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FORTY-SIX.

 

A HARRIED big-city professional, Nate had never been introduced to the ritual of sitting. Phil, on the other hand, was an accomplished practitioner. When a parishioner was ill, he was expected to visit and sit with the family. If there was a death, he would sit with the widow. If a neighbor stopped by, regardless of the time, he and Laura would sit and chat. Sometimes they practiced the art by themselves, on the porch, in the swing, alone. Two elderly gentlemen in his congregation expected Phil to stop by once a week and simply sit for an hour while they dozed by the fire. Conversation was nice, but not required. It was perfectly fine to just sit and enjoy the stillness.

But Nate caught on quickly. He sat with Phil on the front steps of the Stafford cottage, both men wearing heavy sweaters and gloves, and sipping hot cocoa Nate had prepared in the microwave. They gazed at the bay before them, at the harbor and the choppy waters be-yond. Conversation crept up occasionally, but there was a lot of silence. Phil knew his friend had suffered a bad week. By now, Nate had told him most of the details of the Phelan mess. Theirs was a confidential relationship.

“I'm planning a road trip,” Nate announced quietly. “Wanna come?”

“To where?”

“I need to see my kids. I have two younger ones, Austin and Angela, in Salem, Oregon. I'll probably go there first. My older son is a grad student at Northwestern in Evanston, and I have a daughter in Pittsburgh. It'll be a nice little tour.”

“How long?”

“There's no rush. A couple of weeks. I'm driving.”

“When did you see them last?”

“It's been over a year since I've seen Daniel and Kait-lin, the two from my first marriage. I took the two younger ones to an Orioles game last July. I got drunk and didn't remember driving back to Arlington.”

“Do you miss them?”

“Sure, I guess. Truth is, I never spent much time with them. I know so little about them.”

“You were working hard.”

“I was, and I was drinking even harder. I was never at home. On those rare occasions when I could take off, I would go to Vegas with the boys, or golfing or deep-sea fishing in the Bahamas. I never took the kids.”

“You can't change that.”

“No, I can't. Why don't you come with me? We could talk for hours.”

“Thanks, but I can't leave. I've finally built some momentum in the basement. I'd hate to lose it.”

Nate had seen the basement earlier in the day. There was evidence of momentum.

Phil's only child was a twenty-something drifter who'd flunked out of college and fled to the West Coast. Laura had let it slip that they had no idea where the kid was. He hadn't called home in over a year.

“Do you expect the trip to be successful?” Phil asked.

“I'm not sure what to expect. I want to hug my kids and apologize for being such a lousy father, but I'm not sure how that's supposed to help them now.”

“I wouldn't do that. They know you've been a lousy father. Flogging yourself won't help. But it's important to be there, to take the first step in building new relationships.”



“I was such a miserable failure for my kids.”

“You can't beat yourself up, Nate. You're allowed to forget the past. God certainly has. Paul murdered Christians before he became one, and he didn't flail himself for what he'd been before. Everything is forgiven. Show your kids what you are now.”

A small fishing boat backed away from the harbor, and turned into the bay. It was the only blip on their screen, and they watched with rapt attention. Nate thought of Jevy and Welly, back on the river now, guiding a chalana loaded with produce and wares, the steady knock of the diesel pushing them deep into the Pantanal. Jevy would have the wheel, Welly would be strumming his guitar. All the world was at peace.

Later, long after Phil had gone home, Nate huddled by the fire and began another letter to Rachel. It was his third. He dated it Saturday, February 22. “Dear Rachel,” he began. “I have just spent a very unpleasant week with your brothers and sisters.”

He talked about them, beginning with Troy Junior and ending three pages later with Ramble. He was honest about their shortcomings and the damage they would inflict on themselves and others if they got the money. And he was sympathetic too.

He was sending a check to World Tribes for five thousand dollars for a boat, a motor, and medical supplies. There was plenty more if she needed. The interest on her fortune was about two million dollars a day, he informed her, so a lot of good things could be done with the money.

HARK GETTYS and his conspirators at law blundered badly when they terminated the services of Drs. Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen. The lawyers had rebuked the doctors, offended them, and caused irreparable damage.

The new batch of psychiatrists had the benefit of Snead's newly fabricated testimony upon which to create their opinions. Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen did not. When Nate deposed them Monday, he followed the same script with all three. He began with Zadel, and showed him the video of the examination of Mr. Phelan. He asked him if he had any reason to alter his opinions. Zadel, as expected, said no. The video happened before the suicide. The eight-page affidavit was prepared just hours afterward, at the insistence of Hark and the other Phelan lawyers. Zadel was asked by Nate to read the affidavit to the court reporter.

“Do you have any reason to change any of the opinions set out in that affidavit?” Nate asked.

“I do not,” Zadel said, looking at Hark.

“Today is February twenty-fourth, more than two months after your examination of Mr. Phelan. Is it your opinion today that he had sufficient mental capacity to execute a valid will?”

“It is,” Zadel answered, smiling at Hark.

Flowe and Theishen smiled too, each genuinely happy to turn the screws on the lawyers who'd hired them and fired them. Nate showed each of them the video, asked them the same questions, and received the same answers. Each read his affidavit into the record. They adjourned at four, Monday afternoon.

At eight— thirty sharp, Tuesday morning, Snead was escorted into the room and placed in the chair of honor. He wore a dark suit with a bow tie which gave him a brainy aura that was undeserved. The lawyers had carefully selected his wardrobe. They'd been molding and programming Snead for weeks, and the poor man doubted if he could utter a spontaneous or honest word. Every syllable had to be right. He had to project an air of confidence, yet avoid even the slightest hint of arrogance. He and he alone defined reality, and it was crucial that his stories were believable.

Josh had known Snead for many years. He was a servant whom Mr. Phelan often talked of getting rid of. Of the eleven wills Josh had prepared for Troy Phelan, only one mentioned the name of Malcolm Snead. A gift of a million dollars had been designated for him, a gift revoked months later with yet another will. Mr. Phelan had removed Snead's name precisely because Snead had inquired as to how much he might expect to receive.

Snead had been too preoccupied with the money to suit his master. His name on the witness list for the contestants meant only one thing-money. He was being paid to testify, and Josh knew it. Two weeks of simple surveillance had discovered a new Range Rover, a newly leased condo in a building where the prices started at eighteen hundred dollars a month, and a trip to Rome, first class.

Snead faced the video camera and was somewhat comfortable. He felt as though he'd been looking at one for a year. He'd spent all of Saturday and half of Sunday in Hark's office, getting himself grilled again. He'd watched the videos of himself for hours. He'd written dozens of pages of fiction on the final days of Troy Phelan. He'd rehearsed with Nicolette the bimbo.

Snead was ready. The lawyers had anticipated questions about the money. If asked whether he was being paid to testify, Snead was trained to lie. It was that simple. There was no way around it. Snead had to lie about the half a million bucks already in hand, and he had to lie about the promise of $4.5 million upon settlement or other favorable outcome. He had to lie about the existence of the contract between himself and the lawyers. Since he was lying about Mr. Phelan he could certainly lie about the money.

Nate introduced himself and then asked, quite loudly, “Mr. Snead, how much are you being paid to testify in this case?”

Snead's lawyers thought the question would be, “Are you being paid?” not, “How much?” Snead's rehearsed answer was a simple “No, I certainly am not!” But to the question still ringing around the room he had no quick response. Hesitation sank him. He seemed to gasp as he looked wildly at Hark, whose spine had become rigid and his stare frozen like a deer's.

Snead had been warned that Mr. O'Riley had done his homework and seemed to know everything before he asked the questions. In the long painful seconds that followed, Mr. O'Riley frowned at him, cocked his head sideways, and lifted some papers.

“Come on, Mr. Snead, I know you're being paid. How much?”

Snead cracked his knuckles hard enough to break them. Beads of sweat popped out in the creases of his forehead. “Well, I, uh, I'm not-“

“Come on, Mr. Snead. Did you or did you not purchase a new Range Rover last month?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of-“

“And you leased a two-bedroom condo at Palm Court?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you just returned from ten days in Rome, didn't you?”

“I did.”

He knew everything! The Phelan lawyers shrank in their seats, each cowering lower, ducking their heads so the ricocheting bullets wouldn't strike them.

“So how much are you being paid?” Nate asked angrily. “Keep in mind you're under oath!”

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Snead blurted out. Nate stared at him in disbelief, his jaw dropping slowly. Even the court reporter froze.

A couple of the Phelan lawyers managed to exhale, slightly. As horrible as the moment was, it could certainly have been bloodier. What if Snead had panicked even more and confessed to the entire five million?

But it was a very small comfort. At the moment, the news that they had paid a witness a half a million dollars seemed fatal to their cause.

Nate shuffled papers as if he needed some document. The words still echoed through all the ears in the room.

“I take it you have already received.this money?” Nate asked.

Unsure whether he was supposed to lie or go straight, Snead simply said, “Yes.”

On a hunch, Nate asked, “Half a million now, how much later?”

Anxious to begin the lying, Snead answered, “Nothing.” It was a casual denial, one that appeared believable. The other two Phelan lawyers were able to breathe.

“Are you sure about that?” Nate asked. He was fishing. He could ask Snead if he'd been convicted of grave-robbing if he wanted to.

It was a game of high-stakes chicken, and Snead held firm. “Of course I'm sure,” he said with enough indignance to seem plausible.

“Who paid you this money?”

“The lawyers for the Phelan heirs.”

“Who signed the check?”

“It came from a bank, certified.”

“Did you insist they pay you for your testimony?”

“I guess you could say that.”

“Did you go to them, or did they come to you?”

“I went to them.”

“Why did you go to them?”

Finally, they seemed to be approaching familiar territory. There was a general relaxing on the Phelan side of the table. The lawyers began to scribble notes.

Snead crossed his legs under the table and frowned intelligently at the camera. “Because I was with Mr. Phelan before he died, and I knew the poor man was out of his mind.”

“How long had he been out of his mind?”

“All day.”

“When he woke up, he was crazy?”

“When I fed him breakfast, he did not know my name.”

“What did he call you?”

“Nothing, he just grunted at me.”

Nate leaned on his elbows and ignored the paperwork around him. This was a jousting match, and he actually enjoyed it. He knew where he was going, but poor Snead did not.

“Did you see him jump?”

“Yes.”

“And fall?”

“Yes.”

“And hit the ground?”

“Yes.”

“Were you standing near him when he was examined by the three psychiatrists?”

“Yes.”

“And this was about two-thirty in the afternoon, right?”

“Yes, as I recall.”

“And he'd been crazy all day, right?”

“I'm afraid so, yes.”

“How long did you work for Mr. Phelan?”

“Thirty years.”

“And you knew everything about him, right?”

“As much as one person can know about another.”

“So you knew his lawyer, Mr. Stafford?”

“Yes, I'd met him many times.”

“Did Mr. Phelan trust Mr. Stafford?”

“I suppose.”

“I thought you knew everything.”

“I'm sure he trusted Mr. Stafford.”

“Was Mr. Stafford sitting by his side during the mental examination?”

“He was.”

“What was Mr. Phelan's mental state during the exam, in your opinion?”

“He was unsound, uncertain of where he was and what he was doing.”

“You're sure about this?”

“I am.”

“Who did you tell?”

“It wasn't my job to tell.”

“Why not?”

“I would've been fired. Part of my job was to keep my mouth shut. It's called discretion.”

“You knew Mr. Phelan was going to sign a will dividing his vast fortune. At the same time he was of unsound mind, yet you didn't tell his lawyer, a man he trusted?”

“It wasn't my job.”

“Mr. Phelan would've fired you?”

“Immediately.”

“Then what about after he jumped? Who did you tell then?”

“No one.”

“Why not?”

Snead took a breath and recrossed his legs. He was rallying nicely, he thought. “It was a matter of privacy,” he said gravely. “I considered my relationship with Mr. Phelan to be confidential.”

“Until now. Until they offered you half a million bucks, right?”

Snead could think of no quick reply, and Nate didn't offer much of a chance. “You're selling not only your testimony but also your confidential relationship with Mr. Phelan, right, Mr. Snead?”

“I'm trying to undo an injustice.”

“How noble. Would you be undoing it if they weren't paying you?”

Snead managed to utter a shaky “Yes,” and Nate erupted in laughter. He laughed loud and long and did so while looking at the solemn and partially hidden faces of the Phelan lawyers. He laughed directly at Snead. He stood and walked along his end of the table, chuckling to himself. “What a trial,” he said, then sat down again.

He glanced at some notes, then continued, “Mr. Phelan died on December the ninth. His will was read on December the twenty-seventh. During the interval, did you tell anyone that he was of unsound mind when he signed his will?”

“No.”

“Of course not. You waited until after the will was read, then, realizing you had been cut out, decided to go to the lawyers and strike a deal, didn't you, Air. Snead?”

The witness answered, “No,” but Nate ignored him.

“Was Mr. Phelan mentally ill?”

“I'm not an expert in that field.”

“You said he was out of his mind. Was this a permanent condition?”

“It came and went.”

“How long had it been coming and going?”

“For years.”

“How many years?”

“Ten maybe. It's just a guess.”

“In the last fourteen years of his life, Mr. Phelan executed eleven wills, one of which left you a million dollars. Did you ever think of telling anyone then that he was of unsound mind?”

“It wasn't my job to tell.”

“Did he ever see a psychiatrist?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did he ever see any mental health professional?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did you ever suggest to him that he seek professional help?”

“It wasn't my job to suggest such things.”

“If you'd found him lying on the floor having a seizure would you have suggested to someone that perhaps he needed help?”

“Of course I would have.”

“If you'd found him coughing blood, would you have told someone?”

“Yes.”

Nate had a memo two inches thick with summaries of Mr. Phelan's holdings. He flipped to a page at random and asked Snead if he knew anything about Xion Drilling. Snead struggled mightily to remember, but his mind had been so overloaded with new data that it failed him. Delstar Communications? Again, Snead grimaced but could not make the connection.

The fifth company Nate mentioned rang a bell. Snead proudly informed the lawyer that he knew the company.

Mr. Phelan had owned it for quite some time. Nate had questions about sales, products, holdings, earnings, an endless list of financial statistics. Snead answered nothing right.

“How much did you know about Mr. Phelan's holdings?” Nate asked repeatedly. Then he asked questions about the structure of The Phelan Group. Snead had memorized the basics, but the smaller details escaped him. He could name no midlevel manager. He did not know the name of the company's accountants.

Nate hammered him relentlessly about the things he didn't know. Late in the afternoon, with Snead weary and punch-drunk, Nate, in the midst of the millionth question about financials, asked, with no warning, “Did you sign a contract with the lawyers when you took the half a million?”

A simple “No” would have sufficed, but Snead was caught off guard. He hesitated, looked at Hark then looked at Nate, who was again shuffling through papers as if he had a copy of the contract. Snead hadn't lied in two hours, and wasn't quick “Uh, of course not,” he stuttered, and convinced no one.

Nate saw the untruth, and let it go. There were other ways to obtain a copy of the contract.

THE PHELAN LAWYERS met in a dark bar to lick their wounds. Snead's dismal performance seemed even worse after two rounds of stiff drinks. He could be propped up some for trial, but the fact that he'd been paid so much would forever taint his testimony.

How did O'Riley know? He was so certain Snead had been paid.

“It was Grit,” Hark said. Grit, they all repeated to themselves. Surely Grit hadn't gone to the other side.

“That's what you get for stealing his client,” Wally Bright said after a long silence.

“Shut up,” Ms. Langhorne said.

Hark was too tired to fight. He finished his drink and ordered another. In the flood of testimony, the other Phelan lawyers had forgotten about Rachel. There was still no official record of her in the court file.

 


Date: 2015-02-03; view: 521


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