They took it well. It came as no surprise. Money was on the table and they were anxious to get to it. Insult us all you want, they said to themselves, but let's hurry along to the money.
On the other hand, Wycliff was saying, you never know what a jury will do. He spoke as if he impaneled juries every week, which he did not. And the lawyers knew it.
He asked Josh to recap the initial settlement conference of Monday, two days earlier. "I want to know exactly where we are," he said.
Josh was brief. The bottom line was simple. The heirs wanted fifty million dollars each. Rachel, the sole major beneficiary, was offering twenty million only to settle, without admitting the other side had a valid case.
"That's a substantial gap," Wycliff observed.
Nate was bored but tried to appear sharp. These were high-powered settlement negotiations involving one of the greatest self-made fortunes in the world. Josh had scolded him for his appearance. He didn't care. He kept himself interested by watching the faces of the lawyers across the room. They were an edgy bunch, not anxious or worried, but animated and desperate to learn how much they would be getting. Their eyes were keen and quick; their hand movements impulsive.
How much fun it would be to abruptly stand, announce Rachel wasn't offering a dime to settle, and storm out of the room. They would sit in shock for a few seconds, then they would chase him like hungry dogs.
When Josh finished, Hark spoke for the group. He had notes and he'd spent time on his remarks. He got their attention by admitting that the development of their case had not followed the course they'd wanted. Their clients were not good witnesses. The current psychiatrists were not as solid as the first three. Snead was not reliable. He admitted all this, and his sincerity was admirable.
Instead of arguing legal theories, Hark dwelt on people. He talked about their clients, the Phelan children, and he admitted that on the surface they were not a sympathetic bunch. But once you got past the surface, and you got to know them the way their lawyers had, you realized they simply never had a chance. As children they were rich and spoiled, raised in privilege by nannies who came and went, thoroughly ignored by their father, who was either in Asia buying factories or living at the office with his latest secretary. Hark did not intend to disparage the dead, but Mr. Phelan was what he was. Their mothers were an odd collection, but they too had endured the hell of life with Troy.
The Phelan children had not been raised in normal families. They had not been taught the lessons most children learn from their parents. Their father was a great businessman whose approval they craved but never received. Their mothers busied themselves with clubs and causes and the art of shopping. Their father's idea of providing his children with a proper start in life was simply to give each five million dollars when he or she turned twenty-one. This was much too late, and it was much too early. The money couldn't provide the wisdom, guidance, and love they needed as children. And they had clearly proved that they weren't ready for the responsibilities of new wealth.
The gifts had been disastrous, yet they had also brought maturity. Now, with the benefit of the years, the Phelan children looked back at their mistakes. They were embarrassed by how foolish they'd been with the money. Imagine waking up one day like the prodigal son, as Rex had once done at the age of thirty-two - divorced, broke, and standing before a judge who was about to jail him for nonpayment of child support. Imagine sitting in jail for eleven days while your brother, also broke and divorced, tried to convince your mother to bail you out. Rex said he spent his time behind bars trying to recount where the money had gone.
Life has been hard for the Phelan children. Many of their wounds were self-inflicted, but many had been inevitable because of their father.
The final act of neglect by their father had been his handwritten will. They would never understand the malice of the man who'd spurned them as children, chastised them as adults, and erased them as heirs.
Hark concluded by saying, "They are Phelans, Troy's own flesh and blood, for better or for worse, and they certainly deserve a fair portion of their father's estate."
When Hark finished he sat down, and the room was silent. It was a heart-felt plea, and Nate and Josh, even Wycliff, were moved by it. It would never play to a jury because he couldn't admit in open court that his clients had no case. But for the moment and the setting, Hark's little oration was just perfect.
Nate supposedly held the money, at least that was his part of the game. He could haggle and squeeze, bluff and dicker for an hour and trim a few million from the fortune. But he was simply in no mood to do so. If Hark could shoot straight, so could he. It was all a ruse anyway.
"What's your bottom line?" he asked Hark, their eyes locking like radar.
"I'm not sure we have a bottom line. I think fifty million per heir is reasonable. I know it sounds like a lot, and it is, but look at the size of the estate. After taxes, we're still only talking about five percent of the money."
"Five percent is not very much," Nate said, then let the words hang between them. Hark was watching him, but the others were not. They were hunched over their legal pads, pens ready for the next round of calculations.
"It really isn't," Hark said.
"My client will agree to fifty million," Nate said. At the moment, his client was probably teaching Bible songs to small children under the shade of a tree by the river.
Wally Bright had just earned a fee of twenty-five million dollars, and his first impulse was to bolt across the room and kiss Nate's feet. But instead he frowned with intelligence and made careful notes, notes he couldn't read.
Josh knew it was coming, of course, his bean counters had done the math, but Wycliff did not. A settlement had just occurred, no trial would be held. He had to appear pleased. "Well, then," he said, "do we have a settlement?"
Out of nothing but sheer habit, the Phelan lawyers engaged in one last huddle. They grouped around Hark and tried to whisper, but words failed them.
"It's a deal," Hark announced, twenty-six million dollars richer.
Josh just happened to have the rough draft of a settlement agreement. They began filling in the blanks, when suddenly the Phelan lawyers remembered their clients. They asked to be excused, then ran into the hallway, cell phones appearing from every pocket. Troy Junior and Rex were waiting by a soft drink machine on the first floor. Geena and Cody were reading newspapers in an empty courtroom. Spike and Libbigail were sitting in their old pickup down the street. Mary Ross was in her Cadillac in the parking lot. Ramble was at home in the basement, door locked, headphones on, in another world.
The settlement would not be complete until signed and approved by Rachel Lane. The Phelan lawyers wanted it to be strictly confidential. Wycliff agreed to seal the court file. After an hour the agreement was complete. It was signed by each of the Phelan heirs and their lawyers. It was signed by Nate.
Only one signature was left. Nate informed them that it would take him a few days to get it.
If they only knew, he thought as he left the courthouse.
FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Nate and the Rector left St. Michaels in the lawyer's leased car. The Rector drove so he could get used to it. Nate napped in the passenger's seat. As they crossed the Bay Bridge, Nate woke up and read the final settlement agreement to Phil, who wanted all the details.
The Phelan Group Gulfstream IV was waiting at the Baltimore-Washington airport. It was sleek and shiny, big enough to haul twenty people anywhere in the world. Phil wanted a better look, so they asked the pilots for a tour. No problem. Whatever Mr. O'Riley wanted. The cabin was all leather and wood, with sofas, recliners, a conference table, several television screens. Nate would've been happy to travel like a normal person, but Josh had insisted.