by John Grisham
The storm crept over the mountains of Bolivia, then roared into the Pantanal, much like the one that had almost killed them in the airplane. Nate was sitting low in the boat, under the safety of his poncho, watching the river to the east, searching for something familiar, when he felt the first gust of wind. And the rain suddenly fell harder. He slowly turned and looked behind him. Jevy had already seen it, but said nothing.
The sky was dark gray, almost black. Clouds boiled low to the ground so that the mountains could not be seen. The rain began to drench them. Nate felt completely exposed and helpless.
There was nowhere to hide, no safe harbor to dock at and ride out the storm. There was nothing but water around them, water for miles in all directions. They were in the middle of a flood, with only the tops of the brush and a few trees to guide them through the rivers and swamps. They would stay in the boat because they had no choice.
A gale swept in behind them, driving the boat forward as the rain pelted their backs. The sky darkened. Nate wanted to curl up under his aluminum bench, clutch his floatable cushion, and hide as much as possible under his poncho. But the water was accumulating around his feet. The supplies were getting wet. He took his bucket and began shoveling rainwater.
They came to a fork that Nate was certain they had not passed earlier, then to a junction of rivers they could barely see through the rain. Jevy reduced the throttle to survey the waters, then hit the gas and took a sharp right as if he knew precisely where he was going. Nate was convinced they were lost.
After a few minutes, the river disappeared into a thicket of rotted trees—a memorable sight they had not seen earlier. Jevy quickly turned the boat around. Now they raced into the storm, and it was a terrifying sight. The sky was black. The current was churning with whitecaps.
Back at the junction, they talked for a moment, shouting through the wind and rain, then selected another river.
________
JUST BEFORE dark they passed through a large flooded plain, a temporary lake that looked vaguely similar to the place where they’d found the fisherman in the weeds. He wasn’t around.
Jevy selected a tributary, one of several, and proceeded as if he navigated this corner of the Pantanal every day. Then lightning came and for a while they could almost see where they were going. The rain slackened. The storm was slowly leaving them.
Jevy stopped the motor and studied the edges of the river.
“What are you thinking?” Nate asked. There had been very little conversation during the storm. They were lost, that much was certain. But Nate would not force Jevy to admit it.
“We should make camp,” Jevy said. It was more of a suggestion than a plan.
“Why?”
“Because we have to sleep somewhere.”
“We can take turns napping in the boat,” Nate said. “It’s safer here.” He said this with the confidence of a seasoned river guide.
“Maybe. But I think we should stop here. We might get lost if we keep going in the dark.”
We’ve been lost for three hours, Nate wanted to say.
Jevy guided the boat to a bank with some growth. They drifted downriver, staying close to the shore and watching the shallow waters with their flashlights. Two little red dots glowing just above the surface meant an alligator was watching too, but thankfully they saw none. They anchored by tying a guide rope to a limb ten feet from the bank.
Dinner was semidry saltines, canned little fish that Nate had never experienced, bananas and cheese.
When the winds stopped, the mosquitoes arrived. Repellent was passed back and forth. Nate rubbed it on his neck and face, even his eyelids and his hair. The tiny bugs were quick and vicious and moved in small black clouds from one end of the boat to the other. Though the rain had stopped, neither man removed his poncho. The mosquitoes tried fiercely, but they could not penetrate the plastic.
Around 11 P.M. the sky cleared somewhat, but there was no moon. The current gently rocked the boat. Jevy offered to hold the first watch, and Nate tried his best to get comfortable enough to doze. He propped his head on the tent, and stretched his legs. A gap opened in his poncho and a dozen mosquitoes rushed forth, chewing him at the waist. Something splashed, perhaps a reptile. The aluminum boat was not designed for reclining.
Sleep was out of the question.
TWENTY-FIVE
_____________
FLOWE, ZADEL, and Theisen, the three psychiatrists who had examined Troy Phelan only weeks earlier and had presented the unified opinion, both on video and later in long affidavits, that he was of sound mind, were fired. Not only were they fired, they were rebuked by the Phelan lawyers as nuts, even crackpots.
New psychiatrists were found. Hark bought the first one, at three hundred bucks an hour. He found him in a magazine for trial lawyers, in the classifieds, among the ads for everything from accident reconstructionists to X-ray analysts. He was Dr. Sabo, retired from active practice and now willing to sell his testimony. One brief look at the behavior of Mr. Phelan and he ventured the preliminary opinion that he clearly lacked testamentary capacity. Jumping from a window was not the act of a clear and lucid mind. And leaving an eleven-billion-dollar fortune to an unknown heir was evidence of a deeply disturbed person.
Sabo relished the idea of working on the Phelan case. Refuting the opinions of the first three psychiatrists would be challenging. The publicity was seductive—he’d never had a famous case. And the money would pay for a trip to the Orient.
All of the Phelan lawyers were scrambling to undo the testimony of Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen. The only way to discredit them was to find new experts with new opinions.
Fat hourly rates yielded to contingencies. The heirs wouldn’t be able to pay the hefty monthly fees they were about to incur, so their lawyers graciously agreed to simplify matters by taking percentages. The range was staggering, though no firm would ever divulge its cut. Hark wanted 40 percent, but Rex berated him for his greediness. They finally agreed on 25 percent. Grit squeezed 25 percent out of Mary Ross Phelan Jackman.
The clear victor was Wally Bright, the street fighter, who insisted on an even deal with Libbigail and Spike. He would get half of their settlement.
In the mad scramble before they filed their suits, not a single Phelan heir asked if they were doing the right thing. They trusted their lawyers, and besides, everybody else was contesting the will. No one could afford to be left out. There was so much at stake.
________
BECAUSE HARK had been the loudest of the Phelan lawyers, he caught the attention of Snead, Troy’s longtime gofer. No one had noticed Snead in the aftermath of the suicide. He’d been forgotten in the stampede to the courthouse. His employment had been terminated. And when the will was read, Snead himself was sitting in the courtroom, his face disguised with sunglasses and a hat, recognized by no one. He had left in tears.
He hated the Phelan children because Troy hated them. Over the years, Snead had been forced to do all sorts of unpleasant things to protect Troy from his families. Snead had arranged abortions, and had bribed cops when the boys were caught with drugs. He had lied to the wives to protect the mistresses, and when the mistresses became wives, then poor Snead lied to them too, to protect the girlfriends.
In return for his good work, the children and wives had called him a fag.
And in return for a career of faithful service, Mr. Phelan left him nothing. Not a cent. He’d been paid well over the years, and had some money in mutuals, but not enough to survive on. He had sacrificed everything for his job and his master. He’d been denied a normal life because Mr. Phelan expected him to be on duty every hour of the day. A family had been out of the question. He had no real friends to speak of.
Mr. Phelan had been his friend, his confidant, the only person Snead could trust.
Over the years, there had been many promises made by the old man about taking care of Snead. He knew for a fact that he’d been named in one will. He’d seen the document himself. He would inheri
t a million bucks upon Mr. Phelan’s death. At the time, Troy had a net worth of three billion, and Snead remembered thinking how small a million seemed. As the old man got richer, Snead imagined his own bequest growing with each will.
He’d occasionally asked about the matter, subtle, gentle inquiries made at just the right moments, he thought. But Mr. Phelan had cursed him and threatened to cut him out completely. “You’re as bad as my children,” he had said, crushing poor Snead.
Somehow he’d gone from a million to zero, and he was bitter about it. He would be forced to join the enemies simply because he had no choice.
He found the new office of Hark Gettys & Associates near Dupont Circle. The receptionist explained that Mr. Gettys was very busy. “So am I,” Snead replied rudely. Because he’d been so close to Troy, he had spent most of his life around lawyers. They were always busy.
“Give him this,” he said, handing her an envelope. “It’s quite urgent. I’ll wait over there for ten minutes, then I’ll walk down the street to the next law office.”
Snead took a seat and stared at the floor. Cheap new carpet. The receptionist hesitated for a moment, then disappeared through a door. The envelope held a small handwritten note that read: “I worked for Troy Phelan for thirty years. I know everything. Malcolm Snead.”
Hark appeared in a flash, holding the note, smiling goofily as if friendliness would impress Snead. They practically ran down the hall to a large office, the receptionist behind them. No, Snead did not want coffee, tea, water, or a cola. Hark slammed the door and locked it.
The office smelled of fresh paint. The desk and shelves were new and the woods didn’t match. Boxes of files and junk were stacked along the walls. Snead took his time examining the details. “Just move in?” he said.
“Couple of weeks ago.”
Snead hated the place, and he wasn’t sure about the lawyer either. He wore a cheap wool suit, much less expensive than the one Snead was wearing.
“Thirty years, huh?” Hark said, still holding the note.
“That’s right.”
“Were you with him when he jumped?”
“No. He jumped alone.”
A fake laugh, then the smile returned. “I mean, were you in the room?”
“Yes. I almost caught him.”
“Must’ve been terrible.”
“It was. Still is.”
“Did you see him sign the will, the last one?”
“I did.”
“Did you see him write the damned thing?”
Snead was perfectly prepared to lie. The truth meant nothing because the old man had lied to him. What was there to lose?
“I saw a lot of things,” he said. “And I know a lot more. This visit is about nothing but money. Mr. Phelan promised that he would take care of me in his will. There were many promises, all broken.”
“So you’re in the same boat as my client,” Hark said.
“I hope not. I despise your client and his miserable siblings. Let’s get that straight on the front end.”
“I think it’s straight.”
“No one was closer to Troy Phelan than I. I saw and heard things no one else can testify to.”
“So you wanna be a witness?”
“I am a witness, an expert. And I’m very expensive.”
Their eyes locked for a second. The message was delivered and received.
“The law says that laymen cannot render opinions as to the mental capacity of one executing a will, but you can certainly testify as to specific acts and deeds that prove an unsound mind.”
“I know all this,” Snead said rudely.
“Was he crazy?”
“He was or he wasn’t. Doesn’t matter to me. I can go either way.”
Hark had to stop and contemplate this. He scratched his face and studied the wall.
Snead decided to help him. “This is the way I see it. Your boy got screwed, along with his brother and sisters. They each got five million bucks when they turned twenty-one, and we know what they did with the money. Since they’re all heavily in debt, they have no choice but to contest the will. No jury’s gonna feel sorry for them, though. They’re a bunch of greedy losers. It’ll be a tough case to win. But you and the other legal eagles will attack the will, and you’ll create this huge mess of a lawsuit that quickly gets in the tabloids because there’s eleven billion at stake. Since you don’t have much of a case, you hope for a settlement before you go to trial.”
“You catch on quick.”
“No. I watched Mr. Phelan for thirty years. Anyway, the size of your settlement depends on me. If my recall is clear and detailed, then perhaps my old boss lacked testamentary capacity when he wrote the will.”
“Then your memory comes and goes.”
“My memory is whatever I want it to be. There’s no one to question it.”
“What do you want?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Five million.”
“That’s a lot.”
“It’s nothing. I’ll take it from this side, or the other. It doesn’t matter.”
“How am I supposed to get five million bucks to you?”
“Don’t know. I’m not a lawyer. I figure you and your cronies can conjure up some dirty little plan.”
There was a long pause as Hark began the conjuring. He had a lot of questions, but suspected he wouldn’t get a lot of answers. At least not now.
“Any more witnesses?” he asked.
“Only one. Her name is Nicolette. She was Mr. Phelan’s last secretary.”
“How much does she know?”
“Depends. She can be bought.”
“You’ve already talked to her.”
“Every day. We’re a package.”
“How much for her?”
“She’ll be covered in the five million.”
“A real bargain. Anybody else?”
“No one of consequence.”
Hark closed his eyes and massaged both temples. “I don’t object to your five million,” he said, pinching his nose. “I just don’t know how we can funnel it to you.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Give me some time, okay? I need to think about this.”
“I’m in no hurry. I’ll give you a week. If you say no, then I’ll go to the other side.”
“There is no other side.”
“Don’t be so certain.”
“You know something about Rachel Lane?”
“I know everything,” Snead said, then left the office.
TWENTY-SIX
_____________
THE FIRST streaks of dawn brought no surprises. They were tied to a tree at the edge of a small river that looked like all the others they’d seen. The clouds were heavy again; the light of day came slowly.
Breakfast was a small box of cookies, the last of the rations Welly had packed for them. Nate ate slowly, wondering with each bite when he might eat again.
The current was strong, so they drifted with it as the sun rose. The only sound was the rush of the water. They were conserving gas and delaying the moment when Jevy would be forced to try and start the motor.
They drifted into a flooded area where three streams met, and for a few moments sat in the stillness.
“I guess we’re lost, aren’t we?” Nate said.
“I know exactly where we are.”
“Where?”
“We’re in the Pantanal. And all rivers run to the Paraguay.”
“Eventually.”
“Yes, eventually.” Jevy removed the top cover of the motor and wiped the moisture from the carburetor. He adjusted the throttle, checked the oil, then tried to start the motor. On the fifth pull, the motor caught and sputtered, then quit.
I will die here, Nate said to himself. I’ll either drown, starve, or be eaten, but it is here, in this immense swamp, that I will breathe my last.
To their surprise, they heard a shout. The voice was high, like that
of a young girl. The sputtering of the motor had attracted the attention of another human. The voice came from a weedy marsh along the bank of a converging stream. Jevy yelled and a few seconds later the voice yelled back.
A kid of no more than fifteen came through the weeds in a tiny canoe, hand-carved from the trunk of a tree. With a homemade paddle he cut through the water with amazing ease and speed. “Bom dia,” he said with a wide smile. The little face was brown and square, and probably the most beautiful Nate had seen in years. He threw a rope and the two boats were attached.
A long lazy conversation ensued, and after a while Nate was agitated. “What’s he saying?” he snapped at Jevy.
The kid looked at Nate, and Jevy said, “Americano.”
“He says we’re a great distance from the Cabixa River,” Jevy said.
“I could’ve told you that.”
“He says the Paraguay is a half a day to the east.”
“By canoe, right?”
“No, by plane.”
“Funny. How long will it take us?”
“Four hours, more or less.”
Five, maybe six hours. And that was with a properly running motor. It would take a week if they were forced to paddle.
The Portuguese resumed, in no particular hurry. The canoe was empty except for a roll of fishing line wrapped around a tin can, and a jar of mud which Nate assumed contained worms or some type of bait. What did he know about fishing? He scratched his mosquito bites.
A year ago he’d been skiing in Utah with the boys. The drink of the day had been some type of tequila concoction, which, typically, Nate consumed with gusto until he passed out. The hangover had lasted for two days.
There was a flourish in the chatter, and suddenly they were pointing. Jevy looked at him as he spoke.
“What is it?” Nate asked.
“The Indians are not far away.”
“How far?”
“One hour, maybe two.”
“Can he take us there?”
“I know the way.”
“I’m sure you do. But I’d feel better if he’d tag along.”
It was a slight affront to Jevy’s pride, but under the circumstances he could not argue. “He may want a little money.”
