The List Read online

  The LIST

  The LIST

  RObERT WHITLOW

  © 2000 by Robert Whitlow. All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson, Inc., titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, King James Version, and the Holy Bible, New International Version. © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Publishing House. All rights reserved.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Whitlow, Robert, 1954—

  The List/by Robert Whitlow

  p.cm.

  ISBN 978-0-8499-4518-2

  I. Title.

  PS3573.H49837 L57 2000

  813’.54 21—dc21

  99-045922

  CIP

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 11 12 13 14 RRD 18 17 16 15 14

  To my wife, Kathy.

  Without your constant encouragement, prayers, and

  pratical help, this book would not have been written.

  “So she became his wife, and he loved her.”

  GENESIS 24:67

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  Epilogue

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  “As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.”

  PROVERBS 27:17, NIV

  Many thanks to those who helped in the creation of this book. To my editors and resource providers: Rick Blanchette, Sheri Blevins, Annette Davis (my sister), Traci DePree, Butch Watson, and Scott Wilcher. Special thanks to Ami McConnell, Senior Editor at Thomas Nelson, who believed in the book from day one, and to my agent, Scott Nelson, who introduced her to it.

  And to those who prayed. You know who you are and your reward follows after you.

  PROLOGUE

  “I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing:

  therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live.”

  DEUTERONOMY 30:19, KJV

  Georgetown, South Carolina, November 30, 1863

  The old man pushed open the front door of the inn against the force of the coming storm. Slamming the door behind him, the wind’s hand caught his long white beard and whipped it over his shoulder. Leaning forward, he swayed slightly as he crossed the broad porch and slowly descended the weathered wooden steps. He wrapped his cloak tightly around him and pulled his black hat down over his head.

  He had feared the group assembled inside would not heed his words. Five years before the first shot was fired on Fort Sumter he began warning all who would listen of the coming conflict:

  “Then the Lord said unto me, Out of the north an evil shall break forth upon all the inhabitants of the land… . And I will utter my judgments against them, touching all their wickedness, who have forsaken me, and have burned incense unto other gods, and worshiped the works of their own hands.”

  Now, the sound of Lee’s army retreating from Gettysburg had reached their ears. It didn’t require a prophet’s vision to see into the future. Judgment was coming. But rather than repenting in the face of wrath, men of power and influence met in Georgetown to save Babylon, not to come out of her.

  Because of age and respect he was invited. And he came, not to join them but to warn them. Waiting until their frantic voices stilled, he spoke with all the strength and fervor his spirit could muster. Then, standing in front of a portrait of a stern-faced John C. Calhoun, he delivered a clear, impassioned call: “Lay not up for yourselves treasure upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal: but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor rust doth corrupt, and where thieves do not break through nor steal: for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”

  Layne and Jacobson had wavered, hesitant to reject completely the words of one they had called sir since first learning to talk. Others sat in silence; a few mocked. He overheard Eicholtz whisper to Johnston that the old man looked more like a scarecrow than a planter. But in the end, LaRochette’s smooth speech prevailed. No brands were plucked from the fire—all took the oath; all signed but him.

  He had been obedient, but prophetic obedience that fails to accomplish its purpose leaves aching regret for the objects of its mercy. Thus, he felt anger and grief: anger against his enemy, grief for his friends and neighbors. Naturally minded, practical, astute in business, they only saw the need for security and self-preservation. Good churchmen all, yet they were deceived, failing to see the spiritual evil straining for release. “Don’t you understand?” Hammond told him. “We must unite and preserve our wealth for the safety and future of our families.”

  Of course, one knew. He and the old man shared a private moment in the midst of the gathering. LaRochette’s eye caught his and flashed the identity and challenge of pure evil. The old man wanted to respond, strip away the pretense of the natural and cross swords in the unseen realm. But there was no call to battle from the Spirit.

  “Why don’t you let me confront it?” the old man pleaded.

  “All things have their appointed time, even the wicked for a day of destruction,” came the steady response.

  So, upon discharging his trust, he left them to their plans. Holding his hat securely on his head, he stood at the bottom of the steps and looked up at the night sky. The moon and stars flickered on and off as small, dark clouds hurtled across the heavens, clouds without rain but warning of storms to come.

  Thinking his task finished, he turned and faced the inn for a final farewell. Light from oil lamps faintly illuminated the windows of the meeting room. Then, as he leaned back against the wind, he felt the seed of another word forming deep within the core of his being, the place where he really lived. Knowing he must wait, he let the word build, push upward, and grow in intensity until its force sent chills through his chest and across his shoulders. Strength to stand against the wind entered his body and brought him to full stature as he stretched out his hands toward the house.

  Fueled by a power not found in the oratory of men, he cried out the words of the righteous Judge who spoke with lightning from Sinai:

  “I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me; and showing mercy unto thousands of them that love me, and keep my commandments… .”

  A solitary bolt of lightning split the heavens high overhead.

  This is what the Lord says; “A son will be born to my house, and he will expose your evil
power and execute My righteous judgments against you.”

  The wind tore the words out of his mouth and swept them up into the swirling darkness. Inside the house, Jacobson shuddered and turned to Weiss, “What was that?”

  “Nothing. Only the wind.”

  The old man remained motionless until the full power of the Word was released. Knowing it would come to pass, he faced the storm, mounted his horse, and rode off into the darkness.

  1

  Inherit the wind.

  PROVERBS 11:29, KJV

  The secretary whom Renny shared with two other associates in the banking law section of the firm buzzed the speakerphone on Renny’s desk. “Attorney Jefferson McClintock from Charleston calling on line one. Says it’s personal.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Renny shut the door of the windowless office he had occupied since graduating from law school three months earlier. If he continued working sixty hours a week, he had a fifty-fifty chance of a comfortable six-figure salary and an office with a view of the city in approximately twelve years. But for now he was at the bottom of the legal food chain. Of the 104 lawyers employed by Jackson, Robinson, and Temples in Charlotte, Raleigh, Winston-Salem, and Washington, D.C., his name, Josiah Fletchall Jacobson, was next to last on the firm’s letterhead.

  Renny picked up the phone. “Hello, Mr. McClintock.”

  “How are you, Renny?”

  “I’m OK. Busy learning the ins and outs of Truth in Lending and Regulation Z.”

  “Bank work, eh?”

  “Yes sir. I have to review all the forms used by the lending institutions we represent to make sure they contain the exact wording required by the regulations and print everything in the appropriate size type.”

  “Sounds picky.”

  “It is, but if I make a mistake, the banks can get hit with class-action lawsuits involving thousands of consumers who have a cause of action, even if they didn’t suffer any financial harm.”

  “Our government regulators at work.” The Charleston lawyer coughed and cleared his throat. “Well, move the law books to the side for a minute, and let’s talk about your father’s estate. With the help of two associates, I’ve almost completed the documents needed to probate your father’s will, but there are several matters that need your attention.”

  Two associates. Renny knew how the system worked. Multi-lawyer involvement was McClintock’s way to triple his money: charge for each junior lawyer’s time and throw in another fee at time and a half for the senior partner to proofread a stack of papers.

  “Any problems?” Renny asked.

  “We need to meet and discuss some things,” McClintock answered vaguely. “When can you come to Charleston? Tomorrow is Friday. Why not leave early and see me around two?”

  Renny had worked until ten o’clock two nights earlier in the week and had billed enough hours for the week to sneak away by late morning on Friday. Besides, he wasn’t going to let anything delay moving forward on the estate. “Could we make it three?”

  “Let me see.” McClintock paused. “Yes. I can move my three o’clock appointment up an hour.”

  “Do I need to bring anything?”

  “No,” replied McClintock, “we’ll have the paperwork ready. See you then.”

  “With your bill on top,” Renny remarked as he heard the click of the other lawyer hanging up the phone.

  Renny let his mind wander as he looked around his office. Even though it wasn’t much larger than a walk-in closet, Renny didn’t complain. Landing a job at a big law firm in a major city was the ultimate prize for the masses of eager students passing through the law school meat grinder. Each one entered the legal education process hoping they would come out with Law Review on their résumés and filet mignon status in the difficult job market. Most ended up as hamburger, relieved to find any job at all.

  Renny had an advantage. Although not on Law Review or in the top 10 percent of his class, he had something even better: connections. For once, really the first time he could remember, his father had come to his aid. Dwight Temples, one of the senior partners in the firm, had attended college with Renny’s father at The Citadel in Charleston. Over the years they maintained a casual friendship centered around an annual deep-sea fishing expedition off the coast of North Carolina. When Renny mentioned an interest in working for the firm’s Charlotte office, H. L. Jacobson called Dwight Temples, and the interview with the hiring partner at Jackson, Robinson, and Temples became a formality. Renny was offered a position on the spot.

  Today was not the first call Renny had received from Jefferson McClintock, his family’s lawyer in Charleston. Six weeks before, McClintock telephoned Renny with the news of H. L.’s sudden death on a golf course in Charleston. No warning. No cholesterol problem. No hypertension. No previous chest pains. The elder Jacobson was playing a round of golf with two longtime friends, Chaz Bentley, his stockbroker, and Alex Souther, a College of Charleston alumnus and restaurant owner.

  At the funeral home, Bentley, a jovial fellow and everyday golfer who probably received more stock market advice from Renny’s father than he gave to him, had pumped Renny’s hand and shook his head in disbelief. “I don’t understand it. He was fine. No complaints of pain or dizziness. We were having a great round at the old Isle of Palms course. You should have seen the shot he hit from the championship tee on the seventh hole. You remember, it’s the hole with the double water hazards. His tee shot must have gone 225 yards, straight down the fairway. He birdied the hole. Can you believe it? Birdied the last hole he ever played!” The stockbroker made it sound like nirvana to make a birdie then die on the golf course. “We were teeing off on number eight. Alex had taken a mulligan on his first shot and hooked his second try into a fairway bunker. I hit a solid drive just a little left of center.” Renny could tell Bentley was enjoying Souther’s duff and his own good shot all over again. “Then your father leaned over to tee up his ball and, he, uh…never got his ball on the tee,” he finished lamely.

  Because of the circumstances of his death, the coroner had required an autopsy. The pathologist’s report concluded death by coronary failure. H. L.’s family doctor, James Watson, had explained to Renny, “Your father’s heart exploded. He never knew what happened. Death was instantaneous. The pathologist called me from the hospital after he examined the body and reviewed his findings with me. Given your father’s good health, we were both puzzled at the severe damage to the heart muscle. We know how he died, but not why it happened as it did.”

  Renny grieved, but he and his father had not had a close relationship. H. L. was a harsh, critical parent whose favor eluded his son like the proverbial carrot on a stick. Renny tried to please, but the elder Jacobson often changed the rules, and Renny discovered a new way to fail instead. After his mother’s death, Renny only visited his father a couple of times a year.

  Since there was no one else with whom to share the considerable assets his father had inherited and then increased through savvy investments, Renny looked forward to the trip to Charleston. Once the estate was settled, he would become what some people called “independently wealthy.” It had a nice ring to it, and Renny indulged in fantasies of future expenditures.

  H. L. was not a generous parent; he paid for Renny’s education but never provided the extras he could have easily afforded. After landing the job at Jackson, Robinson, and Temples, Renny sold his old car for three thousand dollars and bought a new charcoal gray Porsche Boxster convertible. The payment and insurance on the new car devoured almost half of Renny’s monthly paycheck, but the sporty vehicle was a sign to himself and, subconsciously, to his father, that he had started up the ladder of success. Now he would be able to pay off the car, buy a house, perhaps even quit work and duplicate his father’s exploits in the commercial real estate market. His stay at the bottom of the law firm letterhead might be very short indeed.

  At 2:55 the next afternoon Renny was standing on the hot, humid Charleston sidewalk in front of the semicircul
ar double stairway beckoning him with open arms to the law firm of McClintock and Carney, Esquires. Some antebellum grande dame must be spinning in her grave, he thought. Her house, her home, the common thread of the domestic and social fabric of her life, taken over by legal scriveners and secretaries with word processors and fax machines. It was not an uncommon fate for a growing number of the homes and mansions lining Fourth Street. An antique dealer rented Renny’s ancestral home, near the Battery.

  At least Jefferson McClintock had Charleston roots. He wasn’t a New York lawyer who came south for the Spoleto festival, unpacked his carpetbag, and hung out a legal shingle. In fact, few current Charlestonians went further back to the city’s origins. McClintock’s great-great-grandfather, a Scottish blacksmith’s servant, could have been the farrier who made sure the grande dame’s horses had proper footwear. Now the servant’s descendant had his desk in the parlor and law books in the living room.

  When McClintock and his law partner, John Carney, purchased the house, they spent the money necessary to maintain the historic and architectural integrity of the 150-year-old structure. They had cleaned the white marble double stairway leading up from the street to the main entrance and made sure the hand railings were kept in good condition by a yearly staining to erase the corrosive effect of Charleston’s proximity to the ocean. The exterior stucco had been painted a fresh light peach—only in Charleston could pastel houses reflect good taste. From a low-flying plane, the old residential district looked like a summer fruit compote.

  Opening the large front door, he stepped into the law firm’s waiting area. As with many large nineteenth-century homes, the foyer was as wide and spacious as the dining room in a modern house plan. McClintock and Carney had turned the greeting area into a gracious reception room, furnishing it with antiques and quality reproductions.