The Testament (9 page)

The
Post
’s story the next morning was complemented by a large photo of Hark frowning and rubbing his beard. The story covered even more space than he’d dreamed of. He read it at sunrise in a coffee shop in Chevy Chase, then hurriedly drove to his new office.

A couple of hours later, just after nine, the circuit court clerk’s office in Fairfax County was crawling with lawyers, more so than normal. They arrived in tight little packs, spoke in terse sentences to the clerks, and worked hard at ignoring each other. Their petitions were varied but they all wanted the same things—recognition in the Phelan matter, and a look at the will.

Probate matters in Fairfax County were randomly assigned to one of a dozen judges. The Phelan matter landed on the desk of
the Honorable F. Parr Wycliff, age thirty-six, a jurist with little experience but lots of ambition. He was thrilled to get such a high-profile case.

Wycliff’s office was in the Fairfax County Courthouse, and throughout the morning he monitored the filings in the clerk’s office. His secretary hauled in the petitions, and he read them immediately.

When the dust settled below him, he called Josh Stafford to introduce himself. They chatted politely for a few minutes, the usual lawyerly preliminaries, stiff and cautious because weightier matters were coming. Josh had never heard of Judge Wycliff.

“Is there a will?” Wycliff finally asked.

“Yes, Your Honor. There is a will.” Josh chose his words carefully. It was a felony in Virginia to hide a will. If the Judge wanted to know, then Josh would certainly cooperate.

“Where is it?”

“Here in my office.”

“Who is the executor?”

“Me.”

“When do you plan to probate it?”

“My client asked me to wait until January fifteenth.”

“Hmmmm. Any particular reason?”

There was a simple reason. Troy wanted his greedy children to enjoy one last spending spree before he jerked the rug from under them. It was mean and cruel, vintage Troy.

“I have no idea,” Josh said. “The will is holographic. Mr. Phelan signed it just seconds before he jumped.”

“A holographic will?”

“Yes.”

“Weren’t you with him?”

“Yes. It’s a long story.”

“Perhaps I should hear it.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Josh had a busy day. Wycliff did not, but he made it sound as
though every minute were planned. They agreed to meet for lunch, a quick sandwich in Wycliff’s office.

________

SERGIO DID not like the idea of Nate’s trip to South America. After almost four months in a highly structured place like Walnut Hill, where the doors and gates were locked and an unseen guard with a gun watched the road a mile down the mountain, and where TV, movies, games, magazines, and phones were heavily monitored, the reentry into a familiar society was often traumatizing. The notion of a reentry by way of Brazil was more than troubling.

Nate didn’t care. He was not at Walnut Hill by court order. Josh had put him there, and if Josh asked him to play hide-and-seek in the jungles, so be it. Sergio could bitch and moan all he wanted.

PreRelease turned into a week from hell. The diet changed from no-fat to low-fat, with such inevitable ingredients as salt, pepper, cheese, and a little butter added to prepare his system for the evils out there. Nate’s stomach rebelled, and he lost three more pounds.

“Just an inkling of what’s waiting for you down there,” Sergio said smugly.

They fought during therapy, which was common at Walnut Hill. Skin had to be thickened, edges sharpened. Sergio began to distance himself from his patient. It was usually difficult to say good-bye, and Sergio shortened the sessions and became aloof.

With the end in sight, Nate began counting the hours.

________

JUDGE WYCLIFF inquired as to the contents of the will, and Josh politely declined to tell him. They were eating deli sandwiches at a small table in His Honor’s small office. The law did not require Josh to reveal what was in the will, at least not now. And Wycliff
was slightly out of bounds to ask, but his curiosity was understandable.

“I’m somewhat sympathetic to the petitioners,” he said. “They have a right to know what’s in the will. Why delay it?”

“I’m just following my client’s wishes,” Josh replied.

“You have to probate the will sooner or later.”

“Of course.”

Wycliff slid his appointment book up to his plastic plate, and gazed down with a squint over his reading glasses. “Today is December twentieth. There’s no way to assemble everyone before Christmas. How does the twenty-seventh look to you?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“A reading of the will.”

The idea struck Josh, and he almost choked on a dill spear. Gather them all together, the Phelans and their entourages and new friends and hangers-on, and all their merry lawyers, and pack them into Wycliff’s courtroom. Make sure the press knows about it. As he crunched on another bite of pickle, and looked at his little black book, he worked hard to suppress a grin. He could hear the gasps and groans, the shockwaves, the utter, bitter disbelief, then the muted cursing. Then, perhaps a sniffle and maybe a sob or two as the Phelans tried to absorb what their beloved father had done to them.

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.

“Good. I’ll notify the parties as soon as I can identify all of them. There are lots of lawyers.”

“It helps if you remember that there are six kids and three ex-wives, so there are nine principal sets of lawyers.”

“I hope my courtroom is big enough.”

Standing room only, Josh almost said. People packed together, with not a sound as the envelope is opened, the will unfolded,
the unbelievable words read. “I suggest you read the will,” Josh said.

Wycliff certainly intended to. He was seeing the same scene as Josh. It would be one of his finest moments, reading a will that disposed of eleven billion dollars.

“I assume the will is somewhat controversial,” the Judge said.

“It’s wicked.”

His Honor actually smiled.

TEN
_____________

B
efore his most recent crash, Nate had lived in an aging condo in Georgetown, one he’d leased after his last divorce. But it was gone now, a victim of the bankruptcy. So, literally, there was no place for Nate to spend his first night of freedom.

As usual, Josh had carefully planned the release. He arrived at Walnut Hill on the appointed day with a duffel bag filled with new and neatly pressed J. Crew shorts and shirts for the trip south. He had the passport and the visa, plenty of cash, lots of directions and tickets, a game plan. Even a first-aid kit.

Nate never had the chance to be anxious. He said good-bye to a few members of the staff, but most were busy elsewhere because they avoided departures. He walked proudly through the front door after 140 days of wonderful sobriety; clean, tanned, fit, down 17 pounds to 174, a weight he hadn’t known in twenty years.

Josh drove, and for the first five minutes nothing was said.
The snow blanketed the pastures, but thinned quickly as they left the Blue Ridge. It was December 22. At a very low volume, the radio played carols.

“Could you turn that off?” Nate finally said.

“What?”

“The radio.”

Josh punched a button, and the music he hadn’t heard disappeared.

“How do you feel?” Josh asked.

“Could you pull over at the nearest quick shop?”

“Sure. Why?”

“I’d like to get a six-pack.”

“Very funny.”

“I’d kill for a tall Coca-Cola.”

They bought soft drinks and peanuts at a country store. The lady at the cash register said a cheery “Merry Christmas,” and Nate could not respond. Back in the car, Josh headed for Dulles, two hours away.

“Your flight goes to São Paulo, where you’ll lay over three hours before catching one to a city called Campo Grande.”

“Do these people speak English?”

“No. They’re Brazilian. They speak Portuguese.”

“Of course they do.”

“But you’ll find English at the airport.”

“How big is Campo Grande?”

“Half a million, but it’s not your destination. From there, you’ll catch a commuter flight to a place called Corumbá. The towns get smaller.”

“And so do the airplanes.”

“Yes, same as here.”

“For some reason, the idea of a Brazilian commuter flight is not appealing. Help me here, Josh. I’m nervous.”

“Either that or a six-hour bus ride.”

“Keep talking.”

“In Corumbá, you’ll meet a lawyer named Valdir Ruiz. He speaks English.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“Yes.”

“Could you understand him?”

“Yes, for the most part. A very nice man. Works for about fifty bucks an hour, if you can believe that.”

“How big is Corumbá?”

“Ninety thousand.”

“So they’ll have food and water, and a place to sleep.”

“Yes, Nate, you’ll have a room. That’s more than you can say for here.”

“Ouch.”

“Sorry. Do you want to back out?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to. My goal at this point is to flee this country before I hear ‘Jingle Bells’ again. I’d sleep in a ditch for the next two weeks to avoid ‘Frosty the Snowman.’ ”

“Forget the ditch. It’s a nice hotel.”

“What am I supposed to do with Valdir?”

“He’s looking for a guide to take you into the Pantanal.”

“How? Plane? Helicopter?”

“Boat, probably. As I understand the area, it’s nothing but swamps and rivers.”

“And snakes, alligators, piranhas.”

“What a little coward you are. I thought you wanted to go.”

“I do. Drive faster.”

“Relax.” Josh pointed to a briefcase behind the passenger’s seat. “Open that,” he said. “It’s your carry-on bag.”

Nate pulled and grunted. “It weighs a ton. What’s in here?”

“Good stuff.”

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.

“That tiny gray instrument there is the latest high-tech digital
phone,” Josh said, proud of the things he’d collected. “Valdir will have local service for you when you get to Corumbá.”

“So they have phones in Brazil.”

“Lots of them. In fact, telecommunications are booming down there. Everybody has a cell phone.”

“Those poor people. What’s this?”

“A computer.”

“What the hell for?”

“It’s the latest thing. Look how small.”

“I can’t even read the keyboard.”

“You can hook it to the phone and actually get your e-mail.”

“Wow. And I’m supposed to do this in the middle of a swamp with snakes and alligators watching?”

“It’s up to you.”

“Josh, I don’t even use e-mail at the office.”

“It’s not for you. It’s for me. I want to keep up with you. When you find her, I want to know immediately.”

“What’s this?”

“The best toy in the box. It’s a satellite phone. You can use it anywhere on the face of the earth. Keep the batteries charged, and you can always find me.”

“You just said they had a great phone system.”

“Not in the Pantanal. It’s a hundred thousand square miles of wetlands, with no towns and very few people. That SatFone will be your only means of communication once you leave Corumbá.”

Nate opened the hard plastic case and examined the glossy little phone. “How much did this cost you?” he asked.

“Me, not a dime.”

“Okay, how much did it cost the Phelan estate?”

“Forty-four hundred bucks. Worth every penny of it.”

“Do my Indians have electricity?” Nate was flipping through the owner’s manual.

“Of course not.”

“Then how am I supposed to keep the batteries charged?”

“There’s an extra battery. You’ll think of something.”

“So much for a quiet getaway.”

“It’s going to be very quiet. You’ll thank me for the toys when you get there.”

“Can I thank you now?”

“No.”

“Thanks, Josh. For everything.”

“Don’t mention it.”

________

IN THE crowded terminal, at a small table across from a busy bar, they sipped weak espresso and read newspapers. Josh was very conscious of the bar; Nate didn’t seem to be. The neon Heineken logo was hard to miss.

A tired and skinny Santa Claus ambled by, looking for children to take cheap gifts from his bag. Elvis sang “Blue Christmas” from a jukebox in the bar. The foot traffic was thick, the noise unnerving, everyone flying home for the holidays.

“Are you okay?” Josh asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. Why don’t you leave? I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“I’ll stay.”

“Look, Josh, I’m fine. If you think I’m waiting for you to leave so I can dash over there to the bar and guzzle vodka, you’re wrong. I have no desire for booze. I’m clean, and very proud of it.”

Josh looked a bit sheepish, primarily because Nate had read his mind. Nate’s binges were legendary. If he cracked, there wasn’t enough booze in the airport to satisfy him. “I’m not worried about that,” he said, lying.

“Then go. I’m a big boy.”

They said good-bye at the gate, a warm embrace and promises to call almost on the hour. Nate was anxious to settle into his nest in first class. Josh had a thousand things to do at the office.

Two small, secret precautionary steps had been taken by Josh. First, adjacent seats had been booked for the flight. Nate would have the window; the aisle would remain vacant. No sense having some thirsty executive sitting next to Nate, swilling Scotch and wine. The seats cost over seven thousand dollars each for the round trip, but money was of no concern.

Second, Josh had talked at length with an airline official about Nate’s rehab. No alcohol was to be served, under any circumstances. A letter from Josh to the airline was on board, just in case it had to be produced to convince Nate.

A flight attendant served him orange juice and coffee. He wrapped himself in a thin blanket and watched the sprawl of D.C. disappear below him as the Varig airplane climbed through the clouds.