"How much does he want?" asked Wally Bright, cutting to the chase.
"Five million dollars. Ten percent now, the rest upon settlement."
Snead's fee did not faze the lawyers. There was so much at stake. In fact, his greed seemed rather modest.
"Our clients, of course, do not have the money," Hark said. "So if we want to purchase his testimony, then it's up to us. For about eighty-five thousand per heir, we can sign a contract with Mr. Snead. I'm convinced he will deliver testimony that will either win the case or force a settlement."
The range of wealth in the room was broad. Wally Bright's office account was overdrawn. He owed back taxes. At the other end of the spectrum, the firm where Hemba and Hamilton worked had partners earning more than a million bucks a year.
"Are you suggesting we pay a lying witness?" Hamilton asked.
"We don't know if he's lying," Hark responded. He could anticipate every question. "No one knows. He was alone with Mr. Phelan. There are no witnesses. The truth will be whatever Mr. Snead wants it to be."
"This sounds shady," Hemba added.
"You have a better idea?" Grit growled. He was into his fourth mimosa.
Hemba and Hamilton were big-firm lawyers, unaccustomed to the dirt and grime from the streets. Not that they or their ilk were beyond corruption, but their clients were rich corporations that used lobbyists for legal bribery to land fat government contracts and hid money in Swiss accounts for foreign despots, all with the help of their trusty lawyers. But because they were big-firm lawyers they quite naturally looked down upon the type of unethical behavior being suggested by Hark, and condoned by Grit and Bright and the other ham-and-eggers.
"I'm not sure our client will agree to this," Hamilton said.
"Your client will jump at it," Hark said. It was almost humorous to drape ethics over TJ Phelan. "We know him better than you. The question is whether you're willing to do it."
"Are you suggesting we, the lawyers, front the initial five hundred thousand?" Hemba asked, his tone one of contempt.
"Exactly," Hark said.
"Then our firm would never go along with such a scheme."
"Then your firm is about to be replaced," Grit chimed in. "Keep in mind, you're the fourth bunch in a month."
In fact, Troy Junior had already threatened to fire them. They grew quiet and listened. Hark had the floor.
"To avoid the embarrassment of asking each of us to cough up the cash, I have found a bank willing to loan five hundred thousand dollars for a year. All we need is six signatures on the loan. I've already signed."
"I'll sign the damned thing," Bright said in a burst of machismo. He was fearless because he had nothing to lose.
"Let me get this straight," Yancy said. "We pay Snead the money first, then he talks. Right?"
"Right."
"Shouldn't we hear his version first?"
"His version needs some work. That's the beauty of the deal. Once we pay him, he's ours. We get to shape his testimony, to structure it to suit ourselves. Keep in mind, there are no other witnesses, maybe with the exception of a secretary."
"How much does she cost?" asked Grit.
"She's free. She's included in Snead's package."
How many times in a career would you get the chance to rake off a percentage of the country's tenth largest fortune? The lawyers did the math. A little risk here, a gold mine later.
Madam Langhorne surprised them by saying, "I'll recommend to my firm that we take the deal. But this has to be a graveyard secret."
"Graveyard," repeated Yancy. "We could all be disbarred, probably indicted. Suborning perjury is a felony."
"You're missing the point," Grit said. "There can be no perjury. The truth is defined by Snead and Snead alone. If he says he helped write the will, and at the time the old man was nuts, then who in the world can dispute it? It's a brilliant deal. I'll sign."
"That makes four of us," Hark said.
"I'll sign," Yancy said.
Hemba and Hamilton were squirming. "We'll have to discuss it with our firm," Hamilton said.
"Do we have to remind you boys that all of this is confidential?" Bright said. It was comical, the street fighter from night school chiding the law review editors on ethics.
"No," Hemba said. "You don't have to remind us."
Hark would call Rex, tell him about the deal, and Rex would then call his brother TJ and inform him that his new lawyers were screwing up the deal. Hemba and Hamilton would be history within forty-eight hours.
"Move quickly," Hark warned them. "Mr. Snead claims to be broke, and is perfectly willing to cut a deal with the other side."
"Speaking of which," Langhorne said, "do we know any more about who's on the other side? We're all contesting the will. Someone has to be its proponent. Where is Rachel Lane?"
"Evidently she's hiding," Hark said. "Josh has assured me that they know where she is, that they are in contact with her, and that she will hire lawyers to protect her interests."
"For eleven billion, I would hope so," added Grit.
They pondered the eleven billion for a moment, each dividing it by various magnitudes of the number six, then applying their own personal percentages. Five million for Snead seemed such a reasonable sum.
JEVY AND NATE limped to the trading post early in the afternoon. The outboard was missing badly and low on gas. Fernando, the owner of the store, was in a hammock on the porch, trying to avoid the scorching sun. He was an old man, a rugged veteran of the river who'd known Jevy's father.
Both men helped Nate from the boat. He was burning with fever again. His legs were numb and weak, and the three of them inched carefully along the narrow pier and up the steps to the porch. When they folded him into the hammock, Jevy delivered a quick review of the past week. Fernando missed nothing on the river.
"The Santa Loura sank," he said. "There was a big storm."
"Have you seen Welly?" Jevy asked.
"Yes. He was pulled from the river by a cattle boat. They stopped here. He told me the story. I'm sure he's in Corumba."
Jevy was relieved to hear that Welly was alive. The loss of the boat, however, was tragic news. The Santa Loura was one of the finer boats in the Pantanal. It went down under his watch.
Fernando was studying Nate as they talked. Nate could barely hear their words. He certainly couldn't understand them. Not that he cared.
"This is not malaria," Fernando said, touching the rash on Nate's neck. Jevy moved to the hammock and looked at his friend. His hair was matted and wet, his eyes still swollen shut.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Malaria doesn't produce a rash like this. Dengue does."
"Dengue fever?"
"Yes. It's similar to malaria-fever and chills, sore muscles and joints, spread by mosquitoes. But the rash means it's dengue."
"My father had it once. He was a very sick man."
"You need to get him to Corumba, as quickly as possible."
"Can I borrow your motor?"
Fernando's boat was docked under the rickety building. His outboard wasn't as rusty as Jevy's, and it had five more horsepower. They scurried around, swapping motors and filling tanks, and after an hour in the hammock, comatose, poor Nate was shuffled back down the pier and laid into the boat under the tent. He was too sick to realize what was happening.