by John Grisham
prepared to testify that he knew exactly what he was doing. He would also testify, if necessary, that Snead was nowhere in the picture when they met.
The three psychiatrists who examined Mr. Phelan had been carefully chosen by Phelan’s children and ex-wives, and their lawyers, and had impeccable credentials. The four now on retainer were flaky. Their résumés were thin. The battle of the experts would be won by the original three, in his opinion.
Wally Bright had on his best suit, which wasn’t saying much. He took this criticism with a clenched jaw, bottom lip between his teeth so he wouldn’t say something stupid, and he took useless notes on a legal pad because that’s what everybody else was doing. It was not his nature to sit back and accept such disparagement, even from a renowned lawyer like Josh Stafford. But he would do anything for the money. The month before, February, his little office generated twenty-six hundred dollars in fees, and consumed the usual four thousand in overhead. Wally took home nothing. Of course, most of his time had been spent on the Phelan matter.
Josh skated onto thin ice when he summarized the testimony of their clients. “I’ve watched the videos of their depositions,” he said sadly. “Frankly, with the exception of Mary Ross, I think they will make terrible witnesses at trial.”
Their lawyers took this in stride. This was a settlement conference, not a trial.
He didn’t dwell on the heirs. The less said the better. Their lawyers knew they would get butchered before the jury.
“That brings us to Snead,” he said. “I’ve watched his deposition too, and, frankly, if you call him as a witness at trial it will be a terrible mistake. In my opinion, in fact, it will border on legal malpractice.”
Bright, Hark, Langhorne, and Yancy huddled even closer over their legal pads. Snead was a dirty word among them. They’d fought over who was to blame for botching it so badly. They’d lost sleep fretting over the man. They were half a million down, and as a witness he was worthless.
“I’ve known Snead for almost twenty years,” Josh said, then spent fifteen minutes effectively portraying him as a butler of marginal talents, a gofer who was not always reliable, a servant Mr. Phelan often talked of firing. They believed every word of it.
So much for Snead. Josh managed to gut their star witness without even mentioning the fact that he’d been bribed with five hundred thousand dollars to tell his story.
And so much for Nicolette too. She was lying along with her buddy Snead.
They had been unable to locate other witnesses. There were some disgruntled employees, but they wanted no part of a trial. Their testimony was tainted anyway. There were two rivals from the business world who’d been wiped out trying to compete with Troy. But they knew nothing about his mental capacity.
Their case was not very strong, Josh concluded. But everything’s risky with a jury.
He talked about Rachel Lane as if he’d known her for years. Not too many specifics, but enough generalizations to convey the impression that Josh knew her well. She was a lovely lady who lived a very simple life, in another country, and was not the type of person who understood litigation. She ran from controversy. She despised confrontation. And she’d been closer to old Troy than most people knew.
Hark wanted to ask if Josh had ever met her. Ever seen her? Ever heard her name before he read the will? But it was neither the time nor the place for discord. Money was about to be laid upon the table, and Hark’s percentage was seventeen point five.
Ms. Langhorne had researched the town of Corumbá, and was wondering again what an American woman, age forty-two, could possibly be doing in such a place. She and Hark, behind the backs of Bright and Yancy, had quietly become confidants. They had talked at length about leaking the whereabouts of Rachel Lane to certain reporters. The press would certainly find her down there, in Corumbá. They’d smoke her out, and in the process the world would learn what she planned to do with the money. If, as they hoped and dreamed, she didn’t want it, then their clients could press for all the money.
It was a risk, and they were still talking about it.
“What does Rachel Lane plan to do with all this money?” Yancy asked.
“I’m not sure,” Josh said, as if he and Rachel discussed it every day. “She’ll probably keep a little, and give most of it to charity. In my opinion, that’s why Troy did what he did. He figured that if your clients got the money, it wouldn’t last ninety days. By leaving it to Rachel, he knew it would be passed on to those in need.”
There was a long pause in the conversation when Josh finished with this. Dreams slowly crumbled. Rachel Lane indeed existed, and she was not going to decline the money.
“Why hasn’t she made an appearance?” Hark finally asked.
“Well, you have to know this woman to answer that question. Money means nothing to her. She did not expect to be named in her father’s will. Then, suddenly, she finds out that she has inherited billions. She’s still in shock.”
Another long pause as the Phelan lawyers doodled on their pads. “We are prepared to litigate to the Supreme Court, if necessary,” Langhorne said. “Does she realize this could take years?”
“She does,” Josh replied. “And that’s one reason she would like to explore settlement possibilities.”
Now they were making progress.
“Where do we start?” asked Wally Bright.
It was a difficult question. On one side of the table was a pot of gold worth eleven billion or so. Estate taxes would take more than half, leaving five to play with. On the other side were the Phelan heirs, all of whom were broke with the exception of Ramble. Who would throw out the first figure? How much would it be? Ten million per heir? Or a hundred?
Josh had it planned. “Let’s start with the will,” he said. “Assuming it’s held to be valid, it contains clear language terminating any gift to any heir who challenges it. That would apply to your clients. Therefore, you start from a position of zero. Then, the will gives to each of your clients a sum of money equal to their debts as of the day of Mr. Phelan’s death.” Josh lifted another sheet of paper and studied it for a second. “According to what we’ve learned so far, Ramble Phelan has no debts, yet. Geena Phelan Strong had debts of four hundred twenty thousand on December ninth. Libbigail and Spike had debts of around eighty thousand. Mary Ross and her doctor husband had debts of nine hundred thousand. Troy Junior had discharged most of his in one bankruptcy or another, but still owed a hundred and thirty thousand. Rex, as we know, wins the prize. He and his lovely wife Amber owed, on December ninth, a total of seven point six million dollars. Any problem with these numbers?”
No. The numbers were accurate. It was the next number that concerned them.
“Nate O’Riley has been in contact with his client. To settle this matter, she will offer each of the six heirs ten million dollars.”
The lawyers had never calculated and scribbled so fast. Hark had three clients; 17.5 percent gave him a fee of $5.25 million. Geena and Cody had agreed on a 20 percent cut for Langhorne, so her little firm would collect $2 million. Same for Yancy, subject to court approval because Ramble was still a minor. And Wally Bright, a street hustler who scratched out a living by advertising quickie divorces on bus benches, would collect half of the $10 million under his unconscionable contract with Libbigail and Spike.
Wally reacted first. Though his heart was frozen and his esophagus clamped shut, he managed to say, with some measure of brass, “No way my client will settle for less than fifty million.”
The others shook their heads too. They frowned and tried to appear disgusted with the paltry sum being offered, while in fact they were already spending the money.
Wally Bright couldn’t write fifty million and get the zeros in the correct places. But he managed to throw the figure out like a Vegas high-roller.
They had agreed before the meeting that if money was discussed, they would go no lower than fifty million per heir. This sounded fine, before the meeting. Now, the ten million on the tab
le looked awfully good.
“That’s about one percent of the estate,” Hark said.
“You can look at it that way,” Josh said. “In fact, there are many ways to look at it. But I prefer to start at zero, which is where you are now, and work up, rather than look at the entire estate and work down.”
But Josh also wanted their trust. They kicked the numbers around for a while, then he said, “No, personally, if I represented one of the heirs, I wouldn’t take ten million.”
They froze and listened intently.
“She is not a greedy woman. I think Nate O’Riley could convince her to settle at twenty million per heir.”
The fees doubled—over ten million for Hark. Four million for Langhorne and Yancy. Poor Wally, at ten now, was suddenly struck with diarrhea and asked to leave the meeting.
________
NATE WAS happy and busy painting door trim when his cell phone buzzed. Josh made him keep the damned thing within reach.
“If it’s for me, take a number,” Father Phil said. He was measuring a complicated corner for the next piece of wallboard.
It was Josh. “It couldn’t have gone better,” he announced. “I stopped at twenty million, they want fifty.”
“Fifty?” Nate said in disbelief.
“Yeah, but they’re already spending the money. I’ll bet at least two of them are at the Mercedes dealer right now.”
“Who’ll spend it faster? Lawyers or clients?”
“I’d bet on the lawyers. Look, I just talked to Wycliff. The meeting is for Wednesday at three, in his office. We should wrap it up by then.”
“I can’t wait,” Nate said, and folded the phone. Time for a coffee break. They sat on the floor, backs to a wall, and sipped warm latte.
“They wanted fifty?” Phil asked. By now, he knew the details. Alone in the basement, the two had kept few secrets as they drifted through their labors. Conversation was more important than progress. Phil was clergy. Nate was a lawyer. Everything said was covered by some manner of confidential privilege.
“It’s a nice starting place,” Nate said. “But they’ll take a lot less.”
“You expect it to be settled?”
“Sure. We’ll meet on Wednesday with the Judge. He’ll apply more pressure. By then the lawyers and their clients will be counting the money.”
“So when do you leave?”
“Friday, I guess. You wanna come?”
“I can’t afford it.”
“Sure you can. My client will foot the bill. You can be my spiritual adviser for the trip. Money is no object.”
“It wouldn’t be right.”
“Come on, Phil. I’ll show you the Pantanal. You can meet my pals Jevy and Welly. We’ll go for a boat ride.”
“You haven’t made it sound very appealing.”
“It’s not dangerous. There’s quite a tourist business in the Pantanal. It’s a great ecological preserve. Seriously, Phil, if you’re interested I can make it happen.”
“I don’t have a passport,” he said, and sipped his coffee. “Plus I have so much work to do here.”
Nate would be gone for a week, and he somehow liked the fact that the basement would look the same when he returned.
“Mrs. Sinclair is expected to die any day now,” Phil said quietly. “I can’t be gone.”
The church had been waiting for Mrs. Sinclair to die for at least a month. Phil was fearful about a trip to Baltimore. Nate knew he would never leave the country.
“So you’re gonna see her again,” Phil said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you excited?”
“I don’t know. I look forward to seeing her, but I’m not sure she wants to see me. She’s very happy and wants no part of this world. She will resent more of the legal stuff.”
“Then why do it?”
“Because there’s nothing to lose. If she rejects the money again, we’re in the same position as now. The other side gets everything.”
“And that’s a disaster.”
“Yes. It would be difficult to find a group of people less equipped to handle serious money than the Phelan heirs. They’ll kill themselves with it.”
“Can’t you explain this to Rachel?”
“I tried. She has no interest in hearing it.”
“So she’s not going to change her mind?”
“No. Never.”
“And the trip down is a waste of time?”
“I’m afraid so. But at least we’ll try.”
FIFTY
_____________
WITH THE exception of Ramble, all of the Phelan heirs insisted on being either in the courthouse or within a rock’s throw during the meeting. Each had a cell phone, as did each lawyer inside Wycliff’s office.
Much sleep had been lost by the clients and their lawyers.
How often does one become an instant millionaire? At least twice for the Phelan heirs, and they vowed to themselves that they would be much wiser this time around. They would never get another chance.
They walked the hallways of the courthouse, waiting. They smoked outside by the front doors. They kept warm in their cars in the parking lot, fidgeting. They checked their watches, tried to read newspapers, chatted nervously when they bumped into each other.
Nate and Josh sat on one side of the room. Josh of course wore an expensive dark suit. Nate wore a denim shirt with specks of white paint on the collar. No tie. Jeans and hiking boots rounded out his ensemble.
Wycliff first addressed the Phelan lawyers across the room. He informed them that he was not inclined to dismiss the answer of Rachel Lane, at least not at that time. There was too much at stake to cut her from the proceedings. Mr. O’Riley was doing a fine job of representing her interests; therefore the lawsuit would proceed as scheduled.
The purpose of the meeting was to explore settlement, something every judge wanted for every case. Wycliff was still enthralled with the vision of a long, nasty, high-profile trial, but he could never admit it. It was his duty to push, prod, and cajole the parties into a settlement.
Prodding and cajoling would not be necessary.
His Honor had reviewed all the pleadings and documents, and he’d watched every minute of every deposition. He recapped the evidence as he viewed things, and offered the grave conclusion to Hark, Bright, Langhorne, and Yancy that, in his learned opinion, they didn’t have much of a case.
They took it well. It came as no surprise. Money was on the table and they were anxious to get to it. Insult us all you want, they said to themselves, but let’s hurry along to the money.
On the other hand, Wycliff was saying, you never know what a jury will do. He spoke as if he empaneled juries every week, which he did not. And the lawyers knew it.
He asked Josh to recap the initial settlement conference of Monday, two days earlier. “I want to know exactly where we are,” he said.
Josh was brief. The bottom line was simple. The heirs wanted fifty million dollars each. Rachel, the sole major beneficiary, was offering twenty million only to settle, without admitting the other side had a valid case.
“That’s a substantial gap,” Wycliff observed.
Nate was bored but tried to appear sharp. These were high-powered settlement negotiations involving one of the greatest self-made fortunes in the world. Josh had scolded him for his appearance. He didn’t care. He kept himself interested by watching the faces of the lawyers across the room. They were an edgy bunch, not anxious or worried, but animated and desperate to learn how much they would be getting. Their eyes were keen and quick; their hand movements impulsive.
How much fun it would be to abruptly stand, announce Rachel wasn’t offering a dime to settle, and storm out of the room. They would sit in shock for a few seconds, then they would chase him like hungry dogs.
When Josh finished, Hark spoke for the group. He had notes and he’d spent time on his remarks. He got their attention by admitting that the development of their case had not followed the course they’d w
anted. Their clients were not good witnesses. The current psychiatrists were not as solid as the first three. Snead was not reliable. He admitted all this, and his sincerity was admirable.
Instead of arguing legal theories, Hark dwelt on people. He talked about their clients, the Phelan children, and he admitted that on the surface they were not a sympathetic bunch. But once you got past the surface, and you got to know them the way their lawyers had, you realized they simply never had a chance. As children they were rich and spoiled, raised in privilege by nannies who came and went, thoroughly ignored by their father, who was either in Asia buying factories or living at the office with his latest secretary. Hark did not intend to disparage the dead, but Mr. Phelan was what he was. Their mothers were an odd collection, but they too had endured the hell of life with Troy.
The Phelan children had not been raised in normal families. They had not been taught the lessons most children learn from their parents. Their father was a great businessman whose approval they craved but never received. Their mothers busied themselves with clubs and causes and the art of shopping. Their father’s idea of providing his children with a proper start in life was simply to give each five million dollars when he or she turned twenty-one. This was much too late, and it was much too early. The money couldn’t provide the wisdom, guidance, and love they needed as children. And they had clearly proved that they weren’t ready for the responsibilities of new wealth.
The gifts had been disastrous, yet they had also brought maturity. Now, with the benefit of the years, the Phelan children looked back at their mistakes. They were embarrassed by how foolish they’d been with the money. Imagine waking up one day like the prodigal son, as Rex had once done at the age of thirty-two—divorced, broke, and standing before a judge who was about to jail him for nonpayment of child support. Imagine sitting in jail for eleven days while your brother, also broke and divorced, tried to convince your mother to bail you out. Rex said he spent his time behind bars trying to recount where the money had gone.
Life has been hard for the Phelan children. Many of their wounds were self-inflicted, but many had been inevitable because of their father.
The final act of neglect by their father had been his handwritten will. They would never understand the malice of the man who’d spurned them as children, chastised them as adults, and erased them as heirs.
Hark concluded by saying, “They are Phelans, Troy’s own flesh and blood, for better or for worse, and they certainly deserve a fair portion of their father’s estate.”
When Hark finished he sat down, and the room was silent. It was a heart-felt plea, and Nate and Josh, even Wycliff, were moved by it. It would never play to a jury because he couldn’t admit in open court that his clients had no case. But for the moment and the setting, Hark’s little oration was just perfect.
Nate supposedly held the money, at least that was his part of the game. He could haggle and squeeze, bluff and dicker for an hour and trim a few million from the fortune. But he was simply in no mood to do so. If Hark could shoot straight, so could he. It was all a ruse anyway.
“What’s your bottom line?” he asked Hark, their eyes locking like radar.
“I’m not sure we have a bottom line. I think fifty million per heir is reasonable. I know it sounds like a lot, and it is, but look at the size of the estate. After taxes, we’re still only talking about five percent of the money.”
“Five percent is not very much,” Nate said, then let the words hang between them. Hark was watching him, but the others were not. They were hunched over their legal pads, pens ready for the next round of calculations.
“It really isn’t,” Hark said.
“My client will agree to fifty million,” Nate said. At the moment, his client was probably teaching Bible songs to small children under the shade of a tree by the river.
Wally Bright had just earned a fee of twenty-five million dollars, and his first impulse was to bolt across the room and kiss Nate’s feet. But instead he frowned with intelligence and made careful notes, notes he couldn’t read.
Josh knew it was coming, of course, his bean counters had done the math, but Wycliff did not. A settlement had just occurred, no trial would be held. He had to appear pleased. “Well, then,” he said, “do we have a settlement?”
Out of nothing but sheer habit, the Phelan lawyers engaged in one last huddle. They grouped around Hark and tried to whisper, but words failed them.
“It’s a deal,” Hark announced, twenty-six million dollars richer.
Josh just happened to have the rough draft of a settlement agreement. They began filling in the blanks, when suddenly the Phelan lawyers remembered their clients. They asked to be excused, then ran into the hallway, cell phones appearing from every pocket. Troy Junior and Rex were waiting by a soft drink machine on the first floor. Geena and Cody were reading newspapers in an empty courtroom. Spike and Libbigail were sitting in their old pickup down the street. Mary Ross was in her Cadillac in the parking lot. Ramble was at home in the basement, door locked, headphones on, in another world.
The settlement would not be complete until signed and approved by Rachel Lane. The Phelan lawyers wanted it to be strictly confidential. Wycliff agreed to seal the court file. After an hour the agreement was complete. It was signed by each of the Phelan heirs and their lawyers. It was signed by Nate.
