Джон Гришэм: The Testament

“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 table 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.