And there was a small cafe where he'd bought enough cocaine to almost kill himself. The narcs raided it when he was in recovery. Two stockbroker buddies went to jail.
He'd spent his glory days on those streets, while his wives were waiting and his kids were growing up without him. He was ashamed of the misery he'd caused. As he left Georgetown, he vowed never to return.
At the Stafford home, he loaded his car again with more clothes and personal items, then left in a hurry.
In his pocket was a check for ten thousand dollars, the first month's retainer. The IRS wanted sixty thousand in back taxes. The fine would be at least that much too. He owed his second wife about thirty thousand in past-due child support, monthly obligations racked up while he recovered with Sergio.
His bankruptcy did not discharge these debts. He conceded that his financial future was indeed bleak. The younger children cost him three thousand a month each in support. The two older ones were almost as expensive with tuition and room and board. He could live off the Phelan money for a few months, but the way Josh and Wycliff were talking the trial would be held sooner rather than later. When the estate was finally closed, Nate would go before a federal judge, plead guilty to tax evasion, and surrender his license.
Father Phil was teaching him not to worry about the future. God would take care of His own.
Once again, Nate wondered if God was getting more than He bargained for.
SINCE HE WAS incapable of writing on anything but a legal pad, with its wide lines and broad margins, Nate took one and tried to begin a letter to Rachel. He had the address of World Tribes in Houston. He would mark the envelope "Personal and Confidential," address it to Rachel Lane, and attach an explanatory note: To Whom It May Concern.
Someone at World Tribes knew who and where she was. Perhaps someone knew Troy was her father. Maybe this someone put two and two together, and now knew that their Rachel was the beneficiary.
Nate was also assuming Rachel would contact World Tribes, if she had not already done so. She'd been in Corumba when she'd come to the hospital. It was reasonable to believe she'd called Houston and told someone about his visit.
She had mentioned her annual budget with World Tribes. There had to be a method of corresponding by mail. If his letter got in the right hands in Houston, then maybe it would find the right place in Corumba.
He wrote the date, then "Dear Rachel:"
An hour passed while he watched the fire and tried to think of words that would sound intelligent. Finally, he opened the letter with a paragraph about snow. Did she miss it from her childhood? What was it like in Montana? There was a foot on the ground outside his window.
He was compelled to confess that he was acting as her lawyer, and once he fell into the rhythm of legalese, the letter took off. He explained as simply as he could what was happening with the lawsuit.
He told her about Father Phil, and the church and its basement. He was studying the Bible and enjoying it. He was praying for her.
When he finished, the letter was three pages long, and Nate was quite proud of himself. He reread it twice, and declared it to be worthy of sending. If it somehow made it to her hut, he knew that she would read it again and again, and give not the slightest thought to any shortcomings in style.
Nate longed to see her again.
Chapter Forty-Two
ONE REASON for the sluggish progress of the church's basement was Father Phil's penchant for sleeping late. Laura said she left home each weekday morning at eight, for kindergarten, and more often than not the Rector was still buried under the blankets. He was a night owl, he said in self-defense, and he loved to watch old black-and-white movies after midnight.
So when he called at seven-thirty Friday morning, Nate was somewhat surprised. "Have you seen the Post?" he asked.
"I don't read newspapers," Nate replied. He had broken the habit during rehab. Phil, on the other hand, read five a day. They were a good source of material for his sermons.
"Perhaps you should," he said.
"Why?"
"There's a story about you."
Nate put on his boots and trudged two blocks to a coffee shop on Main Street. There was a nice story on the front page of Metro about the finding of the lost heir of Troy Phelan. Papers had been filed late the day before in the Circuit Court of Fairfax County in which she, acting through her attorney, a Mr. Nate O'Riley, disputed the allegations of those contesting her late father's will. Since there wasn't much to say about her, the story dwelt on her attorney. According to his affidavit, also filed in court, he had tracked down Rachel Lane, showed her a copy of the handwritten will, discussed the various legal issues with her, and had somehow managed to become her lawyer. There was no indication of exactly where Ms. Lane was.
Mr. O'Riley was a former partner in the Stafford Law Firm; had once been a prominent trial lawyer; had left the firm in August; filed for bankruptcy in October; been indicted in November; and a final disposition of his tax evasion charges was still pending. The IRS claimed he beat them out of sixty thousand dollars. For good measure, the reporter mentioned the useless fact that he had been divorced twice. To complete the humiliation, a bad photo ran with the story, one of Nate with a drink in his hand at a D.C. bar function several years earlier. He studied the grainy image of himself, eyes glowing, cheeks darkened with alcohol, goofy smile as if he were mixing and mingling with people he enjoyed. It was embarrassing, but it was another life.
Of course no story could be complete without a quick recital of the messy statistics of Troy's life and death - three wives, seven known children, eleven billion or so in assets, his last flight from fourteen floors up.
Mr. O'Riley could not be found for comment. Mr. Stafford had nothing to say. The lawyers for the Phelan heirs had evidently said so much already that they were not asked to comment again.
Nate folded the paper and returned to the cottage. It was eight-thirty. He had an hour and a half before construction commenced in the basement.
The bloodhounds now knew his name, but finding his scent would be difficult. Josh had arranged for his mail to be routed to a post office box in D.C. He had a new office phone number, one for Nathan F. O'Riley, Attorney-at-Law. The calls were answered by a secretary in Josh's office who filed away the messages.
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.
Hiding was addictive. Maybe that was why Rachel did it.
COPIES of Rachel Lane's response were mailed to all the Phelan lawyers, who, as a group, were electrified by the news. She was indeed alive, and willing to fight, though her choice of lawyer was somewhat puzzling. O'Riley's reputation was accurate-an efficient litigator with flashes of brilliance who couldn't handle the pressure. But the Phelan lawyers, along with Judge Wycliff, suspected Josh Stafford was calling the shots. He'd rescued O'Riley from rehab, cleaned him up, put the file in his hands, and pointed him toward the courthouse.
The Phelan lawyers met Friday morning at Ms. Langhorne's place, a modern building packed among many on Pennsylvania Avenue, in the business district. Her firm was a wanna-be-with forty lawyers it wasn't big enough to attract blue-chip clients, but the leadership was very ambitious. The furnishings were showy and pretentious, the trappings of a bunch of lawyers desperate for the big time.
They had decided to meet once a week, each Friday at eight, for no more than two hours, to discuss the Phelan litigation and plot strategy. The idea had been Langhorne's. She had realized that she would have to be the peacemaker. The boys were busy strutting and fighting. And there was too much money to be lost in a trial where the contestants, all on one side of the room, were knifing each other in the back.