Sabo relished the idea of working on the Phelan case. Refuting the opinions of the first three psychiatrists would be challenging. The publicity was seductive-he'd never had a famous case. And the money would pay for a trip to the Orient.
All of the Phelan lawyers were scrambling to undo the testimony of Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen. The only way to discredit them was to find new experts with new opinions.
Fat hourly rates yielded to contingencies. The heirs wouldn't be able to pay the hefty monthly fees they were about to incur, so their lawyers graciously agreed to simplify matters by taking percentages. The range was staggering, though no firm would ever divulge its cut. Hark wanted 40 percent, but Rex berated him for his greediness. They finally agreed on 25 percent. Grit squeezed 25 percent out of Mary Ross Phelan Jackman.
The clear victor was Wally Bright, the street fighter, who insisted on an even deal with Libbigail and Spike. He would get half of their settlement.
In the mad scramble before they filed their suits, not a single Phelan heir asked if they were doing the right thing. They trusted their lawyers, and besides, everybody else was contesting the will. No one could afford to be left out. There was so much at stake.
BECAUSE HARK had been the loudest of the Phelan lawyers, he caught the attention of Snead, Troy's longtime gofer. No one had noticed Snead in the aftermath of the suicide. He'd been forgotten in the stampede to the courthouse. His employment had been terminated. And when the will was read, Snead himself was sitting in the courtroom, his face disguised with sunglasses and a hat, recognized by no one. He had left in tears.
He hated the Phelan children because Troy hated them. Over the years, Snead had been forced to do all sorts of unpleasant things to protect Troy from his families. Snead had arranged abortions, and had bribed cops when the boys were caught with drugs. He had lied to the wives to protect the mistresses, and when the mistresses became wives, then poor Snead lied to them too, to protect the girlfriends.
In return for his good work, the children and wives had called him a fag.
And in return for a career of faithful service, Mr. Phelan left him nothing. Not a cent. He'd been paid well over the years, and had some money in mutuals, but not enough to survive on. He had sacrificed everything for his job and his master. He'd been denied a normal life because Mr. Phelan expected him to be on duty every hour of the day. A family had been out of the question. He had no real friends to speak of.
Mr. Phelan had been his friend, his confidant, the only person Snead could trust.
Over the years, there had been many promises made by the old man about taking care of Snead. He knew for a fact that he'd been named in one will. He'd seen the document himself. He would inherit a million bucks upon Mr. Phelan's death. At the time, Troy had a net worth of three billion, and Snead remembered thinking how small a million seemed. As the old man got richer, Snead imagined his own bequest growing with each will.
He'd occasionally asked about the matter, subtle, gentle inquiries made at just the right moments, he thought. But Mr. Phelan had cursed him and threatened to cut him out completely. "You're as bad as my children," he had said, crushing poor Snead.
Somehow he'd gone from a million to zero, and he was bitter about it. He would be forced to join the enemies simply because he had no choice.
He found the new office of Hark Gettys Associates near Dupont Circle. The receptionist explained that Mr. Gettys was very busy. "So am I," Snead replied rudely. Because he'd been so close to Troy, he had spent most of his life around lawyers. They were always busy.
"Give him this," he said, handing her an envelope. "It's quite urgent. I'll wait over there for ten minutes, then I'll walk down the street to the next law office."
Snead took a seat and stared at the floor. Cheap new carpet. The receptionist hesitated for a moment, then disappeared through a door. The envelope held a small handwritten note that read: "I worked for Troy Phelan for thirty years. I know everything. Malcolm Snead."
Hark appeared in a flash, holding the note, smiling goofily as if friendliness would impress Snead. They practically ran down the hall to a large office, the receptionist behind them. No, Snead did not want coffee, tea, water, or a cola. Hark slammed the door and locked it.
The office smelled of fresh paint. The desk and shelves were new and the woods didn't match. Boxes of files and junk were stacked along the walls. Snead took his time examining the details. "Just move in?" he said.
"Couple of weeks ago."
Snead hated the place, and he wasn't sure about the lawyer either. He wore a cheap wool suit, much less expensive than the one Snead was wearing.
"Thirty years, huh?" Hark said, still holding the note.
"That's right."
"Were you with him when he jumped?"
"No. He jumped alone."
A fake laugh, then the smile returned. "I mean, were you in the room?"
"Yes. I almost caught him."
"Must've been terrible."
"It was. Still is."
"Did you see him sign the will, the last one?"
"I did."
"Did you see him write the damned thing?"
Snead was perfectly prepared to lie. The truth meant nothing because the old man had lied to him. What was there to lose?
"I saw a lot of things," he said. "And I know a lot more. This visit is about nothing but money. Mr. Phelan promised that he would take care of me in his will. There were many promises, all broken."
"So you're in the same boat as my client," Hark said.
"I hope not. I despise your client and his miserable siblings. Let's get that straight on the front end."
"I think it's straight."
"No one was closer to Troy Phelan than I. I saw and heard things no one else can testify to."
"So you wanna be a witness?"
"I am a witness, an expert. And I'm very expensive."
Their eyes locked for a second. The message was delivered and received.
"The law says that laymen cannot render opinions as to the mental capacity of one executing a will, but you can certainly testify as to specific acts and deeds that prove an unsound mind."
"I know all this," Snead said rudely.
"Was he crazy?"
"He was or he wasn't. Doesn't matter to me. I can go either way."
Hark had to stop and contemplate this. He scratched his face and studied the wall.
Snead decided to help him. "This is the way I see it. Your boy got screwed, along with his brother and sisters. They each got five million bucks when they turned twenty-one, and we know what they did with the money. Since they're all heavily in debt, they have no choice but to contest the will. No jury's gonna feel sorry for them, though. They're a bunch of greedy losers. It'll be a tough case to win. But you and the other legal eagles will attack the will, and you'll create this huge mess of a lawsuit that quickly gets in the tabloids because there's eleven billion at stake. Since you don't have much of a case, you hope for a settlement before you go to trial."
"You catch on quick."
"No. I watched Mr. Phelan for thirty years. Anyway, the size of your settlement depends on me. If my recall is clear and detailed, then perhaps my old boss lacked testamentary capacity when he wrote the will."
"Then your memory comes and goes."
"My memory is whatever I want it to be. There's no one to question it."
"What do you want?"
"Money."
"How much?"