You mean the defendants in every criminal case you’ve handled have entered into a plea agreement?”

  “If that’s what I’ve recommended. I’ve only had to try a few of them.”

  Alexia wanted to ask about the outcome of the trials, but etiquette held her tongue. She was shocked that Judge Moreau had assigned a green lawyer to a potential capital murder case. Why invite a posttrial habeas corpus petition before the trial even started?

  Pruitt continued, “Of course, if the State seeks the death penalty, another lawyer will be appointed to help me, but for now, Quinton is my baby.”

  Alexia hesitated and then saw an opportunity.

  “I’ll talk to my client about it. If we agree to an interview, I’d like to talk to Quinton.”

  “I have no problem with that,” Pruitt answered without hesitation. “If you cooperate with me, then I’ll work with you. Here’s my number. Call me as soon as you talk to Mrs. Richardson.”

  Alexia wrote down Sean’s number and hung up the phone, mystified. Sean Pruitt was either incompetent or unreasonably self-confident.

  After lunch, Alexia finalized the purchase of the King Street property. The owners lived in New Jersey and closed by giving a power of attorney to Rachel Downey. The Realtor signed the deed transferring the property to Alexia with a flourish after they’d waded through a small mountain of disclosure forms, waivers, and documents required for the loan. They walked out of the bank together. Rachel slipped the check for her commission in her purse.

  “I talked to Gwen,” Rachel said. “It will be fun having both of you around, but I’ll miss you when your renovation is finished. You have such a glamorous life.”

  Alexia gave Rachel a puzzled look. “What’s glamorous about it? I represent my clients and go home.”

  “Oh, I heard about your minister friend’s impromptu performance Saturday night,” Rachel responded with a knowing wink. “He saved the day, and you were there leaning on his arm in a silver dress and an emerald necklace.”

  Alexia laughed. “How did you find out?”

  “Gwen Jones is not my only spy. It takes several people to keep tabs on you.”

  “Your spy is accurate except for the part about me leaning on his arm.”

  “That’s not what I heard. You whisked him out of there before someone else tried to take him home for a pet. The more I hear about Reverend Morgan, the more impressed I am that you saw his potential.”

  “Well, I hope he’s as good with a hammer and paintbrush as he is with a piano,” Alexia added. “It’s time to get busy with the renovations.”

  “I’m sure he’s a Monet. If you need any ideas with colors and fabrics, let me know. I’d love to see that old house sparkle.”

  Late that afternoon, Alexia cleared a block of time to call Rena Richardson. With her office door open, she could hear the welcome sound of Gwen pecking away on the computer keyboard. Alexia was reaching for the phone when the receptionist buzzed her.

  “Rena Richardson is here to see you,” she said.

  Although some of Alexia’s clients had a bad habit of showing up without an appointment, Rena hadn’t been one of them. Alexia walked to the waiting area. Rena was sitting on the edge of a chair with an anxious look on her face. When Alexia entered the room, she jumped up.

  “I need to talk to you,” she said. “It’s important.”

  Alexia opened the door to the smaller of the two conference rooms adjacent to the waiting area. Inside, the two women sat down at a round cherry table with four chairs. A decorative vase sat in the middle of the table.

  “What is it?” Alexia asked.

  “Baxter is talking.”

  “That’s an improvement.”

  “No, it’s not,” Rena replied. “He’s talking nonsense. Dangerous nonsense.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Rena spoke rapidly. “It started yesterday. He talked to Ezra first. I wasn’t there and don’t know exactly what he said, but Ezra told me it was just stuff about the family, nothing about the accident. Then he told me that Baxter didn’t remember me. That hurt, but considering his injury I guess I shouldn’t take it personally. Anyway, I waited an hour or so and went over to see him myself. When I stood by his bed and called his name, he opened his eyes and stared at me. It was obvious that he didn’t recognize me. It was spooky. I stayed for a while and talked to the nurse on duty. The nurse went to the kitchen with his tray of food, and I stepped closer to the bed to say good-bye.”

  Rena glanced at the closed door of the conference room and lowered her voice. “When I leaned over the bed, he opened his eyes and glared at me with the most hateful expression you can imagine. It was exactly the way he looked at me when he attacked me at the cliff. He made a horrible sound in his throat. Alexia, the rage bottled up inside him is still there, waiting to get out. It was so scary that I ran out.”

  “I thought you said he was talking nonsense,” she said.

  “I’m not finished. I didn’t stop running until I got back home and slammed the front door behind me. I leaned against the wall with my heart pounding out of my chest. I didn’t want to ever go back to the cottage again. And then the nurse called. She said Baxter was asking for me. I didn’t know what to do. I tried to call you, but you weren’t here.”

  “I was at the bank.”

  Rena continued, “I mean, he’s paralyzed and can’t hurt me, but I’m going to have nightmares about the way he looked at me. The nurse’s aide kept calling, so
I went back. I didn’t want the nurse to hear anything, so I told her to leave us alone. Baxter’s eyes were closed, but when I came closer and told him I was there, he opened them and looked up at me.”

  “With the same look?”

  “No, he was calmer, but that’s when he began talking nonsense.”

  “What kind of nonsense?”

  “He asked me ‘why, why, why’ over and over in a scratchy voice, but I knew what he was saying. And then he said, ‘why did you do it, why did you do it’ about five or six times. That’s when I got scared. The nurse didn’t hear him, but if Ezra finds out and calls that detective with the horrible scar—”

  “Giles Porter.”

  “Yeah. I know Baxter is confused, and what he says shouldn’t give anyone a reason to accuse me of anything.” Rena’s face flushed red. “But I don’t know what might happen! It’s not fair! I’m the victim! Something has gone wrong in Baxter’s mind, but you know that detective would believe him instead of me!”

  In Alexia’s mind, the most incriminating implication of Baxter’s questions pointed to the possible affair between Rena and Jeffrey. While morally wrong, adultery wasn’t a criminal offense that would interest the Mitchell County detective.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions, Rena. Those words could mean a lot of things. Why are you so afraid?”

  Rena gaped at Alexia. “Are you kidding? You don’t see what he’s trying to do?”

  Alexia shook her head. “Tell me. Honestly, I don’t get it.”

  Rena stared at Alexia for a few seconds. She reached forward and touched the side of the vase. Her hand trembled for a few seconds then stilled.

  “Okay. Maybe you’re right. I lost control and assumed something crazy. It’s just that I’ve been worried out of my mind that Baxter would accuse me of pushing him off the cliff as a way to avoid responsibility for attacking me. I thought that’s what he was trying to do. He’s rich and has the support of his family. I’m a poor girl from the mountains with no one to speak up for me.”

  “Except for me.”

  Rena looked at Alexia again.

  Alexia spoke in a level tone of voice. “You should have told Porter the truth when he first interviewed you, but that’s in the past. There isn’t any reason for you to be afraid of a criminal prosecution. Baxter sounds like he’s still incoherent. If he says something and people ask you questions about it, we’ll deal with it then.”

  “I feel so insecure.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  “And I hate it when people hassle me. It was horrible when Porter kept interrogating me. He asked the same questions over and over. He was trying to trick me.”

  “If he ever talks to you again, I’ll be there.” Alexia leaned back in her chair. “Try to calm down.”

  Rena ran her fingers through her hair. “I know too much worry can drive a person crazy.”

  “Together, we’ll face whatever comes up.”

  Rena managed a weak smile. Alexia leaned forward.

  “Speaking of interviews,” Alexia said. “The lawyer appointed to represent Henry Quinton called me this morning. He wants to talk to you about the theft of the car.”

  “Tell him no.”

  “That’s what I started to do, but I need to tell you something that might change your mind.”

  Alexia told her about the incident with the gray van.

  “You think he was stalking you?” Rena asked skeptically.

  “I don’t know, but I’d like to find out. Quinton’s lawyer agreed to let me talk to his client if I let him talk to you. This lawyer is inexperienced and wants to convince Quinton to plead guilty. If that happens, you won’t have to testify in court. You don’t know anything except that the car was stolen, so I don’t think there is any harm in answering a few questions. It would be similar to the interview with Detective Devereaux. And of course, I would be there with you.”

  “No,” Rena said.

  Surprised, Alexia asked, “Why not?”

  Rena shrugged. “I don’t want to do it.”

  Rena was Alexia’s ticket to Quinton. She started to argue, but stopped. She couldn’t pressure Rena to do something designed primarily for Alexia’s purposes.

  “Okay, but if you change your mind, let me know.”

  Rena stood up. “I won’t. And I want to file for divorce right away. The sooner the better.”

  After Rena left, Alexia tried to reach Sean Pruitt, but he wasn’t available. She tried Ted in hopes of making arrangements to begin the renovations, but she had to leave a message in his voice mail. Shortly before Alexia left to go home, the receptionist buzzed her.

  “Rena Richardson is on the phone.”

  Alexia punched the button for her speaker phone.

  “I’ve changed my mind,” Rena said abruptly.

  “About what?”

  “About talking to Quinton’s lawyer. Go ahead and set it up.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve thought about it some more since leaving your office. There are some questions I want you to ask Quinton.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “I’ll write them down and give them to you later.”

  “Okay, but I can’t guarantee that his lawyer will let me ask them or that Quinton will answer.”

  “I know.”

  Alexia didn’t want to call Sean Pruitt twice—once to agree and then to back out.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind again?” she asked.

  “No. Set it up.”

  17

  The hidden soul of harmony.

  JOHN MILTON

  Ted’s cell phone beeped as he drove through a dead zone northwest of Santee for his meeting with Sarah Locklear. He’d check the message later. Ted had contacted the nurse through her agency and suggested they get together for supper. Sarah accepted immediately. On the seat of Ted’s truck, a scrap of paper bore the name and address of the restaurant she had suggested for their meeting.

  Farther inland, the houses became smaller, the driveways unpaved, and the cars older. Sandy soil costing barely a hundred or a thousand dollars per acre replaced the exorbitantly priced oceanfront property. As the distance to the shore increased, the wealth and extravagance dissipated like a wave retreating from the beach.

  A billboard on the right-hand side of the road announced his arrival at the Southside Restaurant. He applied the brakes and turned into the diner’s parking lot in a cloud of dust. A fresh coat of lime-green paint brightened the exterior of the wooden building. He saw Sarah’s car near the front door and parked nearby. Ted ran a comb through his hair before he got out of his truck.

  Inside, the nurse, dressed casually in jeans and a yellow shirt, her dark hair in a French braid, sat alone at a table. She waved when he entered, and he joined her, pulling out a cane-back chair. A large chalkboard attached to the wall above an open pass-through to the kitchen announced the day’s specials. Sarah sipped an iced tea. As soon as Ted sat down, a small, older woman with her gray hair in a tight bun came up to the table.

  “Is everybody here now?” she asked.

  Sarah nodded.

  “What do you want to eat?” the waitress asked.

  “Uh, is there a menu?” Ted responded.

  “First-timer, eh?” the woman said. A plastic name badge identified her as Nancy. “I’ll let Sarah tell you how it works. How do you want your tea?”

  “Sweet,” Ted replied. “With extra lemon.”

  When the waitress departed, Ted asked, “No chance to mull over a menu?”

  Sarah pointed to the blackboard. “Get one of the specials. They have other choices, but the best food is always on the chalkboard, and the cook doesn’t like special orders.”

  Ted scanned the three meat entrees and a variety of vegetables.

  “Any recommendations?”

  “It’s the best chicken-fried steak this side of Dallas, and the sautéed squash is perfect. All the vegetables are good except the mashed potatoes. They’
re runny.”

  “Have you been to Dallas?”

  “Yes. I worked at Baylor University Medical Center on the orthopedic floor for five years.”

  Nancy was lurking in the corner of Ted’s peripheral vision, and when he looked away from the chalkboard, she returned to his elbow. Sarah gave her order, adding okra with tomatoes to the squash and chicken-fried steak.

  “Same for me,” Ted added, “except I’d like cornbread instead of a roll.”

  The waitress left, and Ted leaned forward.

  “Is your house nearby?”

  “A couple of miles. I live with my aunt. She had a stroke two years ago, and I moved here to help take care of her.”

  “No family of your own?”

  “Three brothers, four sisters, and more nieces and nephews than I can keep up with, but no children of my own. How about you?”

  “I’ve been divorced for years and have a daughter in her twenties. She’s a musician in New York.”

  “Pianist?”

  “No, she plays the viola.”

  Ted squeezed the juice from two lemon slices into his tea.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about Baxter Richardson and have so many questions that I’m not sure where to start.”

  Sarah’s tone turned professional. “Well, he had a fracture at C4-5 of the cervical spine that caused damage to his spinal cord and resulted in the paralysis—”

  “No,” Ted interrupted. “Not the medical part. I want to know about you and your singing.”

  Sarah looked surprised. She took a sip of tea. “Oh, it’s not too complicated. I’ve been singing since I was a little girl.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “I’m a Lumbee from Robeson County, North Carolina.”

  “Lumbee?”

  Sarah touched her brown arm. “We’re the largest Native American group in North Carolina. The Cherokees live in the western mountains; we live in the southeastern part of the state not far from the coast. Some folks believe we’re descended from the survivors of the Lost Colony who intermarried with the Cheraw, but it’s impossible to prove. Many family names in the area sound English: Locklear, Oxendine, Revels, Carter, Briggs . . .”