ELEVEN. 4 page

Oh, how he longed for a fight.

At nine, he met with Libbigail Phelan Jeter and Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, the two daughters from Troy's first marriage. Rex had arranged the meeting, at Hark's insistence. Though both women had lawyers at the moment, Hark wanted them as clients. More clients meant more clout at the bargaining table and in the courtroom, and it also meant he could bill each one of them five hundred an hour for the same work.

The meeting was awkward; neither woman trusted Hark because they didn't trust their brother Rex. TJ had three lawyers of his own, and their mother had another. Why should they join forces when no one else was doing so? With so much money at stake, shouldn't they keep their own lawyers?

Hark pressed but gained little ground. He was disappointed, but later charged ahead with plans to leave his firm immediately. He could smell the money.

LIBBIGAIL PHELAN JETER had been a rebellious child who disliked Lillian, her mother, and craved the attention of her father, who was seldom at home. She was nine when her parents divorced.

When she was fourteen, Lillian shipped her away to boarding school. Troy disapproved of boarding schools, as if he knew something about child-rearing, and throughout high school he made an uncharacteristic effort to keep in touch with her. He often told her she was his favorite. She was certainly the brightest.

But he missed her graduation and forgot to send a gift. In the summer before college, she dreamed of ways to hurt him. She fled to Berkeley, ostensibly to study medieval Irish poetry, but in fact she planned to study very little, if at all. Troy hated the idea of her attending college anywhere in California, especially on such a radical campus. Vietnam was ending. The students had won and it was time to celebrate.

She slipped easily into the culture of drugs and casual sex. She lived in a three-story house with a group of students of all races, sexes, and sexual preferences. The combinations changed weekly, as did the numbers. They called themselves a commune, but there was no structure or rules. Money was no problem because most came from wealthy families. Libbigail was known simply as a rich kid from Connecticut. At the time, Troy was worth only a hundred million or so.

With a sense of adventure, she moved along the drug chain until heroin seized her. Her supplier was a jazz drummer named Tino, who had somehow taken up residence in the commune. Tino was in his late thirties, a high school dropout from Memphis, and no one knew exactly how or when he became a member of their group. No one cared.

Libbigail cleaned herself up enough to travel East for her twenty-first birthday, a glorious day for all Phelan children because that was when the old man bestowed The Gift. Troy didn't behave in trusts for his children. If they weren't stable by the age of twenty-one, then why string them along? Trusts required trustees and lawyers and constant fights with the beneficiaries, who resented having their money doled out by accountants. Give them the money, Troy reasoned, let 'em sink or swim.

Most Phelans drowned quickly.

Troy skipped her birthday. He was somewhere in Asia on business. By then he was well into his second marriage, with Janie. Rocky and Geena were little kids, and he'd lost whatever interest he had in his first family.

Libbigail didn't miss him. The lawyers completed the arrangements for The Gift, and she laid up with Tino in a swanky Manhattan hotel for a week, stoned.

Her money lasted for almost five years, a stretch of time that included two husbands, numerous live-ins, two arrests, three lengthy lockdowns in detox units, and a car wreck that almost took her left leg.

Her current husband was an ex-biker she'd met in rehab. He weighed 320 pounds and had a gray frizzy beard that fell to his chest. He went by the name of Spike, and he had actually evolved into a decent sort. He built cabinets in a shop behind their modest home in the Baltimore suburb of Lutherville.

LIBBIGAIL'S LAWYER was a rumpled fellow named Wally Bright, and she went straight to his office after leaving Hark's. She made a full report of everything Hark had said. Wally was a small-timer who advertised quickie divorces on bus benches in the Bethesda area. He'd handled one of Libbigail's divorces and waited a year before he was paid for it. But he'd been patient with her. She was, after all, a Phelan. She would be his ticket to the fat fees he'd never quite been able to command.

In her presence, Wally called Hark Gettys and started a vicious phone fight that raged for fifteen minutes. He stomped around behind his desk, arms flailing, screaming obscenities into the phone. “I will kill for my client!” he raged at one point, and Libbigail was most impressed.

When he finished, he walked her gently to the door and kissed her on the cheek. He stroked her and patted her and fussed over her. He gave her the attention she had craved all her life. She was not a bad-looking woman; a bit heavy and showing the effects of a hard life, but Wally had seen much worse. Wally had slept with much worse. Given the right moment, Wally might make a move.

EIGHT.

NATE'S LITTLE MOUNTAIN was covered with six inches of new snow when he was awakened by the stirring sounds of Chopin piped through his walls. Last week it had been Mozart. The week before, he couldn't remember. Vivaldi had been in his recent past, but so much of it was a haze.

As he had done every morning for almost four months, Nate walked to his window and gazed at the Shenandoah Valley spread before him, three thousand feet below. It too was covered with white, and he remembered that it was almost Christmas.

He would be out in time for Christmas. They-his doctors and Josh Stafford-had promised him that much. He thought about Christmas and became saddened by it. There had been some pleasant ones in the not too distant past, when the kids were small and life was stable. But the kids were gone now, either grown or taken away by their mothers, and the last thing Nate wanted was another Christmas in a bar with other miserable drunks singing carols and pretending all was merry.

The valley was white and still, a few cars moving like ants far away.

He was supposed to meditate for ten minutes, either in prayer or with the yoga they'd tried to teach him at Walnut Hill. Instead he did sit-ups, then went for a swim.

Breakfast was black coffee and a muffin, which he took with Sergio, his counselor/therapist/guru. And for the past four months, Sergio had also been his best friend. He knew everything about the miserable life of Nate O'Riley.

“You have a guest today,” Sergio said.

“Who?”

“Mr. Stafford.”

“Wonderful.”

Any contact with the outside was welcome, primarily because it was so restricted. Josh had visited once a month. Two other friends from the firm had made the three-hour drive from D.C., but they were busy and Nate understood.

Television was prohibited at Walnut Hill because of the beer ads and because so many of the shows and movies glorified drinking, even drugs. Most popular magazines were kept away for the same reasons. It didn't matter to Nate. After four months, he didn't care what was happening at the Capitol or on Wall Street or in the Middle East.

“When?” he asked.

“Late morning.”

“After my workout?”

“Of course.”

Nothing interfered with the workout, a two-hour orgy of sweat and grunting and yelling with a sadistic personal trainer, a sharply toned female Nate secretly adored.

He was resting in his suite, eating a blood orange and watching the valley again, when Josh arrived.

“You look great,” Josh said. “How much weight have you lost?”

“Fourteen pounds,” Nate said, patting his flat stomach.

“Very lean. Maybe I should spend some time here.”

“I highly recommend it. The food is completely fat-free, taste-free, prepared by a chef with an accent. The portions cover half a saucer, couple of bites and you're done. Lunch and dinner take about seven minutes if you chew slowly.”

“For a thousand bucks a day you expect great food.”

“Did you bring me some cookies or something, Josh? Some Chips Ahoy or Oreos? Surely you hid something in your briefcase.”

“Sorry, Nate. I'm clean.”

“Some Doritos or MM's?”

“Sorry.”

Nate took a bite of his orange. They were sitting next to each other, enjoying the view. Minutes passed.

“How you doing?” Josh asked.

“I need to get out of here, Josh. I'm becoming a robot.”

“Your doc says another week or so.”

“Great. Then what?”

“We'll see.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we'll see.”

“Come on, Josh.”

“We'll take our time, and see what happens.”

“Can I come back to the firm, Josh? Talk to me.”

“Not so fast, Nate. You have enemies.”

“Who doesn't? But hell, it's your firm. Those guys will go along with whatever you say.”

“You have a couple of problems.”

“I have a thousand problems. But you can't kick me out.”

“The bankruptcy we can work through. The indictment is not so easy.”

No, it was not so easy, and Nate couldn't simply dismiss it. From 1992 to 1995, he had failed to report about sixty thousand dollars in other income.

He tossed the orange peel in a wastebasket, and said, “So what am I supposed to do? Sit around the house all day?”

“If you're lucky.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Josh had to be delicate. His friend was emerging from a black hole. Shocks and surprises had to be avoided.

“Do you think I'm going to prison?” Nate asked.

“Troy Phelan died,” Josh said, and it took Nate a second to change course.

“Oh, Mr. Phelan,” he said.

Nate had had his own little wing in the firm. It was at the end of a long hallway, on the sixth floor, and he and another lawyer and three paralegals and a half-dozen secretaries worked on suing doctors and cared little about the rest of the firm. He certainly knew who Troy Phelan was, but he'd never touched his legal work. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“So you haven't heard?”

“I hear nothing here. When did he die?”

“Four days ago. Jumped from a window.”

“Without a parachute?”

“Bingo.”

“Couldn't fly.”

“No. He didn't try. I saw it happen. He had just signed two wills-the first prepared by me; the second, and last, handwritten by himself. Then he bolted and jumped.”

“You saw it?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Musta been a crazy bastard.”

There was a trace of humor in Mate's voice. Nearly four months earlier, he'd been found by a maid in a motel room, his stomach full of pills and rum.

“He left everything to an illegitimate daughter I'd never heard of.”

“Is she married? What does she look like?”

“I want you to go find her.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“She's lost?”

“We don't know where she is.”

“How much did he-“

“Somewhere around eleven billion, before taxes.”

“Does she know it?”

“No. She doesn't even know he's dead.”

“Does she know Troy's her father?”

“I don't know what she knows.”

“Where is she?”

“Brazil, we think. She's a missionary working with a remote tribe of Indians.”

Nate stood and walked around the room. “I spent a week there once,” he said. “I was in college, or maybe law school. It was Carnaval, naked girls dancing in the streets of Rio, the samba bands, a million people partying all night.” His voice trailed away as the nice little memory surfaced and quickly faded.

“This is not Carnaval.”

“No. I'm sure it's not. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes. Black.”

Nate pressed a button on the wall and announced his order into the intercom. A thousand bucks a day also covered room service.

“How long will I be gone?” he asked, sitting again by the window.

“It's a wild guess, but I'd say ten days. There's no hurry, and she might be hard to find.”

“What part of the country?”

“Western, near Bolivia. This outfit she works for specializes in sending its people into the jungles, where they minister to Indians from the Stone Age. We've done some research, and they seem to take pride in finding the most remote people on the face of the earth.”

“You want me to first find the right jungle, then hike into it in search of the right tribe of Indians, then somehow convince them that I'm a friendly lawyer from the States and they should help me find a woman who probably doesn't want to be found to begin with.”

“Something like that.”

“Might be fun.”

“Think of it as an adventure.”

“Plus, it'll keep me out of the office, right, Josh? Is that it? A diversion while you sort things out.”

“Someone has to go, Nate. A lawyer from our firm has to meet this woman face to face, show her a copy of the will, explain it to her, and find out what she wants to do next. It cannot be done by a paralegal or a Brazilian lawyer.”

“Why me?”

“Because everybody else is busy. You know the routine. You've lived it for more than twenty years. Life at the office, lunch at the courthouse, sleep on the train. Plus, it might be good for you.”

“Are you trying to keep me away from the streets, Josh? Because if you are, then you're wasting your time. I'm clean. Clean and sober. No more bars, no more parties, no more dealers. I'm clean, Josh. Forever.”

Josh nodded along because he was certainly expected to. But he'd been there before. “I believe you,” he said, wanting to very badly.

The porter knocked and brought their coffee on a silver tray.

After a while, Nate asked, “What about the indictment? I'm not supposed to leave the country until it's wrapped up.”

“I've talked to the Judge, told him it was pressing business. He wants to see you in ninety days.”

“Is he nice?”

“He's Santa Claus.”

“So if I'm convicted, do you think he'll give me a break?”

“That's a year away. Let's worry about it later.”

Nate was sitting at a small table, hunched over his coffee, staring into the cup as he thought of questions. Josh was on the other side, still gazing into the distance.

“What if I say no?” Nate asked.

Josh shrugged as if it didn't matter. “No big deal. We'll find someone else. Think of it as a vacation. You're not afraid of the jungle, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then go have some fan.”

“When would I leave?”

“In a week. Brazil requires a visa, and we'll have to pull some strings. Plus there are some loose ends around here.”

Walnut Hill required at least a week of PreRelease, a period of conditioning before it fed its clients back to the wolves. They had been pampered, sobered, brainwashed, and nudged into emotional, mental, and physical shape. PreRelease braced them for the reentry.

“A week,” Nate repeated to himself.

“About a week, yes.”

“And it'll take ten days.”

“I'm just guessing.”

“So I'll be down there during the holidays.”

“I guess it looks that way.”

“That's a great idea.”

“You want to skip Christmas?”

“Yes.”

“What about your kids?”

There were four of them, two by each wife. One in grad school and one in college, two in middle school.

He stirred his coffee with a small spoon, and said, “Not a word, Josh. Almost four months here, and not a word from any of them.” His voice ached and his shoulders sagged. He looked quite frail, for a second.

“I'm sorry,” Josh said.

Josh had certainly heard from the families. Both wives had lawyers who'd called to sniff around for money. Nate's oldest child was a grad student at Northwestern who needed tuition money, and he personally had called Josh to inquire not about his father's well-being or whereabouts but, more important, his father's share of the firm's profits last year. He was cocky and rude, and Josh had finally cursed him.

“I'd like to avoid all the parties and holiday cheer,” Nate said, rallying as he got to his bare feet and walked around the room.

“So you'll go?”

“Is it the Amazon?”

“No. It's the Pantanal, the largest wetlands in the world.”

“Piranhas, anacondas, alligators?”

“Sure.”

“Cannibals?”

“No more than D.C.”

“Seriously.”

“I don't think so. They haven't lost a missionary in eleven years.”

“What about a lawyer?”

“I'm sure they would enjoy filleting one. Come on, Nate. This is not heavy lifting. If I weren't so busy, I'd love to go. The Pantanal is a great ecological reserve.”

“I've never heard of it.”

“That's because you stopped traveling years ago. You went into your office and didn't come out.”

“Except for rehab.”

“Take a vacation. See another part of the world.”

Nate sipped coffee long enough to redirect the conversation. “And what happens when I get back? Do I have my office? Am I still a partner?”

“Is that what you want?”

“Of course,” Nate said, but with a slight hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

“What else would I do?”

“I don't know, Nate, but this is your fourth rehab in ten years. The crashes are getting worse. If you walked out now, you'd go straight to the office and be the world's greatest malpractice litigator for six months. You'd ignore the old friends, the old bars, the old neighborhoods. Nothing but work, work, work. Before long you'd have a couple of big verdicts, big trials, big pressure. You'd step it up a notch. After a year, there would be a crack somewhere. An old friend might find you. A girl from another life. Maybe a bad jury gives you a bad verdict. I'd be watching every move, but I can never tell when the slide begins.”

“No more slides, Josh. I swear.”

“I've heard it before, and I want to believe you. But what if your demons come out again, Nate? You came within minutes of killing yourself last time.”

“No more crashes.”

“The next one will be the last, Nate. We'll have a funeral and say good-bye and watch them lower you into the ground. I don't want that to happen.”

“It won't, I swear.”

“Then forget about the office. There's too much pressure there.”

The thing Nate hated about rehab was the long periods of silence, or meditation, as Sergio called them. The patients were expected to squat like monks in the semi-darkness, close their eyes, and find inner peace. Nate could do the squatting and all that, but behind the closed eyes he was retrying lawsuits, and fighting the IRS, and plotting against his ex-wives, and, most important, worrying about the future. This conversation with Josh was one he'd played out many times.

But his smart retorts and quick comebacks failed him under pressure. Almost four months of virtual solitude had dulled his reflexes. He could manage to look pitiful, and that was all. “Come on, Josh. You can't just kick me out.”

“You've litigated for over twenty years, Nate. That's about average. It's time to move on to something else.”

“So I'll become a lobbyist, and do lunch with the press secretaries for a thousand little congressmen.”

“We'll find a place for you. But it won't be in the courtroom.”

“I'm not good at doing lunch. I want to litigate.”

“The answer is no. You can stay with the firm, make a lot of money, stay healthy, take up golf, and life will be good, assuming the IRS doesn't send you away.”

For a few pleasant moments the IRS had been forgotten. Now it was back, and Nate sat down again. He squeezed a small pack of honey into his lukewarm coffee; sugar and artificial sweeteners couldn't be allowed in a place as healthy as Walnut Hill.

“A couple of weeks in the Brazilian wetlands is beginning to sound good,” he said.

“So you'll go?”

“Yes.”

SINCE NATE HAD plenty of time to read, Josh left him a thick file on the Phelan estate and its mysterious new heir. And there were two books on remote Indians of South America.

Nate read nonstop for eight hours, even neglecting dinner. He was suddenly anxious to leave, to begin his adventure. When Sergio checked on him at ten, he was sitting like a monk in the middle of his bed, papers sprawled around him, lost in another world.

“It's time for me to leave,” Nate said.

“Yes, it is,” Sergio replied. “I'll start the paperwork tomorrow.”

NINE.

THE INFIGHTING grew worse as the Phelan heirs I spent less time talking to each other and more time in their lawyers' offices. A week passed with no will, and no plans to probate. With their fortunes within sight but just out of reach, the heirs became even more agitated. Several lawyers were fired, with more brought in to replace them.

Mary Ross Phelan Jackman fired hers because he wasn't charging enough per hour. Her husband was a successful orthopedic surgeon with lots of business interests. He dealt with lawyers every day. Their new one was a fireball named Grit, who made a noisy entrance into the fray at six hundred dollars per hour.

While the heirs waited, they also incurred massive debt. Contracts were signed for mansions. New cars were delivered. Consultants were hired to do such varied things as design pool houses, locate just the right private jet, and give advice on which thoroughbred to purchase. If the heirs weren't fighting, then they were shopping. Ramble was the exception, but only because he was a minor. He hung out with his lawyer, who was certainly incurring debt on behalf of his client.

Snowball litigation is often commenced with a race to the courthouse. With Josh Stafford refusing to reveal the will, and at the same time dropping mysterious hints about Troy's lack of testamentary capacity, the lawyers for the Phelan heirs finally panicked.

Ten days after the suicide, Hark Gettys went to the Circuit Court of Fairfax County, Virginia, and filed a Petition to Compel the Last Will and Testament of Troy L. Phelan. With all the finesse of an ambitious lawyer to be reckoned with, he tipped a reporter from the Post. They chatted for an hour after the filing, some comments off the record, others offered for the glory of the lawyer. A photographer took some pictures.

Oddly, Hark filed his petition on behalf of all Phelan heirs. And he listed their names and addresses as if they were his clients. He faxed them copies when he returned to his office. Within minutes his phone lines were burning.

The Post's story the next morning was complemented by a large photo of Hark frowning and rubbing his beard. The story covered even more space than he'd dreamed of. He read it at sunrise in a coffee shop in Chevy Chase, then hurriedly drove to his new office.

A couple of hours later, just after nine, the circuit court clerk's office in Fairfax County was crawling with lawyers, more so than normal. They arrived in tight little packs, spoke in terse sentences to the clerks, and worked hard at ignoring each other. Their petitions were varied but they all wanted the same things-recognition in the Phelan matter, and a look at the will.

Probate matters in Fairfax County were randomly assigned to one of a dozen judges. The Phelan matter landed on the desk of the Honorable F. Parr Wycliff, age thirty-six, a jurist with little experience but lots of ambition. He was thrilled to get such a high-profile case.

Wycliff s office was in the Fairfax County Courthouse, and throughout the morning he monitored the filings in the clerk's office. His secretary hauled in the petitions, and he read them immediately.

When the dust settled below him, he called Josh Stafford to introduce himself. They chatted politely for a few minutes, the usual lawyerly preliminaries, stiff and cautious because weightier matters were coming. Josh had never heard of Judge Wycliff.

“Is there a will?” Wycliff finally asked.

“Yes, Your Honor. There is a will.” Josh chose his words carefully. It was a felony in Virginia to hide a will. If the Judge wanted to know, then Josh would certainly cooperate.

“Where is it?”

“Here in my office.”

“Who is the executor?”

“Me.”

“When do you plan to probate it?”

“My client asked me to wait until January fifteenth.”

“Hmmmm. Any particular reason?”

There was a simple reason. Troy wanted his greedy children to enjoy one last spending spree before he jerked the rug from under them. It was mean and cruel, vintage Troy.

“I have no idea,” Josh said. “The will is holographic. Mr. Phelan signed it just seconds before he jumped.”

“A holographic will?”

“Yes.”

“Weren't you with him?”

“Yes. It's a long story.”

“Perhaps I should hear it.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Josh had a busy day. Wycliff did not, but he made it sound as though every minute were planned. They agreed to meet for lunch, a quick sandwich in Wycliff's office.

SERGIO DID NOT LIKE the idea of Nate's trip to South America. After almost four months in a highly structured place like Walnut Hill, where the doors and gates were locked and an unseen guard with a gun watched the road a mile down the mountain, and where TV, movies, games, magazines, and phones were heavily monitored, the reentry into a familiar society was often traumatizing. The notion of a reentry by way of Brazil was more than troubling.

Nate didn't care. He was not at Walnut Hill by court order. Josh had put him there, and if Josh asked him to play hide-and-seek in the jungles, so be it. Sergio could bitch and moan all he wanted.

PreRelease turned into a week from hell. The diet changed from no-fat to low-fat, with such inevitable ingredients as salt, pepper, cheese, and a little butter added to prepare his system for the evils out there. Nate's stomach rebelled, and he lost three more pounds.

“Just an inkling of what's waiting for you down there,” Sergio said smugly.

They fought during therapy, which was common at Walnut Hill. Skin had to be thickened, edges sharpened. Sergio began to distance himself from his patient. It was usually difficult to say good-bye, and Sergio shortened the sessions and became aloof.

With the end in sight, Nate began counting the hours.

JUDGE WYCLIFF inquired as to the contents of the will, and Josh politely declined to tell him. They were eating deli sandwiches at a small table in His Honor's small office. The law did not require Josh to reveal what was in the will, at least not now. And Wycliff was slightly out of bounds to ask, but his curiosity was understandable.

“I'm somewhat sympathetic to the petitioners,” he said. “They have a right to know what's in the will. Why delay it?”

“I'm just following my client's wishes,” Josh replied.

“You have to probate the will sooner or later.”

“Of course.”

Wycliff slid his appointment book up to his plastic plate, and gazed down with a squint over his reading glasses. “Today is December twentieth. There's no way to assemble everyone before Christmas. How does the twenty-seventh look to you?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A reading of the will.”

The idea struck Josh, and he almost choked on a dill spear. Gather them all together, the Phelans and their entourages and new friends and hangers-on, and all their merry lawyers, and pack them into Wycliff's courtroom. Make sure the press knows about it. As he crunched on another bite of pickle, and looked at his little black book, he worked hard to suppress a grin. He could hear the gasps and groans, the shockwaves, the utter, bitter disbelief, then the muted cursing. Then, perhaps a sniffle and maybe a sob or two as the Phelans tried to absorb what their beloved father had done to them.

It would be a vicious, glorious, thoroughly unique moment in the history of American law, and Josh suddenly couldn't wait. “The twenty-seventh is fine with me,” he said.

“Good. I'll notify the parties as soon as I can identify all of them. There are lots of lawyers.”

“It helps if you remember that there are six kids and three ex-wives, so there are nine principal sets of lawyers.”

“I hope my courtroom is big enough.”

Standing room only, Josh almost said. People packed together, with not a sound as the envelope is opened, the will unfolded, the unbelievable words read. “I suggest you read the will,” Josh said.

Wycliff certainly intended to. He was seeing the same scene as Josh. It would be one of his finest moments, reading a will that disposed of eleven billion dollars.

“I assume the will is somewhat controversial,” the Judge said.

“It's wicked.”

His Honor actually smiled.

TEN.

BEFORE HIS most recent crash, Nate had lived in an aging condo in Georgetown, one he'd leased after his last divorce. But it was gone now, a victim of the bankruptcy. So, literally, there was no place for Nate to spend his first night of freedom.

As usual, Josh had carefully planned the release. He arrived at Walnut Hill on the appointed day with a duffel bag filled with new and neatly pressed J. Crew shorts and shirts for the trip south. He had the passport and the visa, plenty of cash, lots of directions and tickets, a game plan. Even a first-aid kit.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 584