It certainly wasn't okay with Snead, but he'd taken their money. He had to play along.

Hark picked up his legal pad and began asking questions, simple things about his birth, background, family, school, easy stuff that Snead handled well and relaxed with. Then the early years with Mr. Phelan, and a thousand questions that seemed completely irrelevant.

After a bathroom break, Madam Langhorne took the baton and grilled Snead about the Phelan families, the wives, the kids, the divorces, and mistresses. Snead thought it was a lot of unnecessary dirt, but the lawyers seemed to enjoy it.

“Did you know about Rachel Lane?” Langhorne asked.

Snead pondered this for a moment, then said, “I haven't thought about that.” In other words, help me with the answer. “What would you guess?” he asked Mr. Gettys.

Hark was quick with the fiction. “I would guess that you knew everything about Mr. Phelan, especially his women and their offspring. Nothing escaped you. The old man confided everything in you, including the existence of his illegitimate daughter. She was ten or eleven when you went to work for Mr. Phelan. He tried to reach out to her over the years but she would have nothing to do with him. I would guess that this hurt him deeply, that he was a man who got whatever he wanted, and when Rachel spurned him his pain turned to anger. I would guess that he disliked her immensely. Thus, for him to leave her everything was an act of sheer insanity.”

Once again, Snead marveled at Hark's ability to spin tales so quickly. The other lawyers were impressed too. “What do you think?” Hark asked them.

They nodded their approvals. “Better get him all the background on Rachel Lane,” Bright said.

Snead then repeated for the cameras the same story Hark had just told, and in doing so showed a passable skill at expanding on a theme. When he finished, the lawyers couldn't suppress their pleasure. The worm would say anything. And there was no one to contradict it.

When Snead was asked a question that needed assistance, he responded by saying, “Well, I haven't thought about that.” The lawyers would then reach out to help. Hark, who seemed to anticipate Snead's weaknesses, usually had a quick narrative at hand. Often, though, the other lawyers chimed in with their little plots, all anxious to display their skills at lying.

Layer upon layer was fabricated, and fine-tuned, carefully molded to ensure that Air. Phelan was out of his mind the morning he scrawled his last testament. Snead was coached by the lawyers, and he proved quite easy to lead. In fact, he was so coachable the lawyers worried that he might say too much. His credibility could not be damaged. There could be no holes in his testimony.

For three hours they built his story, then for two hours they tried to tear it down with relentless cross-examination. They didn't feed him lunch. They sneered at him and called him a liar. At one point Langhorne had him near tears. When he was exhausted and ready to collapse, they sent him home with the pack of videos and instructions to study them over and over.

He wasn't ready to testify, they told him. His stories weren't airtight. Poor Snead drove home in his new Range Rover, tired and bewildered, but also determined to practice his lies until the lawyers applauded him.

JUDGE WYCLIFF enjoyed the quiet little lunches in his office. As usual, Josh picked up sandwiches from a Greek deli near Dupont Circle. He unpacked them, along with iced tea and pickles, on the small table in a corner. They huddled over their food, at first talking about how busy they were, then quickly getting around to the Phelan estate. Something was up, or Josh wouldn't have called.

“We found Rachel Lane,” he said.

“Wonderful. Where?” The relief in Wycliffs face was obvious.

“She made us promise not to tell. At least not now.”

“Is she in the country?” The Judge forgot about his corned beef on kaiser.

“No. She's in a very remote spot in the world, and quite content to stay there.”

“How did you find her?”

“Her lawyer found her.”

“Who's her lawyer?”

“A guy who used to work in my firm. Name's Nate O'Riley, a former partner. Left us back in August.”

Wycliff narrowed his eyes and considered this. “What a coincidence. She hires a former partner of the law firm her father used.”

“There's no coincidence. As the attorney for the estate, I had to find her. I sent Nate O'Riley. He found her, she hired him. It's really pretty simple.”

“When does she make her appearance?”

“I doubt if she'll do it in person.”

“What about the acknowledgment and waiver?”

“They're coming. She's very deliberate, and, frankly, I'm not sure what her plans are.”

“We have a will contest, Josh. The war has already erupted. Things can't wait. This court must have jurisdiction over her.”

“Judge, she has legal representation. Her interests will be protected. Let's fight. We'll start discovery, and see what the other side has.”

“Can I talk to her?”

“It's impossible.”

“Come on, Josh.”

“I swear. Look, she's a missionary in a very remote place, in a different hemisphere. That's all I can tell you.”

“I want to see Mr. O'Riley.”

“When?”

Wycliff walked to his desk and grabbed the nearest appointment book. He was so busy. Life was regulated by a docket calendar, a trial calendar, a motion calendar. His secretary kept an office calendar. “How about this Wednesday?”

“Fine. For lunch? Just the three of us, off the record.”

“Sure.”

LAWYER O'RILEY had planned to read and write throughout the morning. His plans were diverted, though, with a phone call from the Rector. “Are you busy?” Father Phil asked, his strong voice resonating over the phone.

“Well, no, not really,” Nate said. He was sitting in a deep leather chair, under a quilt, beside the fire, sipping coffee and reading Mark Twain.

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

“Well, I'm at the church, working in the basement, doing some remodeling, and I need a hand. I thought you might be bored, you know, since there's not much to do here in St. Michaels, at least not in the winter. It's supposed to snow again today.”

The lamb stew crossed Mate's mind. There was plenty of it leftover. “I'll be there in ten minutes.”

The basement was directly under the sanctuary. Nate heard hammering as he carefully descended the shaky steps. It was an open room, long and wide with a low ceiling. A remodeling project had been under way for a long time, with no end in sight. The general plan appeared to be a series of small rooms against the outer walls, with an open space in the center. Phil stood between two sawhorses, tape measure in hand, sawdust on his shoulders. He wore a flannel shirt, jeans, boots, and would've easily passed for a carpenter.

“Thanks for coming,” he said with a big smile.

“You're welcome. I was bored,” Nate said.

“I'm hanging wallboard,” he said, waving his arm at the construction. “It's easier if there are two people. Mr. Fuqua used to help, but he's eighty now and his back is not what it used to be.”

“What are you building?”

“Six classrooms for Bible study. This center area will be a fellowship hall. I started two years ago. Our budget doesn't allow much in the way of new projects, so I'm doing it myself. Keeps me in shape.”

Father Phil hadn't been in shape in years. “Point me in the right direction,” Nate said. “And remember I'm a lawyer.”

“Not a lot of honest work, huh?”

“No.”

They each took an end of a sheet of wallboard and wrestled it across the floor to the current classroom in progress. The sheet was four feet by six, and as they lifted it into place Nate realized that it was indeed a job for two people. Phil grunted and frowned and bit his tongue, and when the piece fit the puzzle, he said, “Now just hold it right there.” Nate pressed the board against the two by four studs while Phil quickly tacked it into place with sheetrock nails. Once secure, he drove six more nails into the studs, and admired his handiwork. Then he produced a tape and began to measure the next open space.

“Where did you learn to be a carpenter?” Nate asked as he watched with interest.

“It's in my blood. Joseph was a carpenter.”

“Who's he?”

“The father of Jesus.”

“Oh, that Joseph.”

“Do you read the Bible, Nate?”

“Not much.”

“You should.”

“I'd like to start.”

“I can help you, if you want.”

“Thanks.”

Phil scribbled dimensions on the wallboard they had just installed. He measured carefully, then remeasured. Before long, Nate realized why the project was taking so long. Phil took his time and believed in a vigorous regimen of coffee breaks.

After an hour, they walked up the stairs to the main floor, to the Rector's office, which was ten degrees warmer than the basement. Phil had a pot of strong coffee on a small burner. He poured two cups and began scanning the rows of books on the shelves. “Here's a wonderful daily devotional guide, one of my favorites,” he said, gently removing the book, wiping it as if it were covered in dust, then handing it to Nate. It was a hardback with the dust jacket intact. Phil was particular about his books.

He selected another, and handed it to Nate. “This is a Bible study for busy people. It's very good.”

“What makes you think I'm busy?”

“You're a lawyer in Washington, aren't you?”

“Technically, but those days are about to be over.”

Phil tapped his fingertips together, and looked at Nate as only a minister can. His eyes said, “Keep going. Tell me more. I'm here to help.”

So Nate unloaded some of his troubles, past and present, with emphasis on the pending showdown with the IRS and the imminent loss of his law license. He would avoid jail, but be required to pay a fine he couldn't afford.

Nonetheless, he wasn't unhappy about the future. In fact, he was relieved to be leaving the profession.

“What will you do?” Phil asked.

“I have no idea.”

“Do you trust God?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Then relax. He'll show you the way.”

THEY TALKED long enough to stretch the morning to the lunch hour, then walked next door and feasted once again on the lamb stew. Laura joined them late. She taught kindergarten and only had thirty minutes for lunch.

Around two, they made it back to the basement, where they reluctantly resumed their labor. Watching Phil work, Nate became convinced that the project would not be finished in his lifetime. Joseph may have been a fine carpenter, but Father Phil belonged on the pulpit. Every open space on the wall had to be measured, remeasured, pondered over, looked at from various angles, then measured again. The sheet of wallboard destined to fill the open space went through the same procedures. Finally, after enough pencil markings to confuse an architect, Phil, with great trepidation, took the electric saw and cut the wallboard. They carried the sheet to the open space, tacked it, then secured it. The fit was always perfect, and with each one Phil seemed genuinely relieved.

Two classrooms appeared to be finished and ready for paint. Late in the afternoon, Nate decided that tomorrow he would become a painter.

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.

FORTY-TWO.

ONE REASON for the sluggish progress of the church's basement was Father Phil's penchant for sleeping late. Laura said she left home each weekday morning at eight, for kindergarten, and more often than not the Rector was still buried under the blankets. He was a night owl, he said in self-defense, and he loved to watch old black-and-white movies after midnight.

So when he called at seven-thirty Friday morning, Nate was somewhat surprised. “Have you seen the Post?” he asked.

“I don't read newspapers,” Nate replied. He had broken the habit during rehab. Phil, on the other hand, read five a day. They were a good source of material for his sermons.

“Perhaps you should,” he said.

“Why?”

“There's a story about you.”

Nate put on his boots and trudged two blocks to a coffee shop on Main Street. There was a nice story on the front page of Metro about the finding of the lost heir of Troy Phelan. Papers had been filed late the day before in the Circuit Court of Fairfax County in which she, acting through her attorney, a Mr. Nate O'Riley, disputed the allegations of those contesting her late father's will. Since there wasn't much to say about her, the story dwelt on her attorney. According to his affidavit, also filed in court, he had tracked down Rachel Lane, showed her a copy of the handwritten will, discussed the various legal issues with her, and had somehow managed to become her lawyer. There was no indication of exactly where Ms. Lane was.

Mr. O'Riley was a former partner in the Stafford Law Firm; had once been a prominent trial lawyer; had left the firm in August; filed for bankruptcy in October; been indicted in November; and a final disposition of his tax evasion charges was still pending. The IRS claimed he beat them out of sixty thousand dollars. For good measure, the reporter mentioned the useless fact that he had been divorced twice. To complete the humiliation, a bad photo ran with the story, one of Nate with a drink in his hand at a D.C. bar function several years earlier. He studied the grainy image of himself, eyes glowing, cheeks darkened with alcohol, goofy smile as if he were mixing and mingling with people he enjoyed. It was embarrassing, but it was another life.

Of course no story could be complete without a quick recital of the messy statistics of Troy's life and death— three wives, seven known children, eleven billion or so in assets, his last flight from fourteen floors up.

Mr. O'Riley could not be found for comment. Mr. Stafford had nothing to say. The lawyers for the Phelan heirs had evidently said so much already that they were not asked to comment again.

Nate folded the paper and returned to the cottage. It was eight-thirty. He had an hour and a half before construction commenced in the basement.

The bloodhounds now knew his name, but finding his scent would be difficult. Josh had arranged for his mail to be routed to a post office box in D.C. He had a new office phone number, one for Nathan F. O'Riley, Attorney-at-Law. The calls were answered by a secretary in Josh's office who filed away the messages.