The Testament (18 page)

They went straight for the widest gap, and as they were taking their seats Bright began the noisy process of removing his raincoat. The ragged hem of it brushed against the neck of one of Hark’s nameless associates, an earnest young man already bothered by Bright’s body odor.

“If you don’t mind!” he said sharply, swinging a backhand toward Bright, and missing. The words cracked through the tense and edgy air. Heads jerked around the tables as important documents were instantly ignored. Everybody hated everybody.

“Sorry!” Bright responded with great sarcasm. Two deputies moved forward to intervene if necessary. But the raincoat found a place under the table without further incident, and Bright finally managed to seat himself, next to Libbigail, with Spike sitting on the other side stroking his beard and staring at Troy Junior as if he’d love to slap him.

Few people in the courtroom expected the brief skirmish to be the last among the Phelans.

You die with eleven billion, and people care about your last
will and testament. Especially if there’s a chance that one of the world’s great fortunes is about to be fed to the vultures. The tabloids were there, along with the local papers and all the important financial magazines. The three rows Wycliff had designated for the press were full by nine-thirty. The journalists had a delightful time watching the Phelans gather in front of them. Three artists worked feverishly; the panorama before them was rich with inspiration. The punk with the green hair received more than his share of sketches.

Josh Stafford made his appearance at nine-fifty. Tip Durban was with him, along with two other members of the firm and a couple of paralegals to round out the team. Stern and somber-faced, they took seats at their table, a rather spacious one compared to the cramped quarters holding all the Phelans and all their lawyers. Josh placed a single thick file in front of him, and all eyes were immediately upon it. Inside was what appeared to be a document, almost two inches thick and very similar to what old Troy had signed on video just nineteen days earlier.

They couldn’t help staring at it. Everyone but Ramble. Virginia law allowed heirs to receive early distributions if the estate was liquid and there was no concern about the payment of debts and taxes. Estimates from the Phelan lawyers ranged from a low of ten million per heir, all the way to Bright’s guess of fifty million. Bright in his entire life had never seen fifty thousand.

At ten the deputies locked the doors, and upon some unseen cue Judge Wycliff emerged from an opening behind the bench, and the room was silent. He eased into the chair, his crisp robe settling around him, and smiled. “Good morning,” he said into the microphone.

Everyone smiled back. To his great satisfaction, the room was filled to capacity. A quick deputy count revealed eight armed and ready. He studied the Phelans; there were no gaps left. Some of their lawyers were practically touching one another.

“Are all of the parties present?” he asked. Heads shook from around the tables.

“I need to identify everyone,” he said, reaching for papers. “The first petition was filed by Rex Phelan.” Before the words settled, Hark Gettys was on his feet, clearing his throat.

“Your Honor, I’m Hark Gettys,” he boomed toward the bench. “And I represent Mr. Rex Phelan.”

“Thank you. You may keep your seat.”

He went around the tables, methodically taking names of the heirs and the lawyers. All the lawyers. The reporters scribbled them as fast as the Judge. Six heirs in all, three ex-wives. Everyone was present.

“Twenty-two lawyers,” Wycliff mumbled to himself.

“Do you have the will, Mr. Stafford?” he asked.

Josh stood, holding a different file. “I do.”

“Would you please take the witness stand?”

Josh made his way around the tables and past the court reporter to the witness stand, where he raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth.

“You represented Troy Phelan?” Wycliff asked.

“I did. For a number of years.”

“Did you prepare a will for him?”

“I prepared several.”

“Did you prepare his last will?”

There was a pause, and as it grew longer the Phelans inched closer.

“No, I did not,” Josh said slowly, looking at the vultures. The words were soft, but they cut through the air like thunder. The Phelan lawyers reacted much more quickly than the Phelan heirs, several of whom weren’t sure what to make of it. But it was serious, and unexpected. Another layer of tension settled around the tables. The courtroom grew even quieter.

“Who prepared his last will and testament?” Wycliff asked, like a bad actor reading a script.

“Mr. Phelan himself.”

It wasn’t so. They had seen the old man sit at the table with lawyers all around him, and the three shrinks—Zadel, Flowe, and Theishen—directly across the table. He’d been declared sane on the spot, and seconds later had taken a thick will prepared by Stafford and one of his associates, declared it to be his, and signed it.

There was no dispute about this.

“Oh my God,” Hark Gettys said, under his breath but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“When did he sign it?” Wycliff asked.

“Moments before he jumped to his death.”

“Is it handwritten?”

“It is.”

“Did he sign it in your presence?”

“He did. There were other witnesses. The signing was also videotaped.”

“Please hand me the will.”

Josh deliberately withdrew a single envelope from the file and passed it up to His Honor. It looked awfully small. There was no way it contained enough language to convey to the Phelans what was rightfully theirs.

“What the hell is this?” Troy Junior hissed at the nearest lawyer. But the lawyer couldn’t respond.

The envelope held only one sheet of yellow paper. Wycliff removed it slowly for all to see, unfolded it carefully, then studied it for a moment.

Panic seized the Phelans, but there was nothing they could do. Had the old man screwed them one last time? Was the money slipping away? Maybe he had changed his mind and given them even more. Around the tables they nudged and elbowed their lawyers, all of whom were remarkably quiet.

Wycliff cleared his throat and leaned a bit closer to the microphone. “I’m holding here a one-page document purporting
to be a will handwritten by Troy Phelan. I will read it straight through:

“ ‘The last testament of Troy L. Phelan. I, Troy L. Phelan, being of sound and disposing mind and memory, do hereby expressly revoke all former wills and codicils executed by me, and dispose of my estate as follows:

“ ‘To my children, Troy Phelan, Jr., Rex Phelan, Libbigail Jeter, Mary Ross Jackman, Geena Strong, and Ramble Phelan, I give each a sum of money necessary to pay off all the debts of each as of today. Any debts incurred after today will not be covered by this gift. If any of these children attempt to contest this will, then this gift shall be nullified as to that child.’ ”

Even Ramble heard the words, and understood them. Geena and Cody started crying softly. Rex leaned forward, elbows on the table, face buried in his hands, his mind numb. Libbigail looked past Bright to Spike and said, “That son of a bitch.” Spike concurred. Mary Ross covered her eyes as her lawyer rubbed her knee. Her husband rubbed the other one. Only Troy Junior managed a poker face, but not for much longer.

There was more damage yet to come. Wycliff wasn’t finished. “ ‘To my ex-wives, Lillian, Janie, and Tira, I give nothing. They were adequately provided for in the divorces.’ ”

At that moment, Lillian, Janie, and Tira were wondering what the hell they were doing in the courtroom. Had they really expected to receive more cash from a man they hated? They felt the stares and tried to hide among their lawyers.

The reporters and journalists were downright giddy. They wanted to take notes, but they were afraid of missing a single word. Some couldn’t help but grin.

“ ‘The remainder of my estate I give to my daughter Rachel Lane, born on November 2, 1954, at Catholic Hospital in New Orleans, Louisiana, to a woman named Evelyn Cunningham, now deceased.’ ”

Wycliff paused, though not for dramatic effect. With only
two small paragraphs left, the damage was done. The eleven billion had been given to an illegitimate heir he’d not read about. The Phelans sitting before him had been stripped. He couldn’t help but look at them.

“ ‘I appoint my trusted lawyer, Joshua Stafford, as executor of this will, and grant unto him broad discretionary powers in its administration.’ ”

For the moment they had forgotten about Josh. But there he sat, in the box like the innocent witness of a car wreck, and they glared at him with as much hatred as possible. How much had he known? Was he a conspirator? No doubt he could’ve done something to prevent this.

Josh fought to keep a straight face.

“ ‘This document is intended to be a holographic will. Every word has been written by my hand, and I hereby sign it.’ ” Wycliff lowered it and said, “The testament was signed by Troy L. Phelan at three P.M. on December 9, 1996.”

He laid it down, and looked around the courtroom, the epicenter. The quake was ending and now it was time for the aftershocks. The Phelans sat low in their seats, some rubbing eyes and foreheads, others staring wildly at the walls. For the moment, all twenty-two lawyers were incapable of speech.

The shocks rippled through the rows of spectators, where, oddly, a few smiles could be seen. Ah, it was the media, suddenly anxious to race from the room and start reporting.

Amber sobbed loudly, then caught herself. She’d met Troy only once, and he’d made a crude advance. Her grief was not for the loss of a loved one. Geena cried quietly, as did Mary Ross. Libbigail and Spike chose to curse instead. “Don’t worry,” Bright said, waving them off as if he could remedy this injustice in a matter of days.

Biff glared at Troy Junior, and the seeds of a divorce were planted. Since the suicide, he’d been especially arrogant and condescending to her. She’d tolerated it for obvious reasons, but no
longer. She relished the first fight, one that would no doubt begin just a few feet outside the courtroom doors.

Other seeds were planted. For the thick-skinned lawyers, the surprise was received, absorbed, then shaken off as instinctively as a duck shakes off water. They were about to get rich. Their clients were heavily in debt with no relief in sight. They had no choice but to contest the will. Litigation would rage for years.

“When do you anticipate probating the will?” Wycliff asked Josh.

“Within a week.”

“Very well. You may step down.”

Josh returned to his seat, triumphant, as the lawyers began shuffling papers and pretending everything was fine.

“We are adjourned.”

NINETEEN
_____________

T
here were three fights in the hallway after adjournment. Fortunately, none involved Phelans fighting Phelans. Those would come later.

A mob of reporters waited outside the courtroom doors as the Phelans were consoled inside by their lawyers. Troy Junior was the first to exit, and he was immediately surrounded by a pack of wolves, several with microphones in the attack position. He was hungover to begin with, and now that he was half a billion dollars poorer he was in no mood to talk about his father.

“Are you surprised?” some idiot asked, from behind a microphone.

“Damned right,” he said, trying to walk through the group.

“Who is Rachel Lane?” asked another.

“I guess she’s my sister,” he snapped.

A skinny little boy with stupid eyes and a bad complexion stopped directly in front of him, thrust a tape recorder in his face, and asked, “How many illegitimate children did your father have?”

Troy Junior instinctively shoved the tape recorder back at him. It landed sharply just above his nose, and as he fell back Troy Junior launched a wild left hook that popped him in the ear and knocked him down. In the commotion, a deputy pushed Troy Junior in another direction and they made a quick escape.

Ramble spit on another reporter, who had to be restrained by a colleague who reminded him the kid was underage.

The third skirmish happened when Libbigail and Spike lumbered out of the courtroom behind Wally Bright. “No comment!” Bright yelled at the horde closing ranks around them. “No comment! Please get out of the way!”

Libbigail, who was crying, tripped over a TV cable and tumbled into a reporter, who also fell. There were shouts and curses, and as the reporter was on all fours and getting to his feet, Spike kicked him in the ribs. He squealed and fell flat again, and as he was thrashing about trying to get up, his foot caught the edge of Libbigail’s dress, and she slapped him for good measure. Spike was about to slaughter him when a deputy intervened.

Deputies broke up each fight, always siding with the Phelans over the reporters. They helped rush the beleaguered heirs and their lawyers down the stairs, through the lobby, and out of the building.

Lawyer Grit, who represented Mary Ross Phelan Jackman, was overcome by the sight of so many reporters. The First Amendment seized him, or at least his own rudimentary understanding of it, and he felt compelled to speak freely. With his arm around his distraught client, he grimly offered their reaction to the surprise will. It was obviously the work of a demented man. How else could you explain the passing of such a great fortune to an unknown heir? His client adored her father, loved him deeply, worshiped him, and as Grit babbled on and on about the incredible love between father and daughter, Mary Ross finally took the hint and began crying. Grit himself appeared on the verge of tears. Yes, they would fight. They would battle this grave injustice
to the U.S. Supreme Court. Why? Because this was not the work of the Troy Phelan they knew. Bless his heart. He loved his children, and they loved him. Theirs was an incredible bond, forged through tragedy and hardship. They would fight because their beloved father was not himself when he scribbled this ghastly document.

Josh Stafford was in no hurry to leave. He spoke quietly to Hark Gettys and some of the attorneys from the other tables. He promised to send them copies of the hideous will. Things were initially cordial but hostilities were growing by the minute. A reporter he knew from the
Post
was waiting in the hall, and Josh spent ten minutes with him while saying nothing. Of particular interest was Rachel Lane; her history and whereabouts. There were lots of questions, but Josh had no answers.