The List Read Free

opposite wall, Renny walked over for a better look at the black-and-white picture.
    â€œThat’s our class, a good one,” McClintock remarked as he walked out of his office and shook Renny’s hand. “There’s your father, third from the left in the back, and me, second from the right in the first row.”
    It was easy to see why McClintock was in the first row. At five feet six, he was barely tall enough to gain admittance to a military academy. But to his credit, McClintock didn’t weigh ten pounds more now than he had almost fifty years before. He still sported a Citadel haircut and held himself erect, ready to snap to full attention. Renny knew his father’s classmate ran five miles every morning and jumped into the Atlantic Ocean every New Year’s Day in a Southern version of the famous Polar Bear Club’s annual dip in Lake Michigan.
    Renny leaned closer to see his father. Henry Lawrence Jacobson, H. L. to everyone who knew him, was tall and slim. The influence of early military discipline kept his back straight and shoulders square to the end of his days. Even in the grainy picture, H. L. exuded a sense of confidence and control. Not particularly handsome, but without any distracting negative features, it was not his physical appearance but an intangible presence that set him apart from his peers. Whether on the schoolyard or in the boardroom, it did not take long for the elder Jacobson’s internally generated power to pervade the atmosphere around him. If austere Southern aristocracy existed in the twentieth century, H. L. Jacobson qualified as Exhibit A. From the graduation photo, H. L.’s dark eyes seemed to probe the depths of Renny’s soul just as they did when he interrogated Renny after he was caught wandering away from school during recess in the second grade.
    Renny, with his dark hair, brown eyes, and wry, almost shy, smile, looked more like his soft-spoken mother than his father. Short and solid, Renny had played outside linebacker for three years at Hammond Academy, a private high school in Charleston. In his senior season, he received the Best Hit of the Year award for a play in which he tackled the opposing team’s punter. It was fourth down late in a game and the other team was behind ten points. Renny suspected a fake punt was in the works and ran as hard as he could toward the punter. Slipping between two players who were supposed to block him, he hit the punter so hard the punter was knocked several feet through the air. It looked great on the highlight film of the game, and Renny won the award. Neither of his parents attended the game. His mother was in the early stages of the Lou Gehrig’s disease that killed her three years later, and his father was out of town at a business meeting.
    McClintock ushered Renny into his office. “Come into the parlor. Some of the antiques here, including my desk, were purchased from the Stillwell Gallery,” he said, referring to the antique dealer located in the former Jacobson family home.
    McClintock sat down behind an eighteenth-century partners desk, a beautiful mahogany piece designed for two clerks to work opposite each other. Of course, McClintock had the desk to himself.
    The older lawyer picked up a heavy folder, set it down, and tapped a fountain pen against his desk blotter. “Well, let’s get down to business.” He hesitated, opening the folder on his desk then closing it again without taking anything out. “I’m not sure where to begin.”
    â€œI’ve reviewed my copy of the will,” Renny said. “Everything appears straightforward. Could we look over the documents you intend to file with the probate court?”
    â€œThe documents I’ve prepared for the court?” McClintock said.
    â€œSure, you said they would be ready.”
    â€œOh, they are. I have them in here.” The lawyer patted the still-closed folder.
    Renny reached out his hand.