A consensus was quickly emerging. Fight, for (a) there was little to lose, (b) there was nothing else to do, and (c) it was the only way to force a settlement. Not to mention (d), wherein they would get paid handsomely by the hour for fighting.
Yancy was particularly forceful in urging the use of litigation. And rightly so. Ramble was the only minor among the heirs, and had no debts to speak of. The trust that would pay him five million on his twenty-first had been established decades earlier, and could not be revoked. With five million guaranteed, Ramble was in far better shape financially than any of his siblings. With nothing to lose, why not sue for more?
An hour passed before someone mentioned the contest clause in the will. The heirs, excluding Ramble, ran the risk of losing what little Troy left them if they contested the will. This issue was given slight treatment by the lawyers. They had already decided to fight the will, and they knew their greedy clients would follow their advice.
A lot was not being said. The litigation would be cumbersome to begin with. The wisest and most cost-efficient course would be to select one firm with experience to act as chief trial counsel. The others could take a step back, still protect their clients, and be kept abreast of every development. Such a strategy would require two things: (1) cooperation and (2) the voluntary downsizing of most of the egos in the room.
It was never mentioned during the three-hour meeting.
Through no grand scheme of their own-schemes require cooperation-the lawyers had managed to divide the heirs so that no two shared the same firm. Through skillful manipulation that is not taught in law school but acquired naturally thereafter, the lawyers had convinced the clients to spend more time talking to them than to their fellow heirs. Trust was not a virtue known to the Phelans, nor to their attorneys.
It was shaping up to be one long chaotic lawsuit.
Not one brave voice suggested the will be left alone. There was not the slightest interest in following the wishes of the man who'd actually made the fortune they now conspired to carve up.
During the third or fourth trip around the tables, an effort was made to determine the level of debt held by each of the six heirs at the time of Mr. Phelan's death. But the effort fizzled under a barrage of legal nitpicking.
"Are the debts of spouses included?" asked Hark, attorney for Rex, whose wife, Amber the stripper, owned the skin clubs and had her name on most of the debts.
"What about obligations to the IRS?" asked the attorney for Troy Junior, who'd been having tax trouble for fifteen years.
"My clients have not authorized me to divulge financial information," said Langhorne, who with that dire declaration effectively iced the issue.
The reluctance confirmed what everybody knew-the Phelan heirs were up to their ears in loans and mortgages.
All the lawyers, being lawyers, were deeply concerned about publicity, and how their fight would be portrayed by the media. Their clients were not simply a bunch of spoiled, greedy children who'd been cut out by their father. But they feared the press might take this posture. Perceptions were crucial.
"I suggest we hire a public relations firm," Hark announced. It was a wonderful idea, one that several others immediately seized as their own. Hire a pro to paint the Phelan heirs as the brokenhearted children who'd loved a man who had little time for them. An eccentric, philandering, half-crazy... Yes! That was it! Make Troy the bad guy. And make their clients the victims!
The idea bloomed and the fiction spread happily around the tables until someone asked just exactly how they would pay for such services.
"They're horribly expensive," said a lawyer, who happened to be charging six hundred dollars an hour for himself and four hundred an hour for each of his three useless associates.
The idea lost steam quickly until Hark offered the lame suggestion that each firm could front some expense money. The meeting grew incredibly quiet. Those who'd had so much to say about everything were now captivated by the magical language of briefs and old cases.
"We can talk about this later," Hark said, attempting to save face. No doubt the idea would never be mentioned again.
They then discussed Rachel, and where she might be. Should they retain a top-notch security firm to locate her? Almost every lawyer happened to know one. The idea was quite appealing and received more attention than it should have. What lawyer wouldn't want to represent the chosen heir?
But they decided against looking for Rachel, primarily because they couldn't agree on what they would do if they found her. She would surface soon enough, no doubt with her own entourage of lawyers.
The meeting ended on a pleasant note. The lawyers gave themselves the outcome they wanted. They left with plans to immediately call their clients and proudly report how much progress was made. They could say unequivocally that it was the combined wisdom of all the Phelan lawyers that the will should be attacked with a vengeance.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I HE RIVER ROSE throughout the day, slowly leaving its banks in some places, swallowing sandbars, rising into the thick brush, flooding the small muddy yards of houses they passed once every three hours. The river carried more and more debris-weeds and grass, limbs and saplings. As it grew wider it grew stronger, and the currents running against the boat slowed them even more.
But no one was watching the clock. Nate had been politely relieved of his captain's duties after the Santa Loura was struck by a wayward tree trunk, one he never saw. No damage, but the jolt sent Jevy and Welly scurrying to the wheelhouse. He returned to his own little deck with the hammock stretched through the center, and there he spent the morning reading and watching wildlife.
Jevy joined him for coffee. "So what do you think of the Pantanal?" he asked. They sat next to each other on a bench with their arms through the railing and their bare feet dangling over the side of the boat.
"It's pretty magnificent."
"Do you know Colorado?"
"I've been there, yes."
"During the rainy season, the rivers in the Pantanal overflow. The flooded area is the size of Colorado."
"Have you been to Colorado?"
"Yes. I have a cousin there."
"Where else have you been?"
"Three years ago, my cousin and I rode a big bus, a Greyhound, across the country. We were in every state but six."
Jevy was a poor Brazilian boy of twenty-four. Nate was twice his age and for most of his career had had plenty of money. Yet Jevy had seen much more of the United States than Nate.
When the money was good, though, Nate had always traveled to Europe. His favorite restaurants were in Rome and Paris.
"When the floods stop," Jevy continued, "we have the dry season. Grasslands, marshes, more lagoons and swamps than anyone can count. The cycle-the flooding and the dry season-produces more wildlife than any place in the world. We have six hundred and fifty species of birds here, more than Canada and the U.S. combined. At least two hundred and sixty species of fish. Snakes, caiman, alligators, even giant otters live in the water."
As if on cue, he pointed to a thicket at the edge of a small forest. "Look, it's a deer," he said. "We have lots of deer. And lots of jaguars, giant anteaters, capivaras, tapirs, and macaws. The Pantanal is filled with wildlife."
"You were born here?"
"I took my first breath in the hospital in Corumba, but I was born on these rivers. This is my home."
"You told me your father was a river pilot."
"Yes. When I was a small boy I began going with him. Early in the morning, when everybody was asleep, he would allow me to take the wheel. I knew all the main rivers by the time I was ten."