The Testament

by John Grisham

  SEVENTEEN

  _____________

  AFTER A few false starts, the jet lag and fatigue and the aftereffects of the vodka caught up with him. The rice helped too, and Nate fell into a hard deep sleep. Welly checked on him every hour. “He’s snoring,” he reported to Jevy in the wheelhouse.

  The sleep was dreamless. His nap lasted four hours as the Santa Loura inched ahead in the general direction of north, against the current and the wind. Nate awoke to the steady beat of the diesel and the sensation that the boat was not really moving. He rose gently in the hammock and peeked over the edge and studied the riverbank for signs of progress. The vegetation was dense. The river appeared completely uninhabited. There was a wake behind the boat and by staring at a tree he could tell that, yes, they were in fact going somewhere. But very slowly. The water was up because of the rains; navigation was easier but traffic upstream was not as fast.

  The nausea and headaches were gone, but movements were still delicate. He began the challenge of removing himself from the hammock, primarily because he needed to urinate. He managed to safely place his feet on the deck without incident, and as he paused for a moment Welly appeared like a mouse and handed him a small cup of coffee.

  Nate took the warm cup, cradled it and sniffed it. Nothing had ever smelled better. “Obrigado,” he said. Thanks.

  “Sim,” Welly said with an even brighter smile.

  Nate sipped the precious sweet coffee and tried not to return Welly’s stare. The kid was dressed in the standard river garb; old gym shorts, old tee shirt, and cheap rubber sandals that protected the soles of scarred and hardened feet. Like Jevy and Valdir, and most of the Brazilians he’d met so far, Welly had black hair and dark eyes, semi-Caucasian features, and a shade of brown skin that was lighter than some, darker than others, but a shade all his own.

  I’m alive and sober, Nate thought, sipping. I have once again touched briefly the edge of hell and survived. I’ve bottomed, I’ve crashed, I’ve stared at the blurred image of my face and welcomed death, yet here I am sitting and breathing. Twice in three days I have uttered my last words. Maybe it’s not my time.

  “Mais?” Welly asked, nodding at the empty cup.

  “Sim,” Nate replied, and handed it to him. Two steps and he was gone.

  Stiff from the plane wreck and shaky from the vodka, Nate pulled himself up and stood unaided in the center of the deck, wobbly and bent at the knees. But he was able to stand, and this alone meant everything. Recovery was nothing but a series of small steps, small victories. String them together with no stumbles and no defeats and you’re treated. Never cured, just treated or rehabbed or sanitized for a while. He’d done the puzzle before: celebrate every little piece.

  Then the flat bottom of the boat brushed a sandbar, jolting it, and Nate fell hard against the hammock. It flipped him onto the deck, where his head cracked on a wooden plank. He scrambled to his feet and clutched the railing with one hand while rubbing his skull with the other. No blood, just a small knot, just another little wound to the flesh. But the blow woke him, and when his eyes cleared, he moved slowly along the railing to the small cramped bridge, where Jevy sat on a stool, one hand draped over the wheel.

  The quick Brazilian smile, then, “How do you feel?”

  “Much better,” Nate said, almost ashamed. But shame was an emotion Nate had abandoned years earlier. Addicts know no shame. You disgrace yourself so many times you become immune to it.

  Welly bounced up the steps with coffee in both hands. He gave one to Nate and the other to Jevy, then took his perch on a narrow bench next to the captain.

  The sun was beginning to fall behind the distant mountains of Bolivia, and clouds were forming to the north, directly in front of them. The air was light and much cooler. Jevy found his tee shirt and put it on. Nate feared another storm, but the river wasn’t wide. Surely they could land the damned boat and tie it to a tree.

  They approached a little square house, the first dwelling Nate had seen since Corumbá. There were signs of life: a horse and a cow, wash on the line, a canoe near the water. A man with a straw hat, a bona fide pantaneiro, stepped onto the porch and gave them a lazy wave.

  Past the house, Welly pointed to a spot where thick undergrowth spilled into the river. “Jacarés,” he said. Jevy looked but seemed not to care. He’d seen a million alligators. Nate had seen only one, from the back of a horse, and as he gazed at the slimy reptiles watching them from the mud he was struck by how much smaller they appeared from the deck of a boat. He preferred the distance.

  Something told him, though, that before his journey was over he would once again get too close for comfort. The johnboat trailing behind the Santa Loura would have to be used in their search for Rachel Lane. He and Jevy would navigate small rivers, dodge undergrowth, wade through dark and weedy waters. Surely there would be jacarés and other species of vicious reptiles waiting for lunch.

  But, oddly, Nate didn’t care at the moment. So far in Brazil he’d proved himself quite resistant. It was an adventure, and his guide seemed fearless.

  Grasping the handrail, he managed the steps down with great care, then shuffled along the narrow walkway past the cabin and the kitchen, where Welly had a pot on the propane stove. The diesel roared in the engine room. The last stop was the rest room, a small closet with a toilet, a dirty sink in a corner, and a flimsy showerhead swinging back and forth inches above his head. He relieved himself while studying the cord for the shower. He backed away and pulled it. Warm water with a slight brownish tint came down with sufficient force. It was obviously river water, scooped from an unlimited supply and presumably unfiltered. There was a wire basket above the door for a towel and a change of clothes, so you had to strip and somehow straddle the toilet while pulling the shower rope with one hand and bathing with the other.

  What the hell, thought Nate. There simply wouldn’t be many showers.

  He looked in the pot on the stove and found it filled with rice and black beans and wondered if every meal would be the same. But he didn’t really care. Food was not an issue with him. At Walnut Hill they dried you out while gently starving you. His appetite had shrunk months earlier.

  He sat on the steps to the bridge, his back to the captain and Welly, and watched the river grow dark. In the dusk the wildlife prepared itself for the night. Birds flew low over the water, moving from tree to tree, looking for one last minnow or fish for the night. They called to each other as the boat passed, their chants and shrieks rising well above the steady drone of the diesel. Water splashed along the banks as alligators moved about. Perhaps there were snakes in there too, large anacondas bedding down, but Nate preferred not to think about them. He felt quite safe on the Santa Loura. The breeze was slight and warmer now, and blowing at them. The storm had not materialized.

  Time was racing somewhere else, but in the Pantanal time was of no consequence. He was slowly adjusting to it. He thought of Rachel Lane. What would the money do to her? No one, regardless of his level of faith and commitment, could remain the same. Would she leave with him, and go to the States to tend to her father’s estate? She could always return to her Indians. How would she greet the news? How would she react to the sight of an American lawyer who’d tracked her down?

  Welly strummed an old guitar and Jevy added some low and unrefined vocals. Their duet was pleasant, almost soothing; the song of simple men who lived by the day and not by the minute. Men who gave little thought to tomorrow and none for what may or may not happen next year. He envied them, at least while they were singing.

  It was quite a comeback for a man who’d tried to drink himself to death a day earlier. He was enjoying the moment, happy to be alive, looking forward to the rest of his adventure. His past was truly in another world, light years away, in the cold wet streets of Washington.

  Nothing good could happen there. He’d proved clearly that he could not stay clean living there, knowing the same people, doing the same work, ignoring the same old habits until he crash
ed. He would always crash.

  Welly started a solo that snapped Nate away from his past. It was a slow mournful ballad that lasted until the river was completely dark. Jevy switched on two small floodlights, one on each side of the bow. The river was easy to navigate. It rose and fell with the seasons and never attained much depth. The boats were shallow and flat on the bottom, and built to take sandbars that sometimes got in the way. Jevy hit one just after dark, and the Santa Loura stopped moving. He reversed the engine, then thrust it forward, and after five minutes of this maneuvering they were free again. The boat was unsinkable.

  In a corner of the cabin, not far from the four bunks, Nate ate alone at a table that was bolted to the floor. Welly served him the beans and rice, along with boiled chicken and an orange. He drank cold water from a bottle. A bulb on a light cord swung above his food. The cabin was hot and unventilated. Welly had suggested sleeping in the hammock.

  Jevy arrived with a navigational map of the Pantanal. He wanted to plot their progress, and so far there had been little. They were indeed inching up the Paraguay, with only a tiny gap between their current position and Corumbá.

  “The water is high,” Jevy explained. “We’ll go much faster on the return.”

  The return was not something Nate had thought much about. “No problem,” he said. Jevy pointed in various directions and made some more calculations. “The first Indian village is in this area,” he said, pointing to a spot that looked weeks away, given their current pace.

  “Guató?”

  “Sim. Yes. I think we should go there first. If she is not there, then maybe someone knows where she is.”

  “How long before we get there?”

  “Two, maybe three days.”

  Nate shrugged. Time had stopped. His wristwatch was in his pocket. His collection of hourly, daily, weekly, monthly planners was long forgotten. His trial calendar, the one great inviolate map of his life, had been tucked away in some secretary’s drawer. He had cheated death, and so every day now was a gift.

  “I have lots of reading,” he said.

  Jevy carefully refolded the map. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. I feel good.”

  There was a lot more Jevy wanted to ask. Nate was not ready for a confessional. “I’m fine,” he said again. “This little trip will be good for me.”

  He read for an hour at the table, under the swaying light, until he realized he was soaked with sweat. From his bunk he gathered insect repellent, a flashlight, and a stack of Josh’s memos, and carefully made his way to the bow, then up the steps to the wheelhouse, where Welly was in command and Jevy was catching a nap. He sprayed his arms and legs, then crawled into the hammock, squirming and adjusting until his head was properly elevated above his butt. When things were perfectly balanced, and the hammock swung gently with the flow of the river, Nate clicked on his flashlight and began reading again.

  EIGHTEEN

  _____________

  IT WAS a simple hearing, a reading of a will, but the details were crucial. F. Parr Wycliff had thought of little else during his Christmas holiday. Every seat in his courtroom would be filled, with more spectators packed three deep against the walls. He’d worried so much that the day after Christmas he had walked around his empty courtroom pondering where to seat everyone.

  And, typically, the press was out of control. They wanted cameras inside, and he had vehemently refused. They wanted cameras in the hallway peering in through the small square windows in the doors, and he said no. They wanted preferred seating; again, no. They wanted interviews with him, and he was stiff-arming them at the moment.

  The lawyers too were showing their asses. Some wanted the entire hearing closed to the world, others wanted it televised, for obvious reasons. Some wanted the file sealed, others wanted copies of the will faxed over for their perusal. There were motions for this and that, requests to have seating here and there, concerns about who would be allowed inside the courtroom and who would not. Several of the lawyers went so far as to suggest that they be allowed to open and read the will. It was quite thick, you know, and they might be forced to explain some of the more intricate provisions as they read along.

  Wycliff arrived early and met with the extra deputies he’d requested. They followed him, along with his secretary and his law clerk, around the courtroom as he made seat assignments and tested the sound system and counted chairs. He was very concerned with the details. Someone said a television news crew was attempting to set up camp down the hall, and he quickly dispatched a deputy to retake the area.

  With the courtroom secure and organized, he retired to his office to tend to other matters. Concentration was difficult. Never again would his daily calendar promise such excitement. Quite selfishly, he hoped that the will of Troy Phelan was scandalously controversial; that it stripped money from one ex-family and awarded it to another. Or perhaps it screwed all of his crazy children and made someone else rich. A long nasty will contest would certainly liven up Wycliff’s rather mundane career in probate. He’d be the center of the storm, one that would no doubt rage for years, with eleven billion at stake.

  He was certain this would happen. Alone, with his door locked, he spent fifteen minutes ironing his robe.

  The first spectator was a reporter who arrived just after eight, and because he was the first he received the full treatment from the jumpy security detail blocking the double doors to the courtroom. He was greeted gruffly, asked to produce a picture ID and sign a sheet for journalists, got his steno pad inspected as if it were a grenade, then was directed through the metal detector, where two thick guards were obviously disappointed when no sirens erupted as he passed through. He was grateful he did not get strip-searched. Once inside, he was led down the center aisle by yet another uniformed officer to a spot two rows from the front. He was relieved to get a seat. The courtroom was empty.

  The hearing was set for ten, and by nine a nice crowd had assembled in the foyer outside the courtroom. Security was taking its time with the paperwork and the searches. A line formed down the hall.

  Some of the lawyers for the Phelan heirs arrived in a rush and became instantly irritated with the delay in getting into the courtroom. Harsh words were exchanged; threats were made and received by the lawyers and by the deputies. Someone sent for Wycliff, but he was polishing his boots and didn’t want to be disturbed. And, like a bride before the wedding, he didn’t want to be seen by the guests. The heirs and the lawyers were given priority, and this eased the tense situation.

  The courtroom slowly filled. Tables were placed in a U-shape, with the Judge’s bench at the open end, so that His Honor could look down from his perch and see everyone: lawyers, heirs, spectators. To the left of the bench, in front of the jury box, was a long table where the Phelans were being placed. Troy Junior was first, with Biff in tow. They were directed to a spot nearest the bench, where they sat and huddled with three lawyers from their legal team while working desperately to appear somber and at the same time ignore everyone else in the courtroom. Biff was furious because the security detail had confiscated her cell phone. She couldn’t make real estate calls.

  Ramble was next. For the occasion he had neglected his hair, which still bore streaks of lime green and hadn’t been washed in two weeks. His rings were in full glory—ear, nose, eyebrow. Black leather jacket with no sleeves, temporary tattoos on his skinny arms. Ragged jeans; old boots. Surly attitude. He caught the attention of the journalists when he walked down the aisle. He was coddled and fussed over every step of the way by Yancy, his aging hippie lawyer, who had somehow managed to hang on to his prized client.

  Yancy took a quick look at the seating scheme, and asked to sit as far away from Troy Junior as possible. The deputy complied and put them at the end of a temporary table facing the bench. Ramble sank into his chair, green hair hanging over the back of it. The spectators watched him in horror—this thing was about to inherit a half a billion dollars? The potential for mayhem seemed limitl
ess.

  Geena Phelan Strong was next with her husband Cody and two of their lawyers. They gauged the distance between Troy Junior and Ramble, then split the difference and sat as far away from both as possible. Cody was particularly burdened and earnest and immediately began reviewing some important papers with one of his lawyers. Geena just gawked at Ramble; she couldn’t believe they were half-brother and -sister.

  Amber the stripper made a grand entrance in a short skirt and low-cut blouse that gave away most of her expensive breasts. The deputy escorting her down the aisle couldn’t believe his good fortune. He chatted her up along the way, eyes glued to the edge of her blouse. Rex followed behind in a dark suit, carrying a bulky briefcase as if he had serious work today. Behind him was Hark Gettys, still the noisiest advocate of the bunch. Hark brought with him two of his new associates; his firm was growing by the week. Since Amber and Biff weren’t speaking, Rex quickly intervened and pointed to a spot between Ramble and Geena.

  The tables were filling; the gaps were closing. Before long some of the Phelans would be sitting close to each other.

  Ramble’s mother Tira brought two young men of about the same age. One had tight jeans and a hairy chest; the other was well groomed in dark pinstripes. She was sleeping with the gigolo. The lawyer would get his on the backend.

  Another gap was filled. On the other side of the bar, the courtroom was alive with the hum of gossip and speculation. “No wonder the old man jumped,” one reporter said to another as they examined the Phelans.

  The Phelan grandchildren were forced to sit with the spectators and common folk. They huddled with their small entourages and support groups and giggled nervously as fate was about to swing their way.

  Libbigail Jeter arrived with her husband Spike, the three-hundred-twenty-pound ex-biker, and they waddled down the aisle, as out of place as anyone, though they’d seen their share of courtrooms. They followed Wally Bright, their yellow page lawyer. Wally wore a spotted raincoat that dragged the floor, scuffed wing tips, and a polyester tie that was twenty years old, and if the spectators had voted right then he would’ve easily won the award for the worst-dressed lawyer. He carried his papers in an expandable file, one that had been used for countless divorces and other matters. For some reason, Bright had never purchased a briefcase. He’d finished tenth in his class in night school.

  They went straight for the widest gap, and as they were taking their seats Bright began the noisy process of removing his raincoat. The ragged hem of it brushed against the neck of one of Hark’s nameless associates, an earnest young man already bothered by Bright’s body odor.

  “If you don’t mind!” he said sharply, swinging a backhand toward Bright, and missing. The words cracked through the tense and edgy air. Heads jerked around the tables as important documents were instantly ignored. Everybody hated everybody.

  “Sorry!” Bright responded with great sarcasm. Two deputies moved forward to intervene if necessary. But the raincoat found a place under the table without further incident, and Bright finally managed to seat himself, next to Libbigail, with Spike sitting on the other side stroking his beard and staring at Troy Junior as if he’d love to slap him.

  Few people in the courtroom expected the brief skirmish to be the last among the Phelans.

  You die with eleven billion, and people care about your last will and testament. Especially if there’s a chance that one of the world’s great fortunes is about to be fed to the vultures. The tabloids were there, along with the local papers and all the important financial magazines. The three rows Wycliff had designated for the press were full by nine-thirty. The journalists had a delightful time watching the Phelans gather in front of them. Three artists worked feverishly; the panorama before them was rich with inspiration. The punk with the green hair received more than his share of sketches.

  Josh Stafford made his appearance at nine-fifty. Tip Durban was with him, along with two other members of the firm and a couple of paralegals to round out the team. Stern and somber-faced, they took seats at their table, a rather spacious one compared to the cramped quarters holding all the Phelans and all their lawyers. Josh placed a single thick file in front of him, and all eyes were immediately upon it. Inside was what appeared to be a document, almost two inches thick and very similar to what old Troy had signed on video just nineteen days earlier.

  They couldn’t help staring at it. Everyone but Ramble. Virginia law allowed heirs to receive early distributions if the estate was liquid and there was no concern about the payment of debts and taxes. Estimates from the Phelan lawyers ranged from a low of ten million per heir, all the way to Bright’s guess of fifty million. Bright in his entire life had never seen fifty thousand.

  At ten the deputies locked the doors, and upon some unseen cue Judge Wycliff emerged from an opening behind the bench, and the room was silent. He eased into the chair, his crisp robe settling around him, and smiled. “Good morning,” he said into the microphone.

  Everyone smiled back. To his great satisfaction, the room was filled to capacity. A quick deputy count revealed eight armed and ready. He studied the Phelans; there were no gaps left. Some of their lawyers were practically touching one another.

  “Are all of the parties present?” he asked. Heads shook from around the tables.

  “I need to identify everyone,” he said, reaching for papers. “The first petition was filed by Rex Phelan.” Before the words settled, Hark Gettys was on his feet, clearing his throat.

  “Your Honor, I’m Hark Gettys,” he boomed toward the bench. “And I represent Mr. Rex Phelan.”

  “Thank you. You may keep your seat.”

  He went around the tables, methodically taking names of the heirs and the lawyers. All the lawyers. The reporters scribbled them as fast as the Judge. Six heirs in all, three ex-wives. Everyone was present.

  “Twenty-two lawyers,” Wycliff mumbled to himself.

  “Do you have the will, Mr. Stafford?” he asked.

  Josh stood, holding a different file. “I do.”

  “Would you please take the witness stand?”

  Josh made his way around the tables and past the court reporter to the witness stand, where he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.

  “You represented Troy Phelan?” Wycliff asked.

  “I did. For a number of years.”

  “Did you prepare a will for him?”

  “I prepared several.”

  “Did you prepare his last will?”

  There was a pause, and as it grew longer the Phelans inched closer.

  “No, I did not,” Josh said slowly, looking at the vultures. The words were soft, but they cut through the air like thunder. The Phelan lawyers reacted much more quickly than the Phelan heirs, several of whom weren’t sure what to make of it. But it was serious, and unexpected. Another layer of tension settled around the tables. The courtroom grew even quieter.

  “Who prepared his last will and testament?” Wycliff asked, like a bad actor reading a script.

  “Mr. Phelan himself.”

  It wasn’t so. They had seen the old man sit at the table with lawyers all