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The Testament - John Grisham

I SIT AND STARE through the tinted glass walls. On a clear day, I can
see
the top of the Washington Monument six miles away, but not today. Today
is
raw and cold, windy and overcast, not a bad day to die. The wind blows
the
last of the leaves from their branches and scatters them through the
parking
lot below.

Why I am worried about the pain? What's wrong with a little suffering?
I've
caused more misery than any ten people.

I push a button and Snead appears. He bows and pushes my wheelchair
through
the door of my apartment, into the marble foyer, down the marble hall,
through another door. We're getting closer, but I feel no anxiety.

I've kept the shrinks waiting for over two hours.

We pass my office and I nod at Nicolette, my latest secretary, a darling
young thing I'm quite fond of. Given some time, she might become number
four.

But there is no time. Only minutes.

A mob is waiting--packs of lawyers and some psychiatrists who'll
determine
if I'm in my right mind. They are crowded around a long table in my
conference room, and when I enter, their conversation stops immediately
and
everybody stares. Snead situates me on one side of the table, next to my
lawyer, Stafford.

There are cameras pointing in all directions, and the technicians
scramble
to get them focused. Every whisper, every move, every breath will be
recorded because a fortune is at stake.

The last will I signed gave little to my children. Josh Stafford
prepared
it, as always. I shredded it this morning.

I'm sitting here to prove to the world that I am of sufficient mental
capacity to make a new will. Once it is proved, the disposition of my
assets
cannot be questioned.

Directly across from me are three shrinks--one hired by each family. On
folded index cards before them someone has printed their names--Dr.
Zadel,
Dr. Flowe, Dr. Theishen. I study their eyes and faces. Since I am
supposed
to appear sane, I must make eye contact.

They expect me to be somewhat loony, but I'm about to eat them for
lunch.

Stafford will run the show. When everyone is settled and the cameras are
ready, he says, "My name is Josh Stafford, and I'm the attorney for Mr.
Troy
Phelan, seated here to my right."

I take on the shrinks, one at a time, eye to eye, glare to glare, until
each
blinks or looks away. All three wear dark suits. Zadel and Flowe have
scraggly beards. Theishen has a bow tie and looks no more than thirty.
The
families were given the right to hire anyone they wanted.

Stafford is talking. "The purpose of this meeting is to have Mr. Phelan
examined by a panel of psychiatrists to determine his testamentary
capacity.
Assuming the panel finds him to be of sound mind, then he intends to
sign a
will which will dispose of his assets upon his death."

Stafford taps his pencil on a one-inch-thick will lying before us. I'm
sure
the cameras zoom in for a close-up, and I'm sure the very sight of the
document sends shivers up and down the spines of my children and their
mothers scattered throughout my building.

They haven't seen the will, nor do they have the right to. A will is a
private document revealed only after death. The heirs can only
speculate as
to what it might contain. My heirs have received hints, little lies I've
carefully planted.

They've been led to believe that the bulk of my estate will somehow be
divided fairly among the children, with generous gifts to the ex-wives.
They
know this; they can feel it. They've been praying fervently for this for
weeks, even months. This is life and death for them because they're all
in
debt. The will lying before me is supposed to make them rich and stop
the
bickering. Stafford prepared it, and in conversations with their
lawyers he
has, with my permission, painted in broad strokes the supposed contents
of
the will. Each child will receive something in the range of three
hundred to
five hundred million, with another fifty million going to each of the
three
ex-wives. These women were well provided for in the divorces, but that,
of
course, has been forgotten.

Total gifts to the families of approximately three billion dollars.
After
the government rakes off several billion the rest will go to charity.

So you can see why they're here, shined, groomed, sober (for the most
part),
and eagerly watching the monitors and waiting and hoping that I, the old
man, can pull this off. I'm sure they've told their shrinks, "Don't be
too
hard on the old boy. We want him sane."

If everyone is so happy, then why bother with this psychiatric
examination?
Because I'm gonna screw 'em one last time, and I want to do it right.


The shrinks are my idea, but my children and their lawyers are too slow
to
realize it.

Zadel goes first. "Mr. Phelan, can you tell us the date, time, and
place?"

I feel like a first-grader. I drop my chin to my chest like an imbecile
and
ponder the question long enough to make them ease to the edge of their
seats
and whisper, "Come on, you crazy old bastard. Surely you know what day
it
is."

"Monday," I say softly. "Monday, December 9, 1996. The place is my
office."

"The time?"

"About two-thirty in the afternoon," I say. I don't wear a watch.

"And where is your office?"

"McLean, Virginia."

Flowe leans into his microphone. "Can you state the names and
birthdates of
your children?"

"No. The names, maybe, but not the birthdates."

"Okay, give us the names."

I take my time. It's too early to be sharp. I want them to sweat. "Troy
Phelan, Jr., Rex, Libbigail, Mary Ross, Geena, and Ramble." I utter
these as
if they're painful to even think about.

Flowe is allowed a follow-up. "And there was a seventh child, right?"

"Right."

"Do you remember his name?"

"Rocky."

"And what happened to him?"

"He was killed in an auto accident." I sit straight in my wheelchair,
head
high, eyes darting from one shrink to the next, projecting pure sanity
for
the cameras. I'm sure my children and my ex-wives are proud of me,
watching
the monitors in their little groups, squeezing the hands of their
current
spouses, and smiling at their hungry lawyers because old Troy so far has
handled the preliminaries.

My voice may be low and hollow, and I may look like a nut with my white
silk
robe, shriveled face, and green turban, but I've answered their
questions.

Come on, old boy, they're pleading.

Theishen asks, "What is your current physical condition?"

"I've felt better."

"It's rumored you have a cancerous tumor."

Get right to the point, don't you?

"I thought this was a mental exam," I say, glancing at Stafford, who
can't
suppress a smile. But the rules allow any question. This is not a
courtroom.

"It is," Theishen says politely. "But every question is relevant."

"I see."

"Will you answer the question?"

"About what?"

"About the tumor."

"Sure. It's in my head, the size of a golf ball, growing every day,
inoperable, and my doctor says I won't last three months."

I can almost hear the champagne corks popping below me. The tumor has
been
confirmed!

"Are you, at this moment, under the influence of any medication, drug,
or
alcohol?"

"No."

"Do you have in your possession any type of medication to relieve pain?"

"Not yet."

Back to Zadel: "Mr. Phelan, three months ago Forbes magazine listed
your net
worth at eight billion dollars. Is that a close estimate?"

"Since when is Forbes known for its accuracy?"

"So it's not accurate?"

"It's between eleven and eleven and a half, depending on the markets."
I say
this very slowly, but my words are sharp, my voice carries authority.
No one
doubts the size of my fortune.

Flowe decides to pursue the money. "Mr. Phelan, can you describe, in
general, the organization of your corporate holdings?"

"I can, yes."

"Will you?"

"I suppose." I pause and let them sweat. Stafford assured me I do not
have
to divulge private information here. Just give them an overall picture,
he
said.

"The Phelan Group is a private corporation which owns seventy different
companies, a few of which are publicly traded."

"How much of The Phelan Group do you own?"

"About ninety-seven percent. The rest is held by a handful of
employees."

Theishen joins in the hunt. It didn't take long to focus on the gold.
"Mr.
Phelan, does your company hold an interest in Spin Computer?"

"Yes," I answer slowly, trying to place Spin Computer in my corporate
jungle.

"How much do you own?"

"Eighty percent."

"And Spin Computer is a public company?"

"That's right."

Theishen fiddles with a pile of official-looking documents, and I can
see
from here that he has the company's annual report and quarterly
statements,
things any semiliterate college student could obtain. "When did you
purchase
Spin?" he asks.

"About four years ago."

"How much did you pay?"

"Twenty bucks a share, a total of three hundred million." I want to
answer
these questions more slowly, but I can't help myself. I stare holes
through
Theishen, anxious for the next one.

"And what's it worth now?" he asks.

"Well, it closed yesterday at forty-three and a half, down a point. The
stock has split twice since I bought it, so the investment is now worth
around eight-fifty."

"Eight hundred and fifty million?"

"That's correct."

The examination is basically over at this point. If my mental capacity
can
comprehend yesterday's closing stock prices, then my adversaries are
certainly satisfied. I can almost see their goofy smiles. I can almost
hear
their muted hoorahs. Atta boy, Troy. Give 'em hell.

Zadel wants history. It's an effort to test the bounds of my memory.
"Mr.
Phelan, where were you born?"

"Montclair, New Jersey."

"When?"

"May 12, 1918."

"What was your mother's maiden name?"

"Shaw."

"When did she die?"

"Two days before Pearl Harbor."

"And your father?"

"What about him?"

"When did he die?"

"I don't know. He disappeared when I was a kid."

Zadel looks at Flowe, who's got questions packed together on a notepad.
Flowe asks, "Who is your youngest daughter?"

"Which family?"

"Uh, the first one."

"That would be Mary Ross."

"Right--"

"Of course it's right."

"Where did she go to college?"

"Tulane, in New Orleans."

"What did she study?"

"Something medieval. Then she married badly, like the rest of them. I
guess
they inherited that talent from me." I can see them stiffen and
bristle. And
I can almost see the lawyers and the current live-ins and/or spouses
hide
little smiles because no one can argue the fact that I did indeed marry
badly.

And I reproduced even more miserably.

Flowe is suddenly finished for this round. Theishen is enamored with the
money. He asks, "Do you own a controlling interest in MountainCom?"

"Yes, I'm sure it's right there in your stack of paperwork. It's a
public
company."

"What was your initial investment?"

"Around eighteen a share, for ten million shares."

"And now it--"

"It closed yesterday at twenty-one a share. A swap and a split in the
past
six years and the holding is now worth about four hundred million. Does
that
answer your question?"

"Yes, I believe it does. How many public companies do you control?"

"Five."

Flowe glances at Zadel, and I'm wondering how much longer this will
take.
I'm suddenly tired.

"Any more questions?" Stafford asks. We are not going to press them
because
we want them completely satisfied.

Zadel asks, "Do you intend to sign a new will today?"

"Yes, that is my intent."

"Is that the will lying on the table there before you?"

"It is."

"Does that will give a substantial portion of your assets to your
children?"

"It does."

"Are you prepared to sign the will at this time?"

"I am."

Zadel carefully places his pen on the table, folds his hands
thoughtfully,
and looks at Stafford. "In my opinion, Mr. Phelan has sufficient
testamentary capacity at this time to dispose of his assets." He
pronounces
this with great weight, as if my performance had them hanging in limbo.

The other two are quick to rush in. "I have no doubt as to the
soundness of
his mind," Flowe says to Stafford. "He seems incredibly sharp to me."

"No doubt?" Stafford asks.

"None whatsoever."

"Dr. Theishen?"

"Let's not kid ourselves. Mr. Phelan knows exactly what he's doing. His
mind
is much quicker than ours."

Oh, thank you. That means so much to me. You're a bunch of shrinks
struggling to make a hundred thousand a year. I've made billions, yet
you
pat me on the head and tell me how smart I am.

"So it's unanimous?" Stafford says.

"Yes. Absolutely." They can't nod their heads fast enough.

Stafford slides the will to me and hands me a pen. I say, "This is the
last
will and testament of Troy L. Phelan, revoking all former wills and
codicils." It's ninety pages long, prepared by Stafford and someone in
his
firm. I understand the concept, but the actual print eludes me. I
haven't
read it, nor shall I. I flip to the back, scrawl a name no one can read,
then place my hands on top of it for the time being.

It'll never be seen by the vultures.

"Meeting's adjourned," Stafford says, and everyone quickly packs. Per my
instructions, the three families are hurried from their respective
rooms and
asked to leave the building.

One camera remains focused on me, its images going nowhere but the
archives.
The lawyers and psychiatrists leave in a rush. I tell Snead to take a
seat
at the table. Stafford and one of his partners, Durban, remain in the
room,
also seated. When we are alone, I reach under the edge of my robe and
produce an envelope, which I open. I remove from it three pages of
yellow
legal paper and place them before me on the table.

Only seconds away now, and a faint ripple of fear goes through me. This
will
take more strength than I've mustered in weeks.

Stafford, Durban, and Snead stare at the sheets of yellow paper,
thoroughly
bewildered.

"This is my testament," I announce, taking a pen. "A holographic will,
every
word written by me, just a few hours ago. Dated today, and now signed
today." I scrawl my name again. Stafford is too stunned to react.

"It revokes all former wills, including the one I signed less than five
minutes ago." I refold the papers and place them in the envelope.

I grit my teeth and remind myself of how badly I want to die.

I slide the envelope across the table to Stafford, and at the same
instant I
rise from my wheelchair. My legs are shaking. My heart is pounding. Just
seconds now. Surely I'll be dead before I land.

"Hey!" someone shouts, Snead I think. But I'm moving away from them.

The lame man walks, almost runs, past the row of leather chairs, past
one of
my portraits, a bad one commissioned by a wife, past everything, to the
sliding doors, which are unlocked. I know because I rehearsed this just
hours ago.

"Stop!" someone yells, and they're moving behind me. No one has seen me
walk
in a year. I grab the handle and open the door. The air is bitterly
cold. I
step barefoot onto the narrow terrace which borders my top floor.
Without
looking below, I lunge over the railing.


SNEAD WAS TWO STEPS behind Mr. Phelan, and thought for a second that he
might catch him. The shock of seeing the old man not only rise and walk
but
also practically sprint to the door froze Snead. Mr. Phelan hadn't moved
that fast in years.

Snead reached the railing just in time to scream in horror, then watched
helplessly as Mr. Phelan fell silently, twisting and flailing and
growing
smaller and smaller until he struck the ground. Snead clenched the
railing
and stared in disbelief, then he began to cry.

Josh Stafford arrived on the terrace a step behind Snead, and witnessed
most
of the fall. It happened so quickly, at least the jump; the fall itself
seemed to last for an hour. A man weighing a hundred and fifty pounds
will
drop three hundred feet in less than five seconds, but Stafford later
told
people the old man floated for an eternity, like a feather whirling in
the
wind.

Tip Durban got to the railing just behind Stafford, and saw only the
body's
impact on the brick patio between the front entrance and a circular
drive.
For some reason Durban held the envelope, which he had absently picked
up
during the rush to catch old Troy. It felt a lot heavier as he stood in
the
frigid air, looking down at a scene from a horror film, watching the
first
onlookers move up to the casualty.


TROY PHELAN'S DESCENT did not reach the level of high drama he had
dreamed
of. Instead of drifting to the earth like an angel, a perfect swan dive
with
the silk robe trailing behind, and landing in death before his
terror-stricken families, who he'd imagined would be leaving the
building at
just the right moment, his fall was witnessed only by a lowly payroll
clerk,
hustling through the parking lot after a very long lunch in a bar. The
clerk
heard a voice, looked up at the top floor, and watched in horror as a
pale
naked body tumbled and flapped with what appeared to be a bedsheet
gathered
at the neck. It landed on its back, on brick, with the dull thud one
would
expect from such an impact.

The clerk ran to the spot just as a security guard noticed something
wrong
and bolted from his perch near the front entrance of Phelan Tower.
Neither
the clerk nor the guard had ever met Mr. Troy Phelan, so neither knew at
first upon whose remains they were gazing. The body was bleeding,
barefoot,
twisted, and naked, and exposed with a sheet bunched at the arms. And
it was
quite dead.

Another thirty seconds, and Troy would have had his wish. Because they
were
stationed in a room on the fifth floor, Tira and Ramble and Dr.
Theishen and
their entourage of lawyers were the first to leave the building. And,
therefore, the first to happen upon the suicide. Tira screamed, not from
pain nor love nor loss, but from the sheer shock of seeing old Troy
splattered on the brick. It was a wretched piercing scream that was
heard
clearly by Snead, Stafford, and Durban, fourteen floors up.

Ramble thought the scene was rather cool. A child of TV and an addict of
video games, he found the gore a magnet. He moved away from his
shrieking
mother and knelt beside his dead father. The security guard placed a
firm
hand on his shoulder.

"That's Troy Phelan," one of the lawyers said as he hovered above the
corpse.

"You don't say," said the guard.

"Wow," said the clerk.

More people ran from the building.

Janie, Geena, and Cody, with their shrink Dr. Flowe and their lawyers,
were
next. But there were no screams, no breakdowns. They stuck together in a
tight bunch, well away from Tira and her group, and gawked like everyone
else at poor Troy.

Radios crackled as another guard arrived and took control of the scene.
He
called for an ambulance.

"What good will that do?" asked the payroll clerk, who, by virtue of
being
the first on the scene, assumed a more important role in the aftermath.

"You want to take him away in your car?" asked the guard.

Ramble watched the blood fill in the mortar cracks and run in perfect
angles
down a gentle slope, toward a frozen fountain and a flagpole nearby.

In the atrium, a packed elevator stopped and opened and Lillian and the
first family and their entourage emerged. Because TJ and Rex had once
been
allowed offices in the building, they had parked in the rear. The entire
group turned left for an exit, then someone near the front of the
building
yelled, "Mr. Phelan's jumped!" They switched directions and raced
through
the front door, onto the brick patio near the fountain, where they found
him.

They wouldn't have to wait for the tumor after all.


IT TOOK Joshua Stafford a minute or so to recover from the shock and
start
thinking like a lawyer again. He waited until the third and last family
was
visible below, then asked Snead and Durban to step inside.

The camera was still on. Snead faced it, raised his right hand, and
swore to
tell the truth, then, fighting tears, explained what he had just
witnessed.
Stafford opened the envelope and held the yellow sheets of paper close
enough for the camera to see.

"Yes, I saw him sign that," Snead said. "Just seconds ago."

"And is that his signature?" Stafford asked.

"Yes, yes it is."

"Did he declare this to be his last will and testament?"

"He called it his testament."

Stafford withdrew the papers before Snead could read them. He repeated
the
same testimony with Durban, then placed himself before the camera and
gave
his version of events. The camera was turned off, and the three of them
rode
to the ground to pay their respects to Mr. Phelan. The elevator was
packed
with Phelan employees, stunned but anxious to have a rare and last
glimpse
of the old man. The building was emptying. Snead's quiet sobs were
muffled
in a corner.

Guards had backed the crowd away, leaving Troy alone in his puddle. A
siren
was approaching. Someone took photographs to memorialize the image of
his
death, then a black blanket was placed over his body.

For the families, slight twinges of grief soon overcame the shock of
death.
They stood with their heads low, their eyes staring sadly at the
blanket,
organizing their thoughts for the issues to come. It was impossible to
look
at Troy and not think about the money. Grief for an estranged relative,
even
a father, cannot stand in the way of a half a billion dollars.

For the employees, shock gave way to confusion. Troy was rumored to
live up
there above them, but very few had ever seen him. He was eccentric,
crazy,
sick--the rumors covered everything. He didn't like people. There were
important vice presidents in the building who saw him once a year. If
the
company ran so well without him, surely their jobs were secure.

For the psychiatrists--Zadel, Flowe, and Theishen--the moment was filled
with tension. You declare a man to be of sound mind, and minutes later
he
jumps to his death. Yet even a crazy man can have a lucid
interval--that's
the legal term they repeated to themselves as they shivered in the
crowd.
Crazy as a bat, but one clear, lucid interval in the midst of the
madness,
and a person can execute a valid will. They would stand firm with their
opinions. Thank God everything was on tape. Old Troy was sharp. And
lucid.

And for the lawyers, the shock passed quickly and there was no grief.
They
stood grim-faced next to their clients and watched the pitiful sight.
The
fees would be enormous.

An ambulance drove onto the bricks and stopped near Troy. Stafford
walked
under the barricade and whispered something to the guards.

Troy was quickly loaded onto a stretcher and taken away.


TROY PHELAN had moved his corporate headquarters to northern Virginia
twenty-two years earlier to escape taxation in New York. He spent forty
million on his Tower and grounds, money he saved many times over by
being
domiciled in Virginia.

He met Joshua Stafford, a rising D.C. lawyer, in the midst of a nasty
lawsuit that Troy lost and Stafford won. Troy admired his style and
tenacity, and so he hired him. In the past decade, Stafford had doubled
the
size of his firm and become rich with the money he earned fighting
Troy's
battles.

In the last years of his life, no one had been closer to Mr. Phelan than
Josh Stafford. He and Durban returned to the conference room on the
fourteenth floor and locked the door. Snead was sent away with
instructions
to lie down.

With the camera running, Stafford opened the envelope and removed the
three
sheets of yellow paper. The first sheet was a letter to him from Troy.
He
spoke to the camera: "This letter is dated today, Monday, December 9,
1996.
It is handwritten, addressed to me, from Troy Phelan. It has five
paragraphs. I will read it in full:

"'Dear Josh: I am dead now. These are my instructions, and I want you to
follow them closely. Use litigation if you have to, but I want my wishes
carried out.

"'First, I want a quick autopsy, for reasons that will become important
later.

"'Second, there will be no funeral, no service of any type. I want to be
cremated, with my ashes scattered from the air over my ranch in Wyoming.

"'Third, I want my will kept confidential until January 15, 1997. The
law
does not require you to immediately produce it. Sit on it for a month.

"'So long. Troy.'"

Stafford slowly placed the first sheet on the table, and carefully
picked up
the second. He studied it for a moment, then said for the camera, "This
is a
one-page document purporting to be the last testament of Troy L.
Phelan. I
will read it in its entirety:

"'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 of 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.

"'To my ex-wives, Lillian, Janie, and Tira, I give nothing. They were
adequately provided for in the divorces.

"'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.'"

Stafford had never heard of these people. He had to catch his breath
before
plowing ahead.

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

"'This document is intended to be a holographic will. Every word has
been
written by my hand, and I hereby sign it.

"'Signed, December 9, 1996, three P.M., by Troy L. Phelan.'"

Stafford placed it on the table and blinked his eyes at the camera. He
needed a walk around the building, perhaps a blast of frigid air, but he
pressed on. He picked up the third sheet, and said, "This is a
one-paragraph
note addressed to me again. I will read it: "Josh: Rachel Lane is a
World
Tribes missionary on the Brazil-Bolivia border. She works with a remote
Indian tribe in a region known as the Pantanal. The nearest town is
Corumbß.
I couldn't find her. I've had no contact with her in the last twenty
years.
Signed, Troy Phelan.'"

Durban turned the camera off, and paced around the table twice as
Stafford
read the document again and again.

"Did you know he had an illegitimate daughter?"

Stafford was staring absently at a wall. "No. I drafted eleven wills for
Troy, and he never mentioned her."

"I guess we shouldn't be surprised."

Stafford had declared many times that he had become incapable of being
surprised by Troy Phelan. In business and in private, the man was
whimsical
and chaotic. Stafford had made millions running behind his client,
putting
out fires.

But he was, in fact, stunned. He had just witnessed a rather dramatic
suicide, during which a man confined to a wheelchair suddenly sprang
forth
and ran. Now he was holding a valid will that, in a few hasty
paragraphs,
transferred one of the world's great fortunes to an unknown heiress,
without
the slightest hint of estate planning. The inheritance taxes would be
brutal.

"I need a drink, Tip," he said.

"It's a bit early."

They walked next door to Mr. Phelan's office, and found everything
unlocked.
The current secretary and everybody else who worked on the fourteenth
floor
were still on the ground.

They locked the door behind themselves, and hurriedly went through the
desk
drawers and file cabinets. Troy had expected them to. He would never
have
left his private spaces unlocked. He knew Josh would step in
immediately. In
the center drawer of his desk, they found a contract with a crematorium
in
Alexandria, dated five weeks earlier. Under it was a file on World
Tribes
Missions.

They gathered what they could carry, then found Snead and made him lock
the
office. "What's in the testament, that last one?" he asked. He was pale
and
his eyes were swollen. Mr. Phelan couldn't just die like that without
leaving him something, some means to survive on. He'd been a loyal
servant
for thirty years.

"Can't say," Stafford said. "I'll be back tomorrow to inventory
everything.
Do not allow anyone in."

"Of course not," Snead whispered, then began weeping again.

Stafford and Durban spent half an hour with a cop on a routine call.
They
showed him where Troy went over the railing, gave him the names of
witnesses, described with no detail the last letter and last will. It
was a
suicide, plain and simple. They promised a copy of the autopsy report,
and
the cop closed the case before he left the building.

They caught up with the corpse at the medical examiner's office, and
made
arrangements for the autopsy.

"Why an autopsy?" Durban asked in a whisper as they waited for
paperwork.

"To prove there were no drugs, no alcohol. Nothing to impair his
judgment.
He thought of everything."

It was almost six before they made it to a bar in the Willard Hotel,
near
the White House, two blocks from their office. And it was only after a
stiff
drink that Stafford managed his first smile. "He thought of everything,
didn't he?"

"He's a very cruel man," Durban said, deep in thought. The shock was
wearing
off, but the reality was settling in.

"He was, you mean."

"No. He's still here. Troy's still calling the shots."

"Can you imagine the money those fools will spend in the next month?"

"It seems a crime not to tell them."

"We can't. We have our orders."


FOR LAWYERS whose clients seldom spoke to each other, the meeting was a
rare
moment of cooperation. The largest ego in the room belonged to Hark
Gettys,
a brawling litigator who'd represented Rex Phelan for a number of years.
Hark had insisted on the meeting not long after he returned to his
office on
Massachusetts Avenue. He had actually whispered an idea to the
attorneys for
TJ and Libbigail as they watched the old man being loaded into the
ambulance.

It was such a good idea that the other lawyers couldn't argue. They
arrived,
along with Flowe, Zadel, and Theishen, at Gettys' office after five. A
court
reporter and two video cameras were waiting.

For obvious reasons, the suicide made them nervous. Each psychiatrist
was
taken separately, and quizzed at length about his observations of Mr.
Phelan
just before he jumped.

There was not a scintilla of doubt among the three that Mr. Phelan knew
precisely what he was doing, that he was of sound mind, and had more
than
sufficient testamentary capacity. You don't have to be insane to commit
suicide, they emphasized carefully.

When the lawyers, all thirteen of them, had extracted every opinion
possible, Gettys broke up the meeting. It was almost 8 P.M.