by John Grisham
“Has the estate filed an answer?” Nate asked.
“Tomorrow. The answer of Rachel Lane is in there, already prepared, just waiting for your signature.”
“There’s something wrong here, Josh. I’m filing an answer to a will contest on behalf of a client who doesn’t know it.”
“Send her a copy.”
“To where?”
“To her only known address, that of World Tribes Missions in Houston, Texas. It’s all in the file.”
Nate shook his head in frustration at Josh’s preparations. He felt like a pawn on a gameboard. The Answer of the Proponent, Rachel Lane, was four pages long and denied, both generally and specifically, the allegations set forth in the six petitions challenging the will. Nate read the six petitions while Josh worked his cell phone.
When all the rash allegations and legalese were pared down, it was a simple case: Did Troy Phelan know what he was doing when he wrote his last testament? The trial would be a circus though, with the lawyers trotting in psychiatrists of every sort and species. Employees, ex-employees, old girlfriends, janitors, maids, chauffeurs, pilots, bodyguards, doctors, prostitutes, anybody who’d spent five minutes with the old man would be hauled in to testify.
Nate didn’t have the stomach for it. The file grew heavier as he read. It would fill a room when the war was finally over.
Judge Wycliff made his usual fussy entrance at twelve-thirty, apologizing for being so busy while yanking off his robe. “You’re Nate O’Riley,” he said, thrusting forth a hand.
“Yes, Judge, a pleasure to meet you.”
Josh managed to disengage himself from the cell phone. They squeezed around the small table and began eating. “Josh tells me you found the richest woman in the world,” Wycliff said, smacking his food.
“Yes, I did. About two weeks ago.”
“And you can’t tell me where she is?”
“She begged me not to. I promised.”
“Will she appear and testify at the appropriate time?”
“She won’t have to,” Josh explained. Of course he had a brief, a Stafford Memo, in his file on the issue of her presence during the lawsuit. “If she knows nothing about Mr. Phelan’s mental capacity, she can’t be a witness.”
“But she’s a party,” Wycliff said.
“Yes she is. But her presence can be excused. We can litigate without her.”
“Excused by whom?”
“You, Your Honor.”
“I plan to file a motion at the appropriate time,” Nate said, “asking the court to allow the trial to be held without her presence.” Josh smiled across the table. Atta boy, Nate.
“I guess we’ll worry about it later,” Wycliff said. “I’m more concerned about discovery. Needless to say, the contestants are quite anxious to move ahead.”
“The estate will file its answer tomorrow,” Josh said. “We’re ready for battle.”
“What about the proponent?”
“I’m still working on her answer,” Nate said somberly, as if he’d labored days on it. “But I can file it tomorrow.”
“Are you ready for discovery?”
“Yes sir.”
“When can we expect the waiver and acknowledgment from your client?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Technically, I don’t have jurisdiction over her until I receive them.”
“Yes, I understand. I’m sure they’ll be here soon. Her mail service is very slow.”
Josh smiled at his protégé.
“You actually found her, showed her a copy of the will, explained the waiver and acknowledgment, and agreed to represent her?”
“Yes sir,” Nate said, but only because he had to.
“Will you put that in an affidavit for the file?”
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it?” Josh asked.
“Maybe, but if we start discovery without her waiver and acknowledgment, I want some record in the file showing that she has been contacted and knows what we’re doing.”
“Good idea, Judge,” Josh said, as if the idea had been his to start with. “Nate will sign it.”
Nate nodded and took a large bite of his sandwich, hoping they would let him eat without being forced to tell more lies.
“Was she close to Troy?” Wycliff asked.
Nate chewed as long as he could before answering. “We’re off the record here, aren’t we?”
“Of course. This is just gossip.”
Yes, and gossip can win and lose lawsuits. “I don’t think they were that close. She hadn’t seen him in years.”
“How did she react when she read the will?”
Wycliff’s tone was indeed gossipy and chatty, and Nate knew the Judge wanted all the details. “She was surprised, to say the least,” he said dryly.
“I’ll bet. Did she ask how much?”
“Eventually, yes. I think she was overwhelmed, as anyone would be.”
“Is she married?”
“No.”
Josh realized the questions about Rachel could go on for a while. And the questions were dangerous. Wycliff could not know, at least not at that point, that Rachel had no interest in the money. If he kept digging, and if Nate kept telling the truth, something would slip. “You know, Judge,” he said, gently steering the conversation in another direction, “this is not a complicated case. Discovery shouldn’t take forever. They’re anxious. We’re anxious. There’s a pile of money sitting on the table and everybody wants it. Why can’t we fast-track discovery and set a trial date?”
Speeding litigation along in a probate matter was unheard of. Estate lawyers were paid by the hour. Why hurry?
“That’s interesting,” Wycliff said. “What do you have in mind?”
“Have a discovery conference as soon as possible. Get all the lawyers in one room, make each produce a list of potential trial witnesses and documents. Designate thirty days for all depositions, and set a trial date ninety days away.”
“That’s awfully fast.”
“We do it in federal court all the time. It works. The boys on the other side will jump at it because their clients are all broke.”
“What about you, Mr. O’Riley? Is your client anxious to get the money?”
“Wouldn’t you be anxious, Judge?” Nate asked.
And they all laughed.
________
WHEN GRIT finally penetrated Hark’s line of phone defenses, his first words were, “I’m thinking about going to the Judge.”
Hark pressed the record button on his phone, and said, “Good afternoon to you, Grit.”
“I might tell the Judge the truth, that Snead has sold his testimony for five million dollars, and nothing he says is the truth.”
Hark laughed just loud enough for Grit to hear. “You can’t do that, Grit.”
“Of course I can.”
“You’re not very bright, are you. Listen to me, Grit, and listen good. First, you signed the note along with the rest of us, so you’re implicated in any wrongdoing you allege. Second, and most important, you know about Snead because you were involved in the case as an attorney for Mary Ross. That’s a confidential relationship. If you divulge any information learned as her attorney, then you breach the confidentiality. If you do something stupid, she will file a complaint with the bar, and I’ll hound your ass into disbarment. I’ll take your license, Grit, do you understand that?”
“You’re scum, Gettys. You stole my client.”
“If your client was happy, then why was she looking for another lawyer?”
“I’m not finished with you.”
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Grit slammed the phone down. Hark enjoyed the moment, then went back to work.
________
NATE DROVE alone into the city, over the Potomac River, past the Lincoln Memorial, moving with the traffic, in no hurry. Flurries hit his windshield, but the heavier snow had not materialized. At a red light on Pennsylvania, he looked in his rearview mirror and saw the
building, clustered among a dozen others, where he had spent most of the past twenty-three years. His office window was six floors up. He could barely see it.
On M Street into Georgetown, he began to see the hangouts—the old bars and joints where he’d passed long dark hours with people he couldn’t remember anymore. He could, however, remember the names of the bartenders. Every pub had a story. In the drinking days, a hard day at the office or in the courtroom had to be softened with a few hours of alcohol. He couldn’t go home without it. He turned north on Wisconsin and saw a bar where he’d once fought a college boy, a kid drunker than himself. A sleazy co-ed had prompted the dispute. The bartender sent them outside for the fisticuffs. Nate had worn a Band-Aid into court the next morning.
And there was a small café where he’d bought enough cocaine to almost kill himself. The narcs raided it when he was in recovery. Two stockbroker buddies went to jail.
He’d spent his glory days on those streets, while his wives were waiting and his kids were growing up without him. He was ashamed of the misery he’d caused. As he left Georgetown, he vowed never to return.
At the Stafford home, he loaded his car again with more clothes and personal items, then left in a hurry.
In his pocket was a check for ten thousand dollars, the first month’s retainer. The IRS wanted sixty thousand in back taxes. The fine would be at least that much too. He owed his second wife about thirty thousand in past-due child support, monthly obligations racked up while he recovered with Sergio.
His bankruptcy did not discharge these debts. He conceded that his financial future was indeed bleak. The younger children cost him three thousand a month each in support. The two older ones were almost as expensive with tuition and room and board. He could live off the Phelan money for a few months, but the way Josh and Wycliff were talking the trial would be held sooner rather than later. When the estate was finally closed, Nate would go before a federal judge, plead guilty to tax evasion, and surrender his license.
Father Phil was teaching him not to worry about the future. God would take care of His own.
Once again, Nate wondered if God was getting more than He bargained for.
________
SINCE HE was incapable of writing on anything but a legal pad, with its wide lines and broad margins, Nate took one and tried to begin a letter to Rachel. He had the address of World Tribes in Houston. He would mark the envelope “Personal and Confidential,” address it to Rachel Lane, and attach an explanatory note: To Whom It May Concern.
Someone at World Tribes knew who and where she was. Perhaps someone knew Troy was her father. Maybe this someone put two and two together, and now knew that their Rachel was the beneficiary.
Nate was also assuming Rachel would contact World Tribes, if she had not already done so. She’d been in Corumbá when she’d come to the hospital. It was reasonable to believe she’d called Houston and told someone about his visit.
She had mentioned her annual budget with World Tribes. There had to be a method of corresponding by mail. If his letter got in the right hands in Houston, then maybe it would find the right place in Corumbá.
He wrote the date, then “Dear Rachel:”
An hour passed while he watched the fire and tried to think of words that would sound intelligent. Finally, he opened the letter with a paragraph about snow. Did she miss it from her childhood? What was it like in Montana? There was a foot on the ground outside his window.
He was compelled to confess that he was acting as her lawyer, and once he fell into the rhythm of legalese, the letter took off. He explained as simply as he could what was happening with the lawsuit.
He told her about Father Phil, and the church and its basement. He was studying the Bible and enjoying it. He was praying for her.
When he finished, the letter was three pages long, and Nate was quite proud of himself. He reread it twice, and declared it to be worthy of sending. If it somehow made it to her hut, he knew that she would read it again and again, and give not the slightest thought to any shortcomings in style.
Nate longed to see her again.
FORTY-TWO
_____________
ONE REASON for the sluggish progress of the church’s basement was Father Phil’s penchant for sleeping late. Laura said she left home each weekday morning at eight, for kindergarten, and more often than not the Rector was still buried under the blankets. He was a night owl, he said in self-defense, and he loved to watch old black-and-white movies after midnight.
So when he called at seven-thirty Friday morning, Nate was somewhat surprised. “Have you seen the Post?” he asked.
“I don’t read newspapers,” Nate replied. He had broken the habit during rehab. Phil, on the other hand, read five a day. They were a good source of material for his sermons.
“Perhaps you should,” he said.
“Why?”
“There’s a story about you.”
Nate put on his boots and trudged two blocks to a coffee shop on Main Street. There was a nice story on the front page of Metro about the finding of the lost heir of Troy Phelan. Papers had been filed late the day before in the Circuit Court of Fairfax County in which she, acting through her attorney, a Mr. Nate O’Riley, disputed the allegations of those contesting her late father’s will. Since there wasn’t much to say about her, the story dwelt on her attorney. According to his affidavit, also filed in court, he had tracked down Rachel Lane, showed her a copy of the handwritten will, discussed the various legal issues with her, and had somehow managed to become her lawyer. There was no indication of exactly where Ms. Lane was.
Mr. O’Riley was a former partner in the Stafford Law Firm; had once been a prominent trial lawyer; had left the firm in August; filed for bankruptcy in October; been indicted in November; and a final disposition of his tax evasion charges was still pending. The IRS claimed he beat them out of sixty thousand dollars. For good measure, the reporter mentioned the useless fact that he had been divorced twice. To complete the humiliation, a bad photo ran with the story, one of Nate with a drink in his hand at a D.C. bar function several years earlier. He studied the grainy image of himself, eyes glowing, cheeks darkened with alcohol, goofy smile as if he were mixing and mingling with people he enjoyed. It was embarrassing, but it was another life.
Of course no story could be complete without a quick recital of the messy statistics of Troy’s life and death—three wives, seven known children, eleven billion or so in assets, his last flight from fourteen floors up.
Mr. O’Riley could not be found for comment. Mr. Stafford had nothing to say. The lawyers for the Phelan heirs had evidently said so much already that they were not asked to comment again.
Nate folded the paper and returned to the cottage. It was eight-thirty. He had an hour and a half before construction commenced in the basement.
The bloodhounds now knew his name, but finding his scent would be difficult. Josh had arranged for his mail to be routed to a post office box in D.C. He had a new office phone number, one for Nathan F. O’Riley, Attorney-at-Law. The calls were answered by a secretary in Josh’s office who filed away the messages.
In St. Michaels, only the Rector and his wife knew who he was. Rumor had it that he was a wealthy lawyer from Baltimore writing a book.
Hiding was addictive. Maybe that was why Rachel did it.
________
COPIES OF Rachel Lane’s response were mailed to all the Phelan lawyers, who, as a group, were electrified by the news. She was indeed alive, and willing to fight, though her choice of lawyer was somewhat puzzling. O’Riley’s reputation was accurate—an efficient litigator with flashes of brilliance who couldn’t handle the pressure. But the Phelan lawyers, along with Judge Wycliff, suspected Josh Stafford was calling the shots. He’d rescued O’Riley from rehab, cleaned him up, put the file in his hands, and pointed him toward the courthouse.
The Phelan lawyers met Friday morning at Ms. Langhorne’s place, a modern building packed among many on Pennsylvania A
venue, in the business district. Her firm was a wanna-be—with forty lawyers it wasn’t big enough to attract blue-chip clients, but the leadership was very ambitious. The furnishings were showy and pretentious, the trappings of a bunch of lawyers desperate for the big time.
They had decided to meet once a week, each Friday at eight, for no more than two hours, to discuss the Phelan litigation and plot strategy. The idea had been Langhorne’s. She had realized that she would have to be the peacemaker. The boys were busy strutting and fighting. And there was too much money to be lost in a trial where the contestants, all on one side of the room, were knifing each other in the back.
It appeared, at least to her, that the raiding was over. Her clients, Geena and Cody, were sticking. Yancy seemed to have Ramble adequately collared. Wally Bright was practically living with Libbigail and Spike. Hark had the other three—Troy Junior, Rex, and Mary Ross—and seemed content with his harvest. The dust was settling around the heirs. Relationships were becoming familiar. The issues had been defined. The lawyers knew they had better work as a team or lose the case.
Number one was Snead. They had spent hours watching the videos of his first effort, and each had prepared lengthy notes of ways to improve his performance. The fabricating was shameless. Yancy, in years past an aspiring screenwriter, had actually written a fifty-page script for Snead, filled with enough bald allegations to make poor Troy appear thoroughly brainless.
Number two was Nicolette, the secretary. They would hammer her in a few days on video, and there were certain things she needed to say. Bright had the idea that perhaps the old man had had a stroke during sex with her just hours before he faced the three psychiatrists, and this was something both Nicolette and Snead could testify to. A stroke would mean diminished mental capacity. It was a decent idea, generally well received, and it prompted a lengthy discussion about the autopsy. They had not yet seen a copy of it. Poor guy was splattered on the bricks, with terrible trauma to his head, as one would expect. Could the autopsy reveal a stroke?
Number three was their own experts. Grit’s shrink had made a hasty exit with the attorney, so they were down to four, one per firm. Four was not an unmanageable number at trial, in fact, four could be persuasive, especially if they all reached the same conclusions but by different routes. They agreed that they should also rehearse the testimony of their psychiatrists, grilling them and trying to make them crack under pressure.
Number four was other witnesses. They had to find others who were around the old man in his last days. Snead could help them there.
The last item of business was the appearance of Rachel Lane and her lawyer. “There is nothing in the file signed by this woman,” Hark said. “She’s a recluse. No one knows where she is, except for her lawyer and he’s not telling. It took a month to find her. She has signed nothing. Technically the court does not have jurisdiction. It’s obvious to me that this woman is reluctant to come forward.”
“So are some lottery winners,” Bright inserted. “They want to keep it quiet, otherwise every bum in the neighborhood’s beating on the door.”
“What if she doesn’t want the money?” Hark asked, and the room was stunned.
“That’s crazy,” Bright said on instinct, his words trailing away as he considered the impossible.
While they were scratching their heads, Hark pushed forward. “It’s just a thought, but one we should consider. Under Virginia law, a bequest in a will can be renounced. The gift remains in the estate, subject to the remainder provisions. If this will is struck down, and if there are no other wills, then the seven children of Troy Phelan take all. Since Rachel Lane wants nothing, then our clients divide the estate.”
Dizzying calculations raced through their heads. Eleven billion, less estate taxes, divided by six. Then apply the appropriate percentages, and serious wealth was possible. Fees of seven figures became fees of eight figures.
“That’s a bit far-fetched,” Langhorne said slowly, her brain still burning with the math.
“I’m not so sure,” Hark said. It was obvious he knew more than the rest. “A waiver is a very simple document to execute. Are we expected to believe Mr. O’Riley traveled to Brazil, found Rachel Lane, told her about Troy, got himself hired, but did not get a simple signature on a short document that would give the court jurisdiction? Something’s going on here.”
