“He wins two out of three,” said Duncan. “He loses only if he pulls up the zero. Or if he listens to his lawyer and goes to trial.”
“There should at least be a fourth choice. The amount Gilbert would win if this case went to a jury.”
“It’s my game, Counselor. Take it or leave it.”
“This be legal?” asked Gilbert.
“Absolutely,” said Duncan. “Med-Fam has already signed all three. Whichever one you sign, that’s the deal.”
“Don’t do it,” said Teesha.
“Quiet. I’m trying to think.”
“Take your time,” said Duncan.
Gilbert stared at the choices before him, as if trying to see through the tape that hid the numbers. He licked his lips once, then again. His eyes darted from one document to the next. The thick creases in his brow grew deeper with concentration.
I could tell that Duncan was enjoying himself. He was even starting to sound like a game show host. “What’s it going to be, sir? Door number one? Door number two? Or door number three?”
Teesha said, “As your lawyer, I strongly advise you to get up and walk right out of this room. They wouldn’t ask you to play this game if they didn’t know you were going to win at trial and win big.”
“But the man’s right. I’ll be dead by then. This be my only chance to see my money.”
The room was silent. Duncan slid a cartridge pen across the table. Gilbert glanced at it, then locked eyes with Duncan. Finally he looked at me-why, I don’t know. Perhaps he misconstrued my silence as impartiality. The expression chilled me, made me feel his desperation. This lawsuit was all this dying man had left in his life.
His right hand shook as he grasped the pen. He stared at the first document and then at the second. The pen started toward the third, then stopped. He went back to the first one, signed on the blank line, and dropped the pen, mentally exhausted.
“Lordy, lordy,” Teesha said, groaning.
Without emotion Duncan said, “Number one it is. Let’s see what you could have won, had you chosen document number two. Nick,” he told me, “pull the tape.”
I obliged.
“Fifty thousand,” said Duncan. “Whoa, Nelly. That means Mr. Jones has either struck out completely or hit the jackpot. Let’s have a look, shall we?”
He nodded at me once more, again delegating the honors. I was beginning to feel like an unwilling accomplice, but I did as I was told and removed the tape.
Gilbert froze. His lawyer was speechless. He’d chosen the zero.
“Ooooooh, I’m so sorry,” said Duncan. “If only you had trusted your first instinct and gone with number three.” He removed the tape himself this time, as if throwing salt in the wound. It was really there: five hundred thousand dollars.
“This is bullshit!” Teesha shouted.
“Only because you lost.”
“What are you hiding, Fitz? If you put a half million on the table, the case must be worth ten times that much.”
“Right now it’s worth zero.”
“It’s gambling. The agreement’s illegal and unenforceable.”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. But I’d truly hate to put your client through the ordeal of getting a court order to enforce a settlement agreement. So tell him there’s five grand on the table, and we all walk away happy. The offer’s good for twenty-four hours. After that, I move to enforce the deal.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Try me.” Duncan tucked the signed document into his coat pocket. “Nick will show you the way out.” With that, he gathered his papers and walked out the door with a delighted client.
It was an awkward moment, me left behind like the six-foot fly on the wall in the aftermath of one of Duncan’s client-pleasing stunts. I stepped away from the table and waited near the door, praying that Gilbert was not a violent man. But he didn’t appear to be angry. He was stunned and silent, rocked by the loss of a half-million-dollar settlement.
“Hope you’re proud of yourself,” said Teesha.
I did a double take, realizing that she was talking to me.
“Tricking a dying man, playing on his desperation. You bastards are unbelievable.”
I couldn’t disagree, but I couldn’t disown my own supervising partner, either. I just wanted to let Mr. Jones know that this hadn’t been my idea. “Is he going to be okay?”
“What do you think?” she said sharply.
My question was stupid, admittedly.
“Just leave,” said Teesha. “We know our way out.”
I left quietly, catching one last glimpse of Gilbert’s stunned and pathetic expression. Had I not known what his case was really worth, Duncan’s showboat tactics might not have disgusted me so. But I’d sat through the confidential strategy conferences. I’d heard the client privately admit responsibility for Mr. Jones’s injuries. Med-Fam would have been getting off cheap even if it had coughed up the half million dollars hidden behind door number three. I’m not so pious as to refuse to represent anyone who shows up in my office wearing a black hat. But I had to draw the line at toying with a victim, destroying what little was left of his life, and then going back to Duncan’s office to celebrate.
“Victories” like this one made me wish I’d listened to my father and literally gone fishing the rest of my life. Dad would have liked that, but only if it had been my choice, only if I’d truly shared my old man’s love of the sea, the salty air, the squish-squish of fish guts beneath rubber boots.
I couldn’t deal with Duncan right then. I started back toward my office, then heard my name called as I crossed the main lobby.
“Nick Rey, caller holding.”
It was a page from the operator, which concerned me. The firm’s policy was to refer unanswered calls to the voice=mail system. Pages were only for true emergencies. I took the call at the phone bay off the main lobby. It was my mother, which only heightened my worries. Never did she bother me at work. She sounded awful.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“It’s-” Her voice broke.
I could tell she’d been crying. “Mom, what is it?”
“It’s about your father.”
My heart leaped to my throat. “Is he okay?”
“We don’t know. He’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“He may have been kidnapped.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“Where?”
“On one of his boats, in Cartagena.”
“Colombia? What was he doing there?”
“No one seems to know anything for sure. It’s all so confusing to me, the things I’m hearing.”
“Who told you this?”
“I went numb when he called. I’m sorry. Maybe you should call him back and speak to him directly.”
“Who, Mom? Who did you talk to?”
“Oh, dear. I’m blanking out. Your father’s business partner in Nicaragua.”
She was getting more scattered by the minute. “Guillermo,” I said.
“Yes, Guillermo. He was trying to be strong, but he sounded so worried.”
Guillermo had survived Nicaragua’s earthquakes, revolutions, and hurricanes. If he was worried, I was worried. But I didn’t dare let Mom pick up on my concern. “Don’t be scared. Everything’s going to be okay, I’m sure.”
“Just come home, please. The FBI will be here any minute.”
“Did you call them?”
“No. Guillermo did.”
“That’s good. Things are moving already.”
“I need you here now. I can’t do this by myself.”
“I’m on my way.”
As I hung up, I noticed my hand shaking. A deep breath calmed my nerves. None of that in front of Mom, I told myself. Then I ran back to my office to grab my car keys.
3
Shortcuts shaved about twenty minutes off my trip. I knew all the winding back streets, having logged thousands of miles as a kid
on a bicycle in the area known as the golden triangle in Coral Gables. My parents still lived in the same colonial-style house on Toledo Street that the family had moved to when I was eight and my sister was five. It was all so familiar, with one exception: the unmarked vehicle parked in the driveway. It was a reality jolt, my first visual confirmation that Dad was really in trouble and that the FBI was truly involved.
I parked my Jeep on the street and hurried up the sidewalk. Through the front window I saw my mother seated on the edge of the living room couch. A man was seated in the armchair, his back to the window. I entered quickly without a knock, then halted in the foyer. My mother rose, and we locked eyes. She said nothing, but the expression said it all. I went to her and held her. She was heavy in my arms, sobbing. Finally she broke away to dab her eyes with a tissue.
“I’m sorry,” she said with a sniffle. “I’m being so rude. Nick, this is Agent Lester Nettles from the FBI.”
Nettles rose but didn’t smile, almost too somber even for an occasion as serious as this one. He was well groomed, handsome, very professional-looking. He struck me as the African-American version of the quintessential G-man portrayed on those old television shows back when the FBI seemed to be comprised entirely of white ex-Marines. We shook hands, dispensing with the formalities as I got right to the point.
“Is my father okay?”
“We believe he’s alive.”
“What happened?”
He finished off the last swallow of coffee my mother had brought him, then continued. “It appears that three fishing boats belonging to your father’s company were overtaken by force while in port in Colombia. Three crew members were shot and killed. Three others jumped in the harbor and swam for their lives. One is still missing. Two have been recovered, the only witnesses so far.”
“Do any of them know what happened to my father?”
“No one’s a hundred percent sure. They all say that the gunmen seemed to want to take your father alive. But there was a lot of gunfire exchanged.”
“That doesn’t mean he was hit. He could have escaped, right?”
Nettles was slow to respond. Too slow. My mother shuddered, realizing that there were only two realistic possibilities, neither of them pretty.
“For now,” said Nettles, “we’re assuming an abduction.”
“Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to? Is the FBI doing an investigation?”
“No. The only information the FBI has so far is through intelligence bulletins from the State Department.”
“That’s not too reassuring. I just called the U.S. embassy in Colombia on my way over here, and they weren’t very forthcoming. I’m not sure what to make of that.”
Nettles glanced at my mother, then at me. “You didn’t hear this from me, okay? But the primary interest of the State Department is foreign policy. Most American families who go through this ordeal are surprised to find that the one government agency that puts the interests of the victim first is the FBI.”
“Well, then, thank God you’re here,” said Mom.
Nettles seemed to enjoy the praise, but if we were going to get all kissy-face, I decided to push for extra information-like the things the embassy had told me were for the government’s eyes only. “At least now we have someone who can tell us what’s in the State Department’s intelligence bulletins.”
“What do you want to know?” he asked cautiously.
“For starters, who took my father?”
“That’s not clear yet. One of the attackers was killed in the skirmish. According to the local police, he was dressed as one of the guerrilla groups that operate in Colombia. Combat fatigues, the whole getup. But it could also be someone who was trying to make it look like the work of guerrillas. We can’t rule out common criminals or even one of the paramilitary organizations.”
“Excuse me,” Mom interrupted. “Are you saying my husband may have been kidnapped by the Colombian military?”
“Quite the opposite. The Colombian Army has been at war with both right-wing and left-wing groups for years. The Marxists are the guerrillas. The right wing is paramilitary.”
“Why would they want my dad?”
“They don’t. They want your money. You should expect a ransom demand to come by mail or international courier service very soon.”
I stepped toward the window, not quite believing this. “You’re saying that some Marxist group over a thousand miles away killed half my dad’s crew, kidnapped my dad, went to all this trouble, just to squeeze a little money out of the Rey family from Coral Gables?”
“First of all, it won’t be a little money. They usually have inflated ideas about the wealth of American families.”
“How inflated?”
“It’s best not to speculate about these things. Whatever the demand is, it’s negotiable.”
“Negotiable?” I said, almost scoffing. “We’re talking about my dad, not a used car.”
“Trust me, if you decide you have no choice but to pay a ransom, you still negotiate. It’s sad, but kidnapping has turned into a big business worldwide, and in Colombia it’s literally out of control. Two hundred a month, at least.”
“My God, it’s like some kind of a mill.”
“A money mill, to be exact. Hundreds of millions of dollars in ransom every year. These groups would like the world to think that they’re politically motivated, but they’re mostly thugs looking for money to bankroll drug labs and other criminal activity.”
That last remark struck me, especially coming from an FBI agent. “So if we pay a ransom, we’re dumping cash into some criminal’s war chest.”
“In a broad sense, yes.”
“And the FBI doesn’t have a problem with that?”
“We’re not thrilled about it. For years we had a no-concessions policy in dealing with international kidnappers. But the more progressive view in the bureau these days is that if the family wants to pay a ransom, we don’t stand in their way.”
“What if we just can’t come up with the money?”
“If you’re asking whether the U.S. government will pay the ransom or even lend you the money, the answer is no.”
“So then what happens?”
With the subtle arching of an eyebrow he seemed to be signaling that it was best not to answer that question in front of my mother.
“Stupid question,” I said, backtracking. “Of course we’ll get the money.”
Mom asked, “What happens next, Mr. Nettles?”
“There’s a lot involved in an international kidnapping,” said Nettles. “Not the least of which are jurisdictional issues between Colombia and the U.S., between the FBI and other U.S. agencies, between the Colombian police and the Colombian Army.”
“I think my mother and I are in agreement that we don’t want to leave this up to anyone but the FBI.”
“That’s right,” said Mom.
“I hate to inject a dirty word like ‘politics’ into the equation, but certain matters of diplomacy must be resolved before the FBI can officially get involved.”
“What does that mean?”
“The bottom line is that the FBI’s negotiators can’t assist in a case outside the United States until the State Department invites us. As yet, we haven’t been formally invited.”
“This isn’t a wedding. What kind of invitation do you need?”
“It’s not just a formality. The State Department has to respect local autonomy, and they have relationships with the host country that have to be maintained long after the resolution of this kidnapping. They don’t just send in the FBI every time an American gets into trouble.”
“Is there something we can do?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Make a list of who you know and call them. I hate to say it, but connections matter. The higher up, the better.”
“I don’t have any connections,” said Mom.
“I’ll work on that,” I said.
“Good,” said Nettles.
I thou
ght for a second, then backtracked. “Except, how am I going to be plying for contacts? Shouldn’t I go to Colombia?”
“My advice is no. You’ll find yourself much more effective here, trying to get your own government moving. You should send someone down to represent the family. Your lawyer, a friend of the family.”
“Guillermo,” my mother said.
“My father’s business partner,” I explained.
Mom said, “He’s going to be in Cartagena tonight. He has to check on the surviving crew members and make arrangements for the ones who passed away. And he’s Nicaraguan. His Spanish is a lot better than yours, Nick.”
“That’s perfect,” said Nettles.
I was a little reluctant. I didn’t really know Guillermo, though it was true that he’d been my father’s partner for over a decade. I glanced at Mom, however, and it was obvious that she didn’t want me to leave her here to deal with the FBI and State Department by herself.
“Okay,” I said. “We’ll let Guillermo handle things in Colombia.”
Nettles seemed to approve of the decision. He glanced toward the door, as if it were time to leave. He’d dumped a ton of information on us, and he seemed experienced enough to know that the family needed time to digest it, time alone to grieve. Mom shook his hand and thanked him profusely. I saw him to the door and followed him outside.
“Level with me,” I said as we reached his car in the driveway. “If this is a kidnapping, and the kidnappers are some kind of guerrilla group, what’re the chances of my father coming back alive?”
“Too early to say. There’s so many variables.”
“You must have statistics of some sort.”
“Reliable numbers are hard to come by. The police, the army, the politicians-just about everybody in Colombia has a stake in making the situation seem better than it is.”
“All I want is a general idea, not an answer written in stone.”
He hesitated, then answered. “The most reliable numbers I have are from our legal attache in Bogota. One hundred four kidnap victims murdered from January to June of this year.
But the violence can go in spurts, depending on how the war is going between the rebels and the Colombian Army. If the guerrillas are trying to make a statement, you may see more kidnapping victims murdered.”
A King's ransom Page 2
