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.