Life Everlasting

by Robert Whitlow

  “Why would Jeffrey blackmail you so that you would sue his father? You have plenty of reasons not to trust Ezra, not to mention the legal right to find out what he’s done with Baxter’s assets.”

  “Jeffrey is paranoid. He came up with this scheme to scare me so that he could make me do anything he wants.”

  Alexia was blunt. “What else does he want you to do?”

  “I’m not sure. When we first talked in Greenville, Jeffrey acted nice and told me he would protect me. After he gave me a bunch of money when Ezra emptied my checking account, I felt better, but now I’m scared of him.”

  “Has he physically threatened you?”

  “Not yet, but I can feel the same thing in him that I saw in Baxter’s eyes at the waterfall.”

  Alexia suspended the interrogation before asking her next question. When she did, she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “Have you and Jeffrey ever had a romantic relationship?” she asked.

  Rena turned in her seat. Alexia glanced over and saw that her client’s eyes were blazing.

  “How dare you!” Rena screamed. “Why would you accuse me—”

  “I’m sorry,” Alexia interjected quickly. “Calm down. I should have asked if Jeffrey tried to hit on you. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  Rena faced forward like a pouting child, and Alexia could see out of the corner of her eye that she was still fuming. After a few seconds, Rena spoke in a softer but still angry voice.

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  Alexia couldn’t see a way to keep going without causing Rena to sizzle.

  “It was a stupid thing to say,” she said. “Forget it. Help me understand why Jeffrey wants to pressure you.”

  “Don’t ever say anything like that again.”

  Alexia turned onto the main coastal highway. Rena clammed up. They passed the deserted Beachcomber Club and drove for a couple of miles in silence.

  “Because I know what he’s doing,” Rena said.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s why Jeffrey is blackmailing me. I know things about his business that he doesn’t want to come out in the open.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “He’s involved in something illegal.”

  Alexia waited.

  In a moment, Rena continued, “Jeffrey is in a fight with his father for control and wants me to help him get the upper hand. That’s why he wants us to sue the companies on the list he gave me. He thinks a lawsuit will cause Ezra to back off and let Jeffrey do what he wants to do.”

  Alexia immediately thought about her former bosses at Leggitt & Freeman and wondered what they might know about the inner workings of Richardson and Company. Ralph Leggitt and his partners loved money, but Alexia couldn’t imagine them risking prison to make a few extra bucks.

  “Did Jeffrey tell you anything about the companies that you haven’t mentioned?”

  “No. He provides information in tiny drips, and I didn’t want to know very much.”

  “Baxter never told you?”

  Rena looked out the window for a few seconds before answering.

  “That’s another thing I need to tell you. I found out that Baxter’s family was doing something illegal and confronted him about it while we were hiking. I begged him to get out. I told him we could move somewhere else and start over. I’ve been poor before and would have been willing to live in a mobile home and work at a convenience store to escape the situation here. He became furious, asked me if I was going to tell the police. I told him that I loved him and wouldn’t do anything to hurt him, but he went berserk. That’s the reason for the fight. When I thought he died on the rocks, I came up with the story that he slipped because it was easier than telling the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

  “Whoever is working with the Richardsons wouldn’t think twice about hurting me if I mess up their plans. I was trying to take care of everything on my own and not get you involved.”

  “Is there anything else you’re not telling me?”

  Rena shrugged. “I don’t think so. I know you need the whole truth to help me. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before. It’s a relief to get this out in the open.”

  They drove past a succession of manicured entrances to resort communities. Alexia was skeptical of Rena’s story.

  “And in case something happens to me,” Rena said.

  “What?”

  “You need to know the truth in case something happens to me. I’ve been thinking about leaving town, forgetting about my rights to any money, and letting Ezra or Jeffrey take control of everything. If Baxter had died, I could have done it. Now, I have to figure out a way go on with my life. That’s why I want to file for divorce, change my name, and move far away.”

  “Even if a court sets most of the money aside for Baxter’s future medical needs?”

  Rena turned slightly in her seat. “No matter what happens with the money, I have to get out. Would you stay in this situation if you were me?”

  Alexia didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure Rena’s tale contained a consistent strand of truth. Accusing the Richardson family of involvement in organized crime was far-fetched. Alexia’s theory that Baxter and Rena fought over an affair, while less exotic, remained more plausible. Jeffrey would use the tape to keep Rena quiet in case he wanted to end their relationship without an untidy mess.

  “What do you want to do about the videotape?” Alexia asked. “If Quinton’s lawyer gets his hands on it, he will try to convince the solicitor to dismiss the charges against his client and indict you.”

  “You have to protect me. That’s why I showed it to you. You saw what happened when that awful detective harassed me at the hospital.”

  Alexia hated it when clients wanted guarantees in advance. “We can have it analyzed to find out if the date was added later.”

  “Of course it was added later,” Rena said.

  “Then testing will prove it. In the meantime, let’s see what Quinton will tell us. His fingerprints were on the car for a reason, but if neither you nor Quinton drove it to Charleston on the day the officer was killed, we need to find out who did and why.”

  They reached the outskirts of Charleston. Touches of urban sprawl had crept up the coast as the city spilled beyond the peninsula bounded by the Ashley and Cooper Rivers. The newer areas were no different from any other suburban region: strip centers, restaurant chains, and movie theaters. After penetrating the outer ring of modernity, Alexia and Rena moved down the peninsula into the older part of town, where the speed limit dropped to thirty-five miles per hour and the pace of life slowed by more than a century.

  The Charleston County Courthouse, at the corner of Broad and Meeting Streets, was the site of the provincial capitol while King George ruled the Lowcountry. Several years later, the citizens of Charleston gathered in the street below a second-story balcony and listened to a herald read the Declaration of Independence. The building yielded its place of prominence only after it burned at the time of the Constitutional Ratification Convention of 1788. Rebuilt in 1792, it settled comfortably into its more mundane role as the legal hub of the region.

  Sean Pruitt’s office was on Beaufain Street, a couple of blocks from the courthouse. Alexia parked on the street in front of a peach-colored structure with short white columns. The three-story building housed several law offices. At the top of the signage was a notation reading, “Sean P. Pruitt III, Attorney at Law.”

  “Here’s our man,” Alexia said. “Let me do the talking first. If I let him question you, keep your answers short and simple, just like you did when the detective interviewed you. The real questions will be for Quinton when I go to the jail.”

  “Okay.”

  They walked up a brick sidewalk and climbed five steps to the large front door, which was painted white with a shiny brass kick plate and a large lion’s-head knocker. Alexia pushed it open and stepped into what had once been the foyer of a large home but now served
as a common reception area. A young woman seated behind a fancy wooden desk and wearing a headset greeted them.

  “We’re here to see Sean Pruitt,” Alexia said. “I’m Alexia Lindale.”

  “He’ll meet with you in the conference room across the hall,” the woman said, pointing to a pair of sliding pocket doors. “Please go in and have a seat.”

  Alexia pushed back the doors. The antique furniture and a hand-woven rug gave the room a museum feel. Rena sat down in a side chair and began to fidget. Alexia inspected the paintings on the wall. The most impressive was a nineteenth-century oil portrait of a man wearing a gray suit with stiff collar. She heard footsteps. Turning around, she faced a dark-haired young man about six feet tall with piercing blue eyes. He wore a white shirt, red tie, and gray slacks. He extended his hand toward Rena, who hurriedly stood up.

  “Ms. Lindale?” he asked in the deep Southern voice Alexia had heard on the telephone.

  “No, I’m Rena Richardson,” she said.

  Pruitt bowed slightly to Rena and shifted his gaze to Alexia. The clear, intelligent look in his eyes belied her first impression. Alexia stepped forward and firmly shook his hand.

  “Thank you for coming,” he said.

  “Nice room,” Alexia replied. “I was admiring the portrait. Who is it?”

  “My great-grandfather, Harrison Pruitt. He built this house in 1880. His father lost everything in the War, but Harrison bounced back by importing cheap goods from the North during Reconstruction. Sort of a Southern carpetbagger.”

  Alexia raised her eyebrows. “And you’re proud of that?”

  “Just honest,” Pruitt said with a shrug, “a scarce trait among families who have lived in Charleston as long as mine. Everybody pretends their ancestors had the integrity of Lee, the oratorical skills of Calhoun, and the military genius of Jackson. Any coffee or tea for you ladies?”

  Alexia opted for tea. Rena declined.

  While Pruitt was out of the room, Rena whispered, “He’s kind of weird.”

  “Yeah,” Alexia replied.

  Pruitt returned with Alexia’s tea, which he poured himself from a small silver teapot. He picked up a sugar cube with a set of tiny silver tongs and gave Alexia a questioning look. Alexia didn’t know sugar cubes still existed in the modern universe. When she nodded, he plopped the cube into the steaming cup.

  “Does your family own the house?” she asked.

  “I do,” Pruitt replied. “I live on the third floor and have an office on this floor. I rent space to the other lawyers. It’s a convenient way to handle overhead.”

  Alexia took the cup and sipped gingerly.

  Pruitt continued. “My mother is the antique collector. She sold her house in town and lives at Hilton Head. A lot of the stuff in here came from her side of the family.”

  Alexia set her cup on a matching white saucer and moved to business.

  “What do you want to ask Ms. Richardson?”

  “Oh, not too much.” He looked at her. “I’d like a basic chronology of the events of the day. As you can imagine, I’m still at the preliminary stages of my investigation and don’t have enough information to convince my client to plead guilty.”

  Alexia was perplexed, but it wasn’t her job to convince Pruitt that his client deserved a competent defense. She looked at Rena and nodded.

  “Go ahead,” she said to Pruitt.

  The lawyer slipped a small, handheld tape recorder from his pocket and put it on the table in front of Rena. Alexia held up her hand.

  “No recordings. Take notes if you like.”

  Pruitt didn’t argue. He turned over a new page on a legal pad and began asking Rena a series of questions very similar to the ones posed by Detective Devereaux. Rena performed well. Pruitt wrote Rena’s name at the top of the page but didn’t take any notes. As she listened, Alexia decided he either had a remarkable memory or was too lazy to remove the cap from his pen. Pruitt soon reached the part in the story where the police contacted Rena and told her that her car had been found.

  “Just a few more questions,” he said, “but first, a replenishment for your lawyer.” He reached for her teacup.

  “No, I’m fine,” Alexia replied.

  Pruitt set his blank legal pad on the table and stared past Rena at the portrait of his great-grandfather.

  “Very well,” he said. “Tell me about the videotape that shows you driving the red convertible less than an hour before Deputy Dixon’s death.”

  All the color drained from Rena’s face.

  “Don’t answer that,” Alexia snapped. She turned to Pruitt. “You sandbagged me.”

  Pruitt remained calm. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I think it’s highly relevant that I find out about this alleged tape. The solicitor’s office doesn’t know about it, and I don’t have a copy, but my client insists a videotape exists that shows your client exiting her house, getting in the red convertible, driving down the street, and running a red light before giving the camera crew the slip. Across the bottom of the tape is the date and time it was filmed. Unless the car was hijacked on the way out of town, Mrs. Richardson is the only person who could have driven it to Charleston within the time period during which the crime occurred.”

  Stalling for time to decide what she should do, Alexia asked, “What else is Quinton telling you?”

  “That he traveled to Savannah on the day in issue and has a witness to prove it. I don’t know how or why Deputy Dixon died, but it wasn’t my client’s fault. Quinton was out of town all day, and, with or without the tape, I don’t think the charges against him will stick. However, a zealous advocate wants to marshal all forces and mount a vigorous defense. Unless you give me a reason not to subpoena the tape from your client, that’s exactly what I intend to do. Once it’s in the solicitor’s hands, the matter is out of my control. To me, it looks like someone could be interested in getting your client into a lot of trouble.”

  “Maybe so,” Alexia replied, “but it’s not something we can discuss at this time.” She handed her card to Pruitt. “Ms. Richardson doesn’t have anything else to say. If you decide to serve a subpoena, let me know.”

  Pruitt remained seated. “I take it you don’t want to talk to Quinton?”

  Alexia glanced at Rena, whose eyes were glazed over. She looked like she was about to faint. “Let’s go,” Alexia said.

  “Wait!” Rena cried out. “This is all wrong!”

  Alexia saw a dam about to break and didn’t know what was behind it. She spoke in a sharp voice. “No, Rena! Not here, not now.”

  Rena stared straight ahead and spoke rapidly. “The policeman stopped me for speeding and told me to get out of the car. When I opened the car door, he tripped and fell backward. I had no idea he was dead. I was scared to death and drove off. It was an accident. That’s it.”

  Alexia was furious but not with Pruitt. Rena had supposedly delivered a heartfelt revelation of the whole truth less than an hour before. That story was now thrown out the window. Her client’s world of truth was pockmarked with sinkholes.

  Pruitt rubbed his chin. “That would be a Class F felony for filing a false police report alleging the commission of a crime. You could go to jail for up to five years.”

  Rena looked up at him with desperate eyes. “I can’t go to jail. I’d rather kill myself than be locked up. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Pruitt lowered his hand. “Or the solicitor might choose involuntary manslaughter due to criminal negligence, which also carries a five-year maximum sentence.”

  Rena covered her ears. “Stop! I don’t want to hear any of this!”

  Alexia didn’t intervene. At this point damage control was impossible.

  Pruitt continued in a matter-of-fact tone of voice, “Of course, the solicitor can charge you, but proving the case is another matter. Without the videotape or a confession, I doubt you’ll ever be indicted. To me, your story about what happened with Deputy Dixon is plausible.”

  Alexia finally trusted h
erself to speak. “Why didn’t you tell me this when you showed me the videotape at my office?” she asked sharply.

  “I was afraid.” Rena said through tears. Turning toward Pruitt, she pleaded, “You’re a lawyer and what I tell you is confidential. You won’t turn me in, will you?”

  “I’m not your attorney, so I have no restriction of confidentiality.”

  “But you won’t tell anyone because you believe me,” Rena pleaded. “I mean, if you’d been in my place you might have done the same thing—”

  “Don’t go there,” Pruitt interrupted in a surprisingly stern voice. “This is not about me, and I won’t commit to anything until I find out what is going to happen to the charges against Quinton. If the murder and theft charges are dropped, then the tape is irrelevant. If not, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  Rena sobbed. Alexia felt her face flush. Pruitt looked toward her and continued in a calm voice.

  “You’ve kept your side of the bargain. Do you want to interview Quinton?”

  Alexia bit her lip. Her wounded pride wanted to leave, but there might yet be something to salvage from Quinton. She glanced at Rena. Watching her client cry wouldn’t accomplish anything positive.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Very well. Let’s go to the jail.”

  “I want to stay here,” Rena said through her sniffles.

  “That’s fine, so long as no one else needs the conference room,” Pruitt replied. “I’ll check the schedule.”

  Pruitt left the room, and Alexia fought the urge to berate Rena for lying to her and then blurting out her story in front of the other lawyer. However, there wasn’t time to properly chastise her client, and Alexia waited in stoic, tight-lipped silence. Rena’s emotions subsided, but she remained sitting with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped over. Alexia took a deep breath.

  “Don’t talk to anyone while I’m gone,” she said curtly.

  Rena didn’t look up at her. “It was an accident, and I was scared. I drove the car to Charleston, abandoned it in a parking lot, and caught a taxi back to Santee.”