by John Grisham
missionary—her denomination, her faith, her work with the Indians. Laura’s sister had lived in China for fifteen years, working in a church hospital, and this became the source of more stories.
It was almost three o’clock when Nate made it to the door. His hosts would have gladly sat at the table or in the den and talked until dark, but Nate needed a walk. He thanked them for their hospitality, and when he left them waving on the porch he felt as though he’d known them for years.
It took an hour to walk St. Michaels. The streets were narrow and lined with homes a hundred years old. Nothing was out of place, no stray dogs, vacant lots, abandoned buildings. Even the snow was neat—carefully shoveled so that the streets and sidewalks were clear and no neighbor was offended. Nate stopped at the pier and admired the sailboats. He had never set foot on one.
He decided he wouldn’t leave St. Michaels until he was forced. He would live in the cottage, and remain there until Josh politely evicted him. He would save his money, and when the Phelan matter was over he would find some way to hang on.
Near the harbor he stumbled on to a small grocery about to close for the day. He bought coffee, canned soup, saltines, and oatmeal for breakfast. There was a display of bottled beer by the counter. He smiled at it, happy those days were behind him.
FORTY
_____________
GRIT GOT himself fired by fax and by e-mail, a first for his office. Mary Ross did it to him, early Monday morning, after a tense weekend with her brothers.
Grit did not exit gracefully. He faxed her back and submitted a bill for his services to date—148 hours at $600 per, for a total of $88,800. His hourly billings were to be applied against his percentage upon settlement or other favorable outcome. Grit didn’t want $600 an hour. Grit wanted a piece of the pie, a healthy fraction of his client’s cut, the 25 percent he’d negotiated. Grit wanted millions, and as he sat in his locked office, staring at the fax, he found it impossible to believe that his fortune had slipped away. He truly believed that after a few months of hardball litigation, the Phelan estate would settle with the children. Throw twenty million at each of the six, watch them attack it like hungry dogs, and there wouldn’t be the slightest dent in the Phelan fortune. Twenty million to his client was five million to him, and Grit, alone, had to confess that he’d already thought of several ways to spend it.
He called Hark’s office to curse him, but was told Mr. Gettys was too busy at the moment.
Mr. Gettys now had three of the four heirs from the first family. His percentage had dropped from twenty-five to twenty, and now to seventeen-five. But his upside potential was enormous.
Mr. Gettys walked into his conference room a few minutes after ten and greeted the remaining Phelan lawyers, gathered there for an important meeting. He cheerfully said, “I have an announcement. Mr. Grit is no longer involved in this case. His ex-client, Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, has asked me to represent her, and, after much consideration, I have agreed to do so.”
His words hit like small bombs around the conference table. Yancy stroked his scraggly beard and wondered what method of coercion had been used to pry the woman away from Grit’s tentacles. He felt somewhat safe, though. Ramble’s mother had used every means possible to lure the kid to another lawyer. But the kid hated his mother.
Madam Langhorne was surprised, especially since Hark had just added Troy Junior as a client. But after the brief shock, she felt secure. Her client, Geena Phelan Strong, detested her older half-brothers and -sisters. Surely she wouldn’t throw in with their lawyer. Nonetheless, a power lunch was needed. She would call Geena and Cody when the meeting was over. They’d dine at the Promenade near the Capitol, and maybe catch a glimpse of a powerful subcommittee vice chairman.
The back of Wally Bright’s neck turned scarlet with the news. Hark was raiding clients, chasing ambulances. Only Libbigail remained from the first family, and Wally Bright would kill Hark if he tried to steal her. “Stay away from my client, okay?” he said loudly and bitterly, and the entire room froze.
“Relax.”
“Relax, my ass. How can we relax when you’re stealing clients?”
“I didn’t steal Mrs. Jackman. She called me. I didn’t call her.”
“We know the game you’re playing, Hark. We’re not stupid.” Wally said this while looking at his fellow lawyers. They certainly didn’t consider themselves to be stupid, but they weren’t so sure about Wally. Truth was, no one could trust anyone. There was simply too much money at stake to assume that the lawyer next to you would not pull out a knife.
They led Snead in, and this changed the focus of the discussion. Hark introduced him to the group. Poor Snead looked like a man facing a firing squad. He sat at the end of the table, with two video cameras aimed at him. “This is just a rehearsal,” Hark assured him. “Relax.” The lawyers pulled out legal pads covered with questions, and they inched closer to Snead.
Hark walked behind him, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Now, when you give your deposition, Mr. Snead, the lawyers for the other side will be allowed to interrogate you first. So for the next hour or so, you are to assume that we are the enemy. Okay?”
It certainly wasn’t okay with Snead, but he’d taken their money. He had to play along.
Hark picked up his legal pad and began asking questions, simple things about his birth, background, family, school, easy stuff that Snead handled well and relaxed with. Then the early years with Mr. Phelan, and a thousand questions that seemed completely irrelevant.
After a bathroom break, Madam Langhorne took the baton and grilled Snead about the Phelan families, the wives, the kids, the divorces, and mistresses. Snead thought it was a lot of unnecessary dirt, but the lawyers seemed to enjoy it.
“Did you know about Rachel Lane?” Langhorne asked.
Snead pondered this for a moment, then said, “I haven’t thought about that.” In other words, help me with the answer. “What would you guess?” he asked Mr. Gettys.
Hark was quick with the fiction. “I would guess that you knew everything about Mr. Phelan, especially his women and their offspring. Nothing escaped you. The old man confided everything in you, including the existence of his illegitimate daughter. She was ten or eleven when you went to work for Mr. Phelan. He tried to reach out to her over the years but she would have nothing to do with him. I would guess that this hurt him deeply, that he was a man who got whatever he wanted, and when Rachel spurned him his pain turned to anger. I would guess that he disliked her immensely. Thus, for him to leave her everything was an act of sheer insanity.”
Once again, Snead marveled at Hark’s ability to spin tales so quickly. The other lawyers were impressed too. “What do you think?” Hark asked them.
They nodded their approvals. “Better get him all the background on Rachel Lane,” Bright said.
Snead then repeated for the cameras the same story Hark had just told, and in doing so showed a passable skill at expanding on a theme. When he finished, the lawyers couldn’t suppress their pleasure. The worm would say anything. And there was no one to contradict it.
When Snead was asked a question that needed assistance, he responded by saying, “Well, I haven’t thought about that.” The lawyers would then reach out to help. Hark, who seemed to anticipate Snead’s weaknesses, usually had a quick narrative at hand. Often, though, the other lawyers chimed in with their little plots, all anxious to display their skills at lying.
Layer upon layer was fabricated, and fine-tuned, carefully molded to ensure that Mr. Phelan was out of his mind the morning he scrawled his last testament. Snead was coached by the lawyers, and he proved quite easy to lead. In fact, he was so coachable the lawyers worried that he might say too much. His credibility could not be damaged. There could be no holes in his testimony.
For three hours they built his story, then for two hours they tried to tear it down with relentless cross-examination. They didn’t feed him lunch. They sneered at him and called him a liar. At one point Lan
ghorne had him near tears. When he was exhausted and ready to collapse, they sent him home with the pack of videos and instructions to study them over and over.
He wasn’t ready to testify, they told him. His stories weren’t airtight. Poor Snead drove home in his new Range Rover, tired and bewildered, but also determined to practice his lies until the lawyers applauded him.
________
JUDGE WYCLIFF enjoyed the quiet little lunches in his office. As usual, Josh picked up sandwiches from a Greek deli near Dupont Circle. He unpacked them, along with iced tea and pickles, on the small table in a corner. They huddled over their food, at first talking about how busy they were, then quickly getting around to the Phelan estate. Something was up, or Josh wouldn’t have called.
“We found Rachel Lane,” he said.
“Wonderful. Where?” The relief in Wycliff’s face was obvious.
“She made us promise not to tell. At least not now.”
“Is she in the country?” The Judge forgot about his corned beef on kaiser.
“No. She’s in a very remote spot in the world, and quite content to stay there.”
“How did you find her?”
“Her lawyer found her.”
“Who’s her lawyer?”
“A guy who used to work in my firm. Name’s Nate O’Riley, a former partner. Left us back in August.”
Wycliff narrowed his eyes and considered this. “What a coincidence. She hires a former partner of the law firm her father used.”
“There’s no coincidence. As the attorney for the estate, I had to find her. I sent Nate O’Riley. He found her, she hired him. It’s really pretty simple.”
“When does she make her appearance?”
“I doubt if she’ll do it in person.”
“What about the acknowledgment and waiver?”
“They’re coming. She’s very deliberate, and, frankly, I’m not sure what her plans are.”
“We have a will contest, Josh. The war has already erupted. Things can’t wait. This court must have jurisdiction over her.”
“Judge, she has legal representation. Her interests will be protected. Let’s fight. We’ll start discovery, and see what the other side has.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“It’s impossible.”
“Come on, Josh.”
“I swear. Look, she’s a missionary in a very remote place, in a different hemisphere. That’s all I can tell you.”
“I want to see Mr. O’Riley.”
“When?”
Wycliff walked to his desk and grabbed the nearest appointment book. He was so busy. Life was regulated by a docket calendar, a trial calendar, a motion calendar. His secretary kept an office calendar. “How about this Wednesday?”
“Fine. For lunch? Just the three of us, off the record.”
“Sure.”
________
LAWYER O’REILLY had planned to read and write throughout the morning. His plans were diverted, though, with a phone call from the Rector. “Are you busy?” Father Phil asked, his strong voice resonating over the phone.
“Well, no, not really,” Nate said. He was sitting in a deep leather chair, under a quilt, beside the fire, sipping coffee and reading Mark Twain.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Well, I’m at the church, working in the basement, doing some remodeling, and I need a hand. I thought you might be bored, you know, since there’s not much to do here in St. Michaels, at least not in the winter. It’s supposed to snow again today.”
The lamb stew crossed Nate’s mind. There was plenty of it left over. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
The basement was directly under the sanctuary. Nate heard hammering as he carefully descended the shaky steps. It was an open room, long and wide with a low ceiling. A remodeling project had been under way for a long time, with no end in sight. The general plan appeared to be a series of small rooms against the outer walls, with an open space in the center. Phil stood between two sawhorses, tape measure in hand, sawdust on his shoulders. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and would’ve easily passed for a carpenter.
“Thanks for coming,” he said with a big smile.
“You’re welcome. I was bored,” Nate said.
“I’m hanging wallboard,” he said, waving his arm at the construction. “It’s easier if there are two people. Mr. Fuqua used to help, but he’s eighty now and his back is not what it used to be.”
“What are you building?”
“Six classrooms for Bible study. This center area will be a fellowship hall. I started two years ago. Our budget doesn’t allow much in the way of new projects, so I’m doing it myself. Keeps me in shape.”
Father Phil hadn’t been in shape in years. “Point me in the right direction,” Nate said. “And remember I’m a lawyer.”
“Not a lot of honest work, huh?”
“No.”
They each took an end of a sheet of wallboard and wrestled it across the floor to the current classroom in progress. The sheet was four feet by six, and as they lifted it into place Nate realized that it was indeed a job for two people. Phil grunted and frowned and bit his tongue, and when the piece fit the puzzle, he said, “Now just hold it right there.” Nate pressed the board against the two by four studs while Phil quickly tacked it into place with Sheetrock nails. Once secure, he drove six more nails into the studs, and admired his handiwork. Then he produced a tape and began to measure the next open space.
“Where did you learn to be a carpenter?” Nate asked as he watched with interest.
“It’s in my blood. Joseph was a carpenter.”
“Who’s he?”
“The father of Jesus.”
“Oh, that Joseph.”
“Do you read the Bible, Nate?”
“Not much.”
“You should.”
“I’d like to start.”
“I can help you, if you want.”
“Thanks.”
Phil scribbled dimensions on the wallboard they had just installed. He measured carefully, then remeasured. Before long, Nate realized why the project was taking so long. Phil took his time and believed in a vigorous regimen of coffee breaks.
After an hour, they walked up the stairs to the main floor, to the Rector’s office, which was ten degrees warmer than the basement. Phil had a pot of strong coffee on a small burner. He poured two cups and began scanning the rows of books on the shelves. “Here’s a wonderful daily devotional guide, one of my favorites,” he said, gently removing the book, wiping it as if it were covered in dust, then handing it to Nate. It was a hardback with the dust jacket intact. Phil was particular about his books.
He selected another, and handed it to Nate. “This is a Bible study for busy people. It’s very good.”
“What makes you think I’m busy?”
“You’re a lawyer in Washington, aren’t you?”
“Technically, but those days are about to be over.”
Phil tapped his fingertips together, and looked at Nate as only a minister can. His eyes said, “Keep going. Tell me more. I’m here to help.”
So Nate unloaded some of his troubles, past and present, with emphasis on the pending showdown with the IRS and the imminent loss of his law license. He would avoid jail, but be required to pay a fine he couldn’t afford.
Nonetheless, he wasn’t unhappy about the future. In fact, he was relieved to be leaving the profession.
“What will you do?” Phil asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Do you trust God?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then relax. He’ll show you the way.”
________
THEY TALKED long enough to stretch the morning to the lunch hour, then walked next door and feasted once again on the lamb stew. Laura joined them late. She taught kindergarten and only had thirty minutes for lunch.
Around two, they made it back to the basement, where they rel
uctantly resumed their labor. Watching Phil work, Nate became convinced that the project would not be finished in his lifetime. Joseph may have been a fine carpenter, but Father Phil belonged in the pulpit. Every open space on the wall had to be measured, remeasured, pondered over, looked at from various angles, then measured again. The sheet of wallboard destined to fill the open space went through the same procedures. Finally, after enough pencil markings to confuse an architect, Phil, with great trepidation, took the electric saw and cut the wallboard. They carried the sheet to the open space, tacked it, then secured it. The fit was always perfect, and with each one Phil seemed genuinely relieved.
Two classrooms appeared to be finished and ready for paint. Late in the afternoon, Nate decided that tomorrow he would become a painter.
FORTY-ONE
_____________
TWO DAYS of pleasant labor yielded little progress in the chilly basement of Trinity Church. But much coffee was consumed, the lamb stew was finally finished, some paint and wallboard fell into place, and a friendship was built.
Nate was scraping paint from his fingernails Tuesday night when the phone rang. It was Josh, calling him back to the real world. “Judge Wycliff wants to see you tomorrow,” he said. “I tried to call earlier.”
“What does he want?” Nate asked, his voice flat with dread.
“I’m sure he’ll have questions about your new client.”
“I’m really busy, Josh. I’m into remodeling, painting, and sheetrock, stuff like that.”
“Oh really.”
“Yeah, I’m doing the basement of a church. Time is of the essence.”
“Didn’t know you had such talents.”
“Do I have to come, Josh?”
“I think so, pal. You agreed to take this case. I’ve already told the Judge. You’re needed, old boy.”
“When and where?”
“Come to my office at eleven. We’ll ride over together.”
“I don’t want to see the office, Josh. It’s all bad memories. I’ll just meet you at the courthouse.”
“Fine. Be there at noon. Judge Wycliff’s office.”
Nate put a log on the fire and watched the snow flurries float across the porch. He could put on a suit and tie and carry a briefcase around. He could look and talk the part. He could say “Your Honor” and “May it please the court,” and he could yell objections and grill witnesses. He could do all the things a million others did, but he no longer considered himself a lawyer. Those days were gone, thank God.
He could do it once more, but only once. He tried to convince himself it was for his client, for Rachel, but he knew she didn’t care.
He still hadn’t written her, though he’d planned the letter many times. The one to Jevy had required two hours of hard work, for a page and a half.
After three days in the snow, he missed the humid streets of Corumbá, with the lazy pedestrian traffic, the outdoor cafés, the pace of life that said everything could wait until tomorrow. It was snowing harder by the minute. Maybe it’s another blizzard, he thought, and the roads will be closed, and I won’t have to go after all.
________
MORE SANDWICHES from the Greek deli, more pickles and tea. Josh prepared the table as they waited for Judge Wycliff. “Here’s the court file,” he said, handing a bulky red binder to Nate. “And here’s your response,” he said, handing over a manila file. “You need to read and sign this as soon as possible.”
