The Testament by John Grisham
Yancy was the first to say, “Brazil?”
“Yes. He just returned from Brazil.”
“How do you know this?”
Hark slowly reached into a file and removed some papers. “I have a very good investigator,” he said, and the room was silent. “Yesterday, after I received her answer and O’Riley’s affidavit, same as you, I called the investigator. In three hours, he learned the following: On December twenty-second, Nate O’Riley left Dulles on Varig Flight 882 nonstop to São Paulo. From there he flew Varig Flight 146 to Campo Grande, and then he took an Air Pantanal commuter to a small city called Corumbá, arriving on the twenty-third. He stayed almost three weeks and then he returned to Dulles.”
“Maybe it was a vacation,” Bright mumbled. He was as amazed as the rest of them.
“Maybe, but I doubt it. Mr. O’Riley spent last fall in rehab, not for the first time. He was in the tank when Troy jumped. He was released on the twenty-second, same day he left for Brazil. His trip had only one purpose, and that was to find Rachel Lane.”
“How do you know all this?” Yancy had to ask.
“It’s not that difficult, really. Especially the flight information. Any good hacker can get it.”
“How did you know he was in rehab?”
“Spies.”
There was a long silence as they digested this. They simultaneously despised Hark and admired him. He seemed to always have information they didn’t, yet he was on their side now. They were a team.
“It’s just leverage,” he said. “We go full speed ahead with discovery. We attack the will with a vengeance. We say nothing about the court’s lack of jurisdiction over Rachel Lane. If she doesn’t show either in person or by waiver, then it’s an excellent indication that she doesn’t want the money.”
“I’ll never believe that,” Bright said.
“That’s because you’re a lawyer.”
“What are you?”
“The same, just not as greedy. Believe it or not, Wally, there are people in this world who are not motivated by money.”
“There are about twenty of them,” Yancy said. “And they’re all my clients.”
A little laughter broke the tension.
Before adjourning, they once again forced each other to agree that everything they said was confidential. Each meant it, but no one completely trusted the other. The news about Brazil was especially delicate.
FORTY-THREE
_____________
THE ENVELOPE was brown and slightly larger than legal-sized. Beside the World Tribes address in Houston were the words, in bold black print: For Rachel Lane, Missionary in South America, Personal and Confidential.
It was received by the mail clerk, examined for a few moments, then sent upstairs to a supervisor. Its journey continued throughout the morning until it landed, still unopened, on the desk of Neva Collier, Coordinator of South American Missions. She gaped at it in disbelief—no one knew Rachel Lane was a World Tribes missionary. No one but her.
Evidently, those who’d passed it along did not make the connection between the name on the envelope and the name in the recent news. It was Monday morning, the offices were slow and quiet.
Neva locked her door. Inside was a letter, addressed: “To Whom It May Concern,” and a smaller, sealed envelope. She read the letter aloud, astounded by the fact that someone knew even the partial identity of Rachel Lane.
To Whom It May Concern:
Enclosed is a letter to Rachel Lane, one of your missionaries in Brazil. Please forward it to her, unopened.
I met Rachel about two weeks ago. I found her in the Pantanal, living among the Ipicas, where, as you know, she has been for eleven years now. The purpose of my visit was a pending legal matter.
For your information, she is doing well. I promised Rachel that I would not, under any circumstances, tell anyone of her location. She does not wish to be disturbed with any more legal matters, and I agreed to her request.
She does need money for a new boat and motor, and also additional funds for medicines. I will gladly forward a check to your organization for these expenses; just give me directions.
I plan to write Rachel again, though I have no idea how she gets her mail. Could you please drop me a line and let me know this letter was received and that her letter was forwarded to her? Thanks.
It was signed Nate O’Riley. At the bottom of the letter was a phone number in St. Michaels, Maryland, and an address at a law firm in Washington.
Corresponding with Rachel was a very simple matter. Twice a year, on March 1 and on August 1, World Tribes sent packages to the post office in Corumbá. Included were medical supplies, Christian literature, and anything else that she might need or want. The post office agreed to hold the August packages for thirty days, and if they went unclaimed they were to be returned to Houston. This had never happened. In August of every year, Rachel made her annual trek to Corumbá, at which time she called the home office and practiced her English for ten minutes. She collected her packages and returned to the Ipicas. In March, after the rainy season, the packages were sent upriver on a chalana and dropped off at a fazenda near the mouth of the Xeco River. Lako would retrieve them eventually. The March packages were always smaller than the August ones.
In eleven years, Rachel had never received a personal letter, at least not through World Tribes.
Neva copied the phone number and address on a notepad, then hid the letter in a drawer. She would send it in a month or so, along with the usual supplies for March.
________
THEY WORKED for almost an hour cutting two by fours for the next little classroom. The floor was covered with sawdust. Phil had some in his hair. The screech of the saw still rang in their ears. It was time for coffee. They sat on the floor, their backs to the wall, near a portable heater. Phil poured strong latte from a thermos.
“You missed a great sermon yesterday,” he said with a grin.
“Where?”
“What do you mean, where? Here of course.”
“What was the subject?”
“Adultery.”
“For it or against it?”
“Against it, as always.”
“I wouldn’t think that’d be much of a problem with your congregation.”
“I give the sermon once a year.”
“Same sermon?”
“Yes, but always fresh.”
“When was the last time one of your members had a problem with adultery?”
“Couple of years ago. One of our younger members thought her husband had another woman in Baltimore. He traveled there once a week on business, and she noticed that he returned home a different person. He had more energy, more enthusiasm for life. This would last for two or three days, then he was his usual cranky self again. She became convinced he had fallen in love.”
“Cut to the chase.”
“He was seeing a chiropractor.”
Phil laughed loudly through his nose, a strange cackle that was infectious and usually funnier than the punch line. When the humor passed, they sipped in unison. Then Phil asked, “In your other life, Nate, did you ever have a problem with adultery?”
“None whatsoever. It wasn’t a problem, it was a way of life. I chased anything that walked. Every semiattractive woman was nothing but a potential quickie. I was married, but I never thought that I was committing adultery. It wasn’t sin; it was a game. I was a sick puppy, Phil.”
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, confession is good for the soul. I’m ashamed of the person I used to be. The women, booze, drugs, bars, fights, divorces, neglected children—I was a mess. I wish I had those days back. But it’s important now to remember how far I’ve come.”
“You have many good years left, Nate.”
“I hope so. I’m just not sure what to do.”
“Be patient. God will lead you.”
“Of course, at the rate we’re going, I could have a very long career right here.”
“I suppose.”
“Trust me. It took me ten years to find God’s will. I ran for a while, then I stopped and listened. Slowly, he led me into the ministry.”
“How old were you?”
“I was thirty-six when I entered the seminary.”
“Were you the oldest one?”
“No. It’s not uncommon to see people in their forties in seminary. Happens all the time.”
“How long does it take?”
“Four years.”
“That’s worse than law school.”
“It wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was quite enjoyable.”
“Can’t say that for law school.”
They worked for another hour, then it was time for lunch. The snow had finally melted, all of it, and there was a crab house down the road in Tilghman that Phil enjoyed. Nate was anxious to buy lunch.
“Nice car,” Phil said as he belted himself in. Sawdust shook from his shoulder onto the spotless leather seat of the Jaguar. Nate couldn’t have cared less.
“It’s a lawyer’s car, leased of course because I couldn’t afford to pay cash for it. Eight hundred bucks a month.”
“Sorry.”
“I’d love to unload it and get me a nice little Blazer or something.”
Route 33 narrowed as they left town, and they were soon winding along the bay.
________
HE WAS in bed when the phone rang, but not asleep. Sleep was an hour away. It was only ten, but his body was still accustomed to the routine of Walnut Hill, his trip south notwithstanding. And at times he felt some residual fatigue from the dengue.
It was difficult to believe that for most of his professional life he often worked until nine or ten at night, then had dinner in a bar and drinks until one. He grew weary just thinking about it.
Since the phone seldom rang, he grabbed it quickly, certain it was trouble. A female voice said, “Nate O’Riley, please.”
“This is Nate O’Riley.”
“Good evening, sir. My name is Neva Collier, and I received a letter from you for our friend in Brazil.”
The covers flew off as Nate jumped from the bed. “Yes! You got my letter?”
“We did. I read it this morning, and I will send Rachel’s letter to her.”
“Wonderful. How does she get mail?”
“I send it to Corumbá, at certain times of the year.”
“Thank you. I’d like to write her again.”
“That’s fine, but please don’t put her name on the envelopes.”
It occurred to Nate that it was nine o’clock in Houston. She was calling from home, and this seemed more than odd. The voice was pleasant enough, but tentative.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No, except that no one here knows who she is. No one but me. Now with your involvement, there are two people in the world who know where she is and who she is.”
“She swore me to secrecy.”
“Was she difficult to find?”
“You could say that. I wouldn’t worry about others finding her.”
“But how did you do it?”
“Her father did it. You know about Troy Phelan?”
“Yes. I’m clipping news stories.”
“Before he left this world, he tracked her to the Pantanal. I have no idea how he did it.”
“He had the means.”
“Yes he did. We knew generally where she was, and I went down there, hired a guide, got lost, and found her. Do you know her well?”
“I’m not sure anyone knows Rachel well. I speak to her once a year in August, from Corumbá. She tried a furlough five years ago, and I had lunch with her one day. But no, I don’t know her that well.”
“Have you heard from her recently?”
“No.”
Rachel had been in Corumbá two weeks earlier. He knew this for a fact because she had come to the hospital. She had spoken to him, touched him, and then vanished along with his fevers. But she hadn’t called the home office? How strange.
“She is doing well,” he said. “Very much at home with her people.”
“Why did you track her down?”
“Someone had to. Do you understand what her father did?”
“I’m trying to.”
“Someone had to notify Rachel, and it had to be a lawyer. I just happened to be the only one in our firm with nothing better to do.”
“And now you’re representing her?”
“You are paying attention, aren’t you?”
“We may have more than a passing interest. She is one of us, and she is, shall we say, out of the loop.”
“That would be an understatement.”
“What does she plan to do about her father’s estate?”
Nate rubbed his eyes and paused to slow the conversation. The nice lady on the other end was stepping over the line. He doubted if she realized it. “I don’t want to be rude, Ms. Collier, but I can’t discuss with you things Rachel and I talked about pertaining to her father’s estate.”
“Of course not. I wasn’t trying to pry. It’s just that I’m not sure what World Tribes should do at this point.”
“Nothing. You have no involvement unless Rachel asks you to step in.”
“I see. So I’ll just follow events in the newspapers.”
“I’m sure the proceedings will be well documented.”
“You mentioned certain things she needs down there.”
Nate told her the story of the little girl who died because Rachel had no antivenin. “She can’t find enough medical supplies in Corumbá. I’d love to send her whatever she needs.”
“Thank you. Send the money to my attention at World Tribes, and I’ll make sure she gets the supplies. We have four thousand Rachels around the world, and our budgets get stretched.”
“Are the others as remarkable as Rachel?”
“Yes. They are chosen by God.”
They agreed to keep in touch. Nate could send all the letters he wanted. Neva would ship them to Corumbá. If either one heard from Rachel, he or she would call the other.
Back in bed, Nate replayed the phone call. The things that weren’t said were amazing. Rachel had just learned from him that her father had died and left her one of the world’s great fortunes. She then sneaked into Corumbá because she knew from Lako that Nate was very ill. And then she left, without calling anyone at World Tribes to discuss the money.
When he left her on the riverbank, he was convinced that she had no interest in the money. Now he was convinced even more.
FORTY-FOUR
_____________
THE DEPOSITION derby began on Monday, February 17, in a long bare room in the Fairfax County Courthouse. It was a witness room, but Judge Wycliff had pulled strings and reserved it for the last two weeks of the month. At least fifteen people were scheduled to be deposed, and the lawyers had been unable to agree on places and times. Wycliff had intervened. The depositions would be taken in an orderly fashion, one after the other, hour after hour, day after day, until finished. Such a marathon was rare, but then, so were the stakes. The lawyers had shown an amazing ability to clear their calendars for the discovery phase of the Phelan matter. Trials had been postponed; other depositions wiggled out of; important deadlines delayed yet again; briefs shoved off on other partners; vacations happily put off until summer. Associates were sent to handle lesser chores. Nothing was as important as the Phelan mess.
For Nate, the prospect of spending two weeks in a room crowded with lawyers, grilling witnesses, was a misery just short of hell itself.
If his client didn’t want the money, why should he care who got it?
His attitude changed somewhat when he met the Phelan heirs.
The first deponent was Mr. Troy Phelan, Jr. The court reporter swore him to honesty, but with his shifty eyes and reddened cheeks, he lost credibility within seconds of
Josh’s staff had prepared hundreds of questions for Nate to hammer him with. The work and research had been done by a half-dozen associates, people Nate would never meet. But he could’ve handled it himself, off the cuff, with no preparation whatsoever. It was just a deposition, a fishing trip, and Nate had been there a thousand times.
Nate introduced himself to Troy Junior, who gave him a nervous smile, much like the inmate looking at the executioner. “This is not going to be painful, is it?” he seemed to ask.
“Are you currently under the influence of any illegal drugs, prescription drugs, or alcohol?” Nate began pleasantly, and this rankled the Phelan lawyers on the other side of the table. Only Hark understood. He had taken almost as many depositions as Nate O’Riley.
The smile vanished. “I am not,” Troy Junior snapped. His head was pounding from a hangover, but he was currently sober.
“And you understand that you have just sworn to tell the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand what perjury is?”
“I certainly do.”
“Which one is your lawyer?” Nate asked, waving at the crowd opposite.
“Hark Gettys.”
The arrogance of Mr. O’Riley rankled the attorneys again, this time Hark included. Nate hadn’t bothered to learn which lawyers were attached to which client. His disdain for the entire group was offensive.
Within the first two minutes, Nate had established a nasty tone for the day. There was little doubt that he distrusted Troy Junior immensely, and perhaps the guy was under the influence. It was an old trick.