- •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.
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.
“Let's talk about Rooster Inns,” he announced, and Junior's shoulders fell three inches. It was just another one of his bankrupt ventures, nothing more or less. But Nate had to have every little detail. One bankruptcy led to another. Each failure prompted questions about other doomed enterprises.
Junior's had been a sad life. Though it was hard to be sympathetic, Nate realized that the poor guy had never had a father. He had longed for Troy's approval, and never received it. Josh had told him that Troy had taken great delight when his children's ventures collapsed.
The lawyer freed the witness at five-thirty, day two. Rex was next. He'd waited in the hall throughout the day, and was highly agitated at being put off again.
Josh had returned from New York. Nate joined him for an early dinner.
FORTY-FIVE.
LVEX PHELAN had spent most of the previous day on 1 V the cell phone in the hallway while his brother was roughed up by Nate O'Riley. Rex had been in enough lawsuits to know that litigation meant waiting: waiting for lawyers, judges, witnesses, experts, trial dates, and appeals courts, waiting in hallways for your turn to give testimony. When he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth, he already despised Nate.
Both Hark and Troy Junior had warned him of what was to come. The lawyer could get under your skin and fester there like a boil.
Again, Nate started with inflammatory questions, and within ten minutes the room was tense. For three years, Rex had been the target of an FBI investigation. A bank had failed in 1990; Rex had been an investor and director. Depositors lost money. Borrowers lost their loans. Litigation had been raging for years with no end in sight. The president of the bank was in jail, and those close to the epicenter thought Rex would be next. There was enough dirt to keep Nate going for hours.
For fun, he continually reminded Rex that he was under oath. There was also a very good chance the FBI would see his deposition.
It was mid-afternoon before Nate worked his way to the strip bars. Rex owned six of them-held in his wife's name-in the Fort Lauderdale area. He'd bought them from a man killed in a gunfight. They were simply irresistible as subjects of conversation. Nate took them one by one-Lady Luck, Lolita's, Club Tiffany, et cetera— and asked a hundred questions. He asked about the girls, the strippers, where they came from, how much they earned, did they use drugs, what drugs, did they touch the customers, and on and on. He asked question after question about the economics of the skin business. After three hours of carefully painting a portrait of the sleaziest business in the world, Nate asked, “Didn't your current wife work in one of the clubs?”
The answer was yes, but Rex couldn't just blurt it out. His throat and neck flashed red and for a moment he appeared ready to lunge across the table.
“She was a bookkeeper,” he said with a clenched jaw.
“She ever do any dancing, on the tables?”
Another pause, as Rex squeezed the table with his fingers. “She certainly did not.” It was a lie, and everyone in the room knew it.
Nate flipped through some papers searching for the truth. They watched him carefully, half-expecting him to pull out a photo of Amber in a G-string and kinky heels.
They adjourned at six again, with the promise of more tomorrow. When the video camera was off and the court reporter was busy putting away her equipment,
Rex stopped at the door, pointed at Nate, and said, “No more questions about my wife, okay?”
“That's impossible, Rex. All assets are in her name.” Nate waved some papers at him, as if he had all their records. Hark shoved his client through the door.
Nate sat alone for an hour, skimming notes, flipping pages, wishing he were in St. Michaels sitting on the porch of the cottage with a view of the bay. He needed to call Phil.
This is your last case, he kept telling himself. And you're doing it for Rachel.
By noon of the second day, the Phelan lawyers were openly discussing whether Rex's deposition would take three days or four. He had over seven million dollars in liens and judgments filed against him, yet the creditors couldn't execute because all assets were in the name of his wife, Amber, the ex-stripper. Nate took each judgment, laid it on the table, examined it from every conceivable angle and direction, then placed it back in the file where it might stay and it might not. The tedium was unnerving everyone but Nate, who somehow kept an earnest demeanor as he plodded ahead.
For the afternoon session he selected the topic of Troy's leap and the events leading up to it. He followed the same line he'd used on Junior, and it was obvious Hark had prepped Rex. His answers to the questions about Dr. Zadel were rehearsed, but adequate. Rex hung with the party line-the three psychiatrists were simply wrong because Troy jumped minutes later.
More familiar territory was covered when Nate grilled him about his dismal employment career with The Phelan Group. Then they spent two painful hours wasting the five million Rex had received as his inheritance.
At five— thirty, Nate abruptly said he was finished, and walked out of the room.
Two witnesses in four days. Two men laid bare on video, and it wasn't a pretty sight. The Phelan lawyers went to their separate cars and drove away. Perhaps the worst was behind them, perhaps not.
Their clients had been spoiled as children, ignored by their father, cast into the world with fat checking accounts at an age when they were ill-equipped to handle money, and expected to prosper. They had made bad choices, but all blame ultimately went back to Troy. That was the considered judgment of the Phelan lawyers.
Libbigail was led in early Friday morning and placed in the seat of honor. Her hair was of a style quite similar to a crew cut, with the sides peeled to the skin and an inch of gray on top. Cheap jewelry hung from her neck and wrists so that when she raised her hand to be sworn there was a racket at her elbow.
She looked at Nate in horror. Her brothers had told her the worst.
But it was Friday, and Nate wanted out of the city more than he wanted food when he was hungry. He smiled at her and began with easy background questions. Kids, jobs, marriages. For thirty minutes, all was pleasant. Then he began to probe into her past. At one point, he asked, “How many times have you been through rehab for drugs and alcohol?”
The question shocked her, so Nate said, “I've done it four times myself, so don't be ashamed.” His candor disarmed her.
“I really can't remember,” she said. “But I've been clean for six years.”
“Wonderful,” said Nate. One addict to another. “Good for you.”
From that point on, the two talked about things as if they were alone. Nate had to pry, and he apologized for doing so. He asked about the five million, and with no small amount of humor she told tales of good drugs and bad men. Unlike her brothers, Libbigail had found stability. His name was Spike, the ex-biker who'd also been detoxed into submission. They lived in a small house in the suburbs of Baltimore.
“What would you do if you got one sixth of your father's estate?” Nate asked.
“Buy lots of things,” she said. “Same as you. Same as anybody else. But I would be smart with the money this time. Real smart.”
“What's the first thing you'd buy?”
“The biggest Harley in the world, for Spike. Then a nicer house, not a mansion though.” Her eyes danced as she spent the money.
Her deposition lasted less than two hours. Her sister, Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, followed her, and likewise looked at Nate as if he had fangs. Of the five adult Phelan heirs, Mary Ross was the only one still married to her first spouse, though he had a prior wife. He was an orthopedist. She was dressed tastefully, with nice jewelry.
The early questions revealed the standard prolonged college experience, but without arrests, addictions, or expulsions. She'd taken her money and lived in Tuscany for three years, then Nice for two. At twenty-eight, she married the doctor, had two girls, one now seven, the other five. It was unclear how much of the five million was left. The doctor handled their investments, so Nate figured they were practically broke. Wealthy, but heavily in debt. Josh's background on Mary Ross showed a massive home with imported cars stacked in the driveway, a condo in Florida, and an estimated income by the doc of $750,000 a year. He was paying $20,000 a month to a bank, his part of the residual damage from a failed partnership that tried to corner the car wash business in northern Virginia.
The doctor also had an apartment in Alexandria where he kept a mistress. Mary Ross and her husband were rarely seen together. Nate decided not to discuss these matters. He was suddenly in a hurry, but careful not to show it.
Ramble slouched into the room after the lunch break, his lawyer Yancy leading and pointing and fussing over him, obviously terrified now that his client was expected to carry on an intelligent conversation. The kid's hair was bright red now, and it sort of matched his zits. No portion of his face had gone unmutilated-rings and studs littered and scarred his features. The collar of his black leather jacket was turned up, James Dean style, so that it touched the earrings dangling from his lobes.
After a few questions, it was obvious the kid was as stupid as he looked. Since he had not yet had the opportunity to squander his money, Nate left him alone. They established that he seldom went to school, lived alone in the basement, had never held a job for which he was paid, liked to play the guitar, and planned to be a serious rock star real soon. His new band was aptly called the Demon Monkeys, but he wasn't sure they would record under that name. He played no sports, had never seen the inside of a church, spoke to his mother as little as possible, and preferred to watch MTV whenever he was awake and not playing his music.