The Testament Read Free

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