Life Support by Robert Whitlow Page A

Santee River. Rumor had it Rena Richardson’s dress cost fifty thousand dollars.
    Ralph Leggitt made it to the third row on the groom’s side of the open-air seating and had a picture of Ezra and himself standing beside the wedding gazebo. Alexia had seen the photograph at the Leggitts’ home during the firm Christmas party.
    Alexia parked in her customary spot in the back corner of the parking lot near a palmetto tree. Gwen stopped her before she went into her office.
    â€œDid you hear about Baxter Richardson?” the secretary asked.
    â€œJust a blurb on the radio about a hiking accident. Do you know any details?”
    â€œMr. Leggitt was on the phone with Mr. Richardson first thing this morning, so he probably has the full story. He asked the partners who were here to come into his office. Leonard and a couple of the others are in there now.”
    Gwen opened the middle drawer of her desk. A black wire ran from a tiny radio to her ear. “I’ll let you know the news.”
    Alexia smiled. “So if you type a letter that has the weather forecast and the tide schedule in the second paragraph, I’ll know you were listening to the wrong ear.”
    Gwen lowered her voice. “This is huge news. If Baxter Richardson dies, can you imagine how rich his widow will be? She’s in her mid-twenties and would be set for life.”
    â€œGwen, that’s morbid.”
    â€œWhen you get to be my age, you’ll learn that men are fickle, and a girl’s best friend is a big bank account.”
    Alexia didn’t argue. Her primary job for her clients was to accomplish what Gwen believed.
    â€œAnyway,” Alexia said, “the radio said he was in critical condition. People usually get better when they say that.”
    Gwen scooted back in her chair. “You never know. I want to stay on top of it.”
    Alexia went into her office and listened to her voice mail messages. Marilyn Simpson had called. Her husband had issued a stop payment on a check he’d given her for groceries, and her finances were in shambles. She’d called the two lawyers Alexia suggested and neither of them would take her case. Grim-faced, Alexia wrote down the pertinent information from the call. She had to get Marilyn a lawyer first thing. She was about to pick up the phone and call a well-known divorce attorney in a nearby community when the phone buzzed. It was Leggitt.
    â€œAlexia? Are you there?”
    She pushed the talk button. “Yes, sir.”
    â€œCome into my office.”
    Alexia walked down the hallway. After her experience the previous day, it felt like a return to the school principal’s office. She knocked and entered. Four of the partners were sitting around the conference table. A speakerphone was in the middle of the table.
    Apprehensive, Alexia sat beside Leonard Mitchell, who was eating a doughnut and skimming the Wall Street Journal . On the other side of Leonard was Kenneth Pinchot, the firm’s senior litigator. Pinchot, a tall, distinguished attorney with carefully combed gray hair, always wore expensive suits with a silk handkerchief in the front pocket of his jacket. Looking slightly bored in response to required attendance at an early morning meeting, he nodded in greeting to Alexia and took another sip of coffee. Across the table from Pinchot was Bruce Fletchall, Ralph Leggitt’s alter ego and the lawyer who did most of the work for which the senior partner took credit. Bruce, a bookworm attorney who wore thick rimless glasses, was squinting at some documents and making notes on a legal pad.
    â€œDid you hear about Baxter Richardson?” Leggitt asked Alexia.
    â€œOnly the radio announcement about a hiking accident. What happened?”
    â€œHe fell down a cliff near a waterfall outside Greenville. He’s in a coma with head and spine injuries. Ezra flew up last night in his plane and talked with Rena at the hospital. I’m going to phone