Chapter Forty-Senven
I HE DEPOSITION of Nicolette the secretary lasted eight minutes. She gave her name, address, and brief employment history, and the Phelan lawyers on the other side settled into their chairs to await the details of her sexual escapades with Mr. Phelan. She was twenty-three, with few qualifications beyond a slender body, nice chest, and a pretty face with sandy blond hair. They couldn't wait to hear her spend a few hours talking about sex.
Getting right to the point, Nate asked, "Did you ever have sex with Mr. Phelan?"
She tried to appear embarrassed by the question, but said yes anyway.
"How many times?"
"I didn't count them."
"For how long?"
"Usually ten minutes."
"No, I mean for how long a period of time. Starting in what month and ending when?"
"Oh, I only worked there five months."
"Roughly twenty weeks. On the average, how many times each week did you have sex with Mr. Phelan?"
"Two times I guess."
"So about forty times?"
"I guess. That sounds like a lot, doesn't it?"
"Not to me. Did Mr. Phelan take his clothes off when you guys did it?"
"Sure. We both did."
"So he was completely naked?"
"Yes."
"Did he have any visible birthmarks on his body?"
When witnesses concoct lies, they often miss the obvious. So do their lawyers. They become so consumed with their fiction that they overlook a fact or two. Hark and the guys had access to the Phelan wives-Lillian, Janie, Tira-any one of whom could have told them that Troy had a round purple birthmark the size of a silver dollar at the very top of his right leg, near the hip, just below the waist.
"Not that I recall," Nicolette answered.
The answer surprised Nate, and then it didn't. He could've easily believed that Troy was doing his secretary, something he'd done for decades. And he could just as easily have believed Nicolette was lying.
"No visible birthmarks?" Nate asked again.
"None."
The Phelan lawyers were stricken with fear. Could another star witness be melting before their eyes?
"No further questions," Nate said, and left the room to refill his coffee.
Nicolette looked at the lawyers. They were staring at the table, wondering exactly where the birthmark was.
After she left, Nate slid an autopsy photo across the table to his bewildered enemies. He didn't say a word, didn't need to. Old Troy was on the slab, nothing but withered and battered flesh with the birthmark staring out from the photo.
THEY SPENT the rest of Wednesday and all day Thursday with the four new psychiatrists who'd been hired to say that the three old ones really didn't know what they were doing. Their testimony was predictable and repetitive-people with sound minds do not jump out of windows.
As a group they were less distinguished than Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen. A couple were retired and picked up a few retainers here and there as professional testifiers. One taught at a crowded community college. One eked out a living in a small office in the suburbs.
But they weren't paid to be impressive; rather, their purpose was simply to muddy the water. Troy Phelan was known to be erratic and eccentric. Four experts said he didn't have the mental capacity to execute a will. Three said he did. Keep the issues dense and tangled and hope those supporting the will would one day grow-weary and settle. If not, it would be up to a jury of laymen to sift through the medical jargon and make sense of the conflicting opinions.
The new experts were paid well to stick to their convictions, and Nate didn't try to change them. He had deposed enough doctors to know not to argue medicine with them. Instead, he dwelt on their credentials and experience. He made them watch the video and criticize the first three psychiatrists.
When they adjourned Thursday afternoon, fifteen depositions had been completed. Another round was scheduled for late March. Wycliff was planning a trial for the middle of July. The same witnesses would testify again, but in open court with spectators watching and jurors weighing every word.
NATE FLED THE CITY. He went west through Virginia, then south through the Shenandoah Valley. His mind was numb from nine days of hardball probing into the intimate lives of others. At some undefined point in his life, pushed by his work and his addictions, he had lost his decency and shame. He had learned to lie, cheat, deceive, hide, badger, and attack innocent witnesses without the slightest twinge of guilt.
But in the quiet of his car and the darkness of the night, Nate was ashamed. He had pity for the Phelan children. He felt sorry for Snead, a sad little man just trying to survive. He wished he hadn't attacked the new experts with such vigor.
His shame was back, and Nate was pleased. He was proud of himself for feeling so ashamed. He was human after all.
At midnight, he stopped at a cheap motel near Knoxville. There was heavy snow in the Midwest, in Kansas and Iowa. Lying in bed with his atlas, he mapped a trail through the Southwest.
He slept the second night in Shawnee, Oklahoma; the third in Kingman, Arizona; the fourth in Redding, California.
THE KIDS from his second marriage were Austin and Angela, twelve and eleven respectively, seventh and sixth grades. He'd last seen them in July, three weeks before the last crash, when he took them to an Orioles game. The pleasant outing later turned into another ugly scene. Nate had drunk six beers at the game-the kids counted because their mother told them to-and he drove the two hours from Baltimore to Arlington under the influence.
At the time, they were moving to Oregon with their mother, Christi, and her second husband, Theo. The game was to be Nate's last visit with them for some time, and instead of dwelling on good-byes Nate got plastered. He fought with his ex-wife in the driveway while the children watched, all too familiar with the scene. Theo had threatened him with a broom handle. Nate woke up in his car, parked in the handicapped zone of a McDonald's, an empty six-pack on the seat.
When they met fourteen years earlier, Christi was the headmistress of a private school in Potomac. She was on a jury. Nate was one of the lawyers. She wore a short black skirt on the second day of the trial, and the litigation practically stopped. Their first date was a week later. For three years Nate stayed clean, long enough to get remarried and have the two kids. When the dam started cracking, Christi was scared and wanted to run. When it burst, she fled with the children and didn't return for a year. The marriage endured ten chaotic years.
She was working at a school in Salem. Theo was with a small law firm there. Nate had always believed that he ran them out of Washington. He couldn't blame them for fleeing to the other coast.
He called the school from his car near Medford, four hours away, and was put on hold for five minutes; time, he was certain, for her to lock her door and collect her thoughts. "Hello," she finally said.
"Christi, it's me, Nate," he said, feeling silly identifying his voice to a woman he'd lived with for ten years.
"Where are you?" she asked, as if an attack were imminent.
"Near Medford."
"In Oregon?"
"Yes. I'd like to see the kids."
"Well, when?"
"Tonight, tomorrow, I'm in no hurry. I've been on the road for a few days, just seeing the country. I have no itinerary."
"Well, sure, Nate. I guess we can work something out. But the kids are very busy, you know, school, ballet, soccer."
"How are they?"
"They're doing very well. Thanks for asking."