EIGHTEEN.

IT WAS A SIMPLE HEARING, a reading of a will, but the details were crucial. F. Parr Wycliff had thought of little else during his Christmas holiday. Every seat in his courtroom would be filled, with more spectators packed three deep against the walls. He'd worried so much that the day after Christmas he had walked around his empty courtroom pondering where to seat everyone.

And, typically, the press was out of control. They wanted cameras inside, and he had vehemently refused. They wanted cameras in the hallway peering in through the small square windows in the doors, and he said no. They wanted preferred seating; again, no. They wanted interviews with him, and he was stiff-arming them at the moment.

The lawyers too were showing their asses. Some wanted the entire hearing closed to the world, others wanted it televised, for obvious reasons. Some wanted the file sealed, others wanted copies of the will faxed over for their perusal. There were motions for this and that, requests to have seating here and there, concerns about who would be allowed inside the courtroom and who would not. Several of the lawyers went so far as to suggest that they be allowed to open and read the will. It was quite thick, you know, and they might be forced to explain some of the more intricate provisions as they read along.

Wycliff arrived early and met with the extra deputies he'd requested. They followed him, along with his secretary and his law clerk, around the courtroom as he made seat assignments and tested the sound system and counted chairs. He was very concerned with the details. Someone said a television news crew was attempting to set up camp down the hall, and he quickly dispatched a deputy to retake the area.

With the courtroom secure and organized, he retired to his office to tend to other matters. Concentration was difficult. Never again would his daily calendar promise such excitement. Quite selfishly, he hoped that the will of Troy Phelan was scandalously controversial; that it stripped money from one ex-family and awarded it to another. Or perhaps it screwed all of his crazy children and made someone else rich. A long nasty will contest would certainly liven up Wycliff s rather mundane career in probate. He'd be the center of the storm, one that would no doubt rage for years, with eleven billion at stake.

He was certain this would happen. Alone, with his door locked, he spent fifteen minutes ironing his robe.

The first spectator was a reporter who arrived just after eight, and because he was the first he received the full treatment from the jumpy security detail blocking the double doors to the courtroom. He was greeted gruffly, asked to produce a picture ID and sign a sheet for journalists, got his steno pad inspected as if it were a grenade, then was directed through the metal detector, where two thick guards were obviously disappointed when no sirens erupted as he passed through. He was grateful he did not get strip-searched. Once inside, he was led down the center aisle by yet another uniformed officer to a spot two rows from the front. He was relieved to get a seat. The courtroom was empty.

The hearing was set for ten, and by nine a nice crowd had assembled in the foyer outside the courtroom. Security was taking its time with the paperwork and the searches. A line formed down the hall.

Some of the lawyers for the Phelan heirs arrived in a rush and became instantly irritated with the delay in getting into the courtroom. Harsh words were exchanged; threats were made and received by the lawyers and by the deputies. Someone sent for Wycliff, but he was polishing his boots and didn't want to be disturbed. And, like a bride before the wedding, he didn't want to be seen by the guests. The heirs and the lawyers were given priority, and this eased the tense situation.

The courtroom slowly filled. Tables were placed in a U-shape, with the Judge's bench at the open end, so that His Honor could look down from his perch and see everyone: lawyers, heirs, spectators. To the left of the bench, in front of the jury box, was a long table where the Phelans were being placed. Troy Junior was first, with Biff in tow. They were directed to a spot nearest the bench, where they sat and huddled with three lawyers from their legal team while working desperately to appear somber and at the same time ignore everyone else in the courtroom. Biff was furious because the security detail had confiscated her cell phone. She couldn't make real estate calls.

Ramble was next. For the occasion he had neglected his hair, which still bore streaks of lime green and hadn't been washed in two weeks. His rings were in full glory— ear, nose, eyebrow. Black leather jacket with no sleeves, temporary tattoos on his skinny arms. Ragged jeans; old boots. Surly attitude. He caught the attention of the journalists when he walked down the aisle. He was coddled and fussed over every step of the way by Yancy, his aging hippie lawyer, who had somehow managed to hang on to his prized client.

Yancy took a quick look at the seating scheme, and asked to sit as far away from Troy Junior as possible. The deputy complied and put them at the end of a temporary table facing the bench. Ramble sank into his chair, green hair hanging over the back of it. The spectators watched him in horror-this thing was about to inherit a half a billion dollars? The potential for mayhem seemed limitless.

Geena Phelan Strong was next with her husband Cody and two of their lawyers. They gauged the distance between Troy Junior and Ramble, then split the difference and sat as far away from both as possible. Cody was particularly burdened and earnest and immediately began reviewing some important papers with one of his lawyers. Geena just gawked at Ramble; she couldn't believe they were half-brother and sister.

Amber the stripper made a grand entrance in a short skirt and low-cut blouse that gave away most of her expensive breasts. The deputy escorting her down the aisle couldn't believe his good fortune. He chatted her up along the way, eyes glued to the edge of her blouse. Rex followed behind in a dark suit, carrying a bulky briefcase as if he had serious work today. Behind him was Hark Gettys, still the noisiest advocate of the bunch. Hark brought with him two of his new associates; his firm was growing by the week. Since Amber and Biff weren't speaking, Rex quickly intervened and pointed to a spot between Ramble and Geena.

The tables were filling; the gaps were closing. Before long some of the Phelans would be sitting close to each other.

Ramble's mother Tira brought two young men of about the same age. One had tight jeans and a hairy chest; the other was well groomed in dark pinstripes. She was sleeping with the gigolo. The lawyer would get his on the back end.

Another gap was filled. On the other side of the bar, the courtroom was alive with the hum of gossip and speculation. “No wonder the old man jumped,” one reporter said to another as they examined the Phelans.

The Phelan grandchildren were forced to sit with the spectators and common folk. They huddled with their small entourages and support groups and giggled nervously as fate was about to swing their way.

Libbigail Jeter arrived with her husband, Spike, the three-hundred-twenty-pound ex-biker, and they waddled down the aisle, as out of place as anyone, though they'd seen their share of courtrooms. They followed Wally Bright, their yellow page lawyer. Wally wore a spotted raincoat that dragged the floor, scuffed wing tips, and a polyester tie that was twenty years old, and if the spectators had voted right then he would've easily won the award for the worst-dressed lawyer. He carried his papers in an expandable file, one that had been used for countless divorces and other matters. For some reason, Bright had never purchased a briefcase. He'd finished tenth in his class in night school.

They went straight for the widest gap, and as they were taking their seats Bright began the noisy process of removing his raincoat. The ragged hem of it brushed against the neck of one of Hark's nameless associates, an earnest young man already bothered by Bright's body odor.

“If you don't mind!” he said sharply, swinging a backhand toward Bright, and missing. The words cracked through the tense and edgy air. Heads jerked around the tables as important documents were instantly ignored. Everybody hated everybody,

“Sorry!” Bright responded with great sarcasm. Two deputies moved forward to intervene if necessary. But the raincoat found a place under the table without farther incident, and Bright finally managed to seat himself, next to Libbigail, with Spike sitting on the other side stroking his beard and staring at Troy Junior as if he'd love to slap him.

Few people in the courtroom expected the brief skirmish to be the last among the Phelans.

You die with eleven billion, and people care about your last will and testament. Especially if there's a chance that one of the world's great fortunes is about to be fed to the vultures. The tabloids were there, along with the local papers and all the important financial magazines. The three rows Wycliff had designated for the press were full by nine-thirty. The journalists had a delightful time watching the Phelans gather in front of them. Three artists worked feverishly; the panorama before them was rich with inspiration. The punk with the green hair received more than his share of sketches.

Josh Stafford made his appearance at nine-fifty. Tip Durban was with him, along with two other members of the firm and a couple of paralegals to round out the team. Stern and somber-faced, they took seats at their table, a rather spacious one compared to the cramped quarters holding all the Phelans and all their lawyers. Josh placed a single thick file in front of him, and all eyes were immediately upon it. Inside was what appeared to be a document, almost two inches thick and very similar to what old Troy had signed on video just nineteen days earlier.

They couldn't help staring at it. Everyone but Ramble. Virginia law allowed heirs to receive early distributions if the estate was liquid and there was no concern about the payment of debts and taxes. Estimates from the Phelan lawyers ranged from a low of ten million per heir, all the way to Bright's guess of fifty million. Bright in his entire life had never seen fifty thousand.

At ten the deputies locked the doors, and upon some unseen cue Judge Wycliff emerged from an opening behind the bench, and the room was silent. He eased into the chair, his crisp robe settling around him, and smiled. “Good morning,” he said into the microphone.

Everyone smiled back. To his great satisfaction, the room was filled to capacity. A quick deputy count revealed eight armed and ready. He studied the Phelans; there were no gaps left. Some of their lawyers were practically touching one another.

“Are all of the parties present?” he asked. Heads shook from around the tables.

“I need to identify everyone,” he said, reaching for papers. “The first petition was filed by Rex Phelan.” Before the words settled, Hark Gettys was on his feet, clearing his throat.

“Your Honor, I'm Hark Gettys,” he boomed toward the bench. “And I represent Mr. Rex Phelan.”

“Thank you. You may keep your seat.”

He went around the tables, methodically taking names of the heirs and the lawyers. All the lawyers. The reporters scribbled them as fast as the Judge. Six heirs in all, three ex-wives. Everyone was present.

“Twenty— two lawyers,” Wycliff mumbled to himself.

“Do you have the will, Mr. Stafford?” he asked.

Josh stood, holding a different file. “I do.”

“Would you please take the witness stand?”

Josh made his way around the tables and past the court reporter to the witness stand, where he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.

“You represented Troy Phelan?” Wycliff asked.

“I did. For a number of years.”

“Did you prepare a will for him?”

“I prepared several.”

“Did you prepare his last will?”

There was a pause, and as it grew longer the Phelans inched closer.

“No, I did not,” Josh said slowly, looking at the vultures. The words were soft, but they cut through the air like thunder. The Phelan lawyers reacted much more quickly than the Phelan heirs, several of whom weren't sure what to make of it. But it was serious, and unexpected. Another layer of tension settled around the tables. The courtroom grew even quieter.

“Who prepared his last will and testament?” Wycliff asked, like a bad actor reading a script.

“Mr. Phelan himself.”

It wasn't so. They had seen the old man sit at the table with lawyers all around him, and the three shrinks-Zadel, Flowe, and Theishen-directly across the table. He'd been declared sane on the spot, and seconds later had taken a thick will prepared by Stafford and one of his associates, declared it to be his, and signed it.

There was no dispute about this.

“Oh, my God,” Hark Gettys said, under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“When did he sign it?” Wycliff asked.

“Moments before he jumped to his death.”

“Is it handwritten?”

“It is.”

“Did he sign it in your presence?”

“He did. There were other witnesses. The signing was also videotaped.”

“Please hand me the will.”

Josh deliberately withdrew a single envelope from the file and passed it up to His Honor. It looked awfully small. There was no way it contained enough language to convey to the Phelans what was rightfully theirs.

“What the hell is this?” Troy Junior hissed at the nearest lawyer. But the lawyer couldn't respond.

The envelope held only one sheet of yellow paper.

Wycliff removed it slowly for all to see, unfolded it carefully, then studied it for a moment.

Panic seized the Phelans, but there was nothing they could do. Had the old man screwed them one last time? Was the money slipping away? Maybe he had changed his mind and given them even more. Around the tables they nudged and elbowed their lawyers, all of whom were remarkably quiet.

Wycliff cleared his throat and leaned a bit closer to the microphone. “I'm holding here a one-page document purporting to be a will handwritten by Troy Phelan. I will read it straight through:

“‘The last testament of Troy L. Phelan. I, Troy L. Phelan, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby expressly revoke all former wills and codicils executed by me, and dispose of my estate as follows:

“‘To my children, Troy Phelan, Jr., Rex Phelan, Libbigail Jeter, Mary Ross Jackman, Geena Strong, and Ramble Phelan, I give each a sum of money necessary to pay off all the debts of each as of today. Any debts incurred after today will not be covered by this gift. If any of these children attempt to contest this will, then this gift shall be nullified as to that child.’”

Even Ramble heard the words, and understood them. Geena and Cody started crying softly. Rex leaned forward, elbows on the table, face buried in his hands, his mind numb. Libbigail looked past Bright to Spike and said, “That son of a bitch.” Spike concurred. Mary Ross covered her eyes as her lawyer rubbed her knee. Her husband rubbed the other one. Only Troy Junior managed a poker face, but not for much longer.

There was more damage yet to come. Wycliff wasn't finished. “‘To my ex-wives, Lillian, Janie, and Tira, I give nothing. They were adequately provided for in the divorces.’”

At that moment, Lillian, Janie, and Tira were wondering what the hell they were doing in the courtroom. Had they really expected to receive more cash from a man they hated? They felt the stares and tried to hide among their lawyers.

The reporters and journalists were downright giddy. They wanted to take notes, but they were afraid of missing a single word. Some couldn't help but grin.

“‘The remainder of my estate I give to my daughter Rachel Lane, born on November, 2, 1954, at Catholic Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana, to a woman named Evelyn Cunningham, now deceased.’”

Wycliff paused, though not for dramatic effect. With only two small paragraphs left, the damage was done. The eleven billion had been given to an illegitimate heir he'd not read about. The Phelans sitting before him had been stripped. He couldn't help but look at them.

“‘I appoint my trusted lawyer, Joshua Stafford, as executor of this will, and grant unto him broad discretionary powers in its administration.’”

For the moment they had forgotten about Josh. But there he sat, in the box like the innocent witness of a car wreck, and they glared at him with as much hatred as possible. How much had he known? “Was he a conspirator? No doubt he could've done something to prevent this.

Josh fought to keep a straight face.

“‘This document is intended to be a holographic will. Every word has been written by my hand, and I hereby sign it.’” Wycliff lowered it and said, “was signed by Troy L. Phelan at three P.M. on December 9, 1996.”

He laid it down, and looked around the courtroom, the epicenter. The quake was ending and now it was time for the aftershocks. The Phelans sat low in their seats, some rubbing eyes and foreheads, others staring wildly at the walls. For the moment, all twenty-two lawyers were incapable of speech.

The shocks rippled through the rows of spectators, where, oddly, a few smiles could be seen. Ah, it was the media, suddenly anxious to race from the room and start reporting.

Amber sobbed loudly, then caught herself. She'd met Troy only once, and he'd made a crude advance. Her grief was not for the loss of a loved one. Geena cried quietly, as did Mary Ross. Libbigail and Spike chose to curse instead. “Don't worry,” Bright said, waving them off as if he could remedy this injustice in a matter of days.

Biff glared at Troy Junior, and the seeds of a divorce were planted. Since the suicide, he'd been especially arrogant and condescending to her. She'd tolerated it for obvious reasons, but no longer. She relished the first fight, one that would no doubt begin just a few feet outside the courtroom doors.

Other seeds were planted. For the thick-skinned lawyers, the surprise was received, absorbed, then shaken off as instinctively as a duck shakes off water. They were about to get rich. Their clients were heavily in debt with no relief in sight. They had no choice but to contest the will. Litigation would rage for years.

“When do you anticipate probating the will?” Wycliff asked Josh.

“Within a week.”

“Very well. You may step down.”

Josh returned to his seat, triumphant, as the lawyers began shuffling papers and pretending everything was fine.

“We are adjourned.”

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 610