"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, "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."
Chapter Nineteen
THERE 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!"