- •I can almost hear the champagne corks popping below me. The tumor has been confirmed!
- •It'll never be seen by the vultures.
- •It was such a good idea that the other lawyers couldn't argue. They arrived, along with Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen, at Gettys' office after five. A court reporter and two video cameras were waiting.
- •In recent years the fighting had almost stopped. Neither could change, so they simply ignored each other. But when the tumor appeared, tj reached out again.
- •It seemed almost cruel to bother her.
- •It was obvious Josh had been thinking about Nate all along, and this slightly irritated Tip. “You kidding?” he said.
- •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.
- •It was made of brown leather, new but built to look well used, and large enough to hold a small legal library. Nate sat it on his knees and popped it open. “Toys,” he said.
- •It was the day before Christmas Eve. Not all memories were painful.
- •Valdir continued, “Even if you flew into the area, you would then have to use a boat to get to the Indians.”
- •Valdir rerolled the last map. “I can arrange an airplane and a pilot.”
- •Valdir had been informed by Air. Josh Stafford that money was no object during this mission. “He'll call me back in an hour,” he said.
- •It was a quick shower, a cool rain the children played in while the adults sat on the porch and watched them in silence.
- •Internal, Jevy said, glancing at Milton.
- •It was almost two when Welly heard them coming. Jevy parked on the bank, his huge truck scattering rocks and waking fishermen as it roared to a stop. There was no sign of the American.
- •If Josh was worried, his voice didn't convey it. The firm was still closed for Christmas, et cetera, but he was busy as hell. The usual.
- •In a corner of the cabin, not far from the four bunks, Nate ate alone at a table that was bolted to the floor.
- •It was overcast and threatening more rain. The sun finally broke through at about six. Nate knew because he'd rearmed himself with a watch.
- •If the fisherman was happy to see another human in the middle of nowhere, he certainly didn't show it. Where could the poor man live?
- •In return for his good work, the children and wives had called him a fag.
- •I will die here, Nate said to himself. I'll either drown, starve, or be eaten, but it is here, in this immense swamp, that I will breathe my last.
- •It was a slight affront to Jevy's pride, but under the circumstances he could not argue. “He may want a little money.”
- •If you only knew, thought Nate. “Thanks. You, uh, said something about seeing a patient.”
- •It had been three years since the Ipicas had seen a death by snakebite. And for the first time in two years, Rachel had no antivenin.
- •Very gently, she touched him. She patted him three times on his arm, and said, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that you are lonely. How would I know?”
- •In fact, Troy Junior had already threatened to fire them. They grew quiet and listened. Hark had the floor.
- •If dengue fever didn't get poor Nate, the irs was waiting.
- •In his sleep, Nate was refortified with drugs he didn't need.
- •Valdir took the phone and walked to a corner. He tried to describe Nate's condition.
- •In Valdir's office, alone, Nate dialed the number of the Stafford Law Firm, a number he had trouble remembering. They pulled Josh out of a meeting. “Talk to me, Nate,” he said. “How are you?”
- •Valdir's despachante in Corumba knew another one in Sao Paulo, a powerful one with high contacts, and for a fee of two thousand dollars a new passport would be delivered.
- •In the narrow dining room between the kitchen and the den, a table had been set for four. Nate was pleased that he had accepted their invitation, not that he'd had the chance to decline it.
- •It certainly wasn't okay with Snead, but he'd taken their money. He had to play along.
- •In St. Michaels, only the Rector and his wife knew who he was. Rumor had it that he was a wealthy lawyer from Baltimore writing a book.
- •In eleven years, Rachel had never received a personal letter, at least not through World Tribes.
- •It was difficult to believe that for most of his professional life he often worked until nine or ten at night, then had dinner in a bar and drinks until one. He grew weary just thinking about it.
- •It occurred to Nate that it was nine o'clock in Houston. She was calling from home, and this seemed more than odd. The voice was pleasant enough, but tentative.
- •If his client didn't want the money, why should he care who got it?
- •It was the only time during the two-day ordeal that Troy Junior fought to a draw. Nate knew to move on, then to come back later.
- •It would take a billion dollars in therapy to straighten out this poor kid, Nate thought. He finished with him in less than an hour.
- •It was a well-rehearsed little oration, and it convinced no one. Nate let it slide. It was five o'clock, Friday afternoon, and he was tired of fighting.
- •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.
- •It took about fifteen minutes to figure this out.
- •In the loneliness of the hotel room, in a city where he knew no one, it was easy to pity himself, to suffer once again through the mistakes of his past.
- •It was a risk, and they were still talking about it.
- •It was Josh. “It couldn't have gone better,” he announced. “I stopped at twenty million, they want fifty.”
- •If they only knew, he thought as he left the courthouse.
In the narrow dining room between the kitchen and the den, a table had been set for four. Nate was pleased that he had accepted their invitation, not that he'd had the chance to decline it.
“We're so glad you're here,” Phil said as they took their seats. “I had a hunch we might have a guest today.”
“Whose place is that?” Nate asked, nodding to the empty setting.
“We always set four places on Sunday,” Laura said, and let the explanation go at that. They held hands as-Phil thanked God again for the snow and the seasons, and for the food. He concluded with, “And keep us ever mindful of the needs and wants of others.” Those words triggered something in Mate's memory. He'd heard them before, many, many years before.
As the food was passed around, there was the usual talk about the morning. They averaged forty at the eleven o'clock service. The snow had indeed kept people away. And there was a flu bug on the peninsula. Nate complimented them on the simple beauty of the sanctuary. They had been in St. Michaels for six years. Not long into the lunch, Laura said, “You have a nice tan for January. You didn't get that in Washington?”
“No. I just returned from Brazil.” They both stopped eating and leaned closer. The adventure was on again. Nate took a large spoonful of stew, which was thick and delicious, then began the story.
“Please eat,” Laura said every five minutes or so. Nate took a bite, chewed slowly, then proceeded. He referred to Rachel only as “the daughter of a client.” The storms grew fiercer, the snakes longer, the boat smaller, the Indians less friendly. Phil's eyes danced with amazement as Nate went from chapter to chapter.
It was the second time Nate had told the story since his return. Other than a slight exaggeration here and there, he kept to the facts. And it amazed even him. It was a remarkable story to tell, and his hosts got a long, rich version of it. They wedged in questions whenever they could.
When Laura cleared the table and served brownies for dessert, Nate and Jevy had just arrived at the first Ipica settlement.
“Was she surprised to see you?” Phil asked when Nate described the scene with the band of Indians leading the woman out of the village to meet them.
“Not really,” Nate said. “She seemed to know we were coming.”
Nate did his best to describe the Indians and their Stone Age culture, but words failed to deliver the right images. He ate two brownies, clearing his plate with large bites during brief gaps in the narrative.
They pushed their plates away and had coffee. Sunday lunch for Phil and Laura was more about conversation than eating. Nate wondered who'd been the last guest lucky enough to be invited in for stories and food.
It was hard to downplay the horrors of dengue, but Nate tried gamely. A couple of days in the hospital, some medication, and he was back on his feet. When he finished, the questions began. Phil wanted to know everything about the missionary-her denomination, her faith, her work with the Indians. Laura's sister had lived in China for fifteen years, working in a church hospital, and this became the source of more stories.
It was almost three o'clock when Nate made it to the door. His hosts would have gladly sat at the table or in the den and talked until dark, but Nate needed a walk. He thanked them for their hospitality, and when he left them waving on the porch he felt as though he'd known them for years.
It took an hour to walk St. Michaels. The streets were narrow and lined with homes a hundred years old. Nothing was out of place, no stray dogs, vacant lots, abandoned buildings. Even the snow was neat-carefully shoveled so that the streets and sidewalks were clear and no neighbor was offended. Nate stopped at the pier and admired the sailboats. He had never set foot on one.
He decided he wouldn't leave St. Michaels until he was forced. He would live in the cottage, and remain there until Josh politely evicted him. He would save his money, and when the Phelan matter was over he would find some way to hang on.
Near the harbor he stumbled on to a small grocery about to close for the day. He bought coffee, canned soup, saltines, and oatmeal for breakfast. There was a display of bottled beer by the counter. He smiled at it, happy those days were behind him.
FORTY.
GRIT GOT HIMSELF fired by fax and by e-mail, a first for his office. Mary Ross did it to him early Monday morning, after a tense weekend with her brothers.
Grit did not exit gracefully. He faxed her back and submitted a bill for his services to date-148 hours at $600 per, for a total of $88,800. His hourly billings were to be applied against his percentage upon settlement or other favorable outcome. Grit didn't want $600 an hour. Grit wanted a piece of the pie, a healthy fraction of his client's cut, the 25 percent he'd negotiated. Grit wanted millions, and as he sat in his locked office, staring at the fax, he found it impossible to believe that his fortune had slipped away. He truly believed that after a few months of hardball litigation, the Phelan estate would settle with the children. Throw twenty million at each of the six, watch them attack it like hungry dogs, and there wouldn't be the slightest dent in the Phelan fortune. Twenty million to his client was five million to him, and Grit, alone, had to confess that he'd already thought of several ways to spend it.
He called Hark's office to curse him, but was told Mr. Gettys was too busy at the moment.
Mr. Gettys now had three of the four heirs from the first family. His percentage had dropped from twenty-five to twenty, and now to seventeen-five. But his upside potential was enormous.
Mr. Gettys walked into his conference room a few minutes after ten and greeted the remaining Phelan lawyers, gathered there for an important meeting. He cheerfully said, “I have an announcement. Mr. Grit is no longer involved in this case. His ex-client, Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, has asked me to represent her, and, after much consideration, I have agreed to do so.”
His words hit like small bombs around the conference table. Yancy stroked his scraggly beard and wondered what method of coercion had been used to pry the woman away from Grit's tentacles. He felt somewhat safe, though. Ramble's mother had used every means possible to lure the kid to another lawyer. But the kid hated his mother.
Madam Langhorne was surprised, especially since Hark had just added Troy Junior as a client. But after the brief shock, she felt secure. Her client, Geena Phelan Strong, detested her older half brothers and sisters. Surely she wouldn't throw in with their lawyer. Nonetheless, a power lunch was needed. She would call Geena and Cody when the meeting was over. They'd dine at the Promenade near the Capitol, and maybe catch a glimpse of a powerful subcommittee vice chairman.
The back of Wally Bright's neck turned scarlet with the news. Hark was raiding clients' chasing ambulances. Only Libbigail remained from the first family, and Wally Bright would kill Hark if he tried to steal her. “Stay away from my client, okay?” he said loudly and bitterly, and the entire room froze.
“Relax.”
“Relax, my ass. How can we relax when you're stealing clients?”
“I didn't steal Mrs. Jackman. She called me. I didn't call her.”
“We know the game you're playing, Hark. We're not stupid.” Wally said this while looking at his fellow lawyers. They certainly didn't consider themselves to be stupid, but they weren't so sure about Wally. Truth was, no one could trust anyone. There was simply too much money at stake to assume that the lawyer next to you would not pull out a knife.
They led Snead in, and this changed the focus of the discussion. Hark introduced him to the group. Poor Snead looked like a man facing a firing squad. He sat at the end of the table, with two video cameras aimed at him. “This is just a rehearsal,” Hark assured him. “Relax.” The lawyers pulled out legal pads covered with questions, and they inched closer to Snead.
Hark walked behind him, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Now, when you give your deposition, Mr. Snead, the lawyers for the other side will be allowed to interrogate you first. So for the next hour or so, you are to assume that we are the enemy. Okay?”