Josh's house could sleep fifteen. "Sure, thanks. Where's my car?"
"In my garage."
Of course it was. It was a leased Jaguar, and it no doubt had been properly serviced, washed, and waxed, and the monthly payments were current. "Thanks, Josh."
"I put your furnishings in a mini-storage. Your clothes and personal effects are packed in the car."
"Thanks." Nate was not at all surprised.
"How do you feel?"
"I'm fine."
"Look, Nate, I've read about dengue fever. It takes a month to fully recover. Level with me."
A month. It was the opening jab in the fight over Nate's future with the firm. Take another month, old boy. Maybe you're too ill to work. Nate could write the script.
But there would be no fight.
"I'm a little weak, that's all. I'm sleeping a lot, drinking a lot of liquids."
"What kind of liquids?"
"Get right to the point, don't you?"
"I always do."
"I'm clean, Josh. Relax. No stumbles."
Josh had heard that many times. The exchange had been a bit sharper than both men wanted, so they rode in silence for a while. The traffic was slow.
The Potomac was half-frozen with large chunks of ice floating slowly toward Georgetown. Stalled in traffic on the Chain Bridge, Nate announced, matter-of-factly, "I'm not going back to the office, Josh. Those days are over."
There was no visible reaction from Josh. He could've been disappointed because an old friend and fine litigator was calling it quits. He could've been delighted because a major headache was quietly leaving the firm. He could've been indifferent because Nate's exit was probably inevitable. The tax evasion mess would ultimately cost him his license anyway.
So he simply asked, "Why?"
"Lots of reasons, Josh. Let's just say I'm tired."
"Most litigators burn out after twenty years."
"So I've heard."
Enough of the retirement talk. Nate's mind was made up, and Josh didn't want to change it. The Super Bowl was two weeks away, and the Redskins were not in it. They seized the topic of football, as men usually do when they have to keep the conversation going in the midst of weightier matters.
Even under a heavy layer of snow, the streets looked mean to Nate.
THE STAFFORDS owned a large house in Wesley Heights, in Northwest D.C. They also had a cottage on the Chesapeake and a cabin in Maine. The four kids were grown and scattered. Mrs. Stafford preferred to travel while her husband preferred to work.
Nate retrieved some warm clothes from the trunk of his car, then enjoyed a hot shower in the guest quarters. The water pressure was weaker in Brazil. The shower in his hotel room was never hot, and never cold. The bars of soap were smaller. He compared the things around him. He was amused at the thought of the shower on the Santa Loura, a cord above the toilet that, when pulled, delivered lukewarm river water from a shower head. He was tougher than he thought; the adventure had taught him that much.
He shaved and then worked on his teeth, going about his habits with great deliberation. In many ways, it was nice to be home.
Josh's office in his basement was larger than the one downtown, and just as cluttered. They met there for coffee. It was time to debrief. Nate began with the ill-fated effort to find Rachel by air, the crash landing, the dead cow, the three little boys, the bleakness of Christmas in the Pantanal. With great detail, he recounted the story of his ride on the horse, and the encounter in the swamp with the curious alligator. Then the rescue by helicopter. He said nothing about the binge on Christmas night; it would serve no purpose and he was terribly ashamed of it. He described Jevy, Welly, the Santa Loura, and the trip north. When he and Jevy were lost in the johnboat, he remembered being frightened but too busy to be consumed with fear. Now, in the safety of civilization, their wanderings seemed terrifying.
Josh was astounded by the adventure. He wanted to apologize for sending Nate into such a treacherous place, but the excursion had obviously been exciting. The alligators grew as the narrative continued. The lone anaconda, sunning by the river, was joined by another that swam near their boat.
Nate described the Indians, their nakedness and bland food and languid lives, the chief and his refusal to let them leave.
And Rachel. At that point in the debriefing, Josh took his legal pad and began writing notes. Nate portrayed her in great detail, from her soft slow voice to her sandals and hiking boots. Her hut and medicine bag, Lako and his limp, and the way the Indians looked at her when she walked by. He told the story of the child who died from the snakebite. He relayed what little of her history she'd given him.
With the precision of a courtroom veteran, Nate covered everything about Rachel that he'd gathered on his visit. He used her exact words when talking about the money and the paperwork. He remembered her comment about how primitive Troy's handwritten will looked.
Nate recounted what little he remembered of their retreat from the Pantanal. And he downplayed the horror of dengue fever. He had survived, and that in itself surprised him.
A maid brought soup and hot tea for lunch. "Here's where we are," Josh said after a few spoonfuls. "If she rejects the gift under Troy's will, then the money remains in his estate. If, however, the will is found to be invalid for any reason, then there is no will."
"How can the will be invalid? They had psychiatrists talking to him minutes before he jumped."
"Now there are more psychiatrists, well paid and with different opinions. It'll get messy. All of his prior wills were shredded. If it's one day found that he died with no valid will, then his children, all seven of them, will share equally in his estate. Since Rachel doesn't want a share, then hers will be divided by the other six."
"Those fools will get a billion dollars each."
"Something like that."
"What are the chances of striking down his will?"
"Not good. I'd rather have our case than theirs, but things can change."
Nate walked around the room, nibbling on a saltine, weighing the issues. "Why fight for the validity of the will if Rachel declines everything?"
"Three reasons," Josh said quickly. As usual, he had analyzed everything from all possible angles. There was a master plan, and it would be revealed to Nate piece by piece. "First, and most important, my client prepared a valid will. It gave away his assets exactly as he wanted. I, as his lawyer, have no choice but to fight to protect the integrity of the will. Second, I know how Mr. Phelan felt about his children. He was horrified that they would somehow get their hands on his money. I share his feelings about them, and I shudder to think what would happen if they got a billion each. Third, there's always a chance Rachel will change her mind."
"Don't count on it."
"Look, Nate, she's only human. She has those papers with her. She'll wait a few days and start to think about them. Maybe thoughts of wealth have never entered her mind, but at some point she has to think of all the good things she could do with the money. Did you explain trusts and charitable foundations to her?"
"I barely know what those are myself, Josh. I was a litigator, remember?"
"We're gonna fight to protect Mr. Phelan's will,
Nate. Problem is, the biggest seat at the table is empty. Rachel needs representation."
"No she doesn't. She's oblivious."
"The litigation can't proceed until she has a lawyer."
Nate was no match for the master strategist. The black hole opened from nowhere, and he was already falling into it. He closed his eyes and said, "You must be kidding."