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 Corumba, with the lazy pedestrian traffic, the outdoor cafes, 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.”

“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 protege.

“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 Mark'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 cafe 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 Corumba 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 Corumba.

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.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 579